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queers-gambit · 11 months ago

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The Battle Above the God’s Eye

part one: Sands of Time

prompt: decades after the Stepstones, it's his turn to be rescued.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.3k+

note: i'm not the happiest with this piece, so i'll most definitely (probably) write an alternative when the time comes and the show does the Battle. y'all know me by now, you know i love me a good ol' reader-insert and i didn't want to wait years to publish some kind of sequel so here we are.

warnings: reader isn't explicitly a Targaryen but we had to make this work and i'm burnt the fuck out. so fuck it, dragon rider reader. cursing, books spoilers, violence, imagination required, maybe Red Priestess reader, mention of more Little Birds (let author live), toxic family (duh), heavily encouraged imagination, depictions of death, angst, some hurt and comfort i think ? missing warnings 'cause wonky brain goin' wonky.

"There's rumor, Mistress, of a dragon the color of night," the hooded figure informed. "It nests in the Ruins of Ancient Valyria, seen by farmers and countryfolk; they say his wings beat like thunder. It's a colossal shadow they fear to engage, but after hearing your ransom, they reported it."

You hummed as you took a sip of scalding tea, finding comfort in the heat, musing, "I've been to the Ruins myself on two seperate excursions, I promise you, friend, there is no dragon that nests there."

"It's come from the East, a new beast in the sky."

"I require proof if I am to pay the ransom."

The man with a hood over his head reached for his rucksack and rummaged, a moment later, placing two items on the polished mahogany table between you both. One was unmistakably a dragon's tooth, and when you examined it, there was still clotted blood on the root - assuring it was a fresh pull. The second was a large black scale that weighed at least a dagger's worth.

You smirked, "This is promising. Where in the Ruins has it been seen? Who procured these artifacts?"

You discussed specifics with the man for an hour, offering him a hefty finder's fee after getting the name of the village the man had gathered his own information from. It was a messy journey from there; leaving the home you had made in the decades since the Stepstones to head for what was probably another dead end in Ancient Valyria. You were something akin to a magistrate, the people saw you as a figurehead, a leader; their person of authority who they were all too happy to follow.

Your village flourished, growing in size, number, popularity, and strength by the passing day. The people seemed happy, wealth flowing from exports and trade, and apparently, a few cartographers have begun the process of updating a few maps to add your village's name to history.

Much had changed in your time away from your Rogue Dragon Prince, but you knew that was all coming to an end soon. Your Lord of Light had shown you much in your flames, one of which was a repeating image of you, mounted atop a dragon all your own, soaring over the Narrow Sea with distinct purpose. You weren't a Targaryen, but your religious devotion seemingly gave you the ability to walk amongst beasts and their flames.

Exploring Ancient Valyria took over a year on foot.

You had plenty of encounters with the Stone Men, but all met their merciful demise - those left after that steered clear of you and your Valyrian Steel sword. Around the ruins of the ancient volcano that hadn't erupted since The Doom, you found a graveyard of goat, sheep, and cattle bones. There were bigger skeletons of aquatic creatures, something you found incredibly fascinating - what fully grown dragon went deep diving?

Soon, you found scat. For those who don't spend time in the wilderness or who are simply unfamiliar with the term, "scat" refers to waste produced by wild animals. Yeah, you're reading correctly, after you found the plethora of skeletons, you found dragon shit.

So, you knew you were closer than before. But the fucker still alluded you to the point you felt insane circling the Ruins.

You located about three different potential caverns, investigating them all with caution, but finding them all empty. Feeling exhausted from the months of searching, you claimed one of the caves as your own; hunting for a meal after gathering adequate fire wood. You listened to the untamed wilds of Valyria as you ate whatever you roasted, trying to distinguish familiar sounds of an approaching dragon.

Or perhaps even a distant one!

You'd take any sign!

It'd been weeks since you found the dragon droppings, no other signs appearing. You would search new areas for days, then return to your cave for rest; feeling disconnected from reality the longer you lingered in the ruined empire. You wondering what your village was doing, you were curious if the young woman, Ferona, had a baby boy or girl, if they had erected the new buildings you left blueprints for in an effort to create opportunist housing and houses of worship - as your people had requested.

How did the krill and shrimp season fair? What weddings happened this past spring? How was the irrigation system holding up?

Weeks drug by slowly. Weeks turned to longer months. Two years, you spent in that Gods forsaken ruin of a city - but couldn't find it in you to abandon your search.

Your Lord of Light had yet to send word, yet set your heart ablaze every time you "decided" to go home. You stared into the flames every night, desperate for any indication you were on the right path, but nothing was seen - nothing was said - nothing was shown to you. Until one night, during a torrential downpour and thunderous storm, you were shivering, drenched to your core, fighting the wind to let you keep your flames alive.

And there, in the dying, flickering warmth, you saw it. With wide, unblinking eyes, you stared into the flames harder; unsure how long you remained in the tranquil state before a particularly strong gust of wind nearly pushed you face-first into the embers. You gasped, looking around as the smoke nearly choked you as it filled the cave; stumbling out into the rain as you coughed and patted your chest. Stumbling slightly from malnourishment and delirium, you leaned on the outer shell of your "home", panting with relief before there came a screech so fearsome, you were then cowering into the wall with fear.

You dropped to your knees, huddled into the rock formation; the ground trembling as something enormous touched down. You gasped when through the haze of sideways rain, two nostrils flared and heaved thick plumes of smoke; reddened from the ignited flames deep within an invisible chest. You flattened against the wall, four taloned paws striking the ground and causing it to crack, quake, and tremble. With the fleeting clouds, you used the moon's light to distinguish the beast that loomed closer to you; over you; and then, in your face.

A long, blackened snout nearly pressed into your chest; fabric of your tunic caught in the razor sharp teeth. You had faced death, you had faced beasts, you had faced hacking axes and swinging swords. You had faced the wrath of the Queen Alysanne's court, the rumors of the common folk, and judgment from both man and God. But nothing was like this moment: a wild dragon staring you down, sniffing your chest and stomach, debating if it should just open it's mouth and eat you whole yet or not.

Thankfully, it chose an alternative route.

You're not fully sure how it happened, but you dedicated two years to finding this terrible beasty, and yet, it only took about 6 weeks to bond with the (obviously) young thing. Time with your Dragon Prince proved most useful, creating a bond so secure, you were beginning to wonder if someone deep in your bloodline had mated with a Targaryen. It was natural, the way you both became accustomed to one another; living together on a carbon-dated land long doomed.

The lessons from Daemon came flying back to you. You practiced your High Valyrian, laughing when you obviously got a word or two wrong because the dragon would snort at you. In the light, she was still the color of the night, but her scales were dusted the same gold as her eyes. She was impressive, she was huge in size but nowhere near Vhagar. In fact, you'd wager she had outgrew Caraxes - the only dragon you had true experience with.

Speaking of Caraxes, you were on the shores of Old Valyria, debating how you were going to convince your new companion to join you back "home" in the village, when suddenly, your beast gave a defensive growl.

Looking to the skyline, you spotted the distant dragon and frowned. This dragon wasn't the color of flames like Caraxes was, no, instead, it was a murky blob in the sky with two wings. You offered calming words to your dragon in her native language, not sensing danger, but your beast was unhappy leaving you in the open. Her tail curled around you to corral you back into her body as the muddy brown dragon landed with a thunderous shake a respectable distance away.

Your name was begged by the rider descending from who you recognized as a wild dragon by the name of Sheepstealer.

"Nettles? That you, love?" You asked in skepticism, managing out of your dragon's grasp. "What're you doing here? You all right?"

"I needed to find you," she panted. "I-I need you help - it's all - it's all gone wrong! Please!"

"What's wrong? The fuck's happened?"

"Do you know nothing, Auntie!? Do you know nothing of the war!?"

Your eyes rolled, "Watch that tone with me, girl. The Dance of Dragons is of no concern of mine, it had barely started when I came here."

"Well - it's your concern now," she insisted. "You took me under your wing - you helped raise me in a village you built from the ground, despite not ever needing to - "

"Your mother was a dear friend of mine," you cut her off sharply. "She was kind to me when I came back to Essos, let me stay with her and your father. When I set out on my own, she was always a friendly face, and when my settlement was established..."

"She came to you for help after getting pregnant with me," Nettles nodded. "You've told me this before."

"Then you should know better by now that I owed your mother more than my life, so, raising you was the least I could've done. A life for a life."

"And as such, you let me go into the world with stories filling my head of a handsome Dragon Prince that saved you from the Crabfeeder!" You scoffed at her words, ready to argue, but she rushed, "He's in trouble, Auntie."

You paused, finding no lie in the girl's eye. Slowly, you asked, "Come again?"

"I found him, Mistress," she nodded. "After I got back to Westeros, I found your Prince Daemon - the ones from the stories! He's... He's brutish and harsh, they call him Rogue, but he was kind to me when I told him I knew you. When he heard your name, Lady, he just - he insisted on keeping me close. He protected me, even against his wife - Princess Rhaenyra."

Your head cocked, "Hmm... He usually did have a taste for younger flesh. I'm not surprised he took to you - "

"No, no, no, Mistress, not like that," she insisted desperately. "He was kind, educational - similar to a mentor."

"I see."

"He needs your help."

"Prince Daemon does not need rescuing, he is no damsel."

"He searches for Prince Aemond," she informed, making you lift your chin slightly. Though lost in the wild of Valyria the past two years, you were still well versed in the affairs of King's Landing; staying updated, curtesy of your Lord, the Lord of Light: R'hllor. In your village, you were known to pay for any accurate information - eventually hiring your own spies to relay trustworthy information from around surrounding cities and villages. Nettles was one of your Little Birds.

You sighed, "And? What of it - Aemond killed Lucerys, did he not? Since he married his niece, her children are now his step-children, right? Daemon is within his rights to want some form of vengeance - it's war, Nettie, it's never fair to anybody.

"He will not survive this, you don't understand! It's horrible, Mistress, please, he-he-he's deranged. Mad with grief, lost to his wife's useless fucking war. It'll be the death of him, Auntie, please!" She paused, seeing you just stare back at her; so she begged again, "Please!"

You nodded, "What do you want me to do, Nettie? Hmm?"

"You've told me those stories! I remember them well! You always said he came back for you, saved you from The Crabfeeder," she reminded, making you stiffen. "Does he not deserve the same? Or at least a chance? Rhaenyra will not help, she'll kill him herself I fear, but you can - you can help!"

You nodded, "I will consult the flames - "

"I am telling you - "

"I have heard you, girl!" You snapped, glaring at your Little Bird. "But there are greater forces at work than what you know, I cannot just so willfully trust the word of a child before flying off across the Narrow Sea. Allow me my time with my Lord, I will have an answer for you." Turning from her, you gathered whatever materials you could; setting it up in a small teepee before stepping back.

In High Valyrian, you gave your command. From over your shoulder, your beasty opened her mouth and shot a single flame at the structure.

On your knees, you muttered repeatedly; chanting, summoning your Lord of Light to come to you now in a great hour of need. And He did. Through the flames, you saw what R'hllor wanted to show you: the two Princes engaged in a brutally epic fight that would claim them both in the end...

Unless you left right that moment, as your Lord commanded.

"Make yourself safe, Nettles, go back home," you told her in a rush, catching the pouch of Gold Dragons she tossed you when you sprung into action - and for the first time, mounted your dragon. Like your minds were connected, the Great Shadow took to the sky - leaving Nettles and Sheepstealer behind, and you'd never see either again.

You remained high in the sky, being a blob to the naked eye should any dare to stare at the sun.

You only paused to let the Great Shadow dive into the Narrow Sea for a meal; surfacing with creatures in her jaws as you swam an exhausting broad stroke. Was it terrifying to swim in the open water? Absolutely, but your dragon seemingly kept any threats at bay. When she was satisfied with her meal, the Great Shadow scooped you onto her back and relaunched into the air again to continue your flight for Westeros. You both dried in the air.

The trip was draining.

It was grueling on you both.

Yet when you saw the distant shore, you couldn't help the spike of relief in your heart and veins.

Once in Westeros, you were forced to ground yourselves in the open area of the Stormlands because you needed to know where to go since Nettles hadn't been sure where to send you specifically. Using the usual thunderstorm as cover, you had to separate from the Great Shadow; leaving her in the dark as you ventured to the closest village.

With the pouch of Gold Dragons Nettles gave you, you paid for information that you needed. You were told all the nitty gritty details about the Dance of the Dragons that you've missed, understanding what (Nettles and) the Lord of Light had been trying to tell you for years: the Black Queen would be Prince Daemon's death.

The time had come for you to return his favor from the Stepstones. If this worked the way you wanted it to, you wouldn't be his first, second, nor third wife, but his fourth and final. You knew what you had to do.

"What do you know of their whereabouts?" You asked the innkeeper who wiped down the bar you leaned on.

"The Princes?" She asked, tisking right after. "The One Eyed Prince has been burning the Riverlands for almost two weeks now. The Rogue Prince was in Maidenpool but he's called his nephew to meet him at, uh, oh... Oh, bullocks, what's that haunted castle? The one that was torched?"

"Harrenhal?"

She snapped her fingers at you, "That's the one!"

"Fuckin' Hell," you muttered, wiping your eyes. "What's your thinking, love? 'Bout this war?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, "Stupidest thing I've endured so far. How silly, the House of the Dragon does not know who rules it, or so says our liege lord. So we must all pay their price in Fire and Blood."

You nodded slowly, "Who do you think holds the better claim t'the Throne?"

"Depends on your views," she muttered, "but in truth, it doesn't matter to me - so long as this all comes to an end. But between us?" She leaned in, glancing around before muttering, "The Bitch Queen would burn us all. Can't say if King Aegon would be much better, but at least we'd know what we were dealing with."

"And if he was another Maegor?"

"Can't be worse than the Black Queen. Hear they call her Maegor with Tits."

You smirked, chuckling lightly, "Thank you, ma'am, for your words." You offered her a few Gold Dragons, repeating, "Harrenhal?"

"Harrenhal," she nodded, accepting the payment. "I do not know if the One Eyed Prince will answer the Rogue Prince's challenge, but that is where he lures Prince Aemond - Harrenhal. Now, how's about a nice bowl of stew? You look drenched, love, and a bit skinny - you been eatin'?"

"Your kindness is refreshing in this shit-for-a-kingdom."

You winked at her and tapped the bar in parting before turning for the door, and into the rain you ventured once more. You didn't notice the cold, your Lord kept you warm and moving; finding the Great Shadow, mounting, and shooting off into the unknown sky again.

It wasn't easy directing a dragon without a saddle nor any stabilizing reins, yet your beast was something of a decently smooth fly. You minimally directed her as you went, but in truth, her instincts directed you both more than anything. When the storm broke, you were soon flying over charred scores of land; homes smoldering and burning, the wind spreading the embers and never letting the fire fully die out.

"The fuck..." You muttered, sitting up straight as you flew through the carnage. "Seven Hells, he burnt it all, didn't he?" You whispered, needing to hold onto the spinal ridges of your dragon to keep balanced. "Gods be good," you gaped at the damage beneath you.

The sun moved into position, getting ready to set when you heard the horrible screams of feuding dragons. You couldn't see Harrenhal yet, but you heard the fight, and then, as the sun began to set, there came flashes of bright firelight that lit the sky to a new level.

It was nearly the shade of daylight with the way the flames danced against the setting sun. You were desperate to get closer, and after directing the Great Shadow over a set of charred rolling hills, you finally had Harrenhal in sight. "Go! Go, please! That's them - we need t'get there!" You begged through a small sob of panic, and if possible, your dragon flew all the faster.

You were so close, yet felt so far.

The air trembled when the pair of dragons, Vhagar and Caraxes, collided in the sky once more. They grappled and snarled and shrieked and blew flames and gnashed their teeth and slashed their talons. You paid no mind to the pregnant woman standing on the shoreline of the lake they fought over, and instead, focused on your task; feeling as if you were moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.

The Great Shadow dove low to the lake's surface as Caraxes and Vhagar came barreling to the ground. It all happened too fast. As the two dragons fell, you saw one man - in black armor - leap from his crimson beast with his Valyrian sword winking in the dying light. Just as his arm extended to pierce Dark Sister into Aemond's blind eye, the dragons were tussling enough to turn over and forced Daemon off their hide.

You gasped as you reacted - no fucking thought to your actions.

As the Great Shadow glided over the surface of the Gods Eye lake, you were leaping off her back to launch into the air; tackling the Rogue Prince hard enough to disrupt his impact on the water's surface. You hit the water all the same, but instead of it being like hitting fresh pavement, it was a softer landing due to the Great Shadow's expert and quick maneuvering.

Two dragons hit the water, three human bodies; sending a wave of water higher than the towers of Harrenhal's fortress. It was a shock to land in something so wet and cold, but your adrenaline was stronger than any feeling of freezing water. Your arms kept an iron-clad lock around Daemon's unconscious waist, surfacing as the lake rippled and churned from impact; turning a seeping red from the open wounds on the dragon sinking into the depths.

Prince Aemond never surfaced, and years from now, he'd be found still chained to Vhagar's saddle with Dark Sister still stabbed through his skull. His Red Witch standing on shore couldn't save him, it appearing that your Lord preferred the Rogue Prince to the One Eyed.

Keeping Daemon afloat was difficult, but to your shock, you were being gently propelled forward to the shore by a fatally injured Caraxes. You encouraged him best you could, trying not to choke on the water splashing around your frantic forms. When you were able, you started heaving and dragging Daemon up the lake's embankment; the crimson dragon crawling out of the lake behind you, slowly, heading towards Harrenhal. You wanted to offer the loyal beast aid or comfort, but you were much too preoccupied with his master that was dead weight in the water's surf.

You trembled as you swiftly hoisted his dragon winged helmet off to leave bobbing in the surf; unhooked his armor, shucking it off him and compressing his chest rapidly - just like a fisherman taught you to do.

"C'mon," you grunted. "C'mon, Daemon, breathe - fucking breathe, damnit! Please, come back to me - don't do this. I just found you again, c'mon, my Prince, breathe. Breathe, Daemon, don't give up - not now, not on us! Don't give up on us, c'mon, my Prince, breathe, w-we finally have our time." Sobs wracked your form. "Breathe, Daemon, please! Please! I'm back - I finally found you, please, my love, breathe!"

You shoved harder into his breast bone with increased ferocity until water came suddenly spewing from his lungs. You heard the Great Shadow land in the near distance, turning Daemon on his side to help him breathe better; choking the water out. You spoke in relief, "There, there you go, c'mon, love, breathe! Thank fucking Gods, you're all right, you're okay, get it out - you're okay, just breathe, my love."

Daemon choked your name in pure disbelief, holding one of your wrists in a vice grip that only briefly concerned you. He panted and relaxed into the embankment, loosening his grip as he turned over to look up at you in shock and wonder. "How is this possible?" He wheezed.

"It's a bit of a long story," you teased softly, caressing his cheek. "Bit of a boring tale, 'M afraid."

"How? How is - how can this be?"

"You needed me," you explained, "thought I'd return the favor since you saved me all those years ago, huh? You got me out of the sea, I got you out of the lake - we're even, yeah?"

He still panted, only staring at you as if he couldn't believe himself. "You've not aged a day," he whispered.

You smiled, petting his cheekbone with your thumb daintly. "You need rest, reprieve, aid," you whispered.

"No, no," he gulped, "not when I just got you back. T-Tell me 's done. Tell me we're done being apart."

"You have a wife still, Daemon. She won't let you go, she wouldn't let us be together."

"Tell me what your flames say."

"Now you trust my flames?"

"When they bring you back to me, yes - oh, fuck yes, I'll believe whatever those fucking flames say. Please, love, for us - consult your flames, tell me what they've said."

You frowned, petting a soaking wet lock of hair from his forehead. Quietly, you whispered, "My Lord showed me what was to pass if I did not come for you... This war, this Dance of Dragons, would claim your life, Daemon. Your wife, your niece... She'll be the end of you, my Prince. You will not survive if you go back to her. Neither of you will survive this... My Lord has shown me that Rhaenyra will meet her end in flames, but following her will cost you your life in water," you glanced at the lake. "Not a death befitting of a Targaryen Prince."

"And now?"

"Now, she will fight her own battles for the first time," you whispered, "and I will return home, and you will make a choice."

He smirked, "We've gone lifetimes apart, like you said before."

"We have."

"I would not go another day," he coughed, wincing in pain. "I do not think I can fight anymore anyways, love. Please... Please."

Daemon never begged. You swallowed harshly, asking him, "No? No more fighting?"

"No," he agreed. "'M so tired, my sweet. I-I can't do this forever," he half-slurred, making you perk up slightly in attention. "Retirement sounds all too appealing now. Rumor will spread that neither Aemond or I lived, it'll be the perfect escape."

You nodded in agreement, flinching when a new voice screeched, "YOU BITCH!"

The pregnant woman you saw on shore stormed towards you, making you chuckle dryly as you had already foreseen this Alys Rivers - pregnant concubine of the One Eyed Prince Aemond and fellow Follower of R'hllor. Alys was unique in the sense that her training was decent enough to ensnare Aemond (it seemed), but not so decent that the Lord yet favored her.

She wasn't more than ten feet from you when the Great Shadow opened her mouth and showered the Red Witch in holy flames; an end she surely did not see coming - not that R'hllor would've showed her. This all caught Daemon's attention, who flinched slightly when he had to turn and look; not expecting the flames nor the beast.

Then his eyes drifted over the land, breathing hitching, and he sat up with a painful groan. "Daemon," you worried, but instead of trying to get him down, you helped him up.

You knew what he saw.

When at Caraxes' side, you helped Daemon lower to his knees at his dragon's head. He whimpered and moaned, belly slashed open, wing torn apart; bleeding out into the cold soil he rested on. The Great Shadow moaned gently in sympathy, lowering herself around you three to let you grieve in peaceful, protective privacy and ease Caraxes to his next life.

The moon was fully in the sky when the crimson bloodwyrm took his final breath with the ebony giant's flames to warm you all. You weren't sure what could be done, but Daemon was pressing a tender kiss to his dragon's head before turning to face you - a lost, confused, vulnerable look coating his features. "Come on, love," you eased gently, helping him to his feet; knowing a few ribs were shattered and probably his clavicle, too.

"Where will we go now?"

"Well, I have somewhere safe for us t'live," you grunted in assurance, wobbling a little under his weight. "But we need rest for tonight. Any ideas?"

"I doubt anyone will venture to Harrenhal this night, should be safe..."

You agreed, and together, you and Daemon settled in the empty castle with the Great Shadow resting on the outskirts of the Keep. She was too big for the interior of the courtyard, so, she was left outside with Caraxes' corpse as you and Daemon settled in the room he had commandeered.

"How is this possible? How can you be here?" He asked, holding your hips as you worked between his spread legs. Daemon had minimal supplies at the ready; hopping up on a work bench to let you care for his injuries and wounds. He watched your every move with a softening look. "I thought I wouldn't ever see you again, that I'd be cursed to only remember you in my dreams. Rhaenyra said I say your name a lot at night, when I sleep."

"I'm really here, Daemon, ease yourself," you offered an assuring grin, tending to the head wounds he obtained from the fight.

"How?"

"Nettles."

"What?"

"Nettles," you repeated with a smirk. "She's one of my Little Birds, Daemon. It was not entirely coincidence she found you..."

"So she said," he frowned. "But how - "

"She told me you needed me," you smiled softly. "And when I consulted the flames, I was shown what could be. I made a decision, I just wanted you safe, no matter what that meant."

"I just want you. Fuck," he seethed, squeezing your hips, "'s been fucking decades since I've even touched you."

"You're delirious," you teased. "Sleep deprived, maybe concussed."

"Perhaps all at once, but I finally have all I've dreamt of. Please," he whispered, "do not deny us longer. I've endured lifetimes - "

"Daemon, being here and now, you know I can't walk away. But we've time t'talk it all out, I need you to let me help your wounds - so sit still."

He nodded, "One thing I do not understand, though - the dragon? How did you...?"

"Spent two years in Valyria, looking for her."

"Why were you there?"

"Searching for a dragon, of course," you smirked. "She's impressive, isn't she? And from her size, I wager she can easily support us both back across the Narrow Sea."

He grit his teeth when you cleaned his open cuts and wounds, wrapping whatever clean cloth you had around the larger wounds; easing him out of his tunic to have better access to the blackened ribs he sported. "Would you tell me?" Daemon whispered some time later.

"Of what?"

"Your life since the Stepstones?"

"Oh," you chuckled, "sweet love, you know it was dreadfully boring without you."

"Doesn't seem it, you being in Valyria two years? That's not heard of, what was it like? How'd you survive? Why go looking for a dragon?"

This lead to you both laying in bed, hands held together, resting, but not sleeping. You just spoke quietly, fingertips tracing idly over each other's faces; sharing in each others lives that the other missed, reminiscing together in fond memories.

When morning broke, you had to move swiftly. Caraxes was left where he laid and after a final parting to the loyal beast and commandeering his saddle, together, you and Daemon mounted the Great Shadow. She wasn't a fan of the restraints, but once you and Daemon were mounted, she did not fuss as it was evident you humans had an easier time with the leather contraption.

"I must confess," Daemon whispered in your ear, using you as an anchor and leaning into your back, "I fear I might feel something akin to guilt for fleeing home."

"That's natural," you assured, "you're leaving family behind, 's never easy."

"There was no winning this war," he admitted, sighing. "I lead so many to their death... Destroyed my family - "

"From what I have heard, this is not your doing," you argued sharply. "That night, when Aemond attacked Lucerys, what were you to do? Leave that kind of atrocity without consequence? No, that is not in the Targaryen's nature. You did not start this war, Daemon."

"But I knew..."

"You knew what?"

"I knew Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were Harwin Strong's, not Laenor Velaryon's. We thought if we married her sons to my daughters, nobody would care much else about lineage - but we were wrong."

"It's okay to be wrong," you promised, leaning your head back to let your forehead rest against his temple. "It's okay to make mistakes or have regret. Tell me, do you wish to return to your wife? I will take you now, no quest - "

"No. No, I do not wish to leave you. This is... This is Rhaenyra's war, I've done my part. I'm free and finally with whom I belong."

"Now it's time to heal," you told him.

"Time to rest," he agreed, squeezing your waist and placing a few kisses to your neck. "This is where I should've been all this time... After the Stepstones, I should've stayed with you, none of this would've come to pass. I regret leaving you everyday - "

"I told you, for us to get here, to this point, now, we had to separate. But look where we are," you smiled back at him, the Great Shadow soaring higher in the sky to keep Westeros at a distance, "we will not be apart again. 'S you and me, love... Until our end, which we will greet together."

Daemon's lips found yours at long last, whispering, "Together," against them before sweeping his tongue against yours.

The port was lovely this time of day, sun high in the sky to give light to the fishermen and vendors hard at work. Sailors made port, calms were being shucked, different Aristocats trying to barter and trade on their journeys abroad. You smiled at the people you passed, grateful to be home after a prolonged absence; arm looped tight with Daemon's as you both strolled the pier.

"It's hard to imagine you've done all this in a lifetime or less," he mused, a hand folded over yours, dressed in the best clothes you could find. "It's s marvel, my sweet," his compliment was sincere.

"Thank you," you whispered, hugging his arm as your skirts swished around your ankles, just tickling your bare feet. "This season's expected to be bountiful," you told him, pointing to the various teams bringing crustaceans, fish, and other sea life in different crates and traps. "I expect there won't be much of an off-season."

He glanced around, "And you don't collect taxes?"

"Why would I?" You scoffed. "We're more dynamic than that. Everyone works for their place, if you wanted to think of it that way. They are not expected to contribute, but the village seems happier that way. Being close knit, helping one another, sharing wealth. No one person has complained, so, I figure it's working so far. Even if it didn't work, I still wouldn't charge them taxes - it'd be like charging them to live. Always seemed silly t'me."

"Morning, Mistress!"

"Morning, Don," you beamed, leading Daemon towards the dock. "How are you, kind sir? Looks as if you've been working all day already."

"Aye, up before the sun," he nodded, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Wanted t'thank yah, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, yeah, with that dragon? We're hauling in more ships," he chuckled, and just overhead, the Great Shadow glided over them all to head out to sea to fetch another round of ships. "Gets us out there quick, brings us back when done, 's like a wee bit of an assembly line, ain't it?"

You chuckled, "Sounds like it, friend. Uh, Don, have I introduced you to my husband?"

"Husband?" Don grinned, cocking his head, "No, Mistress, I wasn't aware you even had a suitor. Mariam don't tell me much gossip these days," he snickered, referring to his wife. "It's nice t'meet you," he told Daemon, "name's Don, just Don - no, it ain't short for nothin'."

Daemon smirked some, shaking the man's fishy hand boldly, "A pleasure, Don, Just Don."

"Oh, this one's got a bit uh humor, don't he?" Don laughed lightly. "What's your name, lad?"

"Daemon?" A voice answered for you all, and just above you, a little further on the pier, stood an aged Laenor Velaryon.

"Excuse us, Don," you spoke swiftly, confusion marring your features. He understood or sensed the slight tension, backing off to let you approach the "dead" knight.

"Oh, my - Y/N," Laenor breathed, another aged man at his side with what you assume to be his children. No question could be asked yet as your old friend launched himself into your arms, laughing merrily, giving you a tight squeeze with his still-toned arms. "Oh, the Gods are good for this!" He laughed, rocking you slightly, "Oh, how the Seven bless us."

"You're so dramatic," you laughed back, patting him happily until he pulled back. "But I must confess, I am so fucking confused - what is this? How are you here? I thought you died, Laenor, that's what ever spy reported."

"They should've," he nodded, glancing at Daemon, "but perhaps, the explanation will be better received after some wine?" He caressed your cheek in affection before looking at your husband, nodding, "It's good to see you again, my Prince. Or is it King Consort?"

"Neither, just Daemon," he corrected, your heart soaring a little at the idea that he would abandon his title so easily. Yet you knew, there was nothing to go back to for him.

"Well, how about I introduce my family?"

"Family?" You grinned, seeing him present the others.

"My husband," he gestured, giving his name. "And our kids," he introduced the other three.

"How?" You asked simply.

"We found a Red Priest who was willing to officiate the ceremony," Laenor explained, "and the kids were sired by different mothers, too."

"Whores," the husband smiled.

"Huh," you nodded in impression. "Well, perhaps wine is best to hear that tale, as well?"

"Perhaps," Laenor grinned. "Uh, but first, we should find accommodations - "

"Oh, come off it, you're staying with us," you waved. "Your belongings?"

"This is it," he half-shrugged, you eyeing the few rucksacks around their feet, neck, shoulders... "We heard of the prosperity here, thought it was worth the move."

"How right you are," Daemon answered. "Come, old friend." He picked up a few sacks for the kids and you looped your arm with Laenor's to lead the way. How good it was to have your friend back, your husband at your side, and a functioning, happy village with your placement amongst them most important... Everything you could've wished for, it seemed, came true.

And in your womb, a Dragon Seed was planted; soon to make its announcement known. Truly, a happier ending than you thought deserved - but R'hollr worked mysteriously, blessing those deemed worthy to spread his flames.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

#daemon #prince daemon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon targaryen x f!reader #daemon targaryen x female!reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen angst #prince daemon targaryen x fem!reader #prince daemon targaryen x f!reader #prince daemon targaryen x female!reader #prince daemon targaryen imagine #prince daemon targaryen fanfiction #prince daemon targaryen angst

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lemon-russ · 6 days ago

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In my late night writing stupor I; 1) used the wrong dividers on the morty fic, I reopened it aghast to see that vague circle shape was not death gaurd but black legion. Please disregard. And 2) I forgot to tag @squishyowl for it 😭

I REGRET NOTHING ELSE

There were discussions. I now am expanding the Otome Cage Morty fic to have Lore because I'm insane and I GUESS it's getting me to write again so. We roll with it.

PREQUEL TO THIS || NEXT

Mortarion x F!Reader (Pt. 0)

CW: None for this specific thing. Many for the linked one. Many for the future of whatever this is.

TAGS (If you guys do not want to be tagged in whatever this is lmk 💀): @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @moodymisty (<- except you, you get no rest /j)

Your hoe hits the dirt with a soft thud, the thick warm air of sowing season opressing your lungs. You sigh and lean on the tool, wiping sweat from your brow as it threatens to sting your eyes.

Same as it ever is, you have been tilling the field for three days straight in preparation to sow the grains that will feed you another long winter. Your back aches, your arms tire, but worst of all is the humidity as your lungs try to wring oxygen from the air.

Your sister calls your name, and you ignore her a moment, catching your breath. But the next call is sharp and panicked. You turn to look for your sister, but are stopped dead when you see the sky.

Your life, until this moment, has been a cycle of doldrum. Wake up, feed the animals, feed yourself and your sister, do whatever seasonal chores were required of you. Today that was till and turn soil, sometimes it is irrigate the crops, sometimes harvest, maybe darn your garments or weave.

Nothing in your life so far could prepare your brain to process what it currently was desperately trying to parse into your synapses.

A… thing. A building? A construct of some sort, hangs in the hazy sky. Sat there like a cloud, but sharp and pointed and menacing. Whatever it is, it screams predator.

You fall backwards into the softened soil, primal fear gripping your heart. Everything you know screams “wrong, danger, flee” as smaller constructs fall away from the main one, like the large flying insects you chased off of growing season crops.

An alien noise, deep and bone rattling, approaches from the sky behind you. You scramble around to see another small construct coming right for your field, kicking up dirt and debris. You have to cover your ears to muffle the painful thudding sounds it makes.

It settles onto the ground, and mercifully it stops screaming. You wonder if it is hunting, should you run? Where is your sister? You need to find safety from these beasts-

The belly of the thing cracks open and falls to the soil, shaking the ground, and you freeze again.

Something human shaped, but wrong and hard and large, steps out with a heavy thud onto the ramp. It’s terrible face is partially made of metallic plates, with two cylinders that belch thick gasses as it breathes. It seems to be wearing clothes- you think you see human eyes under a hood- but you can’t begin to guess which parts are shell or exoskeleton and which are clothing.

It does have eyes, you realize as the cloudy green things lock onto you. Have you been staring this whole time? You need to run, your body screams, run, run, run-

It makes a noise that sounds like speech at you, and points. It’s… trying to communicate? It barks the clipped noise again and snaps its fingers at you.

Your baffled mind reels, overwhelmed by the onslaught of new information. You point at yourself.

“M- me….?” You squeak out to it.

It thuds across your field, heavy shelled body sinking into your freshly tilled dirt, ruining several days of effort, before coming to a stop in front of where you sit. It peels back its upper skin- Oh, it was a hood- to reveal shockingly human adjacent features. Shoulder length silver hair, pale and cloudy green eyes, and ashen white skin marred with cracks and scars.

It speaks at you again, the sound mechanical and muffled by its gaseous breath. The smell from its cylinders is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, acrid and sharp and foul, and you recoil from it as its attempt at speech spits the smoke at you.

The being- person?- hesitates, and sighs. To your horror, it hooks its thumbs under the metal plates of its face and pries them away, revealing a human-ish lower face. Its cheeks are gaunt, and its mouth cracked in a sickly way, but at least it is now human looking enough for your brain to process what you are talking to.

A man. Almost.

He starts speaking again, but is overcome with a coughing fit. He turns away, coughing a sickly rattling sound out, and instinctively you clamber to your feet and step towards him. Is the air foul to him? You’re sure this massive man, already a foot in the grave if you’d ever seen it, is about to keel over right in your field. He holds up a hand to stop you, and retches something vile into the dirt.

You grimace. Not because of the sick, you were plenty familiar with disease and the death rattle of a creature’s last breaths, the poor thing, but whatever he is producing actually sizzles when it hits the dirt, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have to dig up the soil this man touches when he finally dies. That’s going to be a lot. He is REALLY big.

Surprisingly, he catches his breath, and surprising more, when he turns back to you, his pallor is slightly healthier. He takes a deep breath, rolls back his shoulders, and speaks again, much more clearly. Unfortunately, it is gibberish.

“I… don’t understand…” you say, shuffling on your feet.

He tilts his head as you speak, then nods. “Ah, you do not speak gothic here. That is fine, I think I know this language too.” He responds, his voice deep and raspy. “Tell me little peasant, who are your rulers?”

You frown. “I… rulers…?”

He rolls his eyes, “Yes, do you have that? Is there a person who makes the rules you all follow? Someone who runs your country or whatever you have here?” He says, gesturing around you.

“I…. no? We all just live our lives, farming mostly….” you say, starting to feel lightheaded. This shelled man came out of a flying beast and now is asking if you had, what, a parent?

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his scarred nose. “That makes things less convenient.” He grumbles.

Suddenly he is scruffing you by the back of your tunic, and you yelp in surprise. You hear your sister scream and run away, calling for the neighbors down the way. The massive man holds you up so you are face to face with him as you squirm and grab at the cold hard hand.

“I am here to bring this planet back to the rule of my Father, The Emperor of mankind. And you-” he stops to cough into his shoulder, “-Are going to tell me what I ask for without argument.” He said between wheezes.

You fight through the confusion and anarchy in your mind to think about the situation you are in as logically as possible. A giant man from the sky in a screaming beast, who speaks your tongue, wants to own your land- what is a planet- and has you grasped in one hand like a stray kitten. And apparently he intends to bring you along as he does whatever it is he is doing for his father, who, presumably, is another large and strange man who could crush you in his fist like a locust.

You could fight, scream, run. Hide until your sister returns with help, hope this man is too sickly to give chase for long. There is a side door to the root cellar, if you could get out of his hands in time maybe….

“Okay.” You squeak out.

He raises a brow. “Okay?” He asks.

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

A very, very faint smile cracks across his weathers face. “….Okay.”

#My work #mortarion x reader #mortarion #wh40k #wh40k fic

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storiesbyrhi · 2 years ago

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Bones and All - Chapter 14: Eat Me

Eddie Munson/Reader Series Masterlist

Warnings: canon typical violence/gore, swearing, abusive parents, animal farming/slaughterhouse setting (1 scene only); psychiatric hospital setting (1 scene only); discussion of religion; suicidal ideation/thoughts; murder; mid-level smut; no beta; updated each chapter

Synopsis: A Bones and All AU. What do you hunger for?

Chapter Summary: It's time to eat. 4390 words.

Author's Note: I have resurrected two canonically dead ST characters for this penultimate chapter. Gone too soon, imo.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite little hellion!” Benny Hammond called as he appeared from the kitchen.

Eddie stood to greet the man, they hugged. “Hey, Benny. How you doin’, man?”

“Doing good, doing good. Heard you were back. Staying for long?” Benny asked, glancing at you.

“Shit. Sorry. Benny’s, this is Y/N. Y/N, Benny. Wayne and him go fishing sometimes. Used to live at the park till he built this place,”

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

Benny beamed and gave Eddie a strange sort of look very much designed to embarrass him. There were some raised eyebrows and smirking involved.

“And, ah, we… we don’t know how long we’re here for,”

“Sounds about right. You here for dinner?” Benny rounded the restaurant’s counter, speaking as he walked.

“Yeah. We’re grabbing some takeaway. Wayne’s home so thought we’d eat with him,” Eddie said, leaning against the counter.

Benny looked over his shoulder and through the window between the restaurant and the kitchen. The burger joint was busy, not too packed yet though. He’d heard one of the waitresses whispering about Eddie when she brought the order through, figured he’d come see his favourite weirdo himself.

“Shouldn’t be too long,” Benny said, rapping his knuckles on the countertop.

After a brief catch-up, you and Eddie returned to the truck and drove back to Forest Hills. The sun was setting over Hawkins, bathing the town in a saturated orange. When you pulled up in front of the trailer, you smiled to yourself, thinking maybe the thing could do with a coat of marigold paint.

Inside, Jeopardy! was on the television, Wayne answering along.

“We brought dinner,” Eddie said, putting the paper bag on the kitchen bench.

Wayne stood and walked over, smiling at you. “Edward seems to have misplaced his manners. We ain’t been formally introduced,” he said. You could hear the Munson mischief in his tone.

Eddie froze. “Shit. Sorry. I just…” Forgot to introduce you both because you both feel like family, like part of me, and it makes no sense that you don’t know each other. “Dunno. Sorry.”

You and Wayne did the work for him, introducing yourselves. Wayne acted as if you belonged in the trailer, like it made perfect sense for you to have shown up and moved in.

After eating Benny’s exceptionally good burgers, a calm took over the trailer. Wayne was sitting in the corner armchair, and you and Eddie on the couch. When a commercial break during Miami Vice started, Wayne cleared his throat.

“So, you two heading back out soon?” He was trying to act casual, but even a mostly-stranger like you could hear that it was not a casual question.

“Probably. But it’s gonna be different this time.” You and Eddie hadn’t talked about any more specifics of Notre Dame, so it surprised you that he offered the plan up so early. “We’re thinking of getting a place up north. Near Notre Dame. Settling down for a while.”

Wayne looked at his nephew for a long while. He’d never truly understood Eddie. Never could reason why a kid that smart and that beautiful couldn’t find his place in the world. It never stopped him from loving Eddie though. Wayne loved his nephew like his own, and he’d never seen him so at peace. Whoever you were, Eddie had quite clearly found a part of himself in you and it had afforded him comfort and happiness.

“Sounds good. Be up near Lake Michigan there. Maybe I could come see yas when the fishing gets good,” Wayne said.

Eddie smiled, the pride in Wayne’s expression too much for him to process.

“We’d like that,” you answered for Eddie. “I’ve never been fishing.”

…

Eddie woke first the next morning. A sunbeam shining through the blinds was lighting a patch of your bare back. You were sleeping soundly on your stomach, and Eddie stayed still, hugging his pillow, watching you.

The dust bunnies in the air danced, only visible when the sun hit the windows just right. The refrigerator hummed in the background, and beyond that all the normal noise of Forest Hills.

Eddie thought about his life. Despite the tragedy and the trauma, he had always pushed toward some form of happiness. He was remarkably resilient when it boiled down to it. Notre Dame, he thought, was going to be the proper start of his life though. Meaning no disrespect to Wayne or any of his friends in Hawkins, Eddie considered the plan to be the first domino in a line of things that would finally go his way.

When your eyes opened and you adjusted to the light, you smiled at Eddie.

“Hi,” your voice croaked.

“Hey,” Eddie whispered, reaching out gently to swipe his thumb along your cheekbone. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,”

“It’s better than the couch, huh?”

You nodded in agreement; the little fold out bed was definitely earning its keep. Eddie watched you stretch then settle back under the covers. You watched him too, as an idea made its way into his head and he suddenly rolled over so his back was to you.

“Spoon me,” he ordered.

“What?”

“I wanna be the little spoon… Please.”

It was too cute not to give in. Shuffling closer, you slid an arm around Eddie’s waist as you pushed yourself into the curve of his body. He took your hand and held it to his chest, your fingertips just able to feel the beat of his heart.

Soon your breathing fell in sync and you closed your eyes again. It took a while for either of you to say anything or move even a little bit.

Eventually, Eddie spoke first. “Wanna see Max and Dustin before we go,”

“Okay,”

“But I want to go soon,”

“Me too,” you replied, full of daydreams and fantasies about what life could be like.

With bellies full of mostly just coffee and toast, you and Eddie left the trailer and wandered over to the park’s playground.

Eddie was hung upside down from the jungle gym, while you laid on the ground beneath him. His hair almost touched your face. You were giggling at each other like school children when the cop car pulled up. You read ‘CHIEF’ along the side.

Eddie climbed down and positioned himself between you and the man who got out the Chevrolet K5 Blazer.

“Stand down, kid… Not here to arrest ya,”

“Easy mistake,” Eddie replied, earning him a small smirk from the cop.

“Who’s this?”

“Jane Doe. Kidnapped her on my way into town. Neighbourhood Watch rat me out?”

“Good to see you haven’t changed, Eddie.”

Eddie kicked at the dirt. You didn’t know if he was being defensive was the best route to take with the cops, but there was a genuine rapport between the two men.

“Y/N, this is Hopper. He’s… ah… one of the good ones,” Eddie introduced. “Hopper, Y/N,”

“Hi. That’s some high praise coming from you,”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie deflected. “Pigs in a blanket, fry ‘em like bacon,”

“Wow. Nice. Is that one of your songs? You write that?” Hopper quipped.

“Oh, you like it?”

“Yeah, love it.”

They had a momentary stare-off while you glanced around the trailer park to see if there was an audience. There was.

“Um… Did you… need something?” you asked, mostly intending to break the stalemate rather than enquire about Hopper’s visit.

“You here about Mike’s dad?” Eddie asked then.

“Yeah, you heard?”

“Mike was here with the others the night before last. His dad dropped him off. Called yesterday asking to keep an ear out. Trailer park gossip and all that,” Eddie explained.

“Didn’t see Ted drop Mike off?”

“Nah, think they all met up at Red’s first,”

“Max?”

“Yeah,”

“Right,” Hopper said, pulling his little notebook out to check Eddie’s statement against others he’d already gathered.

“Wayne wasn’t around, was he?”

“Nah. He’s still doing nights at the plant,”

“And you?” Hopper asked, pointing a pen your way. “You with the kids?”

“No. I was tired. From travelling. I went to bed early,”

“Ohhhkay. Got it.” Hopper put his notebook away. With his hands on his hips, he looked around, then asked, “So, Mike ever talk about his dad?”

Eddie shrugged. “Just the normal stuff,” Eddie answered. “Bitched when he had curfew. Bitched when he didn’t get enough pocket money. Bitched when he didn’t get what he wanted. Rich kid shit, you know?”

Hopper smiled, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. “That'd be right… Alright, well, any of that trailer park gossip comes through, do me a favour and send it my way,”

“See something – say something. Sir, yes, sir!” Eddie replied, standing to attention and saluting.

“Jesus,” Hopper mumbled, turning to get back in his truck. “Stay out of trouble, alright? The both of you.”

You and Eddie nodded in unison and watched Hopper drive out of Forest Hills.

“Was he a good dad?” you asked Eddie.

“Who? Hopper?”

“No, Ted,”

“Eh, yes and no. Well, I mean, compared to mine – yes. Compared to yours – also yes. But I don’t think he gave a shit about his kids… And his wife is a total babe, you know? But everyone knows she…”

“She what?”

Eddie tried to suppress a grin, scratching his neck. “Let’s just say she’s clearly not getting the attention she needs at home,”

“Oh,” you replied, biting your bottom lip and nodding.

Eddie watched you for a second, gauging if you were going to spiral into an episode of grief and guilt.

“I bet he has a huge life insurance policy,” you said, surprising Eddie.

…

A few days later and you were parked out the front of Dustin Henderson’s house, the engine on Wayne’s truck still running. Eddie slammed down on the truck’s horn again.

“Jesus, Eddie. Give him a second!” Max yelled, kicking Eddie’s seat from behind.

“Watch it, Red,”

“Or what? You’ll turn this car around and nobody gets ice cream, Dad.”

You tried to hold it in, but a small snort of laughter escaped. Eddie shot you a look. You shrugged back at him.

Dustin appeared, running down his drive and throwing himself into the back with Max. “Sorry! Mews got stuck up a tree!”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re wasting daylight here,” Eddie said, foot already on the accelerator.

Fort Wayne was less than two hours away, and the drive seemed even shorter with the entertainment of Eddie, Dustin, and Max’s constant banter and bickering. They all shut up as Eddie pulled into a free parking space and everyone got out of the car. The live music was already audible, and you were still a block away.

Max read about a comic book and vinyl record show, complete with bands and skateboarding demos. She’d seen a flyer up at Hawkins Arcade and had been ready to beg Eddie to take her. It was perfect though; he said yes immediately on the condition Dustin could come.

As soon as the four of you entered the huge warehouse full of super cool people and buzzing with life, the kids both dashed off.

Eddie shook his head. “So much for quality time,”

“We’ll round them up for lunch, ‘kay?” you said to him, taking his hand.

It didn’t take long for them to find their way back to Eddie though. Dustin would appear out of nowhere with something to show him, and Max would wander through with questions about whichever band was playing.

By lunch, you’d reformed and found a table in front of some food trucks. With two bites of burrito in his mouth, Dustin asked, “Did Hopper come see you guys too?” Dustin asked.

“He’s talking to everyone. That’s what happens when someone goes missing,” Max replied.

“He seems… nice… for a cop…” you chimed in. Eddie gave you a look. “What?” you threw back. “He was!”

“He’s definitely the least shitty one in the department,” Dustin agreed.

“And how would you know that?” Eddie questioned.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,”

“Ah, yeah. That’s why I’m asking,”

“Well, what’s your problem with him?”

“Thought you said he was okay?” you asked Eddie then, interrupting his back and forth with Dustin.

“He is. He, uh… He was good to Wayne when… my dad left. And everything. If I ever had to call the cops, I’d call him, alright?”

“Yeah, well, he's still not gonna find Mike’s dad,” Max said, causing the rest of you to look at her with pause. “I mean, he bailed, right? That’s what dads do.”

She left unsaid the clincher that it’s what hers had done after her parents divorced. It’s what she believed Eddie’s had done. Dustin’s dad wasn’t around but you didn’t know why. Maybe it was a hat-trick.

Nobody said anything for a minute.

“Well… Not to add to the list of shitty men who leave list, but um-”

“It’s not like that,” Max interrupted. She looked to Dustin. “Right? We don’t…”

“Oh, no! No!” he caught on.

“You don’t leave leave. We don’t see you like that,”

“Thanks, Red. You don’t have to…” Eddie gestured his hands around her and Dustin vaguely. “But, ah, yeah, in a couple day, me and Y/N are gonna head off again.” He paused briefly to read their faces. No sign of hurt. “We’re thinking of staying put somewhere though. Maybe, you know, rent a place or whatever.”

Max and Dustin’s expressions mirrored each other. They were neutral at first, but then they both started to giggle, giving each other knowing looks.

You and Eddie watched, a little puzzled.

“Okay, cool, good talk,” Eddie said as he stood, picking up his lunch trash and walking away to find a bin.

Eddie leaving made the kids laugh harder. You figured they had an in-joke or were just amused at how seriously Eddie delivered the news.

When they settled down, Max turned to you and asked, “Can I come visit? When you get a place?”

“Yeah. Of course,”

“Me too?”

“You too.”

Dustin carried his heavy bag of comics back to the truck happily at the end of the day. Max picked out a record and a graphic novel. Eddie bought a record for Wayne, but otherwise you both saved your money.

The kids were quiet on the ride home, lost in their fantasy worlds. You watched them in your sun visor’s mirror for a bit. They were easy to love.

Eddie reached out and threaded his fingers through yours. You were both ready for the next chapter.

…

Notre Dame was a whole world within itself. It had thousands of people living their own lives. As you’d anticipated, not all those people were gracing the world with goodness. To you and Eddie, it was fish in a barrel.

For a week, you both watched him. He had a tiny apartment in a building of mostly students, although he certainly wasn’t one himself. Late 30s if you were being kind, but more likely pushing 42. He was small. Danger didn’t radiate off him, but something did that kept people at bay. Something nasty and noxious.

You played the dual role of bait and reconnaissance. Pretending to be a Notre Dame freshman, you struck up a conversation and found out his name was Bert and in exchange for the tiny apartment being rent free, he acted as the building’s handyman.

“Well, where’s the owner?” you asked him, twirling hair around your finger.

“Owns a bunch of buildings like this across the Midwest. Rents ‘em out cheap. As long I keep collecting the rent off the kids, send it to ‘em, he ain’t gonna bother me. I’m like my own man out here, you know?”

“That’s so cool. You’re like, the boss of this whole place, huh?” The sickly-sweet voice you were purring out made you feel dirty. In a bad way.

“President, more like it.”

When you met back up with Eddie later, you kissed him so hard he thought you were gonna bite his tongue out his head. “Don’t ever let someone like that touch me,” you told him seriously.

Eddie snorted. “Not letting anyone like anything touch you. You’re mine now.” He kept talking, asking questions about Bert, but you’d got stuck back at the start.

“Say that again.”

Eddie looked at you. “Say what?”

“That I’m yours.”

He saw your blown pupils and parted lips. In his deepest voice, Eddie repeated, “You’re mine now.”

You fucked in the back of the car you’d taken from a date-raping Polsci major. He’d tasted like meatloaf and Red Vines. His name didn’t matter.

…

Getting rid of Bert’s things was easy. He didn’t have much in the way of sentimental possessions, and the place wasn’t big enough to hoard anything.

Going through his mail and stacks of paperwork, you discovered his story was true. The owner of the building required a monthly cheque of combined rents. However, it appeared that Bert was charging the students more than necessary. He was skimming the top, allowing him to not only live rent free, but not work either, save for the odd handyman requirement.

“Think I’ll make a pretty hot handyman,” Eddie said, leaning against the doorframe between the living room and kitchen.

You were at the table and looked up at him. He was in only his boxers, with a toolbelt slung low around his waist. You wanted to laugh, but he did make a pretty hot handyman. Not letting the idiot win, you deflected. “What if I wanna be the handywoman?”

“Well, I thought this was more your style. Found it on one of the campus noticeboards while you were doing recon.” Eddie handed you a flyer. The college’s library had a casual shelving job going. “I know it’s not super fun, but… Books. You’ll probably overhear a lot of weird shit too. I don’t know,”

“No, Eddie, it’s perfect. Thank you.” You stood and let him pull you into a hug. “So… Is that a screwdriver or are you just happy to see me?”

…

On the verge of dropping the bags you were juggling, you unlocked the apartment's front door and went inside.

“Eddie?! I’m home,” you called to no answer. Figuring he wasn’t far behind you, probably replacing 2D’s kitchen lightbulb again, you began to unpack the groceries you’d bought. Flittering around the kitchen happily, you smiled to yourself.

For the month you and Eddie had assumed Bert’s place, 2D had been obsessed with your boyfriend. The two girls who lived there were Women Studies majors, and his long hair and good manners charmed them no end. They liked you too, but it was Eddie who had returned to their kitchen again and again to replace mysteriously blown lights.

From outside you could hear music being played through a loud and crackly boombox. Bravely we hope, against all hope; there is so much at stake, seems our freedom's up, sang Jimi Jamison.

It was only when you paused to crack open a can of Dr Pepper did you smell him. You cursed yourself for not being more alert, like Eddie had been trying to teach you to be. Hunting predators was making you sharper and smarter. You shouldn’t have been caught out like that.

Each step you took out of the kitchen and into the living room was slow and measured. The long braid of human hair sitting on the coffee table, spilling out of Sully’s bag, was the first thing you saw. Then, he emerged from the bedroom, holding one of Eddie’s t-shirts in his hands.

In the burning heart, just about to burst, there's a quest for answers; an unquenchable thirst. The music pulsed through the apartment. Neither you nor Eddie liked Survivor, but you’d like them even less now.

“Sully.” It wasn’t a greeting nor acknowledgment. It was a warning. “He’ll be home soon,”

“But he ain’t here now, is he, missy?”

“What do you want?”

Sully looked through you, eyes dull and lips pulled down into a melted frown. Neither of you moved, just stood watching each other with bated breath.

In the darkest night, rising like a spire; in the burning heart, the unmistakable fire.

“I ate with you. I dried off with you. Helped you on your way. That don’t mean nothing to you?”

Before you could reply, the man took a step towards you, then another.

“Stop. Sully.” You backed up into the kitchen and slammed the door between rooms closed.

Sully threw himself against the door, ramming hard. You yelped and frantically pushed the kitchen table against the door.

“You don’t wanna do this, Sully!”

“No, missy, YOU don’t wanna fuckin’ do THIS. Lemme in! Let! Me! In!” He roared with fury, the kitchen door shaking with each attempt to get in.

You were pushing the window open and trying to calculate if you could jump from three stories up without any major damage to your body when Sully went silent. No yelling. No banging. A trick, you thought, mere seconds away from climbing out.

“Baby?!” Eddie’s desperate voice shouted.

“Eddie?!”

You pulled the table away from the door and went tumbling into the living room. Eddie had a plastic bag pulled over Sully’s head, the older man’s hands flailing around trying to gain the upper hand.

“Knife! Knife! Go,” Eddie ordered.

In the short time it took to run back into the kitchen and pull a knife from the drawer, Sully had clawed a hole through the plastic and taken a deep breath in. It was enough to fuel him, finding grip in Eddie’s jeans and throwing them both to the ground.

They were fighting too quickly for you to do anything, then Sully landed an elbow into Eddie’s nose, causing him to fall back. Sully crawled towards you and you slashed the knife at him, cutting along his cheek.

With seemingly little care about the blade, Sully pulled you to the ground and put his weight on top of you. He smelt of death. Decay. Feasting on corpses and never brushing his teeth. He was a man possessed.

Rabid.

He snapped his teeth at you over and over until Eddie had his hands around his neck and face, pulling him up. Sully yelped with surprised, but moved fast enough to get Eddie’s ring finger in his mouth. Sully sucked in and bit down hard enough to sever the digit. He swallowed it whole.

Eddie hardly reacted, still pulling him off you. You saw it then. The knife was sticking out of Sully’s stomach. You’d managed to punch it into him at some point. Like Eddie, Sully was unphased by his injury.

You looked around for another weapon, too slow to see Sully rip the knife from himself and tear it across Eddie’s torso. The sound Eddie made froze you in place, terrified and unable to comprehend what was happening.

Sully began to laugh, a horrible high pitched sound that rattled you. You watched as he dropped the knife and bent over Eddie. He ripped open his shirt to reveal the deep gash along Eddie’s chest. Sully lowered himself and started to eat.

The abject horror broke you.

In one swift and violent move, you picked up the braided hair rope and went sliding to your knees next to Sully. You wrapped it once then twice around his neck, pulling tightly. Immediately, Sully kicked off Eddie and tried to get free. You were holding strong, tears streaming down your face.

Weakly, Eddie picked the knife off the ground and rolled onto his hands and knees. He walked on all fours to Sully and stabbed him in the chest with perfect aim. Sully’s heart was pierced. You felt the life drain from him.

Eddie collapsed onto the floor but you couldn’t let go of Sully. You pulled the rope tighter and tighter until it felt like you could pop his head off. When you finally dropped the rope, your hands were red and raw.

“Eddie,” you said, voice hoarse. Scrambling over to him, you held your hands over the wound and started to sob. “Eddie?!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he replied, words falling over each other. “S’fine, fine. S’okay,”

“No, no. No, Eddie. We have to get you to a hospital,”

“No, no, no, no. Baby, baby. You c-can’t. Can’t do that. Baby, babe. S’okay,”

“Stop. Stop, Eddie. You can’t die. You can’t leave me here. Okay? I can’t do this without you. I don’t wanna do this without you. So, get up. Get up,”

“Shhhh, baby,” was all he could say.

“No. No! Eddie!”

“Shhhhh, listen, listen to me. You’re-” He coughed up blood. “You’re gonna be f-fine. ‘Kay? Bu-but I need ya to-to do somethin’ for m-me, yeah?”

“No! No,”

“I d-don’t wanna… don’t wanna go to waste, understand? N-need you t-to do somethin’ for me?”

You held his face while shaking your head. Your tears landed on his chest, diluting the blood. Your lungs felt like they were going to go dry and crunchy.

Eddie continued with his dying wish. “Yeah, yeah, babe. You g-gotta e-eat me. C-can’t rot. D-don’t wanna… rot. B-burn. Don’t wanna… b-burn.”

The sobbing hurt so much that it was as if your spine was trying to shake itself loose. You laid your head down on Eddie’s chest, the smell of blood so strong it was making you dizzy.

“I love you,” you told him. “I love you, I love you.”

He was too weak to reply. You listened to his laboured and wet breathing, then shuffled around to look at the wound. Two things bloomed in you simultaneously. While your mind said, stop the bleeding and he may survive this, the monster in you yelled, EAT!

Eddie tasted like lust. His flesh sweet and his blood savoury. You wanted to keep him safe inside you. Swallow him, bones and all, and have him deep in you forever and ever. You wanted to feel him under your skin. Wanted to be one and the same. Wanted consummation. Wanted love. Wanted…

You screamed until your throat couldn’t anymore, then got to the phone and called 9-1-1. With your voice almost entirely gone, you managed to give your address and beg, “Hopper. From Hawkins. Call Hopper.”

Crawling back to Eddie, you held his hand and passed out.

What you wanted most was to never be alone again.

End Note: Spoilers for the novel/film below! I love the film's version of this sequence of events. When he begged to be eaten, and she did, I was sobbing. Genuinely sobbing. Then, when I read the book and it was so different and 10/10 anticlimactic, I was like... oh. That sucks. So, we have gone with the film version but I'm leaving it with the cliffhanger of how this pans out. See you in Chapter 15!

Fic Taglist: @azydrateanatomy @pussy-drunk @mrsdollardog @akiratoro420 @thatsbunnysmind

Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @munsonlives @sweetpeapod @depressooo-expressooo-blog @thorfemmes @hawkins-high @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @mymoonisalways-in-scorpio @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @lacrymosa-24 @mel-the-fangirl

#Mine #Bones and All #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fanfic #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Cannibalism

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braintapes · 2 years ago

Text

The Hotel Podcast Season 3 Analysis: Part II - The Lobby Boy

(Time to blow out another candle.)

Welcome back! Part I was allll about the Manager's arc, covering episodes 3.1 - 3.4. We saw the Manager as she was repeatedly killed by a pale, gibbering creature, we watched the darkness consume her and the lobby, and we also witnessed the Hotel being built, in a way.

The Manager's been killed again by the gibbering creature. Now we see from the Lobby Boy's perspective. Well, we will see.

As I said in my previous post, S3 is simultaneously the old crew's origin, end, and a place/time/series of events they intermittently return to. This means that we're seeing the staff in a very specific, raw state of being. A different a lens to understand them through.

(Time to make a wish.)

This season functions as a collection of character studies showing us how the old crew responds to inevitability. The certainty of death. There is no release for these three, as there may be for the guests. There is only dying to wake up to die again.

The Manager's arc emphasized the certainty. The Lobby Boy's arc will showcase the cycle.

As always though, this is only my own personal read on the text/audio. Analyzing the art and stories I like in this way is a creative fun outlet for me, and my hope is that this can prompt more discussion for other people too. I love getting to see other people's perspectives and bring up stuff I hadn't considered!

Enough preamble though, let's get right to it. (Do get comfy though, because this is nearly 7 full word pages long)

(It's almost my birthday.)

To properly set the stage for the Lobby Boy's arc, I need to talk some more about the Manager first. Who is the Manager? What drives her?

I'm going to go by Season 2 here. I believe S2 is another, though different, look at these characters. There, we see them as raw as raw can get. They're a mixture of ingredients sitting in the pan waiting to be put into the oven. Whereas in S3 they are freshly baked and piping hot. And also still being baked. And speaking of food metaphors…

The idea of hunger and satiation continually shows up in the Manager's stories. Burger Baby is, uh, fairly obvious and speaks for itself, I think. Mrs Bones is interesting because again we see her thirst as this primal need inside the Manager, a desperate instinctual urge that drives her forward. This also happens in 5.1 Merp and Burble, where she. Well. She merps and she burbles.

In these altered states of consciousness, she has an animal-like nature. She is concerned only with satiating herself. But even when she gets what she's looking for, it's never enough. She can never truly be content.

This shows up in 3.2, when the laborers' deaths satiate the Manager. They even build her/the lobby as they perish one by one. But of course, of course, the fullness doesn't last. This is one of my absolute favorite aspects of the Manager's character. It makes her so distinct from the other two.

The Manager's response to the inevitability presented to her is to allow it in. She neither fights it, kicking and screaming, as the Owner would, nor does she run from it, as the Lobby Boy will. She accepts her circumstances and adapts to them. She takes to everything the easiest of the three.

So, she dies. So...she dies. So what? She's dead now, and will remain so for the rest of the season. What's done is done, until the Hotel wills it otherwise. They serve at the pleasure of the Hotel Herself, after all.

(Do you remember how to die? I'll remind you.)

The most distinct difference between the Lobby Boy and the Manager is that the latter seems to relish in her job. Not in the way the Owner does, as a title to preen and puff up over. She gets nothing out of lording her position over the other two. She does what she does because it's in her nature to do so, and it's a form of sustenance. Her job is her life is her nature. Literally hashtag ultimate girlboss, y'know?

The Lobby Boy, on the other hand, does NOT relish his duty. He is deeply intimate with death and dying and the horrors that lurk inside the Hotel in a way that the other two simply are not. He constructs nearly every awful thing in the Hotel and personally delivers the guests to those things.

As the gibbering creature continues to beat (and then starts to consume) the very dead Manager in 3.4, the Lobby Boy notes the "pulsing and bruised" walls of the Hotel. Something is deeply wrong here and he can feel it. The way he's seeing everything is not how he normally would. He says:

"It's not supposed to look like that, I think. Not to me. Maybe to the guests, but to me it only looks like...I knew underneath and behind and through everything was something awful and vast watching, but I could still look at the facade and know my place here."

The Lobby Boy has, off the top of my head, seen the Hotel in this way two other times. Well, one of this times was in a bonus episode and so doesn't really count, but it's one of my favorite bonus episodes so I'm going to talk about it a bit anyway. Feel free to skip that part.

First, in 4.12 X - X, during the big fight between the Owner and the Lobby Boy, the two go sailing and flying through the Hotel. They crash through lobbies and halls and rooms. The Lobby Boy SEES everything in the Hotel. He sees everything he has built and everything he hasn't yet. He sees the guests dying. He sees himself, burning. And he hates it. He decides to look away, to try to not remember.

In fact, the Lobby Boy's active avoidance of witnessing his own work is THE big reason the Owner hates the Lobby Boy and picks that fight with him in the first place.

In the bonus episode The Hotel, the Lobby Boy has a dream in which he is entirely alone. He examines the lobby before using his cool powers to rise up through the Hotel in such a way that he can see it all. He keeps going, pushing aside and shaping and conducting the Hotel's form until it reaches a crescendo of swirling color and shape and fervor...Then, of course, he remembers that he's not alone, not really. He's never alone in the Hotel.

Like I said, that lies in murky non-canon-ish waters so feel free to ignore it. I personally consider it an interesting supplemental to the other two examples. The point is, the Lobby Boy isn't an idiot. He's very well aware of what the Hotel is. What he is and what he does.

3.4 ends with this:

"In the Hotel there is only death. Only ever death. But still I run to the second floor, where the deaths don't matter so much. The floor with the guest rooms."

He sees the darkness consuming the lobby, the Manager, everything in the Hotel lobby. He knows what's happening. Still, he decides to run. He chooses to look away. To not think about it, if he can.

He runs to what he knows best: the guest rooms. The familiar forms the Hotel is supposed to take. The facade he can try to lose himself in, knowing all the while that it's a lie and he will face the horrible truth that envelopes and underpins it.

(Here comes another one, don't miss it or we'll have to start over.)

Now, it's time for 3.5 The Lobby Boy Dies.

“I step off the elevator and hold the door for the guest, but the elevator is empty.”

The Lobby Boy is alone as he walks down the endless hallways. The lights wink at him as he passes by. We'll see the Hotel Herself flicker her lights at the Lobby Boy other times, like in 4.10 Audrey Burns. It's one of her cheeky and fun ways of communicating with him! The Hotel is absolutely playing with him like a toy in this arc. I mean, that's true of every arc but this one especially feels so delightfully cheeky.

He refuses to look back behind him. He's seen the guests look back and it's never saved any of them. Then he spots a different kind of light – a candle by an empty guest room.

“I...the candle wants me to stare into the flame. It wants me to go inside the room. The door matches the key ring in my hand... Why-”

But the Lobby Boy knows what's happening here. He drops his keys and continues walking. He avoids looking at anything but straight ahead of him, down the hall. With each room, door, candle he avoids, another one shows up until every room is an empty guest room with a candle. For him.

He wants to refuse. He doesn't want to go in. Tells himself he won't, he CAN'T. But the Hotel pulsates in the background and he starts to imagine what it would be like if the walls caught fire...the fire spreading...Chasing him...He runs!

But why? Why avoid the flames and the burning and the smoke when he knows he can't, won't escape them? When he knows he'll end up dying anyway?

There's a few ways to look at this. One is that it's part of his nature – he doesn't want to face death, not necessarily in a human way but because it - like basically everything else - makes him squeamish and uncomfortable. If he runs, he doesn't have to face it. If he runs, he can pretend:

"The doors seem to turn towards me as I pass now. Stretching, almost reaching out. Presenting to me, showing me the sweetest lie: Safety. Safety from what is behind me. Safety from the end ahead."

“The flames behind, the fire ahead, I will pretend not to know what is beyond the door and know relief for a sickening, hopeful, instant.”

[Bolding mine]

The Lobby Boy is aligning himself with the guests here. He is a guest in this episode: he has a room he will go and die inside of. He knows the guests aren't saved by their pretending, but he does it anyway because the tiny glimmer of light inside the Lobby Boy is hope. Is wanting. In this case, it's wanting the comforting lie that he'll be okay, somehow.

Another part is that this is technically new to him, new and frightening. His nature is fearfulness, so of course he runs. He's still a fresh-out-of-the-oven Lobby Boy at this point! All of this that's happening doesn't gel with whatever knowledge was baked into him from the Hotel. He hasn't had a chance to acclimate yet!

He enters his room and sees, just before the door closes, himself stepping off the elevator in the hall. He stands in the dark for a long time until the candle appears again.

“I stare into the flame and I can hear the Hotel around me.”

He's transfixed until the candle falls over and the whole room goes up in flames, burning him to death. He doesn't accept it, he screams and tries to run and tries to open the door he knows will not open again. He dies just like one of the guests.

(You were there too.)

Since the previous Lobby Boy is dead, the Lobby Boy who we just saw step out of the elevator is our narrator for 3.6 The Lobby Boy Tries Not To Die.

“I step off the elevator and hold the door for the guest, but...there is no guest. I'm alone.”

Last episode, we saw the part of the Lobby Boy that identifies with the guests, the part of him that's just as trapped as they are. But there's plenty more layers and sides to the LB we've yet to peel.

The Lobby Boy lies to himself and attempts to convince himself that the guest he saw at the end of the hall definitely did not have his face. It for sure wasn't him. Totally. He slips back into his role, what he knows he should be doing. But everything's wrong, still. He continues down the hall and passes rooms full of smoke and burning and screaming.

Occasionally, his voice reverberates. Notably, it happens when the ceiling is full of soot. He says:

“I don't want to fall up into that void. I don't know if I'll hit the ceiling, or just fall forever. (forever, forever.)”

[Formatting taken directly from transcript]

In my last post, I talked about how the darkness – the Hotel – is inextricable from the Manager/the staff. The idea returns here with...Well, with the smoke and soot, obviously, but ALSO with these vocal effects. It's one of the Lobby Boy's things, sometimes if he's particularly worked up he'll get effects like this in his narration.

As it's applied here, it feels like something directly tying him to the Hotel. A part of him that is like it. These reverberations come back at the end of the season both with the Hotel Herself's narration and the staff's response to her. They are not separate entities, but a strange splintering and amalgamation of each other.

The Hotel's pulsing starts up in the background. The Lobby Boy continues walking but his steps become wet and squishy as the floors become coated in, um. Melted Lobby Boy soup leaking out from the room doors. It pools and congeals into a gory sticky mess that clings to him, hinders his running. The desk bell dings and something is chasing the Lobby Boy and screaming at him and his immediate instinct is to run away.

The slurry of himself enmeshed in the floor shows that the part of the Hotel that is the Lobby Boy is this second floor. The same way the Manager is the lobby and we saw her being built, the Lobby Boy is every endless hall, room, door, ceiling, floors. He is both the facade and the horrible truth at the end of it.

What he runs from is himself, literally, in this episode, but also from...himself. You know what I mean?

“I run faster. I want the soot black ceiling to take me. I want to sink into the cold bleeding carpet. I want grey walls and nothing else.”

(mood man I hate being yelled at too.)

They're both screaming now, his pursuer and himself. Just...screaming. I LOVE the distorted layered yells here. Something visceral and miserable about the sounds perfectly encapsulate the Lobby Boy, I feel.

He runs and every door turns into an elevator. He ends up, of course, back at that door. That room, with the smoke and the fire and the other burning Lobby Boy already inside of it. He looks back and sees himself clearly this time. He's terrified. He'd rather burn to death than be caught by himself. He closes the door “a little faster” before the other him can get inside.

And so the Lobby Boy Fails To Not Die.

(Did you see him? Was it too fast for you?)

We are roughly two Lobby Boys down as we head into 3.7 The Rooms Are Filled.

“I step off the elevator and hold the door for the guest. The guest steps out and into the hallway.”

So now there's two of them in the elevator. One must be the guest, if one of them is the Lobby Boy. But then...? They walk together and the other lets our viewpoint LB into the room.

Once again, this opening sequence involves the Lobby Boy following his standard routine. Bring the guest to the room. Ask if they need anything. Our narrator gives a quick rundown of the room but then the fire starts consuming everything again. Instead of running away from each other, the two Boys struggle pathetically over each other to get out. One of them escapes, the other remains trapped in the room.

He heads back to the elevator and goes to another floor.

“There are so many buttons twinkling dully at me. I like to stare at them on the way.”

Bringing up this quote just to say I'm putting a pin in it for later in this post. Bear with me, there WILL be a payoff to this. I just wanted to make special note of this line in particular.

The elevator doors open and the cycle continues, repeats. One Lobby Boy brings the other Lobby Boy to his room and he dies there as the Lobby Boy goes back to the elevator to do it again. Again. Again. Every time the Lobby Boy dies, a light in the elevator goes out. Slowly, they burn to darkness every hall in the Hotel.

He's not running the same way he was during the last few episodes. He's settling in. Getting acclimated. The way he gets through this is by not thinking about it. If he doesn't think, he can hold out the sliver of hope within him that he won't be the one to die. But he'll still die.

He sounds so utterly exhausted as he relives both the walk from the elevator to the room and the burning to death inside the room. So strained, bordering on anger almost.

“Why do I look so afraid, if I'm not the one who has to burn? But I am the one who has to burn. And the one who has to close the door. I'm the only one here.”

Okay to be honest you could just ignore every single thing I've written here and just look at these lines because this is the crux of it all.

The sound gets...weirder from here. The elevator door dings wrongly. The Lobby Boy doesn't hold the door open for the guest. We hear the Owner's scream for the first time in a while, though this comes immediately after the line saying, “The rooms are filled with my screams.”

Hmmmm...

But I can't talk about that yet. I need to talk about this:

“The halls are filled with smoke and mess. I don't know why The Manager only had to die once and I have to die so much. So much. Too much.”

[Bolding mine]

Does this line sound familiar? He sounds envious here, almost...resentful, in a way that reminds me very specifically of 2.2 Cracker Man:

“Why do they get to be in the house? Why do they get to be young and happy and beautiful? Why does it hurt to watch them live? I don’t know why but it does. Every smile stings.”

The Manager's S2 episodes showed us her primal instinct as one of her core traits. The Lobby Boy's S2 episodes show us his envy and rage. He's portrayed as a stalking figure in both Cracker Man and Frozen Figures, something that watches from the outside before going in for the kill. Yeah, technically the Owner and Manager do this too, but it feels personal for the Lobby Boy.

Why do THEY (the guests) get to live? Why do THEY get to pretend, to have the luxury of not knowing what's going to happen to them? Why did the Manager only have to die ONCE instead of being stuck in this endless cycle? (She didn't, she died at least like 4 times, but I suppose he doesn't know that). Why is he stuck here and they're not? WHY CAN'T HE D--

“There are so many buttons twinkling dully at me. I like to stare at them on the way.”

That envy and his feelings towards the guests are also why I think the Lobby Boy likes staring at twinkling lights. I mean, there doesn't have to be anything deeper to it. I do think it is just...a thing he likes and that's that. But if there WERE deeper meaning to it, I would say part of him wants what the guests have. He wouldn't know what, exactly, he wants. But he knows they're different. They have something else. Maybe something nicer. Maybe. He admires the shimmering light until it turns into a desperate flame that eventually burns to soot and ash.

His envy collapses and gives way to the rage tucked deep inside him in Cracker Man. Here in 3.7, he taps into that and chases down the other Lobby Boy. Once again, he becomes the pursuing monster. He is the rooms he built. He is the guests he brought to them. He is the horror that will kill them inside the rooms. The screaming effects layer beautifully again.

“Every room is getting filled. Endlessly. We put ourselves here because we did. Never a thought to why or where. He runs so I'm running. He burns so I'm burning. If I could catch him, if I could touch him, could we burn together?”

I have nothing to add to this, I just want to sit and appreciate these lines for a minute.

The chase continues. This Lobby Boy can see into the elevators lining the hallways. Behind the both of them, “the void spills out” and chases them. No matter what direction they go, he'll always end up back in that darkness. Whether he's inside the burning room or out in the hall. He still, still, holds onto that tiny sliver of false hope that maybe, just maybe, he can catch him this time.

But the Lobby Boy sees him and closes the door a little faster. And the Lobby Boy is brought to a void by a trillion lights.

(The guests were never meant to come this far.)

There's...a lot more I'd love to say. I could go on and on in endless circles about this arc. It would be fitting, but this is already so long and I still have the Owner and the Hotel Herself to talk about!

So for now, let's see what happens to the Lobby Boy in the cleverly titled 3.8 A V O I D.

The Lobby Boy doesn't actually...do much here, since this episode is meant to start us on the Owner's arc. LB sits in the void, afraid. As familiar gibbering/Powers That Be noises follow after him, he panics.

“The worst it can do is kill me. Again. And Again. Forever. WHY CAN'T I DIE?”

[Formatting taken direct from transcript]

One last time, there's the crux of the Lobby Boy's despair. Why is he trapped like this when he's so, SO afraid? Why? Why why? The hopeless wailing and thrashing shared by the guests in their last moments.

We proceed listen to the Lobby Boy having the worst time he's probably ever had when he whimpers and begs “No no no no please no.”

His question is answered by as he's brutally killed by the gibbering creature the Hotel.

(He seems to be dead now though.)

And then the Owner chimes in with the fucking funniest possible line, “Thank you. Dispatching that creature has been long overdue.”

Thanks king. So glad to see you on your hater streak <3

Anyway, that wraps things up for the Lobby Boy's arc. I've never seen a more literal version of the “Man Vs. Self” style of conflict as this, as he grapples and struggles and fights with himself across time.

We get to see the fearful core of his being on full display along with the reasons why he'd be so afraid compared to the other two. Neither the Manager or the Owner are as down in the dirt with the guests, so to speak, as the Lobby Boy is. He embodies the most important aspect of it, the rooms and the killing.

It seems the only way he can get himself to function in that endless cycle is by avoidance, turning himself away from it all. The Owner just doesn't get it. Even though they have so much in common...

Well, that'll be for next time to delve into. See you then friends. Thanks again for reading! :-)

#the hotel podcast #the lobby boys episodes are longer generally #and theres a lot of ground to cover here #i hope this is an enjoyable read nonetheless!#hotelpod analysis

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winterpinetrees · 8 months ago

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The Carnival (Gap Years Part 8)

June 18th 2019

Union County, OR

Once again mustering the strength to post oc stuff on the cringe oc site. This doesn’t get easier. The events of this part were inspired (years ago) by a Mark Rober video where he recruits a friend that is also a professional baseball pitcher to help him win carnival games.

…………………

There’s an old cliche about how war is 99% boredom and 1% terror. This isn’t war. This is the survivor of a coup and his three teenage allies driving across the country on a circuitous path going nowhere. It’s still boring though.

When Brian and his friends began driving after their first fight, he’d hardly expected to survive until morning. Now, the sword slash across his chest has healed and they still haven’t seen an elf other than Marin. He knows he should be happy about this, but the anticipation is killing him. Brian has always been good under pressure, and he has a lot of awards to prove it. He’s never been good at the waiting though. At some point, that one percent of terror will come back and they will need to fight for their lives. It could be any moment now. Yesterday, Clay and Sierra went off to investigate a town and only Sierra came back. They spent four hours panicking before finally remembering to call Clay on the same satellite phone that they’d all mocked him for carrying. Without it, he probably never would have come back at all. It’s a horrible reminder of the stakes after a week of nothing. Brian feels like he’s going to explode.

They’re driving through northern Oregon. They could have been all the way across the continent by now if they’d wanted to be. However, with nowhere specific to go, they’ve instead chosen to take a winding path up and down California, stopping literally anywhere that catches their attention (They did eventually make it to Redwoods National Park). Today, Brian is taking all of them to a fair. He’s justified it by saying that crowds are safe, but he really just needs to throw something. Also, Marin is really getting on his nerves. Elves always act superior in the movies, but it’s different to spend a week in a car with a ‘teenager’ who clearly thinks that the three of them are moderately better than dogs. It’s not that this sort of talk is new to him. His father is the California governor and solidly on the liberal side of things, but the Whitakers have been in politics since before the Civil War. They all have opinions about his bisexuality and about Sierra’s first-generation mother and certainly about Clay’s habit of running off to the bad parts of town. He’s really sick of it.

Specifically, Marin keeps talking about how elves are just more evolved than humans. Brian’s a humanities kid, but he knows that isn’t how it works. Evolution doesn’t make better animals over time, it just makes things that survive. Marin may have magic and live for a while, but he isn’t any better than Brian just because his bones are hollow like a bird. That’s the other half of the reason for dragging him to a fair. It’s stupid, but Brian wants to challenge him to games until he beats him at something. Maybe it’s foolish and this graceful magic prince will win everything, but Brian is a varsity baseball player with a stack of wrestling metals and a black belt. He killed a nobleman (noblelf?) with a crowbar. He’s confident that he can pick Marin up and throw him. Unfortunately, that’s not a common carnival game.

Marin also keeps dancing around the idea that humanity would all be better off under elven rule anyway, which is just, not something Brian is willing to discuss.

He puts the car into park and they all step outside. He can tell from the fact that the parking lot is just dead grass that it will all be dissassembled by the end of the summer. Clay kicks his door shut with his foot. His sunburns are pretty bad, and he’s not in any shape to carry the sci-fi rifle he loves so much. It would be too conspicuous anyway. Instead, Brian takes a pistol with emerald detailing from Marin’s bag. He doesn’t have all of the right qualifications to concealed carry in Oregon, but the group agreed that Marin should just brainwash anyone that gets suspicious. Hopefully they won’t need to. Sierra takes her magic measuring device and Marin swings his bigger-on-the-inside messenger bag over one shoulder. They’re just four teens going to a carnival. No one will notice the magic, or the weaponry, or the huge amount of cash that they’re carrying because Clay pointed out that someone (elves or their parents) could track their credit card information. They’re three billionaire’s kids and a prince. Things were never going to be any more normal than this.

………………

“I went to something like this with my mother once. It was in the early 60s. Georgia, maybe?” Marin says casually as they walk towards the ticket stand.

“Really? Your mother? I’m surprised that the Apex had time to kill around us simple humans” Clay replies.

He ignores the insult. “Well, my mother was an exception. She didn’t have enough magic, so they sent her away for a while when she was a kid. She spent a lot of time along the Gulf Coast, in both worlds,” He pauses. ”I think she was happiest here. Here meaning the human world, not here”.

Brian has a thought, tries to ignore it, and then decides to follow it anyway. “Wait, when was your mother young?”

“This was the early 1700s”.

Marin is a prince of the elves. You can tell from his pointed ears and silent footsteps and the way that his eyes shine in the dark. However, from a distance, he looks like any Black teenager. His mother almost certainly had the same features. There’s got to be a story here, but Brian isn’t comfortable asking. They buy tickets and stand in the grass.

“Marin, I challenge you to a duel”.

“What in Lazarus’s name is that supposed to mean,” the elf replies.

“It means that we are going to go around this place and try a bunch of tests of skill until I beat you at something”.

“This is about how I said humans are less evolved, isn’t it?”

Brian smiles. “Also I really need to throw something”.

They shake hands. Marin doesn’t have a very strong handshake, which Brian decides actually makes sense, because strong handshakes are probably not an elf thing.

Clay offers to be the referee. “We already know this, but Marin, all of these are rigged”.

He nods, but doesn’t turn his eyes away from Brian. “Where I come from, the challenger sets the terms of the duel”.

“Wait, you have an actual dueling code?” It isn’t that surprising, to be honest.

“Several. Where should we begin?”.

Brian looks around. Should he start with a game he’s sure to win by physical strength alone? Or is that just playing into elven logic? Maybe he should choose one of those nearly impossible throwing games, but maybe there’s some sort of elf baseball and Marin has played that too. Maybe he’s just not good enough. That’s always how it always goes with his older brothers, and Marin is eighty-six. Brian might be in over his head. They walk to the milk-bottle toss. Brian hands over a ticket in exchange for a baseball and turns back to his opponent. The bottles are metal and bottom weighted, and the staff certainly won’t give an athletic eighteen year old one of the stacks that are rigged in favor of the player.

It won’t matter. Brian’s the starting shortstop on his team. He can throw a ball. He tosses the ball in the air, catches it again, and throws it with perfect form at the stacked bottles. It hits the center of the base and the whole thing collapses. Brian takes a stuffed elephant for the trouble. He’ll give it to some other kid. There’s no room in the car.

Marin looks around at the many-colored decorations of the stand and hands the staff member a ticket. The elf mimics his action, throwing the ball into the air and catching it as well. He throws, and the ball strikes almost the exact same place as Brian’s. The top bottle falls, the other two wobble, and Marin does not win a prize. He shrugs and moves to tie back his locs.

“You are just proving my point. That wasn’t about accuracy. That was a strength game”.

“Brian has one point, Marin has none” Clay winks. “Don’t kill each other”.

……

They keep walking. Both boys beat the basket toss, Marin wins a cute pink wolf at darts, and both of them, against their better judgment, try and fail the stupid little game where you throw the rings over bottles. They play against each other, against little kids, and against the rigged games themselves. After over an hour, the group pauses for a moment by a shooting game and Clay mutters something under his breath before grabbing a bb gun with his burned hands and getting shockingly close to a win.

“Brian, you still have that pistol?” Sierra laughs.

“Very funny. At least I didn’t get knocked over by recoil last week,” Clay replies.

Brian, Clay, and Sierra give all of their prizes to other kids (Well, Sierra keeps one), but Marin keeps slipping his into his messenger bag. He’s won a wolf, a snake, and a fox. Eventually they all come to the two games that aren’t even competitions. With his strength, Brian will win the hammer-swinging strongman game. Marin will win the ladder climb with his perfect balance. There’s nothing to do but play it out.

Brian not only gets a higher score than Marin, but actually beats the strength game. (It’s all about leverage, he’s done this before). He’s going to lose overall though. They’re tied now, and Brian doesn’t have a chance at the ladder climb. He’s not even the most coordinated human of the group. The older man running the game glares at Marin when he approaches. Brian chooses to think that it’s because he can tell that the elf is going to win, instead of something far less palatable. And Marin does! The disguised tightrope that sends Brian flailing to the inflatable floor after three steps hardly shakes when Marin climbs it, and he claims an orangey-brown cat half his size.

Brian shrugs. He’s lost by a point. “I think that’s everything! Good game, man! Or elf? How does that work?”

Marin doesn’t react. The prince of the elves just looks into the cheap plastic eyes of this big cat, unblinking.

“Marin, are you okay? You won! I was being sort of mean earlier”.

The elf looks back at Brian. His bright hazel eyes are very wide. Is he about to cry? He blinks and composes himself. It’s gone.

“Thank you. I needed this”.

Marin does not elaborate on what he needed.

It’s only a few hours later, as Marin leaves a message in an elven language using Sierra’s phone, that Brian realizes the cat has fangs. It’s not just some oversized ginger cat, it's a saber-toothed tiger, a smilodon. Wasn’t that the symbol of Marin’s house? Genus Sondaica, represented by a sabertooth in emerald green?

He brings this up to Clay and Sierra. What were the symbols of the other elven families?

“His betrothed is a fox, I think. That might have been a metaphor though. Smart women are foxes a lot,” Sierra explains.

Clay adds something. “I remember a snake. We had to explain your dumb joke afterwards”.

Brian remembers that too, now that it’s been mentioned again. “Marin chose those animals as prizes. A wolf, a snake, a fox, and a sabertooth. He didn’t give them away”.

“You think they’re gifts for other elves?”

Sierra looks back at him, “I mean, is anyone else even left?

Brian watches Marin out of the corner of his eye, “Coups are never easy. There’s got to be someone”.

“The question is whether we’ll be alive to meet them”.

………

Next time, Ishtar and her High Council start to figure out what in the worlds is going on. I was going to include a scene of the council here, but this is long already.

#by me #the gap years #my ocs #writing that *is*#the road trip

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dailycharacteroption · 1 year ago

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Creature Corner: Undead part 3

(art by reaper79 on DeviantArt)

Foes

Yesterday we looked at allies. Today we will look at undead in their more traditional role as antagonists.

While undead within the core setting are seen as inimical to life, and also the victims of either their own dark desires or those of the necromancer that animated them, on a more general folklore level, the undead represent a classic part of horror stories, symbols of wrath or other negative emotions persisting in the dark places of the world beyond the lamplights and campfires of civilization.

Of course, that unnatural state and general malevolence makes the easy picks for foes that you don’t have to worry about feeling bad about slaying, since you’re “putting them to rest”, but as we’ve previously discussed, undead can be much more complex than an army of mooks, though such armies also have their place.

Perhaps the undead foe most commonly seen at low levels, and later in large groups, are the mindless undead. Zombies, skeletons, beheaded, and more. Most may be animated by necromancers or supernatural plagues, while others may arise spontaneously, though usually such soulless undead arise in such a manner due to the presence more powerful undead or malevolent forces, the psychic impressions animating bodies with no clear connection to any trauma the body’s owner may have once experienced. However, there are always exceptions, such as the intelligent variants of zombies and skeletons, the zombie lords and skeletal champions, for example, and others that may exist spontaneously rather than being the creations of certain blasphemous rituals.

Another classic are ghouls and those like them. Certainly ghouls have their own family of relatives such as ghasts, lacedons, and Leng ghouls, but then there are distant cousins like festrogs and gaki. Such creatures are corpse-eaters, eager to devour the flesh of the dead as an act of sapio-cannibalism and grave defilement all in one package. Such ghouls will either fight to protect their “larder”, or seek to fill it with less rotten and more recently-dead corpses from nearby villages and adventuring parties. Many may be driven mad with hunger and be utterly incapable of negotiation. However, whether due to ample food, strong discipline, or otherworldly energies, some ghouls are capable of retaining their sapience and forming civilizations, albeit bloody ones.

Many undead truly are innocent (or not-so innocent) victims, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Attic Whisperers come from children that died of neglect, and their desperate bids for attention and love spell doom for most. Meanwhile, revenants and pale strangers hunt down their killers with implacable fervor, and they don’t care who or what they have to destroy between them and their prey. Others, like the bakekujira and the gashadokuro, are the shadows cast by the callousness of the powerful, butchering great whales or allowing hundreds to starve. While not all bone ship crews were good or righteous in life, such amalgamations certainly don’t deserve the horror of what they have become either. Another nasty one is the lovelorn, born when a heartsick deceased heart literally rips itself out of their chest after death to skitter away on ribcage spider legs.

Some undead were created specifically to guard the tombs of powerful dead or undead figures. The most notable of which are mummies, mummified creatures, and their often masters, the mummy lords. However, don’t discount other undead guardians, such as the space-warping crypt thing, the cursed and bound cursed kings, cyclopean gholdakos, the hanging gallowdead, blasphemous herecites, hordes of possessed phantom armor, and more.

Other undead are driven by the dark hungers of predation, making coexistence with mortals nearly impossible. The souls of murderers returning as mohrgs, obsessed hunters bounding on the air as baykoks, disgraced monks offering paths away from enlightenment as kurobozu, and so on. Dullahans and death coaches race after prey, often with an obsession for the race or chase. Draugr rise from cursed voyages and make their way home to the horror of their loved ones, while wights possess so much malevolence that they possess their own corpses and refuse to let go.

Some undead show the horror that necromancers and fell alchemists can wrought. Some are made from body parts, such as crawling claws and isitoqs, while others are surgically put together to create custom horrors, such as necrocrafts. The preservation of unviable births and flesh leads to the creation of “pickled punks”, while fleshless horrors like ecorche were almost certainly originally born in a necromancer’s lab. Others might be the remains of attempts at life, like the unrisen.

Perhaps most insidious among the undead are vampires. Most spreading via a cursed death, there are several types of vampires, ranging from the classic moroi to the ancient nosferatu, the soul-draining jiang shi, ki-draining vetalas, psychic vampires, and more. The foolish might think that the immortal beauty and power of most forms of this type of undeath make it more appealing, but most vampires are twisted by their need to prey on mortals into creatures utterly lacking in empathy. In addition to these, several vampire-like creatures, such as manananggals, penanggalens, baetriovs, sayonas, and the like also have such a predatory nature and even animalistic powers in some cases.

And then of course there are those dead that lack a body entirely, being nothing but disembodied souls. Things like ghosts, wraiths, shadows, and spectres are fairly well-known, while things like the insane allips, shrieking banshees, and the like add their on flavor to spectral death. Some even have unique gimmicks connected to other hazards, like gearghosts being attached to mechanisms and traps, while geists latch onto nearby haunts to control and be bolstered by them. In a way, these undead are even more malleable than corpses due to the way that the soul becomes twisted by darkness.

Of course, no discussion of the undead would be complete without those that can only be created by deliberate transformation. Liches and graveknights come to mind, both of which bind their souls to an object to continuously come back again and again. However, they are not the only ones, the siabrae being druidic counterparts to lichhood. However, one must be careful, for even this eternal life needs to be nurtured, lest one break down into a lesser horror like a demilich.

Finally, some undead defy the ideas of what undead must be. Some of them are the divinely punished like huecuvas, or those whose souls have been blasted by ultimate evil such as bodaks. However, some creatures that are definitely undead were already supposedly immortal beings when they turned, such as the entirety of the shadowy monsters known as nightmares: fiends that sought power from the negative energy plane and were consumed by it, or devourers, who sought beyond the edges of known reality and returned as soul-eating horrors. Perhaps most terrifying of all are the grim reapers (or possibly one single immortal grim reaper), a spectre of death that never seems to have been alive, and unlike the psychopomps, seeks only finality in death, reaping souls and providing no guidance.

Indeed, it would seem that the horrors of the undead are countless, and there are plenty that I did not mention here. With so many varieties of such horrors, one might fear undead apocalypses being disturbingly common on countless worlds, but by the efforts of goodly divine beings, psychopomps, heroic mortals, and even the undead’s own nature, keep most worlds safe from such dooms.

However, beyond immortal foes or undying allies, there are plenty of ways for a character to be inspired by the undead, as we shall see tomorrow. Tune in then!

#pathfinder #creature corner #undead

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kerberosstyxnixcharonandhydra · 11 months ago

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I would wish to see

OK OH LORD THIS IS GONNA BE LONG, some is stuff discussed w/ my pal @idiotv2 and some is just mine (we each have our own versions but there's some stuff shared so!)

without further adieu: These are kinda old lol. I'll be doing an eventual post about their USC interpretations

ALL:

yeah theyre all related in this one.

They're also all italian immigrants!

There is a front related to each one (Charon's Ferry - clothing store | and i cannot remember the others tbh. kerby's was a trampoline park tho. they go feral in there)

ALL SOME FLAVOR OF NB (they/them) and all of them aroace...except hydra who is the token allo /hj

all our cogs have some slight basing on animals so. furries the lot of them (affectionate)

All have some form of bone/joint/frame/shell issues (The head attorney does too) <- that's their Zizi btw (italian gender neutral for aunt/uncle figures)

All lost their shells but in different ways

(Left is relationships, right is an old reference with their shells + my friend's oc joey. hes funney i like him.)

Charon:

the oldest and tallest

got put into a leadership position but would rather not TM

I'm pretty sure that with their shell Charon was considered to be pretty attractive

Wolf based, i believe they're a timberwolf but we may not have been that specific

Our designs and HC's diverge around when they all lose their shells so -- Charon (to me) becomes a spotlight thing

(Based on the light almost looking like a moon and how wolves howl, and them not wanting to be IN the spotlight)

legal surname is Christy

Gorgon thing also, can reflect damage back at you. maybe also turn you to stone if you step into the beam of light and theyre MAD)

SO SCARED OF BUGS THEY CRY AND GAG AND THROW UP IN THEIR MOUTH (i joke but they are terrified)

COFFEE SNOB

Lost shell due to illness (from their Zizi)

Styx:

Second oldest/second tallest

The affair child TM (this is unfortunately true!)

Their animal was a hyena and boy they laugh like one

THEY ARE ALSO A DHAMPIR (male vampire and human woman) or the rough equivalent. the trait of fucked up bones appears in frame issues x2!

used to do ballet for fun in italy, fell and fucked up their foot/leg so bad they had to stop (it also required a transtibal amputation)

they have a wheelchair for bad days, but often use forearm crutches, or a cane + prosthetic (styx and graham and the foreman in the prosthetic legs club)

NO ACCENT BTW. i cannot stress this enough their voice is a dead monotone with no accent or inflection

Surname is Showalter, despite relation to Charon

DOES IN FACT DRINK BLOOD SOMETIMES. and has a life drain ability (i think it should be through their voice and this is my HC list even though i share many w/ my friend)

Showed a few symptoms of the same illness and skipped right to "get this thing off me NOW before it gets worse"

Nix:

The forgotten middle sibling (REAL) who has a passive cheat that makes people unable to sense their presence (They are a cognitohazard)

This can be rectified if you're around them a lot, but it fucks up your brain forever pretty much. They can also amplify the effect to sneak around if they want (but machines like automatic doors and cameras also forget they exist)

Almost perfectly identical to the head attorney, even when they had shells

They use this to fill in for Nyx (originally when Nyx was too ill to work even after using sick days) and they now intend to go to law school

They're why everyone hates lawbots bc they would give fake CnD's and court orders

Weird bird/cat/bat hybrid thing. cat with feathery wings (and they have white patches which are remnants of their freckles)

Surname is Christy

my freak child with an eating disorder (due to derealization and the feeling that "well im not real why bother" yeah cosmos doesnt take kindly to that.)

Weird luck powers. once made buck roll BAR 7 times in a row just by looking at him weird

Also lost shell bc of illness.

Kerberos:

doberman pinscher (parents weren't going to straighten their ears but i assume another family member did under the guise of getting their ears pierced. sickness and despair in the world

SO PROTECTIVE OF HYDRA FOR REASONS THAT ARE SO FUCKED

conspiracy theorist (but not in a fucked up way, in a funny way. like cryptid hunting) (theyre also so oblivious. we had a joke about them asking THE PERSON THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT about... well themself, without knowing)

One time Hydra got dumped on their doorstep at 8 years old and they never got a moment of peace since (they were like idk 10? 11??)

can obtain messages thru electronic signals ("MOOOM THE TV CALLED ME A BITCH AGAIN" "lol youre so imaginative")

Surname is Showalter

GOT HIT BY A TRAIN AND THEIR SHELL BROKE APART

HYDRA:

IDIOT BLACK CAT ENERGY

The shortest and youngest, but oh so feral

talked to god once we dont need to focus on that

IMMIGRATED ON ACCIDENT I CANT STRESS THAT ENOUGH

kind of a brat but in a PTSD way (neglectful/abusive parents)

"mommy why do you have beef with me im 4"

had 2 imaginary friends growing up, a greek fish who's name translated to Jabberwocky, and a talking house (both are in fact real dw about)

their parents didnt wanna immigrate but they were 8 and didnt understand so after a tantrum their parents packed a suitcase and dropped them with kerberos

they also didnt get a chance to learn english for for like the first few months they only spoke italian (and some greek)

vessel of fate sort of.

Surname is... well they legally changed their name to be.... hydra Hydra. after the mario movie (the live action one) where mario's surname is also mario. theyre wacky.

lost their shell in a drunk driving accident (the designated driver was drunk and drove them right into another car head on)

anyways have some funneys

#satellite investors #toontown #toontown corporate clash #charon #styx #nix #kerberos #hydra #headcanons #im insane im crazy #currently im doing a version of the post card w/ my shellless designs #(but the shelled ones need A LOT of work and updates lol)#long post

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themarchrabbit · 8 months ago

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It's my favorite subject in the entire world, plants.

Spoiler alert: They're all vicious. The Venus Flytrap is just honest about it.

TL;DR It's time for Teatime With March! Today's episode is titled "Plants (Mostly) Would Prefer You Dead" As a reminder, all links are to academic journals, university resources, archives, etc.

This post gets a trigger warning. Not only will I be discussing animal slaughter with some detail and how it becomes the fertilizer you buy at Home Depot, I will be including links that explain the specifics more thoroughly, and they will have diagrams.

Okay, first off, what do plants needs to survive? You, a human, you need air, water, and food. Specifically, you need the vitamins, nutrients, etc. that your food contains.

Plants need vitamins and nutrients too. And a lot of them are conveniently all wrapped up in our bodies. A corpse in the forest is like getting delivery for the flora. Incidentally, also why it's so difficult to find people who go missing in national forests and other similar places. See, a corpse will not only be torn apart by scavengers and insects, those pieces will be very quickly broken down by the plant life. It is a very morbid and uncomfortable thing to explain to people, and why it's always phrased so vaguely. No one wants to be the asshole who says "realistically, they died of exposure the first night, and their corpse was ripped apart, scattered, and devoured, across a 20km square radius by scavengers, maggots, and corpse beetles, and whatever they left is fertilizer, so there's nothing to really find".

"Thanks, that's horrifying. But why?"

Plants have six essential nutrients. The main three are:

Nitrogen

Phosphorus

Potassium

The lesser three are:

Calcium

Magnesium

Sulfur

Phosphorus and calcium can be found in abundant amounts in our bones and teeth. Thus why bone meal is a fertilizer used for plants. In this term, the definition being used for "meal" is this one:

Meal: 1: the usually coarsely ground and unbolted seeds of a cereal grass or pulse especially: cornmeal 2: a product resembling seed meal especially in particle size or texture

Plants use calcium and phosphorus much the same way animals do, including us humans. We need phosphorus for cell growth, and calcium does like, a hundred things, including the production of hormones and helping cells move other nutrients around between them.

Now, how to make bone meal is pretty simple: you grind up bones. Basically into a sandy-texture, and then you mix it into the soil around plants.

Blood meal, on the other hand, is a little more complicated. Blood meal, like bone meal, is a commercial byproduct from the meat industry. Animals that are slaughtered for consumption don't usually have any wasted parts. Bones and teeth are used for making bone meal fertilizer, or sold for soup stock, the hides are sold to leather-making industries, and a lot of the leftovers are used to make gelatin. About the only thing not used is the spine and brains, at least in cows. Mad-cow disease is a real thing, humans can get a variant called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, and it's fatal. Not like rabies, where it's 99.99% fatal (hi, Jeanna Giese!), 100% fatal. (Also you will not survive rabies. Ms. Giese is pretty much still a complete fluke. If there's a chance you've been exposed to rabies, get to the hospital now.) The blood is purified, dried, and ground up into meal, full of nutritious nitrogen, which plants desperately need to make chlorophyll.

"But the blood is still in the meat I get at the grocery store."

No, it's not. During slaughter, all blood is drained from the animal. This is done by cutting the main arteries and hanging the animal carcass. That red stuff on meat is myoglobin, not hemoglobin, which is from the muscle breaking down. The iron in it turns red when exposed to oxygen. It's why your muscles are red. But it's not blood.

The blood has been made into blood meal!

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A small pile of sandy particles, colored a dark reddish-brown. Blood meal.]

But the blood is only made into this meal because the process allows for the blood to be stripped of any diseases, and this form makes it easy for transport, and for mixing into feed and using as fertilizer. Plants aren't actually all that picky. Plants feed through their root systems, and they are just as capable of sucking up all that wonderful nitrogen in raw blood form.

Actually, it wouldn't matter if they couldn't. Plants can influence the soil around them to do what they want it to do:

Some nutrients are present in the soil in a chemical form inaccessible to the plant. Root exudation contributes to make these elements more available to the roots. Mechanisms of soil acidification by the exudation of protons or phytosiderophores [9] promote the acquisition of iron in certain plants [10]. Root exudation is also a plastic process and depends on the environment in which the root develops. White lupin plants growing in phosphorus-poor soil, for example, produce short and dense root clusters called “proteoid roots” [11]. These roots secrete large amounts of acidic molecules capable of lowering the soil pH, making phosphorus ions more assimilable. In this plant species adapted to nutrient-poor soils, this plasticity of root activity is a major adaptation mechanism. In one experiment, it was shown that a lupin plant growing on phosphorus-poor soil can secrete up to 25 times more exudates than a plant growing on phosphorus-rich soil [12].

Want to know what chemical composition of the human body is?

The human body is approximately 99% comprised of just six elements: Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, calcium, and phosphorus. Another five elements make up about 0.85% of the remaining mass: sulfur, potassium, sodium, chlorine, and magnesium. All of these 11 elements are essential elements.

It's like I said before, a corpse is pretty much a take-away order for plants. All corpses. As tasty as you find that strawberry, it finds you just as delicious.

"So what's up with Venus Flytraps?"

They're actually not bloodthirsty terrors.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: View of a Venus flytrap plant in a terracotta pot from above. Plant consists of multiple green semicircle shell-like structures, with long green "hairs" along the open edges of the shell.]

The Venus flytrap is a feisty, flesh-eating plant with toothed leaves like snapping-jaws that trap and devour insects and spiders. They live in nutrient-poor soils so rely on their elaborate traps for food. When an insect lands and bumps into tiny trigger hairs on the inner surface of a Venus flytrap’s leaves, they snap shut and the interlocking teeth seal the trap shut. The leaves then close tighter, squashing the prey, which is then digested by enzymes into a nutritious soup. Venus flytraps are only found on the East Coast of the United States

Venus Flytraps are native to a patch of land on the east coast of North America where the soil is mostly nutrient-poor swamp. It's also highly-acidic. This same area also produced one of the pitcher plants, another carnivorous plant.

Openly carnivorous plants aren't actually all that uncommon. We know about 630 species so far. These are all plants that live in nutrient-poor areas, and had to find a way to get that sweet, sweet nitrogen and phosphorus.

Meet the Giant Montane Pitcher Plant, native to Borneo.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A large, reddish-purple plant. Modified leaves grow in the shape of a hollow pitcher/vase, with a modified leaf resembling the structure of a hinged lid. Inside of pitcher structure is yellow. Out of sight within the pitcher structure is a digestive liquid produced by the plant that dissolves prey.]

It can reach 41cm/16 inches in height. They're known to catch rats and birds.

As somebody who studied to be a botanist, let me tell you how deeply, deeply amusing it is to listen to people talk about the serene and peaceful nature of plants. Plants have spent their billions of years on this planet adapting, just like the rest of us. And while we, humans, are definitely a bigger threat to them, rest assured, they also want us dead. Mostly so they can eat us. And remember, most plants have a much shorter maturation period and can propagate by the hundreds or thousands in their lifetimes, unlike humans humans, meaning they adapt faster than us. And they are capable of adapting to maim and kill us. [After which they will eat us]

This has been Teatime With March!

i think it's fucked up that there are plants that decided they wanted to eat meat

#plants #flora #horticulture #plant facts #plants would prefer you to be dead so they can eat you #bodies are full of tasty nitrogen and phosphorus for them

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nextgenconsole2023 · 2 years ago

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Dead Space - feels great, especially on PS5

Dead Space ended up being a premiere survival horror series that included sequels, spin-offs, comics, and animated films, which were then dropped following Dead Space 3. Returning to the beginning of the story, EA Motive has set out to recreate the original recreation as faithfully as possible, with additional features to heighten the terror. The game starts with a distress message that you got from the USG Ishimura, the planet-breaking ship that is used to extract resources from serious locations. One small team, which includes the engineer Isaac Clarke, acts on the distress signal, and soon they are stuck on a ship full of horrific monsters with no way to escape. The plot is mostly faithful to the original, but it improves on it by providing meaningful insights and fresh new interactions with the characters. The story is also examined in greater depth through treasures and voluntary side-quests, which are carried out with great success.

The narrative is among several areas that gain massively from this method. The story that follows Isaac Clarke and the aging Planetcracker-class vessel USG Ishimura has been preserved in survival-horror culture books, and the new edition wisely chooses not to mess with the plot in any way. The main beats remain intact, and at the core, the mix of conspiracy theories, mystery, sagas, and psychological horror remains as thrilling and captivating as it was fifteen years ago. In the same way, Dead Space makes several important improvements that inject more energy into the narrative. In the first place, unlike the first game, Isaac is a spoken hero, which means that he takes on an active role in the narrative. Instead of passively watching crucial sequences, Isaac converses with characters, reacts to situations, expresses emotion, and becomes increasingly involved in the story. Meanwhile, a great number of scenes have been revamped and revised, all for the better, with the modifications ranging from the simplest, like discussions and dialogue flowing better, to more and more dramatic ones that ramp up the tension in key scenes or change the order of events in other scenes to make the story more memorable. We are one of the leading online suppliers of New Xbox One games.

The fight nevertheless feels satisfying, even as you upgrade your RIG or arms. And there are also plenty of jump scares to be had. But Dead Space has always been more than just jump scares, because the USG Ishimura is still the most terrifying and dramatic thing ever, possibly even more so now.

Large and modest heroes retain more and more dialog that helps flesh out the whole world's stories overall. Thankfully, Isaac's added dialog from his Dead Space remake never lets you feel out of place. The production widened hero roles, and execution never feels as if they're trying way too hard to make specific heroes appear more and more credible and much less general. The most important thing that potential players should appreciate is truly this: Motive Studios has proven successful in making Dead Space Remake the ultimate method of enjoying the very first chapter of Isaac Clarke's adventure. Get the best deals with us and our PS5 horror games.

In terms of visuals, it appears more spooky and enhances the atmosphere of Ishimura. The improved lighting effects and the way that fleshy surfaces glisten at particular angles bring it together. For those who thought the Necromorphs were creepy, they will change appearance whenever they are right up next to your face, trying to eat the face. Improved visuals can also be used in combat because shooting opponents can cause parts of their flesh and bones to break. You must still aim for your enemies' limbs to cut them all off; however, when you miss – which is normal given the circumstances – your shots will give you the false impression that they are causing damage, which increases your frustration in a game like this. Other improvements also enhance the game's gameplay and ease a lot of the frustration that the original experienced. The controls are tight at all times, and your stomps and melee strikes are more appropriate when you want them to be. Zero-gravity areas are much more fun to surf as they allow you to freely move through them without having the camera stuck all the time like before. The map even got an overhaul in 3D, and your location is more aware of routes, pointing anyone toward the next desired destination.

Dead Space is a done remake that not only gives fresh life to an old and much-awaited game but could also pave the way for future installments in the game series, sooner or later. While much of the gameplay will be familiar to those who have played the first game, the significant upgrades and innovations do a lot to keep the experience fresh, modern, and unique. If you're an avid Dead Space fan or new to the franchise, this game is worth the money and time, so long as you have the confidence to go for it. Some predict it will be an early winner of the year.

#dead space #ps5 console

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jenico · 2 years ago

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Exosome Skin Care - What is it and How it works?

If you’re like most people, you probably think of exosomes as little more than pieces of junk floating around in your body. After all, they’re just bits of cellular debris. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, exosomes are critical for human health and play a role in everything from cell signaling to tissue repair.

In this blog post, we will explore what exosomes are and how they work. We will also discuss some of the benefits of using exosomes in skin care products and discuss some ways that you can make sure your exosomes are effective and beneficial for your skin.

How do exosomes work?

Exosomes were originally used to treat various diseases, including cancer and tumours, in the medical industry. Exosome advantages and additional illnesses they can treat are still being investigated through more research. However, all of this has demonstrated that they actually possess extraordinary healing and regeneration qualities that function by promoting internal skin health.

Exosomes are bundles of incredibly tiny (nanoparticle) particles that have left the cell. This may come from the bone or blood, among other body parts. The cells in our body are specialized to do their specific tasks; for example, a muscle cell and a skin cell are not the same thing.

Benefits of using exosomes in skincare

Exosomes are small vesicles that can be found in both human and animal cells. They are composed of proteins, lipids, and other cellular contents. Exosomes have been shown to possess a number of benefits for skin care.

One study found that exosomes can help improve the barrier function of the skin. This is because exosomes can promote the production of ecdysone and other factors that help maintain skin barrier function. Additionally, exosomes have been shown to reduce skin inflammation and improve wound healing.

Another study found that exosomes can promote the regeneration of damaged skin cells. In this study, researchers used isolated exosomes to stimulate the growth of keratinocytes, a type of cell that helps protect the skin from damage. The results showed that treatment with isolated exosomes was more effective than traditional methods in promoting keratinocyte regeneration in skin tissue samples from mice.

Overall, it appears that exosomes play an important role in maintaining healthy skin tissue by promoting cell regeneration and reducing inflammation. These effects may be especially beneficial for people who experience signs of aging or damage from the sun or environment.

How do they work?

Exosomes are nanomedicine-delivered capsules that can help facilitate the repair and regeneration of skin cells. They are made up of proteins, lipids, and nucleic acids and circulate in the bloodstream. When applied topically to the skin, exosomes can help stimulate the production of new skin cells by delivering genetic instructions to the cells. Exosomes have been shown to promote healing in a variety of skin conditions, including acne, psoriasis, and eczema.

Exosome skin care therapy

The skin is first washed to remove any dirt or dead skin cells that may be present. The procedure can then be carried out in one of two ways, one of which necessitates downtime and the other not. The first technique makes use of the Microneedling Therapy System (MTS), which punctures the skin with microscopic needles (they are so small you can barely see them).

The exosome treatment mask is then placed on top, and because to the small holes made, the treatment may be more effectively and thoroughly absorbed by the skin. As the tiny holes heal, there must be some downtime for a few days.

What types of skin care products can contain exosomes?

Exosomes are small vesicles that are released from cells and serve as a way for the cell to communicate with other cells. They can be found in a range of bodily fluids, including saliva, blood, sweat, and tears.

The term “exosome” was first coined in the 1990s by researchers who were studying how viruses spread between cells. However, exosomes have since been found to play an important role in human health.

One study found that exosomes could help heal wounds faster than traditional methods such as dressing them and applying antibiotic cream. Exosomes also have the ability to activate specific proteins in the body which can promote healing and protect the surrounding tissue.

There are many different types of skin care products that contain exosomes. These products can be used to improve the overall look and feel of the skin, as well as reduce inflammation and signs of aging. Click here to know more benefits about exosomes skin care products.

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clvrissa · 5 years ago

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[ ODEYA RUSH. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER. ] [ ƈʟǟʀɨֆֆǟ "ʀɨֆֆǟ" ƈօաɛռ ] is a [ TWENTY-ONE ] year old [ FIRST AID ] at camp reviere. [ SHE ] makes me think of [ hand stitched skirts, tarot cards shuffled but never dealt, silence ringing in your ears ]. their favorite horror movie is [ THE EVIL DEAD ] and they remind me of [ ֆǟʀǟɦ ɮǟɨʟɛʏ ]. [ ally. 22. est. she/her. ]

what’s up, y’all ???? my name is ally, i have a love/hate relationship with horror, i simp for bailey sarian, i’m extremely inconsistent with the Aesthetic, and i’m here with my fucked-up daughter, rissa !!! her inspo is, ofc, sarah bailey, but instead of magic it’s psychometry. cool? cool. details are below, and yes, this is a novel, but there’s tl;drs.

ֆȶǟȶɨֆȶɨƈֆ.

full name. clarissa genevieve cowen nickname(s). rissa. she hates clarissa. occupation. first aid at camp reverie, nursing student age. twenty-one. date of birth. january 27, 1963 nationality. american. ethnicity. ashkenazi jewish. orientation. lesbian. gender & pronouns. cis female, she/her.

height. 5′8″. weight. 150 lbs. eye color. grey-blue. hair color + style. dark brown, curly, usually messy. she tries to braid it and keep it back but it always tends to get free. distinguishing features. those spooky eyes, her homemade baggy clothes, deep and deadpan voice,

ɮɨօɢʀǟքɦʏ.

born to a mechanic and the town psychic in louisiana in 1963, rissa was kind of destined to be an outcast. or, so she thought; her brother, chaplin, never had too much trouble fitting in.

she was more visibly the psychic’s daughter, though. not only bc she has wild hair, piercing eyes, and is terribly shy. from a young age, her mom used her as a prop during readings, the creepy little girl in the corner of the room. apparently chaplin couldn’t stay still long enough to be spooky :////

that was, until rissa helped one of her mom’s clients clean up her spilled purse, and she touched an old compact mirror. suddenly, she saw what it had seen, and blurted out that this was her mother’s old mirror, that she’d bought it in london and that it had seen war.

so, her mother asked her to take part in the readings, sometimes. if there was an important object, she’d give it to rissa to evaluate. even if there wasn’t, she’d still put the client’s purse, coat, whatever next to rissa, in case she picked anything up.

sometimes rissa couldn’t get anything, so she made things up. sometimes she sensed something, and sometimes, too often, she sensed something too awful to even keep the object in her hands. at least once a month, rissa saw something bad enough that she’d run to the attic and hide until her brother came to get her out. you can fill in the blanks there.

it was when she was ten that her teacher told her there was always a scientific explanation for things, and that magic wasn’t real. she clung to that, and asked to read about seeing things. her teacher told her to find the dsm ii in the public library. what she found... made sense but was almost worse than magic. since then, she’s been convinced she’s sick, and she’s making all the things she saw up in her head.

she also researched treatments, and that made her want to keep her mouth shut even more.

she started to avoid readings as much as she could. her mother told her she was wasting her gift. rissa insisted it wasn’t a gift, it was an illness. a disease.

uhhhhhhhh went full goth in high school. collected bones and hung out with the weird kids and smoked weed while listening to joy division in the woods. she didn’t like to touch people, she felt fucked up, and they were all okay with that. her best friend used to read lovecraft to her when she got high and rissa realized she was in love. she swallowed it down like she swallowed everything else down.

she spent the last few months of high school living with her father, since her mother didn’t want her to go to nursing school. her brother helped her leave home, and now she’s a nursing student at a community college.

tl;dr the psychic’s daughter has psychometry, sees some fucked up shit, suppresses her powers and convinces herself she’s having hallucinations, becomes a goth lesbian nursing student,

քɛʀֆօռǟʟɨȶʏ.

let’s get one thing straight: rissa doesn’t have a fucking clue who she is. she sees herself as something of a shattered mirror; trying to imitate what she thinks people want to see, but too dangerous to touch, to really know. she’s constantly recreating her identity as a result, as some kind of illusion. if she’s mysterious, nobody can tell when something is wrong.

she makes almost all her own clothes out of like. patchworks of other clothes. this is partially because she’s poor and partially because she likes things that are her own. and also definitely because she can’t find light enough clothing to provide her with the preferred amount of coverage in the summer without being too hot.

yeah, she wears full length skirts made out of tshirts and old lady cotton cardigans every day, so that she can’t accidentally brush up against anyone and activate her psychometry. also because she hates being known in any capacity. they’re patchwork. she looks like a bag lady.

she is still a very shy person, but she pretends to be cold and kind of mean instead. if she likes you, though, she’s just sarcastic and trying really hard to be funny.

Big Lesbian. Huge.

doesn’t want to be Known. if you’ve known her for longer than a year she’s been like five different people. whenever she feels like she’s falling into a pattern, she does something she thinks no one will expect. her motivation is as flakey as the fucking wind.

in truth she’s incredibly sensitive and takes everything personally because her self-esteem is like. below rock bottom.

still has nightmares about what she’s seen with her abilities, though she’s blocked a lot of it out during her day-to-day. if you’ve seen her have a nightmare, she’ll pretend it never happened.

for some reason, she loves old people. maybe it’s because she can tell if they like her or not from the moment she meets them, and as a result, she doesn’t really care what they think. but also... she loves stories.

probably has a lovecraft book with her at all times. still very much a goth.

big Daria vibes.

collects animal bones. she found a deer skull when she was a kid and all she felt when she touched it was peace. she slept with it like a teddy bear. even though she’s since suppressed her psychometry, she still finds animal bones to be somewhat soothing.

at parties, the type of person to steal a bottle of vodka and a bag of cheetos and hiding in the bathtub to get turnt. that’s living the good life. if you need to pee, sucks, she’s not moving.

anyways have some tik toks

(body image tw) big mood

her last two brain cells trying to destroy her psychometry

instead of spongebob quotes its joy division lyrics

աǟռȶɛɖ ƈօռռɛƈȶɨօռֆ.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖎𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖕𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖙. an opposites attract kind of thing. her camp bestie that is very much on the straight and narrow while she tends to wanna go. all over the place. she definitely calls them a nerd daily.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖔𝖑. someone whose leg she likes to pull, who she’ll regale with scary stories, whether they want her to or not.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘. a girl rissa has a major crush on. not like she’ll ever say it out loud.

𝖏𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙. a good influence of sorts. someone who curtails some of rissa’s more chaotic tendencies and sees the potential she has. someone who rissa actually feels a responsibility to.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑. opposite of judgement. someone who brings out the worst, most chaotic and painful and hurtful parts of her.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘. someone who understands her trauma, to some extent. they connect on that deep level, even if they don’t connect on the surface.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖙. she someone she can get weird with yk. probably smokes weed with her and knows a little too much about her for comfort.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖗. authority for her to rebel against.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗. someone with a fucked up past that triggers her psychometry like nothing else. maybe she brushed against them on the first day of camp and almost passed out. she avoids them like the plague.

𝖙𝖍�� 𝖘𝖚𝖓. their optimism fucking kills her. she wants so badly to be mean to them but can never bring herself to. makes her want to be kind.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖓. is fascinated by her past life as a psychic prop and thinks she’s So Cool. rissa is probably crueler to them than anyone else, because she doesn’t want to think about that time in her life.

#1984intro #mental illness tw #specifically allusions to hallucinations #drugs tw #child abuse tw #death tw #specifically discussions of dead animals and bones #as you can tell she's a barrel of laughs #ptsd tw #anyways this is a novel so if you finish it heres a kiss mwah

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melly-fox · 9 months ago

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Ok so setting aside the fact that Scott Adams is insane now, this is such a perfect example of this excellent early Dilbert cartoon.

As a zoology-leaning person myself, I really felt this argument cause I get so frustrated and annoyed with people trying to separate themselves out from animals like we aren't just animals with our own particular ways of doing things. Honestly if there is anything that makes us unique among animals, it's our desperate need to designate ourselves as unique.

I can't help but find the idea that language of all things is what sets us apart completely ludicrous. The idea that only our specific verbal communication style is somehow more complex (i.e. better) is so infuriatingly human centric. It utterly fails to recognize the incredible complexity of communication taking place across the animal kingdom. The bees are always a good example. But just from my own experience, I can sit on a horse and with nothing but the pressure of my seat bones and legs and hands, tell him to walk, trot, canter, jump over this and turn here, and don't spook at that cause it's not as scary as you think it is. I can have entire conversations about what exactly I want him to do with each part of his body and negotiate how he feels about it and what he's worried about and why. Which is a pretty complicated level of communication in my opinion.

Or if it's a question of the discussion of abstract principles like philosophy, then I would argue at least that that's not a question of language but rather of our brain's particular ability to deal in the realm of the imaginary. And it's pretty damn hard to know for sure that elephants can't imagine their dead loved ones in an afterlife or that dolphins aren't down there arguing about who's the most special species.

I personally think we lose a lot by trying to set ourselves apart (and usually above) other animals because it blinds us to the fact that we have our own instincts and weaknesses and needs that we aren't able to perfectly control simply because we're not "animals". The only "real" thing that separates us from other animals is that we are a distinct species based on the way we've decided to define what a species is.

But again, I realize I'm still saying, "We must stick them with quills," based on my own particular world view.

remembering the scene in arrival when our linguist protagonist talks about how language is what separates humans from animals. and then a scientist she's talking to says hmm personally I think it's science that separates humans from animals. and I really wanted that scene to just keep going with experts from more fields weighing in on how their field of study is the most fundamental thing about humanity. just showing all their perspectives

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finneyblakes · 2 years ago

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the way i characterize griffin is like. the most fucked up little guy you’ve ever seen but an actual little kid. a war criminal baby. a duckling with the capacity to commit atrocities. he’s not pretending to be innocent and childish nor is he pretending to be absolutely devilish, he is somehow genuinely both at once.

this boy has committed arson but wants to hold your hand to cross the street. he regularly discusses the most practical methods to assassinate politicians while coloring pictures of butterflies. he has thought and talked about the ethics of cannibalism in depth to the point where everyone is wondering if he actually has plans to do it but they’re too afraid to ask. he has to be physically pulled away from dead animals he finds outside because he’ll start looking for any salvageable bones to take home and do god knows what with. he doesn’t say swear words but he will threaten your life in the most specific and creative way possible to the point where you’ll be kept up at night thinking about it.

in conclusion he is the perfect blorbo and the reason god stays in heaven for fear of what he’s created and the most specialest little boy who ever lived. goodnight

#it goes without saying he’s autistic also. thats not news #i also feel like im one of the few here who put him closer to the 10-11 age range than 12-13 #it feels more accurate given the material from the movie plus those fucked up posters plus the book #well regardless he’s baby #anyway. thats the post hope u all enjoy my randomly going on a tangent about my special little guy #griffin stagg #the black phone #tbp #text #hc #mine

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neanderthalfunerary · 2 years ago

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Build-A-Burial: An Inventory of Neanderthal Funerary Sites (November 4, 2022)

An illustration of the Neanderthals at Shanidar Cave (Smithsonian Human Origins Program).

Each Neanderthal site found with evidence to suggest intentional mortuary practices is subject to thorough academic scrutiny in its designation as a burial grounds. These discussions are held on both a case-by-case basis and towards the species as whole. [1]

Museum reconstruction of the Neanderthal burial at La Chapelle-aux-Saints, France (Mourre, 2017).

[2] [3] In questioning whether or not we can say that Neanderthals had the capacity for cognitive processes and social organization that would motivate ritualistic behavior, there is much debate within the anthropological field as to the indications that a specimen can be said to represent:

A deliberate interment, perhaps

Alongside other intentional burials

In some meaningful position/orientation;

The characteristics of which [4] influenced by social frameworks, such as:

Age or sex

Community role (e.g., as a 'shaman' figure [5])

Status or prestige

Emotional constructs (e.g., care, compassion, grief)

With associated grave goods

Potentially chosen based on symbolic meaning (tied to any of the above elements) [6]

Not the result of external disturbances (from local fauna or natural elements)

Thus, the following is a synthesis of mortuary features, supplemented by the evidence found at iconic sites. [7]

Each category includes both specific artifacts found at sites determined to be burials, as well as general implements from the repertoire of Neanderthal material culture.

Of course, I must preface with the usual disclaimer that all sites labeled as 'intentional burials' are not definitively so, but rather based upon analysis by many researchers (and likely contested by just as many).

Context

Layout of the La Ferrassie site and specimens (Pettit, 2002).

Site Organization

Temporal variation (seasonal occupations, at different stratigraphic layers by different populations)

Cohabitation (with other hominin species)

As one section of a multipurpose site

Surrounding Situ

Hearths (charcoal, ash, animal remains)

Tool processing (lithic debris)

Butchering and animal processing (animal remains, lithic debris)

'Campsite' shelters (fiber 'bedding', stone circle structures)

Other Specimens

Other deliberate interments [8]

Individuals not intentionally buried (died as a result of natural disasters, conflict) or corpse 'dumping zones'

Condition:

Labeled photographs of Shanidar remains in situ (Barker, 2015).

Primary burial

Secondary (later additions to the same burial 'plot')

Articulated (anatomical manipulation/positioning)

Spatially oriented (in relation to cardinal directions or other burials)

De-fleshed (cannibalism?) [9]

Bodily trauma (interpersonal violence?)

Healed wounds (caregiving?)

Grave goods

The Qafzeh 11 burial: an adolescent with a portion of the skull from a large deer laid upon its upper body (Neuville, 1933).

Animal remains

Ibex horns (Teshik-Tash)

Red deer maxilla bone (Amud 7)

Mammal jawbone (Shanidar II & V)

Pierced eagle talons (mythos?)

An example of potential Neanderthal ‘art’: a carved deer bone found at Einhornhöhle, Germany (Minkus).

Implements and ornamentation

Mousterian flake-based lithics

Organic material tools (bone, wood)

Carved figures (stone, bone, wood)

Marine shells (stacked, pierced)

Red ochre [10]

Flowers? (Shanidar IV) [11]

Sample Sites

Amud cave excavation (Garrett).

Krapina cave, Croatia (first excavated/discovered 1899)

La Chapelle-aux-Saints, France (1908)

La Ferrassie, France (1909)

Qafzeh cave, Israel (1929)

Teshik-Tash, Uzbekistan (1938)

Shanidar cave, Iraq (1957)

Amud cave, Israel (1961)

----- References & Further Reading -----

[1] Overview of human burial practices

Pettitt, Paul. “Landscapes of the dead: the evolution of human mortuary activity from body to place in palaeolithic Europe.” Settlement, Society and Cognition in Human Evolution, January 26, 2015, 258–74. https://doi.org/10.1017/cbo9781139208697.015.‌

[2] Analysis of Neanderthal burial sites and features

Koutamanis, Dafne. “The Place of the Neanderthal Dead: Multiple Burial Sites and Mortuary Space in the Middle Palaeolithic of Eurasia.” 2012. https://studenttheses.universiteitleiden.nl/access/item%3A2661542/view.‌

[3] Neanderthal burials in the fossil record

Emery, Kate Meyers. “Neanderthal Burials.” Bones Don’t Lie, April 26, 2011. https://bonesdontlie.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/neanderthal-burials/.‌

[4] Variability in Neanderthal burial site features

Pettitt, Paul. “The Neanderthal Dead: Exploring Mortuary Variability in Middle Palaeolithic Eurasia.” Before Farming 4 (January 2002): 1–26. https://doi.org/10.3828/bfarm.2002.1.4.‌

[5] A potential case of animal-based spirituality in Neanderthals

Morton, Glenn. “Origins: The Shaman’s Cape-Religion among the Neanderthals.” www2.asa3.org, December 16, 1996. http://www2.asa3.org/archive/asa/199612/0102.html.‌

[6] Neanderthal symbolic and ritualistic thought

Nielsen, Mark, Michelle C. Langley, Ceri Shipton, and Rohan Kapitány. “Homo Neanderthalensis and the Evolutionary Origins of Ritual in Homo Sapiens.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 375, no. 1805 (June 29, 2020): 20190424. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2019.0424.‌

[7] Critical analysis of Neanderthal intentional burials

Gargett, Robert H., Harvey M. Bricker, Geoffrey Clark, John Lindly, Catherine Farizy, Claude Masset, David W. Frayer, et al. “Grave Shortcomings: The Evidence for Neandertal Burial [and Comments and Reply].” Current Anthropology 30, no. 2 (1989): 157–90. https://www.jstor.org/stable/2743544?seq=10#metadata_info_tab_contents.‌

[8] Multi-burial Neanderthal sites

Whelan, Ed. “New Evidence Ends the Neanderthal Burial Debate.” www.ancient-origins.net, December 11, 2020. https://www.ancient-origins.net/news-history-archaeology/neanderthal-death-rites-0013303.‌

[9] Intersections between cannibalism and mortuary practices in Neanderthals

www.neandertals.org. “Burial, Ritual, Religion, and Cannibalism,” n.d. https://www.neandertals.org/ritual.html.‌

[10] Red ochre in Neanderthal burial sites

Roebroeks, W., M. J. Sier, T. K. Nielsen, D. De Loecker, J. M. Pares, C. E. S. Arps, and H. J. Mucher. “Use of Red Ochre by Early Neandertals.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109, no. 6 (January 23, 2012): 1889–94. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1112261109.‌

[11] Shanidar IV Neanderthal 'flower burial'

Solecki, R. S. “Shanidar IV, a Neanderthal Flower Burial in Northern Iraq.” Science 190, no. 4217 (November 28, 1975): 880–81. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.190.4217.880.‌

----- Selected Sites -----

Krapina cave

Russell, Mary D. “Mortuary Practices at the Krapina Neandertal Site.” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 72, no. 3 (March 1987): 381–97. https://doi.org/10.1002/ajpa.1330720311.‌

La Chapelle-aux-Saints

Rendu, W., C. Beauval, I. Crevecoeur, P. Bayle, A. Balzeau, T. Bismuth, L. Bourguignon, et al. “Evidence Supporting an Intentional Neandertal Burial at La Chapelle-Aux-Saints.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 111, no. 1 (December 16, 2013): 81–86. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1316780110.‌

La Ferrassie

Balzeau, Antoine, Alain Turq, Sahra Talamo, Camille Daujeard, Guillaume Guérin, Frido Welker, Isabelle Crevecoeur, et al. “Pluridisciplinary Evidence for Burial for the La Ferrassie 8 Neandertal Child.” Scientific Reports 10, no. 1 (December 2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-020-77611-z.‌

Quafzeh cave

Vandermeersch, Bernard, and Ofer Bar-Yosef. “The Paleolithic Burials at Qafzeh Cave, Israel.” Paléo 30, no. 1 (December 30, 2019): 256–75. https://doi.org/10.4000/paleo.4848.‌

Teshik-Tash

Wikipedia. “Teshik-Tash 1,” April 30, 2022. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teshik-Tash_1.‌

Shanidar cave

Pomeroy, Emma, Paul Bennett, Chris O. Hunt, Tim Reynolds, Lucy Farr, Marine Frouin, James Holman, Ross Lane, Charles French, and Graeme Barker. “New Neanderthal Remains Associated with the ‘Flower Burial’ at Shanidar Cave.” Antiquity 94, no. 373 (February 2020): 11–26. https://doi.org/10.15184/aqy.2019.207.‌

Amud cave

Hovers, Erella, Yoel Rak, Ron Lavi, and William H. Kimbel. “Hominid Remains from Amud Cave in the Context of the Levantine Middle Paleolithic.” Paléorient 21, no. 2 (1995): 47–61. https://href.li/?https://www.jstor.org/stable/41492632#metadata_info_tab_contents.‌

#anthropology #archeology #neanderthalfunerary #neanderthal #prehistoric #evolution

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samwisethewitch · 4 years ago

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Using Human Body Parts in Spells

Many witches believe that the human body is sacred. Whether they’re pantheists, animists, or somewhere in between, most magical practitioners agree that there is some sort of divine or magical essence contained in all living things, including our bodies. But if that’s the case, why do so many witches hesitate to use parts of the body in their craft?

Part of it is the “ick” factor. Western society is shaped by religious and cultural influences that tell us our bodies are unclean, gross, or even scary. In order to comfortably work with the energies of the human body in magic, we have to unlearn these cultural influences.

This post covers the uses of human effects (materials that come from the human body) in witchcraft and magic.

Why Use This Stuff, Anyway?

By far the most common use of human effects in magic is as a taglock. A taglock is an item from the person a spell is meant to affect — either a small piece of their person (such as hair or fingernail clippings), or a personal belonging that is energetically connected to them. A taglock acts as a sort of anchor, tying the energy of a spell to that specific person and providing a direct link between them and the magic. Think of it as an energetic targeting system. This brings faster, more powerful results.

The use of taglocks is connected to the concept of sympathetic magic, which states that what is done to a small part of a person or thing (including an image or effigy) affects the whole. This idea is as old as humans — in fact, some archaeologists believe that Paleolithic cave paintings of injured animals were a form of sympathetic magic meant to manifest successful hunts.

If you need a taglock for a spell and can’t or don’t want to use hair/fingernails/etc., use one of the person’s belongings instead. This can be a business card, a child’s stuffed animal, or a napkin they used at dinner — whatever you can get your hands on. If you can’t get a personal belonging, use a photograph of the person.

Aside from linking magic to a specific person, different human effects have their own magical correspondences (see below). Depending on your spell, it may make sense to include hair as a symbol of personal power and self-expression or menstrual blood as a symbol of releasing old energy. Most witches don’t think twice about using milk or eggs, which come from the bodies of cows and chickens, in their magic, so why shouldn’t we use things from our own bodies as well?

There is an unfortunate stigma around the use of human effects in magic. Things like blood and hair are unfairly associated with dark magic, and many witches avoid them for that reason. Like any other magical tool, human effects can be used in spells for good or ill. You could use a taglock to add power to a healing spell, for example, or put your own hair in a success spell to anchor that success to you. These items are a part of you — they are no more evil or scary than you are.

Ethics and Safety

We’ve already discussed the ethical implications of doing magic on other people. This is especially important to keep in mind when working with human effects, either your own or someone else’s, because you are working directly with that person’s energy. Sympathetic magic gets very up close and personal, so it’s important to take care.

Don’t do anything to the personal effect, whatever it is, that you wouldn’t do to the person themselves. (Yes, this still applies if you’re using one of their possessions, or even a photograph.) Be gentle and respectful. Don’t throw it around or be careless with it. Don’t set it on fire or cut it up unless you really know what you’re doing and really want to fuck with the person it came from.

There are certain safety precautions that need to be taken when working with human effects, especially bodily fluids. I’ll talk about safety protocol for blood magic in a future post, but for now just be aware of the danger of bloodborne diseases and other possible contaminants. Sexual fluids may carry STIs, for example. For this reason, you should always take care when handling someone else’s bodily fluids. Wear gloves and make sure you don’t have any exposed cuts or sores.

Hair and fingernails are the safest human effects because they contain dead cells, and thus the risk of contagion is low. They’re also usually a little easier to get a hold of, especially if you’re doing magic for another person. Hair and nail clippings are most witches’ go-to taglocks for these reasons.

And finally, do not ever, under any circumstances, eat, drink, or bathe in anything that came from another person’s body. Some older spells call for adding blood or some other bodily fluid to food, and some old initiation rituals require the initiate to drink wine containing a drop of blood from each group member. In modern times, we know that this is dangerous because it could potentially spread disease. Trust me when I say there is no good reason to ever consume someone else’s DNA. Just don’t.

Correspondences

Below are correspondences for some human effects that can fairly easily be incorporated into spells. I have also included substitutions, for those who truly just aren’t comfortable working with human effects. These substitutions may not be quite as powerful, but the symbolism is similar.

Note: The use of blood in magic is a huge topic with a rich history, so I have chosen to devote an entire post to it. Blood is not mentioned in this post, but I will be posting about it soon!

Correspondences of Human Effects

Hair is closely tied to a person’s essence and personal power, perhaps more so than any other effect besides blood. In many cultures, hair is never cut to avoid dispersing this power. (Think of the story of Samson in the Bible.) Hair is also associated with the head, mental abilities, and thoughts. Hair is one of the most powerful taglocks, and can also be used in spells related to strength, beauty, and mental clarity. Use a few of your own hairs to tie something up to bind it with your personal power.

Substitutes for Hair: clove (for empowerment), rosemary (for mental clarity), catnip (for beauty)

Saliva lends itself to many purposes because of its wide array of correspondences. On one hand it is associated with kissing and sex (think of the phrase “swapping spit” to describe kissing), but on the other it can be extremely offensive (spitting on someone is a very old and very strong insult). Saliva can also be substituted for any other bodily fluid.

Substitutes for Saliva: cardamom (for love and lust), vinegar (for cursing and insult)

Fingernails are, of course, linked to the hands and to a person’s ability to act. They’re also one of the easiest human effects to collect, which make them a good choice for a taglock. I usually see fingernails used in this context rather than to bring a certain energy to a spell.

Substitute for Fingernails: clove (to empower action)

Semen and Vaginal Arousal Fluid are, naturally, associated with sex. Both are associated with pure potential, fertility, and action, and can give your spell a heck of a power boost. Use sexual fluids in spells for growth and new beginnings. They are also useful in love magic — anoint a red candle with your sexual fluids to attract a lover.

Substitutes for Semen and Vaginal Arousal Fluid: penis or vulva shaped candle (for sex magic), rice (for fertility), rose (for love), cinnamon (for lust)

Urine is a traditional ingredient in the witch bottle, a powerful protective charm. It’s also found in both curses and love spells in American folk magic. Interestingly, it’s also used to break curses. One of my teachers practiced Appalachian folk magic, and she used to say that the most surefire way to get rid of any curse was to “piss on a brick.” (Red bricks are also associated with protection.) As you can see, urine is perhaps the most versatile bodily fluid when it comes to magical uses.

Substitutes for Urine: vinegar (for protection, cursing, and curse breaking), cardamom (for love and lust)

Human effects are a powerful way to add strength to any spell. Next time you’re conjuring healing, manifestation, or love, consider throwing some hair or fingernails in there. Let your body’s magic be a part of your craft.

Resources:

Utterly Wicked by Dorothy Morrison

Of Blood and Bones by Kate Freuler

“The Meaning of European Upper Paleolithic Rock Art” by Cristian Violatti on ancient.eu

A Green Witch’s Cupboard by Deborah J. Martin

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