#spirit doctrine tag

[pinehutch]

in dnd you can experience wonders of the imagination like "earn a living without having a 9-5" "travel with friends" and "what if a dad apologized"

[konigbabe]

the great war

DAY 3 ⇢ Hate Sex Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!curse user!reader Word count: 4k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; hate sex; timejump (2007 → 2018); lovers to enemies vibes; angst; lots of self-loating; pronebone; p-in-v; angry (??) Gojo; unreliable narrator Summary: When the news of Suguru Geto's death reach your ears, the weapon in your grasp guides you to the place where the cause lies - to Satoru Gojo. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure.

September 2007

Buddhists believe that life is filled with suffering and misery. That death, in the end, is not a singular event, but rather a fundamental contribution to the misery of human existence.

It was a doctrine you refused to believe in. Spending days by the side of fellow sorcerers, suffering and misery rarely crossed your mind. It wasn't that you were naive or ignorant – quite the contrary. As a sorcerer-in-training, you were acutely aware of the dangers and horrors that lurked in the shadows. Cursed spirits, malevolent curses, and the constant struggle to protect the oblivious, helpless civilians were all part of your reality.

However, you clung to an alternative belief – that while suffering is an inherent aspect of life, whether it leads to misery rests entirely within your control –

Among your companions, your unwavering optimism often stood out. While others carried the weight of their pasts and the darkness of their experiences, you chose to embrace hope and resilience. This outlook didn't make you blind to the reality of suffering; rather, it gave you the strength to confront it head-on. At least you had something to hold on to.

– How stupid of you.

With Satoru's chest pressed firmly against your back, you watch the night sky unfold its kaleidoscope of stars above you. It's not often that the night is quiet; when even the stars shine through the clouds of haze and graze you with their gentle glow.

Arms casually thrown over your shoulders, his sharp chin digs into the crown of your head as he looks up at the sky. Your face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Suguru leans against the railing to your right. Uniform rumpled, hair a cascade of frowzled strands; your eyes shamelessly roam over his face – pale (more than usual, and even more visible against the obsidian backdrop of the night), eyes staring vacantly forward, a well of shadows pooling beneath.

His appearance resembles a spectral apparition. Haunting reflection of the turmoil that seems to have taken residence within him. Events from the past emerge into your mind – Tengen' merger, Amanai's death, Toji, Gojo's enlightenment and the last piece, Haibara's tragic end.

Satoru's hand reaches to gently cradle yours, fingertips tracing the contours of the simple, polished ring adorning your finger. A single aquamarine gemstone decorating the silver band, its shape resembling a tear. His touch so soft and tender that it feels almost imperceptible.

"Hey," Satoru's voice tears you from your thoughts. Suguru's eyes dart to yours, a brief contact before he looks at Satoru, "are you even listenin'?"

("So you never thought ‘bout it?" Suguru's head sinks heavily onto his arms, the once-pristine white shirt now marred by wear of time and crinkled as he sits against the classroom wall. Class ended almost an hour ago, with Satoru leaving by Shoko's side to grab lunch.

"I mean," you release a deliberate sigh, ankles crossed on top of your desk with arms folded over your chest, "it might be an option," rising one hand, you point a finger at him, "but it's evil. And unreachable. Like c'mon," you flick your wrist dismissively, "we're talking about a worldwide genocide."

"Not worldwide, just Japan."

A derisive chuckle escapes your lips, laden with incredulity, upon hearing his words. "Just Japan," you look at your classmate, close friend, "are you hearing yourself, Suguru?"

He gazes up at you, eyes heavy with weariness and emptied of their usual vibrancy. The burden of his thoughts etched onto his face.

"Suguru," your tone drops, voice becoming a mere whisper; the man before your eyes being close to a delicate thread on the verge of snapping, "are you holding up okay?"

"No.")

"Yeah, yeah," you murmur into his skin, returning his touch and caressing his wrist.

"As I was sayin'," your eyes return to Suguru momentarily before flicking to the horizon of darkness stretching above the school's grounds, "once we finally graduate and I become the head of my clan, we could use my estate as our home. Then we can make loads of babies. Pretty sure my father would be pleased if I had a son."

"It's not your estate," you correct Satoru.

"It's a Gojo estate. And I'm a Gojo. The one with Six eyes and the future leader," his fingers sneak under your chin, gripping the soft flesh of your neck to tilt your head to the side and up, gently straining your neck so that you're compelled to look at him. Eyes the same hue of a tranquil ocean under the moonlight.

"I'll put in the work," his tone turns into a whisper, a murmur that wraps around your body like a velvet night, shielding your conversation from intruding ears – including Suguru, who's standing barely an arm's reach away. The man who now feels like an outsider to the intimate exchange of his friends, "get you all full and happy. You won't leave the bedroom until you go into labor."

It's not his words that render you speechless. Immobile. Mouth slightly ajar. Nor the promise they carry, or the weight of the commitment. It's solely the look in his eyes. As if this man truly believes his words. That he sees this not as an equal partnership, but you as the vessel for his legacy, a mother to his progeny, a means to secure his lineage.

The jujutsu society has carved a mark deep within Satoru Gojo's psyche, even if it's been only a subconscious influence.

"Satoru,"a subtle frown creases your forehead, despite the way his words ignite a fire between your legs, make your pussy throb, "I'm not a breed–"

"Some people believe that the stars are the souls of the people who've passed on," Suguru's words cut through the exchange. Pulling your eyes towards his profile, seeing as he continues to watch the night sky, hands tucked away in his pockets. A gentle smile graces his face.

While you're thankful for his precisely timed intervention, Satoru sneaks a hand onto your abdomen, resting in inside your muff pocket with palm squeezing the soft flesh over the clothes. He releases a theatrical breath, capturing the attention of both of you.

"Way to ruin the mood, Suguru," he adds after a while.

"I think there might be some truth to that," you offer a small, appreciative smile.

In the days that follow your conversation, a dark cloud of dread casts its shadow over your every moment, only fueled by the devastating news of Suguru's most recent mission. After that, each moment's laden with a sense of impending unease. As if the future has already been foretold – only a matter of time before the summons arrives, the call to a meeting that you can already taste like the metallic tang of apprehension on your tongue.

Stepping into the room, it's not just the mission that settles heavily upon your shoulders; it's the weight of an unspoken truth that hangs in the air, casting a pall over the proceedings. Staring upon the silver band encircling your finger, cutting off the flow of blood, it's the revelation that has changed everything for you.

The task assigned to you appeared simple, straightforward, presented with a cold and calculated logic: Kill Suguru Geto and return within fourteen days.

(Reality has a way of deviating from the plans made.

It is why you never came back.)

Early 2018

The ghost of Suguru Geto hovers over you like a specter in the periphery of your thoughts. Especially when you stand in front of the man you've avoided for almost a decade.

There's no solid reason for you to be here. In Satoru Gojo's overly expansive, unnecessarily spacious penthouse. His ignorance to wealth and what's necessary versus what's superfluous still glaringly obvious. Especially with his current job; one that back in the day, back when you were all still students, wouldn't even cross his mind.

You weren't entirely certain if he'd be here today. Tonight. Tracking his movements, they'd always end within the barrier of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech. A barrier that, if crossed, would result in your immediate arrest and subsequent execution. And despite your occasional recklessness, you had no death wish to speak of.

"That's why you're here?" Gojo's glasses now replaced by a black blindfold, folded around his neck. His eyes, shining even in the dim lighting, twinkle with raging stars when they shift to the weapon in your hand, sensing its foreign cursed energy that overwhelms even your own, "to kill me?"

A sardonic snicker escapes you, your laughter bordering mockery as you respond, "Come on, Gojo. Don't get foolish now. I can't kill you."

With a touch of exasperation, you add, "No one can."

"Then why're you here," he demands, his presence commanding the room. Uniform jacket already cast aside, the white button-up shirt partially undone, showing the contours of his clavicles. Time and age have done the sorcerer good; with gained knowledge, he also gained the physicality of experience. Something that creates longing – desire for the past that surges through you. A tidal wave of yearning. A wish that you stayed; that you were there, by his side, witnessing his transformation.

(Could it be the grip of regret? The sting of rue? Perhaps. But the past already happened, ensnared within the grasp on time's flow; its passing moments already etched into the annals of history. Dwelling on it now serves no purpose but to churn the tempestuous sea of emotions.

The sea whose waves are starting to crash against the rocky shores of the present.)

"You disappeared years ago. Without a word. Not even a goddamn ‘Goodbye'."

You watch his cold, distant façade crumble, anger seeping through the cracks as he waves one hand, advancing with measured steps, "I looked for you. Scoured every inch of Japan. For you. Where in the world were you?"

Gojo's eyes blaze with molten determination; boring into your soul, seeking answers you're hesitant, almost reluctant, to provide. Doubt lingers in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog, clouding the once familiar connection between you two.

A connection that you severed with a violent, rapid stroke, leaving nothing but shattered remnants in its wake.

"You had no right to do that," he seethes, words dripping with indignation.

"You are the one to talk," you return his anger, the relentless tide crashing against unyielding cliffs, "you killed him. You killed Suguru, Gojo."

His face contorts with fury, a wildfire raging behind his eyes. The air crackles with tension as your words cut deep, reopening wounds that had never truly healed.

It's then that the distance between you two narrows until he's almost within reach; enough for your fist to connect with him. Fully aware that it would never actually reach him. His flesh. That you won't feel the warmth of his skin. With the jutte sword's blade facing you, fist tightening around the leather handle, you hit and hit a void.

"You killed my friend," your voice trembles with a mixture of sorrow and rage, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The side of your fist repeatedly collides with empty air – it's a cruel dance, truly – a void that fills the space between Gojo and you, a chasm that feels as vast as the abyss, "my friend. Suguru. You killed him–took him away."

Your eyes lock onto his, a desperate search for answers, while Gojo remains a silent and immovable figure. Face resembling carved marble – all solid, perfect yet devoid of any emotion. Letting you spill your anger onto him. You observe as the brilliance in his eyes wanes, those once-vivid blue hues, reminiscent of a precious topaz, gradually losing their luster, darkening, and becoming more reflective of a human's ordinary iris.

Your fist meets the muscle of his chest.

"I hate you," one, two times your fist hits, "I hate you so much, Gojo."

Then his fingers slither around your wrist, twisting it painfully until the loud clank against the floor indicates that your weapon has slipped from your grasp.

"I know," his voice remains monotonous; a mere echo.

He advances, closing the distance between you, his presence a relentless force pressing against you. Eyes a tempest of longing; a tangible aura of desperation that shouldn't flicker across his stoic countenance. All you want to do is stab the look out of his eyes. Gauge it out with your fingers. Stealing away what he so callously takes for granted –

Maybe then he will stop being blind to his surroundings.

– just as he robbed you of your childhood friend. Someone you considered a brother.

"I hate myself too." It's all he mumbles, his voice a barely audible confession, before his lips crash into yours. A tumultuous collision. His hands are everywhere, grasping your shoulders, trailing down your arms, and gripping your hips with an urgency that borders on desperation. Pushing and pulling; body pressed against yours.

Gojo's tongue sweeps over your teeth, the wet tip coaxing yours, drawing forth moan after moan from you, hungrily swallowing every sound you release, trying to quench an insatiable thirst that only your moans can satisfy.

The kiss ravenous, consuming – it makes you unable to resist the magnetic pull of his ardor.

When your name slips between his lips, the reality crashes onto you. Pulling away, you look into his blazing eyes. Lips bruised and swollen, shirt somehow unbuttoned. Showing the contours and hard edges of his chest and abdomen. The scar across his whole upper body, though healed, remains visible. Body sculpted into perfection by years of determined training.

Your hand reaches forward. Fingertips tingling with the longing to make contact, to savor the tactile sensation. And Gojo stands still, a hand resting on your hip, molding your form against the sturdy frame of the couch. Your thighs caught between his, pressed against the velvety embrace of the dark brown upholstery.

Both of your disheveled hairdos mirror the chaos, intensity of the moment, framing your faces with unruly tendrils. Eyes fixated upon his body, hesitating to meet his eyes. Your arm extends more. An outstretched limb seeking connection.

His scrutinizing eyes trace the landscape of your face – witnessing as time stripped away the youthful, once-cheerful smile that had once adorned your lips. Now swollen, hardened lines with two delicate, faint marks traversing your upper lip – a scar. Curiosity gnaws on him, wondering of its origin. If whatever caused it might've been circumvented if you'd stayed.

If you had stayed.

(Maybe if he searched more thoroughly. Fought with greater determination…)

Your hand jerks back. Recoils as if touched by scorching heat. Gaze turning into a torrential downpour as it locks onto his, a deepening frown carving lines across your brow.

"No," he swears he hears you mutter to yourself, lips finding refuge at the juncture of his clavicles. Hands slipping beneath the satin shirt, clenching the taut muscle of his shoulders. One leg draped across his hip, you grind against his thigh without reservation, embracing the sensation of friction against your clothed core, the fabric beginning to absorb your burgeoning desire.

"What–"

"Just fuck me," you nibble at the skin, voice thick with passion, teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling, causing the man to hiss, "fuck me, Gojo."

He grips your jaw. A touch both benevolent and directing. Pulls you off his neck, compelling you to confront the storm of his eyes. Vortex of unspoken emotions. A cyclone of pure desire and passing hesitation. His thumb and index finger press into the soft flesh of your cheekbones, compressing the pliant contours until your lips pucker and part.

"I hate you," you manage to utter, the words emerging as a strained whisper through clenched teeth.

In the ensuing moment, Gojo acknowledges your declaration with a solemn nod, a silent recognition.

"Good," he then pivots you in one fluid motion. Hands finding purchase on the couch's armrests. Gone is the restraint he's maintained until now. He doesn't hold back. Not anymore, not when you made it abundantly clear how you feel; what you want.

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure. With an irresistible force, he bends your body to his will.

Fingers seeking the buttons on your pants, swiftly unzipping the zipper and tugging both your pants and undergarments down your thighs. Until they lock your knees together. His fingers graze your folds and you feel him hiss under his nose. Fingertip tracing your opening, feeling the slippery wetness, Gojo doesn't hesitate to push one finger in.

And your body eagerly sucks him in. Allows him to thrust his finger in and out repeatedly, making your fingers dig into the cushion, lips parted and shamelessly moaning with hips bucking back, meeting his thrusts. Until he adds another finger, scissors them inside and opens you up.

"Fuck," you hear him breathe out, his hand sneaking from your shoulder blades to your hip, venturing beneath your shirt to caress the exposed skin, "you always sound so pretty. Feel so good."

"Shut up," you scoff at his words, voice laced with disdain, "just–ugh," his fingers curl inside, massaging your walls in harmony with the hand on your hip, tracing tantalizing circles, "ah–just don't–don't talk," and you arch your hips backward, prompting his fingers to delve deeper. Palm completely covering your soaked cunt.

"Don't care," you add when he continues the rhythm. In and out, stretching the limits of your resilience, scissoring to accommodate something far more substantial.

"As you wish," he withdraws. Fingers glistening with your juices. And you can feel the dewy slickness spreading as he toys with your pulsating clit, circling the throbbing bud, causing you to clench around empty air. Every nerve ending in your body awakens, dormant embers being stoked; heat blooming inside.

Then he presses himself against you, hands grasping your shoulder to pull you onto his body as he hovers over you. The close proximity allowing you to feel the hard length of him, thick and pushy, begging for entry.

"Stop teasing," you practically growl at him, an annoyed command laden with unrestrained desire.

"Fine," Gojo lets out a husky huff in response to your impatient plea. Pushing your upper body down, nearly bending you over the plush cushion until your forehead meets the silky surface of his furniture. You can hear the unmistakable sound of him unzipping his own pants, the slide of the zipper seemingly never-ending as your pussy leaks onto your thighs, mind of its own; tugs them down just enough for him to fish out his cock. All hard and swollen, the engorged tip glistening with the telltale evidence of his arousal.

One hand palms your pussy, collecting your juices to spread over his cock. Lube it enough for him to slip inside your awaiting walls easily. Yet he hovers over your entrance, tip kissing the opening before running between your folds. Gojo lets out a sigh upon the long-lost feeling of your wet pussy.

It's been too long.

He wants to savor it. Savor the moment your drenched pussy opens up just for him. Swallows him whole and lock him in, never letting him go.

"Gojo," you push back, hoping that maybe it will cause him to slip in – it doesn't. Instead, the tip of his cock probs at your clit, "fuck me."

"You never shut up, heh," his hand secures the back of your neck, the other guiding his cock to your entrance, feeling you open up around the mushroom head, letting a satisfied moan out upon the feeling.

Gojo doesn't bother. At least he shouldn't, right? It's not like he's your lover. You aren't his paramour no more.

But he does take his time. Every inch a struggle, every second a torture. Until finally you feel yourself split open, the tightest of knots unraveling, and then he's thrusting deep, pushing into you with force. Your body welcomes him, contouring to his shape, embracing him fully. His breath comes out in a rush and you're soon meeting him thrust-for-thrust, hips pushing back.

Blood rushes to your head; bend at an unconventional enough angle that allows him to hit the deepest spots inside you. He pulls back then, his cock easily sliding out of your embrace until only the tip remains inside the cocoon of your warmth. Stretching your inner walls in a way that makes you feel dizzy, mind foggy. Fucked stupid.

Your moans are muffled by the couch cushion, but Gojo pays no attention; his focus solely on chasing his own high, eyes closed to draw your presence out. His thrusts become more powerful and insistent as each one hits its mark with precision.

Your name refuses to leave his lips.

Yet his name sounds like a sacred incantation spilling from your throat.

It makes him push. Hips slamming into yours with enough force to actually send you over the couch's edge; causing you to stumble.

"What the f–"

"Lie down," he commands. Stone-cold and demanding. Your body moves on its own accord as you do what you're told, lying flat on your stomach as his hand guides your body up his couch. Face sinking into the decorative pillows, he lies his weight on top of you without shame. Elbow resting next to your head, fingers tangled in your hair – pushing your face into the pillows.

Slamming his cock back inside, a surprised shriek leaves your lips. His legs on either side of your thighs, one arm holding his upper body slightly off you, the other gripping your hip, fingers biting crescent moons into your flesh.

His breath's hot against your neck, coming out in quick gasps and grunts, the growl in his throat driving you wild and you're not sure how much longer you can take it before you beg for it –

"Fuuck–so tight–ngh–"

His hand is everywhere while yours remain tucked underneath the pillows; nails tracing their way around sensitive skin and curves like a map of pleasure points.

– so you bite your lip. Face flushed against the couch's cushions. Feeling yourself cresting towards the edge. He hitches a breath as your moan’s muffled beneath the pillows, his own rhythm faltering before he plunges deeper.

"M’gettin’ close–"

You can feel the heat radiating from him, sweat dripping down your neck as he takes you higher, presses his forehead against your nape. Heat rises to your face as you feel yourself dripping. Acutely aware of yourself, the slick, shameful squelches that resonate each time Gojo plunges deep inside. Buries himself to the hilt. Pelvis melting with the curve of your ass. Smacks his balls against your thighs.

The air feels thick and stifling as you feel Gojo everywhere. Your entire being consumed by the feverish desire coursing through your veins.

His thrusts become more intense, almost frenzied as he searches for something only he knows and finds it in your body. You're so close now, the pleasure so sweet that it's almost overwhelming.

You swear it feels like an eternity before finally your orgasm rushes over you like an unstoppable tide; overwhelming every single one of your senses as he continues to thrust deep within you. Your entire body quaking beneath him, pulled even closer into him by some invisible force.

Gojo finally lets go with a loud groan and collapses onto your back; leaving him panting heavily against your neck while his cock remains firmly embedded inside of you for a few moments more, painting your walls in translucent white before slowly slipping out with a wet sound akin to pure satisfaction.

You lay there unmoving for some time; eyes closed and lips pressed tight together as if to contain all the pleasure of this moment forevermore in one single solitary heartbeat – before reality comes crashing back in around you both in an instant, making Gojo pull away.

[subzeroparade]

what little you've posted of your tarnished oc really interests me! if you'd like, and if comfortable, could you share a little bit more about his lore + his connection to the ancestral followers? what motivated him to join them (other than death, as tagged in one of your posts) and why was it such an ultimatum?

Thank you anon (and sorry for my late response, shit is crazy atm).

Kotschei is a longstanding OC of mine (by which I mean 10+ years), and in his ER iteration he’s a scholar of the Lazuli Conspectus (astrologers who argue for the preeminence of the moon over the stars) and a faithful servant of Carian interests in the Academy. He’s also neither a fighter nor a terribly talented mage, which means he flees in the pseudo-counter-reformation we know happens when the other Conspectuses (all glintstone purists) wrest power from the Carians, depose Rennala, and reassert the Academy’s doctrinal position (as deferent to the authority of the stars).  His brush with the Ancestral Followers is really accidental - they don’t quite speak the same language, they have no written histories, and to a scholar of the Academy (and not a historian) they’ve never seemed more than a race of brutish non-believers. They are openly scornful of the Academy’s petty factional arguments about the moon and stars, immutable, true things that to them are fixed and unchanging rather than questions to be debated. By the Siofra riverbanks the moon’s face is obscured, and they take pity on Kotschei for it. On encountering the Ancestral Spirit, its magic astounds him: it decays and flourishes at once, dying and returning to the earth and living again, nature in service to it. He learns that Ancestral magic has no link to the stars or the moon, nor the black currents of deathblight or the gruesome way the Golden Order has made a farce of immortality.

So in his little bubble of woe is me I am a sinner on all fronts betraying the moon, he trades his own magic for Ancestral learning. He’s also a floppy little glass cannon, so getting skewered by their arrows and later watching them shoot is how he manages a degree of mastery over Loretta’s Greatbow. The Shining Horned Headband he wears for the rest of the game is one he fashioned himself, observing their techniques - on the branching antlers, alongside the flourishing buds, he grafts Carian blue glintstone shards. This is in part to channel their power, and in part because when he returns to Liurnia, shamanic regalia is an improbable disguise for an excommunicated mage. 

I don’t usually write extensively or lore dump about my OCs in particular, but I appreciate the ask (it's timely, since he will appear in the @gracedbygold Tarnished-centric zine). In the end I enjoyed beefing up his backstory enough that I turned any prospective lore-dump into a ficlet, which goes into a little more detail on how he got to where he’s going (from runaway mage to pledging himself to Ranni, first as a servant and eventually as potential consort). It’s not done yet, but here is a snippet:

“I see you look at me, Master Scholar, and I invite you to look closer.”  She spreads all four hands, though the gesture fails to be inviting. “You know what I am. I have lost my Empyrean body, and with it, some manner of power over the order of things. The Fingers, and the Greater Will by extension, have branded me their enemy. Dethroned, the academy has abandoned my royal house. I can muster no army. Many who would be my subjects think me dead. My kin have become rivals, trapped or compelled by their own machinations for power. I am a soul in a loosely-bound collection of porcelain limbs, and my only ally is the distant, mercurial Moon.” She leans forward. “Are you so unimaginative as to be bound by duty? This is not the winning side.”  A fine scholar’s argument, I want to tell her. We are not imaginative. We want to know the world, not guess at it. You cannot stand before your peers and imagine possibilities. You argue for truths, for once something is written down, there is security in certitude. Glintstone is a hard and cold discipline - improbable, I know, given the wobbling bodies and fragile egos who master it. For all our formulae and suppositions and mastery of cosmic principles, we mostly cast light and fling rocks. These are the things we are certain of.  The interesting part is guesswork, which, by virtue of its incertitude, means it’s not really scholarship. For all my learning, it’s no more than a series of lucky guesses that have delivered me here, before the last true daughter of the Moon.  “I reason,” I say at length, “that you can still inherit the world.”

[warsofasoiaf]

Overall thoughts about the Elden Ring DLC?

Overall, I consider it to be an incredibly high-quality production. It pushes the envelope when it comes to boss design, had gobsmacking lore revelations, and overall was a worthwhile addition to the series.

FromSoft's boss design remains in excellent form. The early bosses (Divine Beast, Dancing Lion and Twin Moon Knight Rellana) look designed to punish you by using multiple elements in their attacks, the early optional bosses (Blackgaol Knight, the giant Furnace Golem in the distance) look to hit hard and break you out of your comfort zone. You cannot sleep on these bosses, even if you're on a NG-multiple+ with a tricked-out build. These bosses are hard, they're fast, and they will eat you for breakfast if you don't treat them seriously. Some of the design appears to be specifically designed to counter early player actions, like summoning the Mimic Tear as soon as you step into the fog gate - the boss might charge you and hit you hard specifically to break you of your had habits. They may tag on an extra hit after a combo looks over to punish flask use. This is precisely what DLC and additional content for games is for, breaking the stale combat doctrine of the existing game in new and exciting ways, to punish uncreative players and force a change in strategy.

It's for that reason that the hoopla about the boss's extra difficulty falls flat with me. Yes, these bosses are challenging, but there are ways around it. Scadutree Fragments are the big ones - it's a progression mechanic meant specifically to make your game easier and reward exploration. With many players already possessing plenty of endgame-caliber weapons and spells, Shadow of the Erdtree needed to create other incentives to reward players for looking carefully. There are still great weapons and spells to be found, certainly, but the punishing difficulty, and the utility of the Scadutree Fragments with which to mitigate it, encourages exploration. People not using them and complaining about the difficulty is the whole Spirit Ashes summoning argument all over again. If you don't want to use the tools that you have in front of you, fine, but you're going to have a harder time of it. Don't leave have your equipment behind and complain that the task is too hard.

Of course, a lore nerd like me is positively giddy with the revelations that the DLC has provided us. Marika's past and ascension into godhood, and why she was so cruel to the Omens and the previous Crucible era. One possible source for the corruption of the Golden Order via the Two Fingers by Metyr, Mother of Fingers. The surprisingly grandiose master plan of Miquella the Kind. The return of a fan-favorite character. Revelations for everyone from Melina to the tiny dopey jar-people. FromSoft didn't disappoint, and I'd go so far as to say they were, by FromSoft standards, quite coherent on the story. I'm always prepped and ready for essays on the subject.

Thanks for the question, Mistland.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[onceuponymous]

Starting a new chain after I was tagged by @arcanescribbler (thank you!)

Last song : technically Mercy Me by Alkaline Trio, which I do like as a song on its own merits (learned of it from a Brainbent lyricstuck!), but I use it as a song with enough volume/variation/interest to play on loop to drown out outside noises (like the lawnscaping company outside -_-).  Last song I listened to for its own sake was Just Another Girl by The Killers

Last movie : Ooogh, it's been a while.  Might be the FNAF movie

Currently Reading: the Dungeon Meshi manga and also some dunmeshi fanfics

Currently Watching : Dungeon Meshi once again.  Also Manlybadasshero's playthrough of Spirit Hunter NG

Currently Consuming : mug cake my sibling made me bc  I wasn't feeling well <3.  Also as in "media that isn't reading/watching", Stardew Valley

Currently Craving : The doctrine I will make when I am World Empress that lawnmowers and leafblowers are forbidden.  Also the energy to get back to work on some fun plush sewing ideas I have.

Fill it out yourself if you want! @vellichorom @tomiechu @theflannelwizard @twigstarpikachutroll22 @missstar489

[rosieofcorona]

Get to Know Your Tav

I have been begging other people to share their Tavs with me so I figure I’d better do the same!! Thanks to @lewdisescariot for tagging me, this was so fun. 😌

Name: Saraneth of House Atlàn (High Elf, Wizard, School of Necromancy)

Background: Sage

Favorite weapon: Saraneth favors spells over weapons, but she does love a rapier or dagger. Something elegant and light that she can wield with precision, and without relying much on physical strength. 

Style of combat: Ranged, certainly. She is fascinated by death but less so by gore, and she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty if she can help it. Ugh, all that blood. 

Most prized possession: A letter from her father, expressing his pride in her academic achievements at the Red School of Thay. Saraneth’s parents– both politicians in the city– had a difficult time accepting her decision to pursue necromancy instead of one of the more “tasteful” schools of magic. It meant a lot to her when they finally came around. 

Deepest desire: Saraneth's primary goal as a wizard is to prove that necromancy is not an inherently dark magic, and that it can be as much about bringing balance, closure, and comfort as it can be about control. To her, death is an equalizer, and she has no love for those who exploit it for personal gain. She and Gale are in perpetual debate on the subject, but no matter– she’ll convince him, sooner or later. She’s already brought Halsin around. 

Guilty pleasure: Purchasing little luxuries wherever she can find them. If she’s doing the party's shopping, she’ll prioritize what’s on the list— poison-tipped arrows for Astarion, potion bottles for Shadowheart, infernal iron for Karlach— but she’ll also buy that gorgeous little vial of perfume, that expensive bar of soap that makes her skin feel soft and glowy. She’ll even sneak unnecessary treats into the others’ packs, especially those she knows won’t treat themselves. 

Best-kept secret: Likely the latter half of her education, which can lead to misgivings about her character. Initially schooled in Candlekeep, Saraneth was later transferred to Thay for practical studies in necromancy. She was mentored by the Red Wizards and has studied lichdom extensively, though she holds this information close to the vest. 

Greatest strength: Her intelligence and natural magical aptitude. She might be a Chosen herself, if not for her general (and growing) distaste for Mystra’s doctrine.

Fatal flaw: Saraneth has a real “How hard can it be?” mentality that gets her into trouble from time to time. Outwitting a devil? Killing a god? Not a problem, until it is. She’s working on it. Sort of. 

Favorite smell: She misses the smell of her mother’s gardens in the Gate, iris and bergamot and nerium all together, but she’s recently grown fond of campfire smoke and rainwater, soaked into the earth. 

Favorite spell or cantrip: Animate Dead, but not for the reasons one might assume. She finds it a useful tool in helping the dead finish unfinished business. Bodies desecrated by Balthazar will bring his ruin. Druids felled by Ketheric Thorm will break his curse. Saraneth will never wake a restful spirit. She sees no need to raise the peaceful dead. 

Pet peeve: Gale’s terrible, eye-rolling puns, which she swears he doubles down on just to exasperate her. What’s worse is when she actually finds them funny. 

Bad habit: Like many elves, Saraneth can be overly concerned with appearances. She’s a bit vain, but she tries her best not to fixate on her hair or her nails or her skin when there are far more important matters to attend to. Still, she’ll sneak a peek at herself in Astarion’s mirror every now and again. Just to make sure she's still got it.

Hidden talent: She’s excellent with children, whether she’s soothing them or playing with them or getting them out of– or into– mischief. She’s also surprisingly good at knife tricks. She doesn’t let these talents mingle.

Leisure activity: She’s an avid poetry reader, and has taken to translating some of the Elvish epics into the common tongue to make them more accessible. Maybe she’ll publish a book of translations one day, when their adventures have come to an end. Now and then she thinks this hobby is a little on the pretentious side, but then again, what was all that expensive schooling for?

Favorite drink: Any sweet liquor– she detests beer or whiskey, but a Suzailian or Amnian dessert wine will go down nicely. 

Comfort food: There’s a traditional elven dish– long-grain rice with wild mushroom, seared in fat and soaked in broth and topped with cheese and spiced persimmon. She mentions it often, but especially when she’s homesick. She can’t remember the exact recipe, but Gale is hard at work perfecting it already.

Favorite person: She’s closest to Gale and Shadowheart, though she loves everyone in their little band of adventurers. She’s a bit surprised when she falls in love with Gale, but they’ve got a lot in common despite the different paths they’ve taken to get where they are. And she is fast friends with Shadowheart, who understands what it’s like to live beneath the judgment of others. 

Favorite display of affection: She’s very tactile and finds that any soft touch will do, but she often finds herself playing with Gale’s hair– combing it, braiding it, brushing it out of his face. She loves it when he does the same, though he’s still learning some of her more intricate hairstyles. If he braids her hair for her, she never fixes it. 

Fondest childhood memory: Saraneth still remembers the time that her mother stayed home to care for her during a particularly violent illness, a job usually reserved for a member of their household staff. She remembers the steam rising from the bath as her mother washed her hair, the fresh feel of newly-washed bed linens, the smell of broth wafting into her room from the kitchens. Her mother has always been reserved in her affections, but Saraneth had never felt more loved. 

Tagging folks but feel free to do this if you like and if you’d prefer not to, that’s cool too: @diawh0re, @eelqueen, @an-drawer, @orehuna, @rowanisawriter, @durgeteriormotives

[lightthewaybackhome]

What's your favourite thing about Reformed theology and why?

Asking as someone who doesn't like Reformed theology much who wants to know what its followers like about it.

Thank you for this question. I'm going to do my best to answer it while saying up front that I'm not discussing doctrine. I'm not a good debater. I'm taking your kind question as a subjective question, not one that wishes a doctrinal answer or a compare and contrast with other denominations answer.

For me personally, two things that I love about Reformed theology are this:

A High View of God. Reformed Baptists hold and teach a high view of God, His goodness, transcendence, simplicity, and attributes. The higher my view of God, the greater and more wonderful my salvation is. I also deeply appreciate the focus being on God and not on me and my feelings. This equips me to view myself correctly and not be overwhelmed by my feelings which are many and a bit all over the place.

I love the truth of Christian liberty expounded in our Confession: (I also love our confessionalism because it provides clarity and safety.) The liberty which Christ has purchased for believers under the gospel, consists in their freedom from the guilt of sin, the condemning wrath of God, the severity and curse of the law, and in their being delivered from this present evil world, bondage to Satan, and dominion of sin, from the evil of afflictions, the fear and sting of death, the victory of the grave, and everlasting damnation: as also in their free access to God, and their yielding obedience unto Him, not out of slavish fear, but a child-like love and willing mind. All which were common also to believers under the law for the substance of them; but under the New Testament the liberty of Christians is further enlarged, in their freedom from the yoke of a ceremonial law, to which the Jewish church was subjected, and in greater boldness of access to the throne of grace, and in fuller communications of the free Spirit of God, than believers under the law did ordinarily partake of. (2LBCF 21.1)

I think that might be one of the most beautiful lists ever penned by man.

I'm going to tag @walkingthroughthisworld who can check me if I put anything wrong or unclearly.

These are two of my favorite things about Reformed Theology. I love its boldness and clarity, but mostly I love its high view of the Lord and I love the liberty in Christ that it brings.

[blackberry-command-cap]

intro (as of October 2024) :||

Pertinent information about me:

Call me Blackberry <3

She/her, turning 18 in one month

Improving from what is probably burnout and also mild depression

I doodle a lot. Sometimes I draw comics. I don't do fancy art or writing bc it takes too much patience. I take a lot of screenshots of my SWTOR babies :D besides that I mainly just appreciate other people's (very cool) stuff

Currently obsessed with Star Wars, more specifically the Sequel trilogy and SWTOR, more specifically Armitage Hux (tagged #i need a hux tag) and a handful of OCs (more on them on my character page).

I'm Christian and a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Posts related to that are tagged #spiritual stuff or #church stuff.

Newish to Tumblr and online social etiquette so if I come off as weird it's probably because I don't know the social rules 😅

I like to talk about my interests but don't want to bore ppl so if you want to hear more about something feel free to ask! Interactions and asks always welcome (plz talk to me)

Less pertinent information about me:

I like to play D&D and Mario Kart

I used to read a ridiculous amount when I was younger and now I have a complicated relationship with several YA series, especially Twilight (which I am happy to yap about if prompted)

Mumbo Jumbo from Hermitcraft is my spirit animal (though I haven't watched him in years)

I am an ambiverted ENTP-T coming to terms with my Rebel tendency (from the Four Tendencies book, highly recommend)

My brain is really good at math and really really bad at writing (also bad at social stuff. not really a good deal tbf I want my money back)

I like suits and I hate wearing skirts

I am a morning person (my ideal sleep schedule is roughly 8 pm to 4 am - we're trying to get there but it's hard)

Tagging is pretty disorganized but I try :/

Me talking: #bb thoughts, #bb thinkings, #bb complains etc.

#i need a hux tag - the man himself 🤭🤭 I can't asd;fkjasldfj\

#oc: worst sith ever (+anxiety) - my current favorite SWTOR blorbo <3

other Character tags are on my character page

#my doodles, #real life stuff - self explanatory

#church stuff - posts related to my church's culture or doctrine, or generally organized religion

#spiritual stuff - posts not specifically about organized religion but still religious in nature

#cool art 👍🏼 - art that strikes me or has a particularly good vibe (because it's pretty)

#lore and analysis - any post where someone has typed out their thoughts, headcanons, explanations, whatever in a big block of text

[rinwellisathing]

WIP Whenever

I was tagged forever ago by @dm-dragonpuff I apologize for such a long delay but I straight up didn't HAVE any unposted WIPs, but anyway, because I'm on a Fatal Frame binge right now, here is my personal little pet project I'm making just for me but hope people will enjoy where Gortash hunts Bhaalist ghosts in a ruined temple with cool artificer ghost photography goggles based on The Camera Obscura from Fatal Frame. The plot is a big amalgamation of Fatal Frame plots combined with the idea of The Bhaalist temple and its inhabitants as the location and its multitude of spirits. Main inspirations are Project Zero, Crimson Butterfly, and Maiden of The Black Water, but there's a lot of general Fatal Frame vibes over all too. Also to sound more archaic, I've been running the letters and journals Enver finds back and forth through google translate for some added flavor. All Bhaalspawn I can fit in the story as ghosts will appear (Default Durge, Sarevok, Orin, my Durge Sentry and his Bhaalspawn OC family members, my partner's Bhaalspawn, and potentially some other canonically Forgotten Realms ones) I tag any moots who want to do WIP Whenever

The Letting Ritual

“To protect himself from being discovered by his enemies, the god Baal commands that people must die. This ritual requires the shedding of a brother's blood. Two people go in and only one person comes out. The blood nourishes the runes in the ceremonial hall and flows into the lower chambers of the temple. The stronger the brother's devotion, the more powerful the ritual.”

-A rough translation of a faded Bhaalist placard outside a crumbling ruin. Sentry watched the dim streets outside the window of his cell. Tomorrow, he and Orin would meet in combat in the sacred arena below the temple. Only one of them would survive. It felt strange to him, being inches from death and still with so many souls left alive on the earth. Since childhood, he had been raised as chosen, told that he was special, that father had a plan for him. By the time he turned fifteen, that plan boiled down to him standing alone among ashes and bones strewn across the barren wasteland that was the world. A part of him knew that this was still father's plan, that the priests had every intention that he be the one to survive and not Orin. It left a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe if he believed it was a fair fight, it would have been alright. If Orin had been older, more experienced in single combat. But she was young, just twelve years old this year, and she was an assassin, ambushing from the shadows. Sentry was sixteen years old and a battle hardened warrior. The fight could not have been more unbalanced in his mind.

The cult at large would not have known, COULD not have known, but since he had been younger even than Orin, Sentry had visited another temple in the city, learning about the faith of Ilmater. He had learned the value of sacrifice, of martyrdom. He had taken sacred scars as he'd learned their ways, read of their lord and his doctrine. And now, at the final hour, he was on his knees at the window, his words not meant for his father, but instead for The Broken God. He prayed for guidance, for the best way he could to save Orin. His wishes were true, earnest....but he couldn't have known the consequence it would have for his family and for their village....

“ Tragedy occurred during the last-minute ceremony. The favored son made a vow to another god and sacrificed himself for his sister. However, she was also unclean due to her poor bloodline. Because of this, Baal abandoned his followers, and the temple and its people were swallowed up by the earth and now live in the gray wastes of Gehenna.” The passage was a rough translation, of course, but what of Raphael's ancient library wasn't? Enver rolled his eyes and closed the book as his hand rested on the goggles he had upgraded recently, lenses which could detect the presence of ghosts and spirits. Raphael intended to send him into the abandoned ruins of the temple of Bhaal far beneath the city where Enver had lived what seemed like ages ago, in order to hunt for artifacts for his archive.

“This ritual required two pure-blooded children of Baal with a deep connection to each other to fight and shed the blood of their beloved brother. Criteria for failure were shedding diluted blood, tainted blood, blood pledged to someone else, or no blood at all. The winner of the battle must be a true child of Baal, who is then chosen and then declared responsible for arranging the necessary rituals. This was known as the "letting go ritual" or "blood ritual."”

It all sounded rather fanciful to the young man, who had very little time for gods or their demands. Still, the texts made sense for Bhaal, a murderous and selfish deity from what Enver knew of him. He smirked, holding back a chuckle as he wondered how much dangerous Bhaalist spirits might be than the ordinary ones which haunted grave yards and more banal and simple ruins. He supposed he would find out since Raphael had demanded that he spend the night in the ruined temple tonight and record anything useful he found in his search for relics.

Mere hours later, he found himself standing in the ruins of an eerie little town beneath the city, his eyes falling upon a burned out hovel just beyond the gate. Well, in for a copper, in for a gold piece. He crossed the street and stepped over the threshold of the old home. The remnants of a life were still set out, albeit scorched or broken for the most part. Dishes and utensils lay forgotten on the table, ruined paintings in blackened frames stared down at him from the walls. One thing caught his eyes, unburned and set upon the charred counter. A piece of parchment, which he picked up to read. “I admit that I am worried about what will happen tomorrow. But I also know that I have to be brave for my sister Orin. I teach her that it is necessary, and that if death allows her to live longer and perhaps free herself from her father and his oppressive rule, I have a duty to her.

It is my blood that dyes the ground of the arena and feeds the runes that run to the realm of the Father of Gehenna. Tomorrow, I will die so that my sister can live. I face my death without fear and know that this is the right thing to do. I regret that I never got to experience love or true friendship after sneaking out of the temple and learning about the outside world, but... a real sacrifice if I don't die with a little bit of regret. Will it be?

Orin, if you read this, please run away if you are chosen. Leave this place and find a place where you can be happy. He doesn't care about you or your interests. Be free and live your life. Love, your big brother, Sentry.”

Frowning, Enver looked up from the letter, lowering the goggles he'd spent so long tinkering with back home, flicking down two sets of rune etched lenses and peering slowly and carefully around the room. A tall, slim figure sat at the table, seemingly writing quickly. He was a pale tiefling with dark, jagged tattoos marking his face. His horns curved upward and he had bright eyes. He was dressed in simple black linen clothing in contrast with his pale silvery white hair. The tiefling looked up and Enver noticed he was beautiful, eerily so. He regarded Enver with a gentle curiosity and then simply walked past him. “Wait!” Enver called out to the spirit, reaching out to him even as he faded with each step. It occurred to him that perhaps calling out to the spirit wasn't particularly helpful. It was likely the ghost didn't understand common, the very rough translations of all the text in this place seemed to be an indication that these people lived so long ago, maybe the language wasn't the same.

Although the spirit had disappeared, Enver could still examine the remaining image, the runes in the goggles would allow it to be stored. The goggles had labeled the image 'Boy Writing'.

Enver frowned and gazed in the direction the spirit had gone, glancing once more around the room and deciding there was nothing of further interest here. He continued on along the same path as the spirit. The corridor seemed unfinished, perhaps even dug out as an afterthought to connect two previously separate places, its walls rough hewn and crude. The floor beneath his feet had given way from stone to dirt and there was a musty dampness to this place that lingered in the air heavily, mingling with the overwhelming sense of malice. The goggles glowed faintly and Enver turned his head, a vague shape almost like a face appearing in the wall, pale, ghostly eyes gazing curiously at him as the eerie laughter of a young girl filled the air and the face faded away and on the floor below where it appeared, a bloodied scrap of paper lay waiting. Enver picked it up carefully and began to read it over.

'Brother, why don't you have time to play with me anymore? We made such beautiful art out of the red, bruised corpses of our family's victims. Dad must have been so proud! I hate being left behind when I promised to keep it a secret when you were away from your room for long periods of time and pretend you were there all the time! Where are you going? Do you have anyone else to play with, brother? Who is it? Why are they more important than me?'

“Hmm...well, that's a Bhaalist family for you, blood and corpses and all that.” Enver's mouth curved into a smile. He was on the right track. Who knew? Maybe something here was valuable enough to buy his way out from under Raphael, or better yet, present before Raphael ever found out he'd discovered it and make a fool out of him. He placed the letter in a leather folio in his pack and continued on.

The crude tunnel led into a small bedroom, the windows were slatted and barred, in one corner was a simple bed roll and across the room lay a shelf of books beside a small desk and a chair before it. Open on the desk lay an old leatherbound journal, the leather dyed in black and red and lovingly stitched together by hand. The paper was old and yellowed, but with hints of darker stains throughout, not quite ink splots, perhaps more blood, this being likely the home of one of Bhaal's chosen children judging by a visage of the deity mounted on the wall above the bed and a rack of weapons, long elegant halberds and axes mostly, by the entrance. There was a heaviness to this room, a feeling like two opposing forces meeting in the still, stale air. He noticed an object glinting on the desk beside the journal, partially hidden in a small hole in the wood. Working it free, he found that he held a silver pendant in the shape of two clasped hands wrapped in red filigree in the shape of ropes. His dark eyes widened in surprise and he raised a brow. A pendant of Ilmater? In the room of a Bhaalspawn? That was not something he had expected. His eyes immediately moved to the journal to see what he could learn about this anomaly. 'Today I visited the Open Hand Temple again. Father Lorgan and Commander Ojeda were happy to see me and thanked me for the donation I brought. I again told them about my concern for my sister and what I could do for her if something were to happen to me. They seemed concerned, so I made the excuse that I wanted to plan and prepare in advance, as a precaution, but they seemed to realize I was too fickle for that.

On my way home, I noticed that an emissary had come from the local Banite faction. I had no recollection that it was happening today. The high priest scolded me for not being here when they first arrived and introduced me as Father's chosen one. I turned around to greet my guest, but my face must have betrayed surprise as I saw a handsome young man not that far apart in age from me. He smiled at me and greeted me so charmingly. I felt my heart beating a mile a minute. Father, forgive me. I know our loyalties with the Banites are tenuous, and that in the end we disrespect their lords and they are merely a means to an end, but he was very handsome.'

[artemis-potnia-theron]

Hi 🏹🌙☀️

Sorry if i bother you with this but i love the olympian twins Artemis and Apollo, they are my world, my inspiration and help me give me a comfy place.... And i just can't continue with all the people i see who blame that 😢

They say that Apollo is evil or an horrible god for what he do it in their stories or Artemis is cruel for blamed Callisto and not Zeus for what happenned with the Ursa Major story 😭😭

What i can do? I know they do it bad things, like so many gods, but they are my beloved guardians and it's hurt me when i saw those comments 😫😢

Hi there.

First, I would really suggest that you read this post by @screeching-0wl as well as this thread to better situate how the myths relate to the gods. But the long and short of it is that the gods are not their myths. Myths are not doctrine when it comes to helpol practice. They are ways to better understand our deities through the lens of our own humanity. But the gods often predate their myths, including Artemis and Apollo(n).

You can interpret the myths for yourself within the context of your practice or you can choose not to involve them in your worship at all. But you have to work out what you believe, and what is acceptable to you. I am never here to judge my Lady or any of the deities/spirits I work with. But ultimately these are divine beings with different rules than the ones we live by. You have to come to terms with how that dynamic will play into the relationship you have with them.

If you find comfort in the Divine Twins, don't let people's comments on social media impact that. You can block tags that upset you, or you could even take a social media hiatus and better determine what you believe without a bunch of other voices intervening.

I wish you all the luck in the world with your path. May Artemis protect and guide you 🏹🦌🌙

- Taylor

[charlesdesvoeux]

terror rewatch time!!! i'll be using this post to comment on ep. 5 "first shot a winner lads" block the tag terrorwatch2 if you'd like :-)

waaaait I didn't know dundy lost his toes also ❗️ STANVOEUX ALERT ❗️

goddd crozier being like "Hi ned!!!" and then ned has to say "a guy died :-/" this show is a comedy

poor ned is just so. exhausted. and the way he looks at jopson after crozier requests he collect Mr. Hornby's things!!!! the way he clearly prefers jopson to him!!!! "why can't I be the favorite son???"

the way!!!! hickey tries to pull goodsir but harry clocks him immediately!!!!!

that hickeygibson scene... the way there is obviously this transactional element to their relationship. but is absolutely not just transactional. billy's smile after hickey gives him the ring is frankly very earnest, very sweet- it's the closest thing they'll ever get to a marriage and he knows it. it's very serious!!! and then hickey says "unbutton your ears" and billy's smile falters bc its a reminder of. you know. it being transactional.

I think jirv's reaction to manson's fear is bc well. you know. the thing that irving clings to for sanity and emotional safety and structure and order is christianity and the idea of ghosts just goes contrary to all doctrine. and what if manson's right- what if he really heard them, does that mean ghosts are real??? if the church is wrong about ghosts what else is the church wrong about??? gay sex and then his castle crumbles just like that. he can't have that he just can't. and so he reacted with frankly a surprising amount of emotional violence but thats because the idea of a church tenet being wrong is emotionally violent TO HIM. and I mean also of course the discipline thing. bc I think jirv feels guilt in a sense of "well if I had ratted out hickey he would have been punished earlier and maybe the seeds of rebellion wouldn't have been planted and hartnell and manson wouldn't have gone with him and everything wouldn't be fucked so I NEED to be strict now" even if frankly I think he looks uncomfortable showing that aggression.

and then of course hickey slithers in and positions himself as a hero to manson. the officers are all so distant, they're authority figures, the ones who met out punishment- but that's not hickey, no, hickey is nice and funny and high spirited and he helped me i like hickey :-)

sol taking care of heather :-((( he takes his role as the leader of the marines very seriously- and if that entails cutting heather's nails and chatting to a practically dead man then so be it. also interesting in light of Dave K's q&a where he mentioned how they tried to keep an eye on physical touch on the show considering he holds poor heather's hand very tenderly. another sign of the pretenses of "proper" victorian masculinity fading away given the circumstances.

didn't remember ned being present on silna's "interrogation"; he makes a good suggestion- "maybe it's gone off, somehow" he's privy to a lot more information than I remembered actually!!! and the way he shakes his head when francis orders silna out, he know this is cruel and wrong. wonder if blanky hadn't stood up to francis if little would have (probably not I guess :-( he just would have done it anyway but pissed off, which is the story of his life)

goddddd the way blanky manages to somehow joke around even as he's about to get his leg cut off. that's my man <3

"jopson, I'd like you to join us"

ned seething with rage in the background at first as crozier announces he's drying out.....

it's just incredibly touching how he allows himself to be seen in this moment of great vulnerability. that's when his relationship with fitzjames starts to turn which of course would become incredibly important as the series unfolds.

[lifesarchive]

DEVIL HOUSE by JOHN DARNIELLE (REVIEW)

quickly: a true crimes writer moves into the building where the murders in his latest book took place (a writer questioning the ethics of his process / the past catching up with the present / lasting works of art / stories about stories / small towns outside of big cities / housing, drug, and mental health crises / mothers who love their sons / SATANIC PANIC! / swords, knights, and castle doctrines / the monsters are the people, but are the people monsters?)

This is not horror and hardly a thriller. There are no ghosts, demons, or spirits. There are indeed bumps in the night, but they come from the living. It’s a fresh take on mystery writing, but not really mystery either. It’s an exposition. We follow the main character, Greg, as he completes his latest true crime novel. The voices change throughout the story, so sometimes Greg is speaking to us, other times to someone else. The fun part of this story is the writing and the behind-the-scenes peek into the world of true crime. The not-so-fun part is the ending. 

John Darnielle’s writing spirals and descends. He takes his time moving around the subject, encircling it with details, getting closer and deeper at the end of every paragraph. Then, as you are rounding the last bend, the entire picture becomes clear from the inside out. It was like unraveling a beautifully woven ball of yarn, expecting a rare jewel at its center, but finding the end of a string instead. (Maybe, this is the entire meta point of this story… life is just a series of strings ending. Nothing special.)

★ ★ ★ ★

more thoughts: SPOILERS

Some personal context… I came across this one because I was scouring the goodreads tag for “horror” and looking for interesting things that came out in the past year or two. The cover got me, as they tend to do. I rarely check the reviews before I read the story, but I always check after, just to see what there is I might have missed. I think I liked it more than most. As interesting as this book was to read, it didn’t deliver the THRILL I thought it would. It read like a poet writing a Wikipedia page… an intricate balance between truth and perception and the philosophy of cause and effect.

I recently read TROOP, and one of my gripes was the dialogue for the young teens that the story centered on. It felt so outdated and inauthentic. The dialogue, actions, and inner monologues for the teens at the center of DEVIL HOUSE were immaculate. Perfectly nuanced, and varied. The sophisticated unraveling of emotions and motivations is moving. He totally encapsulates the angst of aging. Now that I think about it, I actually would’ve loved to have seen John Darnielle do a version of TROOP.

The story is divided into 6 parts, and they each have different voices.

1: Chandler

We open with our good friend Greg Chandler, whose family lineage of kingship becomes a recurring thematic element in this story. He introduces us, right off the rip, to who he is, what he does, and his latest project. His agent has hipped him to the story of a couple of people murdered in an old porno shop in Milpitas, CA, outside of San Jose. 

He walks us through his process… one of immersion, invasion almost, that requires him to be in the places where these crimes took place. He, again with a nudge from his agent, devises a plan to purchase ‘DEVIL HOUSE’, which has been renovated, turned from a shop into a home, and is currently for sale. As he goes through the process of buying the house and moving in, he takes time to expound on the details of the case. He gives us an introduction to necessary persons and places, and at the end of Part 1, he tells us that what he discovered differs from the story that is told. He also tells us that he does not want to write the story he was sent there to write.

2: White Witch

Here, the story changes abruptly. Now, our narrator is no longer talking to us. Now, attention is directed to ‘The White Witch’, and we have become the ‘White Witch’ being addressed. (An interesting use of narration perspective, though I understand how some could find it jarring and confusing.) Eventually, we will come to know her life… a high school teacher who murdered two students while they were invading her home. Part 2 is a grand spiral around the details of her life leading up to the invasion and murder. In the open, she was just a school teacher. In the end, standing on the beach with bags of body parts, she has turned into the satanic WITCH living in the hills. Both in some real reality, but also in the minds of those always needing a villain to blame the evils of the world on.

3: Devil House

Our narrator returns to addressing us, and the White Witch’s story is paused. Now the focus returns to Milpitas, to Devil House before it was known as such. We get a grand historical overview of the influences that conspired to make the porno shop possible. This includes the history of the land and the landlord. However, the bulk of this part of the story is about the last occupants of Devil House, before our narrator Greg. 

We go back to it when it was MONSTER ADULT X, a porno shop on the side of the highway where 17-year-old Derrick works, unbeknownst to his parents who only want to best for him. MONSTER ADULT X (I’ll refer to it as MAX from here on out), is in its last days as the owner Anthony Hawley can’t keep up the rent payments.

Hawley closes the place down, but because Derrick still has his key, it is open to him. He hangs out there drawing and sketching. Then his friend Seth starts joining him. Then their homeless friend Alex, who’s been missing for some time joins them and lives there. Just at the tail end of things, Alex’s friend Angela pops in for some of the fun. 

This is their paradise, away from the impending world of adulthood and all its anxieties and broken promises. Things are fine until the landlord starts showing the place, in preparation to sell.

4: Song of Gorbonian 

A short and unexpected chapter, written in Olde English. Obviously, this is an imaginative prelude for some of the story’s later motifs and actions. Yet, it could just as well be a short story written during a reprieve Greg was taking from writing Devil House… or a rambling from one of MAX’s occupants during its last days… who’s to say? The Song of Gorbonian is a tale of a young king’s promise to avenge his father’s death and restore the gods of the old world.  

5: Devil House

In this part of the story, Greg updates us on the stories of MAX’s occupants. He catches up with modern-day Angela, Derrick, and Seth, all living different adult lives far away from Milpitas, having escaped any punishment, (but receiving tons of blame for the murders). The only one we don’t get an update on is Alex, who has managed to disappear. 

6: White Witch

Now we are back to the story of the White Witch, but not like before. Instead of standing in her place while Greg speaks to her, we are instead placed in the shoes of Jana, Jesse’s mother, one of the kids killed by Mrs. Crane, The White Witch. We are standing in Jana’s shoes as Greg reads (or summarizes rather) a letter Jana wrote. In reading this letter back to her, we come to understand the forces that shaped the life of the home invaders we met in Part 2.

In between the breaths of this letter, Greg is restoring Devil House to its former glory… breaking glass and pulling up carpets. 

7: Chandler

The perspectives change again. Now we are standing in the shoes of Greg’s childhood friend, as we reconnect with Greg after several years and he expounds on the new project he is working on, writing about a murder in Milpitas where he (we?) grew up. At the close of Part 7, we learn that this has all been a fabrication. Derrick, Seth, Angela, Alex… not one of them was real. At least, not in the form that Greg portrayed them to be in his book. The real culprits were likely men living on the streets, squatting for the night, running into the landlord, and reactions ensuing. 

Greg reveals his grand philosophy on what the public expects from true crime, and how the true story of Devil House would not satisfy the psyches of the consumers. Then the book fades out in a hazy memory of childhood, where the days were spent playing games.

Before I could complain too much about the ending, I had to remind myself that Greg told us exactly to expect: “What I learned contradicts the account I first read, which I understand to have sprung from the need for a certain sort of telling, a hunger for known quantities.” In other words, the salacious story of teens murdering to defend their clubhouse is something cooked up by the collective psyche, not by reality.

More than a fictional true crime book, this entire work seemed to be a rumination of the big machine of true crime itself and how we respond to these violent acts as a society. What do we want from these stories? Who do these acts of violence affect? At one end of a story, a person may look like a demon, but if we trace back all the influences and occurrences, we may find this person may have been someone else at some point… and if it is true that they were someone else, how much responsibility do we place on all the option-less choices people are forced to make, and on the uncontrollable forces that shape the boundaries of our lives?

[kharmii]

Sorry this is showing up on the tag again, but the OP blocked me, probably for reposting other peoples' art (but then they go and do my job for me). Anway.....I'll add to it with the English song lyrics and such:

(INTRO TEXT START) Mind Plate: "The Original One breathed alone before the universe came."

Icicle Plate: "Two beings of time and space set free from the Original One."

Zap Plate: "The third being raged, raining down bolts of anger."

Draco Plate: "Three beings were born to bind time and space."

Dread Plate: "Two make matter and three make spirit, shaping the world."

Blank Plate: "Three beings whose power can hold both time and space fixed."

Earth Plate: "When the universe was created, its shards became this Plate."

Insect Plate: "Where all creation was born, that is the being's place of origin."

Meadow Plate: "The powers of Plates are shared among Pokémon."

Sky Plate: "The being poured the remains of its power into stone and buried it deep."

Stone Plate: "It gathers power from the Plates, listening for the flute's song."

Splash Plate: "The rightful bearer of a Plate draws from the Plate it holds."

Flame Plate: "The power of defeated giants infuses this Plate."

Spooky Plate: “The other side of this world was given by the Original One to its raging third"

Legend Plate: “From all creations, over all creations, does the Original One watch over all.” (INTRO TEXT END)

He said "miracles do happen, those who believe will receive salvation" Pray your prayers, wholeheartedly. Pray by yourself, wholeheartedly. Devote your voice, devote your arms, devote your tongue, and pray to the Lord. The wishes that were wished, all of them are, for a life to return to?

Blind followers are marching in packs whoever they are, are all searching for "life" what's "correct" is secondary, quinary even selfish desires = as you see, the status quo Even withered trees can be miraculously restored? it's all full of ridiculous stupid bullshit Frankly, there is no such things, see, again, another lie.

Your lives are taken away even your desires are devoured I breathe through trampling on the misfortunes of others (devote, devote, devote) The world was not a wonderful place to begin with anyway. Those who are saved by flattering idols there are no correct doctrines for them.

He said, “Things such as miracles are just fiction, after all, it’s all just lies.” Even so, just pray, wholeheartedly, pray by yourself, wholeheartedly Devote your body, devote your heart, devote your everything, and pray to the Lord. Jealousy and envy, the ones drowning in greed are these gloomy lives

Blind followers are marching in packs whoever they are, are all searching for "life" What's “correct” is whatever someone wants it to be. Self-sacrifice ≠ another justification Can dried-up lakes too be restored by a miracle? Nothing but frivolous idealism float around Even so, you misunderstand what you believe in yet again I can't stop my voice anymore!

Religious fanatics are revolting, marching in packs, they go whoever they are, marching in packs, they die The saints recites the scriptures, inciting "Everyone, pray to the lord." Religious fanatics are revolting, marching in packs, they go whoever they are, marching in packs, they die the follower's runaway, the laughing clown "Hey, look! it's so ugly, isn't it?"

Your lives are taken away even your desires are devoured I breathe through trampling on the misfortunes of others (doubt, doubt, doubt) Humans are not wonderful beings to begin with anyway. Those who couldn't be saved by flattering idols there are no correct doctrines for them

Your lives are devoured, your everything is devoured I breathe through trampling on the misfortunes of others “Was love, too, not such a wonderful thing after all”? What the hell are you saying? You hypocrite

Your lives are taken away even your desires are devoured I breathe through trampling on the misfortunes of others (hate, hate, hate) So, in this present situation, in the end, "you reap what you sow" I suppose Those who are saved by flattering idols Equally worthless, and unrewarded lives The unsightly stupidity and beauty of these lives there are no correct teachings for them.

[theprissythumbelina]

“A Treatise on Demons and Demonic Energies”

Written by Jacobin Havaraani, Head Scholar of Kopja Palace

Once again, I have no memory of who might have wanted to be tagged, so if you do want to be tagged in stuff like this (once in a blue moon) let me know! This Wbw I finally finished something I had on the back burner since like, October. Enjoy!

“In my time at university, the field of Demonic studies has come far from fearful denial and restriction of demonic knowledge, to the enlightenment of knowledge that these strange beings are able to impart on humanity. However, still largely unexplored are the nature and existence of these beings, as they are not creatures nor long-dead humans, nor gods of any religion, nor spirits of nature, nor the thousand and one other explanations given to demonic existence before now. However, in my time as the Imperial head scholar, I have taken to exploring the limited literature, as well as embarking on my own adventures with the more benevolent of demons, and I have developed an understanding of these beings such as have never before been explored. I impart these revelations here, in the hopes that they may aid the further study of these strange presences, and guide our dealings with them. 

Primarily, I wish to make clear that, unlike the ‘demons’ of many religious doctrines, demons are not particularly concerned with humans or any afterlife that may exist. Rather, demons are existences. I can explain it no better way. Many, much like those that bind themselves to willing witches and wizards like myself, are small and weak. In their world, they are like grains of sand. Others, and this I can say with all the truthfulness of personal experience, are massive, rivaling the size of our blazing sun. These larger demons rarely bind themselves to humans, for the simple reason that they do not need our aid in survival. However, a rare few demons are possessed of an extraordinarily human-like quality of curiosity. These demons, by virtue of long contact, have taken names by which they can be called upon, and are written of throughout our histories. Of these, I have spoken to such famed names as Baleith, Aamonit, Drakta, Nepheramun, and others, though I will not provide a full list here. And that which drives the entrance of demons to our world is one all-encompassing force: Hunger. 

A demon’s existence is constantly concerned with hunger. A small demon becomes larger by eating other demons, while large demons eat many smaller demons, and massive demons eat all other demons. To a demon, a drifting void of hunger throughout all planes of that which exists, humans are starbursts of bring, tantalizing energy. A small demon, by bonding to a witch, gains access to human energy and avoids predation by larger demons. In essence, demons use humans much the same as humans use demons. This revelation may…” (end of page. To access further pages, sign in here)

[casbooks]

Books of 2023

Book 72 of 2023

Title: Down South Authors: Chris Parry ISBN: 9780670921454 Tags: ARG Argentina, FLK Falklands, FLK Falklands War (1982), FLK Operation Black Buck (1982) (Falklands War), FLK Operation Corporate (1982) (Falklands War), FLK Operation Paraquet/Paraquat (1982) (Falklands War), FLK Operation Sutton (1982) (Falklands War), GBR RN Royal Navy, GBR United Kingdom, UK RN FAA 826 Naval Air Sqd (ASW), UK RN FAA Royal Navy Fleet Air Arm, UK RN HMS Ark Royal (R09), UK RN HMS Intrepid (L11), UK RN Royal Navy, Westland Wessex Rating: ★★★★★ Subject: Books.Military.20th-21st Century.Americas.Falklands War Description: Down South by Chris Parry - one man's astonishing diary of war in the Falklands 'A gripping account of heroism - and chaos - in the South Atlantic' Mail on Sunday 'Compelling, gripping. A vividly written, thought-provoking and engaging account' The Times In 1982 Lieutenant Chris Parry sailed aboard destroyer HMS Antrim to liberate the Argentine-occupied Falkland Islands. Parry and his crew, in their Wessex helicopter, were soon launched into action rescuing an SAS party stuck on a glacier in gales that had already downed two others. Soon after they single-handedly pursued and fatally wounded a submarine before taking part in terrifying but crucial drop landings under heavy fire. Down South is a hands on, day-by-day account of war fought in the most appalling conditions by men whose grit and fighting spirit overcame all obstacles. This important and extraordinary book of recent history will be enjoyed by readers of Antony Beevor and Max Hastings. 'Gripping. A graphic description of just how they pulled off a real-life Mission Impossible' Daily Express 'Excellent. A fascinating war diary' Daily Telegraph 'Vivid and insightful. Parry excels in revealing the day-to-day challenges of fighting a campaign in hostile surroundings' Financial Times 'A truly gripping historical account' Niall Ferguson 'A priceless contribution to military history. Riveting' Literary Review Chris Parry joined the Royal Navy after university and then became an Observer in the Fleet Air Arm in 1979. After the Falklands War he had a successful career in the navy, and on promotion to Rear Admiral in 2005 he became the Ministry of Defence's Director of Developments, Concepts and Doctrines. He was appointed a CBE in 2004. Now retired from the armed services, he heads a company which specializes in geo-strategic forecasting. **

[prasanththampi]

BRAND MANAGEMENT XIBMS EXAM ANSWER | XIBMS MBA EXAM ANSWER SHEETS PROVID...Brand Management                 N. B.:       1)     Attempt all Four case studies                                2)     All questions carry equal marks.      CASE-1.  DAIKIN AIRCONDITIONER Circia 2001: A flashback to the US$ 4 million air-conditioner industry in India. The new leaders in the Indian cooling market were the charismatic and international LG, Samsung and the all-American Carrier.  The homegrown warriors (Voltas and Blue Star), with more than thirty years of local expertise, were attempting a spirited comeback.  Not to forget the villains of the drama were the unorganized and unbranded sector with nearly 25% of the market. The Government of India, with its adverse taxation policies (an excise duty of 32% and an import duty of 35%) nearly doubled the cost of any branded air-conditioner.  And the ubiquitous Rain Gods that lashed the country, naturally mitigating the summer heat, ate away the potential sales. In this action packed drama entered the Japanese novice, Daikin a premium split air conditioner. It was internationally known as a flawless, well-engineered product but it was unheard of, unproved and untried in India. An additional factor that had to be kept in mind was the considerable price premium at which Daikin was pegged (more than 25%); this too in a market traditionally known for its frugality, and where for the most part, an air conditioner itself was a luxury. And here was a brand, which was not only marketing a “luxury” product but had the temerity to price it even higher than other brands, making the task of rationalizing the purchase so much more difficult for the consumer. The challenge, therefore, was not only to create the consumer’s preference for this 12th brand of air-conditioner in the country, but also to actually cajole as much as 25% premium (over the rest of the category) out of him.  QUESTION: To address this challenge, should it flash the “I am International” tag and hope that this had enough appeal to lure him? A number of big global brands like Ray-Ban, Kellogg’s and KFC had tried this route without much success! Or, should it follow the International Daikin doctrine of endorsement and say, “Daikin cools the Sony Headquarters” or “Daikin cools the G8 summit”—a proposition that cued in the superiority of the product drawback in both the routes was that the Indian consumer might just turn around and say—“So what’s in it for me?” So what should this first time campaign for a new product launch do?                                   CASE STUDY-2                      A SLIPPERY PROBLEM.  Let us return to the premium toilet soap market in India. Suppose research has discovered an emerging cluster of consumers—young, modern, well-to-do—who believe that a bath soap should have good-for-skin qualities, who even think well of traditional herbs like Neem, but would accept it only with much more pronounced cosmetic benefits in terms of perfume, lather, colour, shape, and packaging.  Recall our discussion on Margo in the previous chapter. Is it possible for a ‘dressed-up’ Margo to aim for the new position?Can Margo make the jump from where it is (that is, the way it is perceived now) so as to occupy the preferred position of this new cluster?  Would the present physical characteristics of Margo—dark-green colour, strong Neem perfume, squat shape—permit the brand to match the ideal point of this new cluster merely on the basis of some superficial feature-changes like new packaging and brilliant advertising?   QUESTION:  If the brand manager were to make the gamble of trying to position Margo—with some physical changes—both for his present target segment and the new one, how successful would he be?  On the other hand, suppose he decided to make radical changes to Margo, so as to greatly enhancing its cosmetic values, how would that affect his present loyal segment of users? Should he pause and recall that old saying---“Beware of greed and grow fat”?  Would it be better to consider a new product altogether?   A product whose physical features are specifically designed to fit the new position, and whose concept can be stated as: A highly emollient soap.  Floral perfume with topnote of Neem:‘The creamy Neem’.  The benefit of pure, age-old neem goodness without the drab looks of average neem soaps.           CASE STUDY-3 MOTORCYCLES  Another group os students set out to assess the fit between the images of motorcycles and the sled-concepts of their owners. First, the student researchers made a fairly extensive study of the literature.  They decided to replicate ( on a modest scale) the methodology developed by Naresh Malhotra to measure self-concepts, product-concepts and person-concepts.  Since Malhotra’s study(in the USA) involved automobiles, his scaling method seemed to them to be appropriate. Using, with  minor modifications, the 15 scale items developed by Malhotra, the IIMC students administered a questionnaire to 40 owners of 100 cc motorcycles: 15 were owners of Hero-Honda; 15 of  Escorts-Yamaha; and the remaining 10 of TVS-Suzuki.  All the respondents were within 18-40 years of age, well-educated, urban and middle class males. There were questions also on the perceived physical attributes and functional benefits of the three machines. When the findings were put on graphs, it appeared that Escorts-Yamaha showed the closest fit between brand image and self-concept ot the owners.  The students were conscious of the limitations of their survey, including the small sample size and other problems of methodology.  But even if their findings are regarded as a pilot study and merely indicative, they may provoke the search for more data.  We have reported here in summary, this is what they found regarding the brands, the brand personalities and self-concepts of the owners. The TVS Suzuki advertisements has positioned itself by attributes which are similar to those claimed by Hero-Honda and it has positioned itself directly against the latter. Thus, TVS-Suzuki is apparently talking to a segment whose self-concept has moved it towards Hero-Honda.  The battle is one of degree—‘more’ economical, ‘greater’ cost-saving. QUESTION: Would it be better for TVS-Suzuki to position itself on the strength of a unique personality—one that is distinct from the somewhat flamboyant, vain personality of Escorts-Yamaha and also distinct from the thrifty, almost parsimonious character of Hero-Honda?    CASE-4                 HIGH RISK GAME  But beware! According to an Ernst and Young survey in 1998, fully 72% of brand extensions flop.  The explanation seems to be that the extension did not add anything new or better to attract consumers.  As the Harvard Business Review had pointed out, extensions are more a sign of the marketer’s desperation than inventiveness.QUESTION: If you have a promising product idea should it carry the mother brand’s name or a new one?