#spot the stephen king references

[natalieironside]

Masters of the World, part 1

Hey there, Age of Mythology fans! You can head on over to https://www.patreon.com/posts/77895021 and download the first map in a campaign I been working on (nothing is for sale, I'm just hosting it there while I work on my big-girl website)

Heyyy everybody, here's one of my side projects!  I'm making a custom campaign for the super great historical fantasy RTS game Age of Mythology: Extended Edition,which I'm pretty sure at least one other person on Earth still plays.  You can get it here if you don't have it:  https://store.steampowered.com/app/266840/Age_of_Mythology_Extended_Edition/  It's been a lifelong favorite since I was a kid and it's a great relic of the early 2000s RTS golden age; highly recommend.  Once you've got the base game plus the Titans and Tales Of The Dragon xpacks, you can just drop this bad boy into the "scenarios" folder in your game files and you'll be good to go.  More on the technical issues in a minute, but if you run into any problems try opening it in the editor and just selecting one of Player 1's units and that should fix it. 

First, a word on the production.  To put it bluntly the AoM scenario editor absolutely stinks.  A lot of stuff just straight up doesn't work.  For one thing, I've confirmed with other mapmakers that the campaign maker is irreparably broken and the only way to knit all the scenarios into a campaign is to manually write an XML document, which . . . I am not doing that.  Also, a lot of the text-based storytelling elements from AoE2 were cut and replaced with visual ones, and listen Ensemble Studios I love you but I am not going to sit here for hours and make an entire claymation movie one if-then statement at a time.

All this is to say that this scenario is not done, but it is as done as it's ever going to get, so I'm just gonna send it.

Masters of the World part 1 is a single-player battle royale (well technically it's 1v1v1v1v1v3 but who's counting) build-and-destroy map with 7 AI players.  Much like Swords of Outremer, I went a little wild with this one and as a consequence it's mad chunky.  I recommend playing with your video settings turned alllll the way down.  Also much like Swords of Outremer, I used an RMS for the skeleton; this one is Alfheim.  I'm planning on telling this story in about 7 or 8 single-player maps, and you can expect Masters of the World part 2: The Fields of Pentecost sometime soonish.

***

Masters of the World is a high fantasy scenario where you play as Ajax Ironroot, king of the dwarves, who has come south out of his mountains to deal with an ancient threat:  The Master of the World.  The Masters, a band of mighty and nigh godlike wizards, lorded over by the mysterious figure known only as "the Wizard," have long scourged the land and laid it waste as they vie against each other for ultimate mastery.  Ajax, afraid that this destruction may spread across his borders, will march forth to challenge the Masters on their own terms . . . But, to challenge them means becoming a Master of the World oneself.  

Featuring a robust cast of characters, including the vain and proud Lady Pentecost, queen of the elves, and the mysterious vampire lord Gretta, Duchess of Shadows, as well as various and sundry other original the characters (do not steal).  If you like protracted mountain sieges and massive endgame doomstack fights, like I do, this should serve; during playtesting I let the AI duke it out amongst themselves and they whupped on one another with no clear contender for like 6 or 7 hours until the game ran out of memory and crashed. 

Have fun and let me know what you think!  :)

[stagspoint]

Graffiti in Seattle, WA

"Everything you Love will Be carried AWAY"

[marypsue]

Nine people I'd like to know better

I was tagged by the lovely and talented @hauntingyourself! (Do yourself a favour and go check out their art right now.)

Last song: 'Broadway', by the Goo Goo Dolls.

Favourite colour: Green!

Currently watching: I've been trying to keep up on AMC's Creepshow as it comes out, does that count?

Last movie/tv show: The Hunger! David Bowie is in far less of that movie than was represented to me.

Spicy/savoury/sweet: Savoury, usually.

Relationship status: Nope.

Current obsession: Sleep all day. Party all night. It's fun to be a vampire.

Last thing you googled: Michelle Monaghan.

I'm tagging @thelibrarybat, @maddie-grove, @amethystunarmed, @rocketnebulas, @thestuffedalligator, @officialqueer, @powersandplanetaries, @whim-without-gumption, and @sayitwithsarcophilus!

[mask131]

November is usually my Shining month, and so I want to bring forward again something I have been repeating for a long time now but that I don't see being picked up a lot by people. A detail that is well-hidden inside the Doctor Sleep movie, but that makes the piece even more infinitely appreciable and shows it was made by true Shining fans.

And this detail is... the ghosts of the Overlook Hotel.

Now, when this bunch appeared during the final scene some familiar faces could be spotted. Grady of course, the Injured Guest from the "Great party, isn't it?" scene, the Twins, and of course the Woman of Room 217 -sorry, 237. But there are other faces there - seemingly random people in fancy outfit just for the sake of it. People were confused as to who these people were...

But all you have to do is look at the end credits. And you have a big surprise.

The familiar faces are confirmed to be the ghosts we always thought we were, or to correspond to famous ghosts of the original novel. The twins are confirmed as Grady's two daughters, while the woman in the white dress (not on the picture above but you can her in the scene) is Mrs. Grady. Meaning we have the whole Grady family as ghosts. The woman of room 237 is confirmed to be indeed Mrs. Massey, just like in the book ; as for the Injured Guest (only referred to as "injured guest" in the original scripts of The Shining), the sequel decided to make him Horace Derwent. Meaning he likely can switch between a young/attractive and older/more gruesome form, just like Massey's ghost, since in the original movie Derwent was clearly seen though not named in the scene with the man wearing a dog-bear-like costume (the script confirms it is supposed to be a dog costume though).

Alright, but what of the others? Now this is where things get interesting! The bald man to the right of Grady? That's Vito the Chopper. Yes, the Vito the Chopper from the novel by King, the mafia boss who got his head blown off in the Presidential Suite - as for the two men near him, they are his two bodyguards, Victor T. Boorman and Roger Macassi. Also from the book. These three characters are actually an Easter egg for those who read the book (and we know from the original treatment of Kubrick's movie that the criminal paradise-era of the Overlook and the murders at the Presidential Suite were originally supposed to play a big role in the cinema version of the story too).

But things get even better with the last ghost of the group. He doesn't appear in the picture above either, like Mrs. Grady, but you can notice him during the scene, a large man right behind Mrs. Grady when the ghosts first appear (he is played by Marc Farley). And the ghost's name, as revealed in the credits is... James Parris.

Now, fans of the novel might wonder "Wait... Who's that? I don't recall reading about him". And indeed, you did not! At least if you just read the regular version of the novel! James Parris is however a true character of the Shining, a true victim of the Overlook Hotel, a character written about and invented by Stephen King... But he is part of the deleted prologue of the novel, "Before the Play". You know this prologue that was not part of the published novel but was released in various TV magazines several times, and then finally re-added to the main novel in the collector Cemetery Dance edition of "The Shining"? You must have heard of it - even before the Cemetery Dance release the prologue was going around the Internet, published on small fan websites and discreet literature blogs...

And James Parris was, according to the first part of this prologue (detailling the building and creation of the Overlook... and its first victims) the second owner of the Overlook Hotel. A man that was touched by the same obsession and madness for the hotel that had overtaken Watson's grandfather (the actual builder and first owner of the Hotel), and, if I recall well, ended up dying of a heart attack on the hotel's garden-grounds (near the topiary beasts if I recall well, but I am not too sure, I haven't read the prologue in a while).

So all of that to say - not only did they bother placing an Easter Egg for the fans of King who had read the original book ; but they also placed an Easter Egg for those that knew of or had read the Before the Play prologue, which most regular fans of the novel never even heard about! If this isn't commitment to researching your source material, I don't know what is!

[anjelicawrites]

“Don’t go beyond, no matter how much you feel you need to, Doctor. The barrier was not made to be broken. Remember this: there is more power here than you know. It is old and always restless. Remember.”

― Stephen King, Pet Sematary 

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x dead wife!reader Synopsis: expanding this short fic based on Stephen King’ Pet Sematary. Aemond is the sole victor of the Dance, only to discover that his beloved wife has been killed. Desperate, and in spite of Alys Rivers’s warnings, he decides to fly to a place where it’s said the dead can be resurrected. There’s always a price to pay, and no one comes back the way they were. Warnings: angst, murder, gore, semi graphic description of a corpse, semi graphic description of injuries, quick reference to Luke’s death, Jahaerys’s death and Rook’s Rest, madness, Aemond survive the God’s Eye, self inflict wounds. A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed.

Rain slaps his face, relentless it pours from the sky, chilling him to the bone, wetting the layers of leather, and his thick cloak.

Under him Vhagar flies, restless. For the first time in all these years together, Aemond feels the unwillingness of the ancient beast to follow her rider’s orders; he knows it’s not the storm, nor the exploding boom of the not so distant thunders. 

Or your dead body wrapped in your shroud, that unnerves the Queen of all Dragons, the winner of thousands battles. 

It’s where he’s forcing her to fly.

NSFW (due to the themes) and 18+ only please!

Through the bond he feels Vhagar’s unwillingness, all her instincts screaming that there’s danger ahead, that she shouldn’t go; Aemond feels it in his bones, in every cell of his body that Vhagar is trying to subtly gain control and turn back to King’s Landing. His muscles spasm and flex when the old she-dragon tries to push, against his unbreakable will, his hands tighten painfully around the reins when she tries to sneakly change the course of their trip.

“Daor bisa jēda, Vhagar!” He screams over the howling of the wind. “Not this time, Vhagar!”

In his arms your body slumps and he almost loses his hold on you: it would be the Gods’ cruelest of tricks to take you away from him, again. Permanently, this time.

They had tried, when he was in Harrenhal and you, supposedly, safe in King’s Landing, with his mother and his sister.

Supposedly.

Alicent never wrote him who had smashed your head with a morning star, the blow so violent it had caved your skull in, killing you on the spot. Not that it mattered. Had it been Rhaenyra herself, or one of her men, it wouldn’t have changed a single thing: you were dead. He had survived Daemon, killing him above the God’s Eye, the thought of crawling back in your arms the reason he hadn’t succumbed to the wounds the other man had inflicted.

And the cruel Gods had taken his safe haven away from him.

Aemond has no recollection of what had happened after he had read the letter, there was a black abyss where his memories should have been, and pain, enormous, all encompassing, deafening in its power, it had bent and twisted his reason, smothering him under a layers of guilt: if he had taken you to Harrenhal, you’d be alive and well.

When his reason had resurfaced, forcing him back to the world of the living, he had entertained the fleeting thought of following you into the great unknown; perhaps, he had mused, he was supposed to die in the treacherous waters of the God’s Eye, if not on Daemon’s sword, then by his own hand.

What was left for him? The conqueror’s crown, now that his brother was dead? The richest hidden in the bowels of the Red Keep? Punishing all of the Houses who had sided with Rhaenyra? Everything paled if you weren’t by his side, all the gold turning into dust, if he couldn’t share it with you.

You were the light, where he was darkness, the gentleness to his steel: no one else would ever survive the comparison to you. Nobody would laugh softly the way you did, or feel when he needed your gentle hand in his. Why would he bother with talking to all those people who weren’t you? No one had something to say that truly interested him, nor could they understand him the way you did.

Without you the air he breathed was poisonous, the food ash in his mouth: why did the Gods punish him the way they did, when his only fault had been protecting his family and avenge his honor?

When he had resurfaced back from the pit abyss grief had carved for him, his chambers were destroyed: the bed, the drapes, the heavy trunks containing his belongings. All his clothes torn to shreds. 

The exquisitely made letter writing set you had gifted him for his nameday laid into broken fragments where his desk stood. The elegant clothes you had ordered for him, where you had sewn his initials during interminable winters, before your wedding, torn apart as if a mindless beast had gone through them. Even all the letters you wrote him, now shreds, your beloved handwriting lost forever.

When he had realized what he had done in his rage and grief, he had felt his mind slipping again, the tenuous grip he had on reality splintering as he desperately tried to hold on his sanity: you were dead, and all the markings of your earthly passing destroyed: what was left for him to hold on?

He had fallen on his knees, the boulder sitting on his chest depriving him of his breath, his vision a dark tunnel; even the physical pain of his wounds couldn’t tether him back to reality.

There’s a dark place, his broken mind had supplied, the nameless islands the maids talk about, where miracles happen.

He had forced his jumbled thoughts to focus, gritting his teeth and curling his hands into fists, the pain a flash that sharpened his mind, finally, into focus and away from madness.

He had heard the servants scurry and whisper around him, ghost tales, mad tales that had no grounds in philosophy, or reality, those ignorant people who would pale at gusts of wind they believed to be the shadows of the dead or fear the depths of the woods around the cursed place that was Harrenhal.

Could they be right?

The sharp turn Vhagar tries to make jumbles Aemond back into the present, where wind and hail slap his face and he is so cold he can barely force his muscles to work.

With a pained wince he grabs the brindles with stiff fingers, the muscles of his shoulders screaming when he rears back to force Vhagar to go straight.

“Gaomagon hae nyke vestragon! Do as I say!” He shouts; through the bond, Vhagar growls, but submits.

Only another time Vhagar had gone against his will: the faithful night when he had killed Lucerys.

He had laid in your embrace, still wet from the storm, shivering, his teeth chattering with how cold he was feeling. He had poured his heart open to you, confiding to you the truth he couldn’t reveal to the rest of his family: that he didn’t mean to kill the young man, that Vhagar had a mind of her own.

He had curled in your arms when he had told you he couldn’t feel any remorse for what he had done that, perhaps, Vhagar had acted following the deepest wishes of his soul.

“Maybe there was a part of me that wanted him dead, and Vhagar just followed suit.”

You had hugged him closer, wetting your night garb in the desperate hope to keep him warm, as the servants prepared him a bath.

“We will face what is to come together. We are but instruments for the Gods, their path for us is known only to them.” You had answered.

Only you had been steadfast by his side, even after Jahaerys’ killing, even after Rook’s Rest, when the whole Keep thought he had tried to murder Aegon, you had taken his hand showed him your faith in him.

You did all of that for him, he must do the same for you, against reason, against all that’s known about life and death.

He had stormed the crumbling corridors of the castle, scaring the servants away with the mad look on his face, and the blood still dripping from his hands, outside, Vhagar moved and groaned, his turmoil hers to bear.

He had opened the doors of the witch’s workroom with such a strength, that they had slammed with a bang against the moldy walls, scaring her servants into scuttling into the direction of the enormous hearth.

Once again he had looked at the Strong woman, the only one who showed him no fear, only bland curiosity; he knew of her friendship with Daemon and only now wondered why she hadn’t killed him when he was defenseless in the mouth of madness. Perhaps she hoped to obtain from him what she had wanted from her late friend, as if Aemond would have given her half a glance, whatever the reason of her well masked interested had been in him.

A mystery he would have explored, if you weren’t in his life.

She had tried to say something, but he had cut her off immediately, asking where was the place of miracles, and she had paled: for the first time since he had set foot in Harrenhal, she had showed him true emotions, the fear she lacked when he had decimated House Strong.

“Such place does not exists.” She had lied to him. “It’s an old wives tale.”

Without even thinking, Aemond had grabbed both the knife she was using, and her hand, pulling at her until he could slap it on the table, her long fingers spread on the dark wood.

“Either you start talking, or I start cutting off your phalanxes. I will not stop until only bloody pieces of you remain.”

Did she talk because she was afraid of him, or because she knew she had no sway over him? Could she see the madness in his eye, or was she sending him to his death, to avenge Daemon? Aemond didn’t know, or cared; with the sharp blade resting on the tip of her little finger, he had listened to her, absorbed the coordinates that would guide him towards your salvation.

She had waited until he was at the doors.

“It is said that nobody comes back the way they were, that there is a price to pay to subvert the order of all things.”

He had stopped, but he had not looked at her.

“Then why such a place should exist?”

She had no answer.

“You wouldn’t like what you’ll see there.” She had stopped for a moment. “Sometimes, dead is better.”

He wasn’t listening anymore, his footsteps booming against the cursed walls of Harrenhal, his voice authoritative as he ordered his servants to prepare his things, and Vhagar: he was in a hurry to go back to King’s Landing, to you, before it was too late.

A flash of lightning illuminates the barren, nameless island and Aemond has to grind his teeth when, under him, Vhagar grunts and jostles her whole body, as if trying to stop him one last time, before it’s too late.

“Ȳdra daor keligon! īlon issi bē konīr! Don't stop! We are almost there!” He shouts: he’s not going to fail now that his prize is so near!

Vhagar lands gracelessly, like she has never done before, and doesn’t lay on the sand to recuperate after such a long flight, instead she sits, and keeps looking around, moving her humongous head nervously.

Cradling your body against his, Aemond feels all his hairs stand up, as soon as his feet touch the ground. If he hadn’t such an important task to carry out, he would follow the voice in his head that’s screaming at him to run away, before it’s too late.

With a grunt he tries to ignore the panic he feels surging from the depths of his being, the fist that’s curling around his stomach, making it hard to take the first step towards the inland, where the ancient burial ground lays: his body seems to revolt against his brain’s orders, his legs almost hammered on the wet sand, his muscles turned into stone.

Behind him, Vhagar roars.

He had arrived in King’s Landing wearing the same bloodied clothes he had worn during the battle against Daemon. He had ignored his mother’s fearful stare, and her pitiful attempt at stopping him, when she had realized he was heading for your burial.

“No Aemond!” She had grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to see them like this, you don’t want to destroy your last memory!”

He hadn’t stop to shake Alicent’s hand off his arm, electing to carry her until she had lost her hold on him.

You were already in your tomb, the soil flattened and only needing a headstone, as per your House ancient traditions.

With his bare hands he had dug through the layers, the already butchered skin opening to bleed, his fingernails almost torn with the haste that fueled his desperate work.

Until the linen of your shroud appeared. Only then he worked carefully, making sure the soil wouldn’t rain on you, moving your heavy body gently, with the same care and love he had always used with you, his delicate love.

His hands had trembled when he had open the shroud to see your beloved face again hoping, against all hopes, that you would open your eyes, and smile at him, the same way you did every morning, when he was getting ready for the day.

The Maesters had done a good job at trying to put together the broken pieces of your skull and of your eye socket; there was still a dip in your skull, probably where the morning star had hit you; he could touch the stitching keeping your skin together and the bald patch, where your hair used to be. The eye on the damaged side slightly bulged out, as if it didn’t perfectly sit in the socket; it didn't matter, none of it truly did, he’d love you in any shape and form. 

The rest of your face was you, though, even in the endless slumber of death, he could recognize the peaceful expression he used to wake up to every morning, the elegant curve of the lips he loved to kiss, the light laugh lines that showed the world how much you loved life.

He couldn’t fool himself, you weren’t truly asleep, you were dead, too cold and still for this to be anything else but the end of your life.

“We had to bury them.” Alicent had said. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”

Aemond wasn’t truly listening, he didn’t care that they thought you were gone forever, because he had the chance to bring you back.

With infinite care he had wrapped you back in the shroud, hesitating for a second when he had to cover your face again.

“Only a little while longer, issa jorrāelagon, my love.” He murmured against your lips, leaving a fleeting kiss that chilled him to the bone. “You have to be patient for a little longer.”

He had paid no mind to his mother’s voice, at her words when she had seen him carry your body bridal style away from your tomb.

She had tried to scurry behind him, to keep his pace, but he was already sitting on the saddle of his horse, with you safely in his arms, when she had managed to reach him.

“We shall be back.” He had told her, not seeing the pure horror on her face. “And everything shall go back to normal. Prepare for our coronation. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

Around him the servants and soldiers, the stable hands and maids tried not to look at him, fearing his reaction and made way when he had headed for Vhagar again.

Aemond has to walk half blinded by his hood and the fury of the elements around him, on his back he had strapped the shovel he had ordered the servants to ready for him, in his arms your shroud is wet and heavy with all the hail and rain pelting both your bodies.

For a fleeting moment he wishes he could protect you more from the storm, that the clothes you will wake up wearing wouldn’t be soaked; he should have bought something else for you to wear, than the wedding dress you were buried in. You can’t feel the cold that’s seeped in his bones, you will be shivering during the ride back though; he hopes his mother will have the fire ready in your shared rooms, it would be useless to bring you back, only to lose you to a stupid illness.

Under his boots the terrain starts to rise in a slope that becomes steeper and steeper as he trudges along; around him the wind howls and a part of him fancies he could hear the screams of ghosts trying to stop him from doing what’s right, what he couldn’t do when you were defenseless in King’s Landing.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon arlī! I will not fail again!”

He howls, and the dead steal his words, shred them into pieces carried by the wind. On the inside he shivers, and it’s not the cold, it’s not Vhagar’s uneasiness he can still feel in his mind; it’s the animal living inside of him, the instinct that had told him not to strap himself to Vhagar, in preparation to his fight against Daemon.

There’s a knot where his stomach is, all of the fine hairs on his body stand to attention as he almost loses his hold on you; there’s a part of his mind whispering old, dark tales his nanny used to tell him to scare him, that sees monster in every shadow painting this derelict place.

Is someone walking behind him?

He whips around and all he can see are the black clouds shielding the sky: there’s no one else but him here, and the little light the moon can bestow to show him the way.

By the time he arrives on the top of the hill, he can’t feel his feet anymore, nor his hands, his teeth are chattering violently, all his muscles are trembling, and it’s not the cold, or the strain of the walk against a wind that’s still trying to topple him backwards.

It doesn’t matter: if the witch’s words are true, he’s arrived where he’s supposed to be, the land that will, miraculously, bring you back.

He loathes that he has to lay you on the sparse, wet grass, but he has to dig now.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon ao arlī. I will not fail you again.”

He murmurs against your lips, the shroud is so wet not that it sticks against your face, revealing the vague shape of your lips and closed eyes.

“Sepār syt mirrī while, pār īlon jāhor sagon biare arlī. Just for a little while, then we will be happy again.”

His whole body screams in pain when he starts digging the hard terrain. No amount of training has prepared him to the physical exertion that is driving the shovel against what feels like rocks, their weight as he throws the soil away in a haphazard pile away from where you lay; his arms are as stiff as stone, his hands can barely grasp the handle, slippery in his dead fingers. It’s only his obstinacy that keeps him going, even when he falls on his knees, the pain of his back taking the breathe away from him for a handful of seconds.

Tears mixed with rain wet his face as he keeps working with his hands now, desperate he keeps digging. If he’s bleeding, he doesn’t feel it.

On his hands and knees he crawls to you, the pain in his lower back and arms almost unbearable when he has to lift you; it doesn’t matter, he will not drag you around like a dead animal.

He staggers to the hole blindly, all of his muscles screams at him, the hail is pelting his uncovered head. He trips against a rock and falls in the temporary burial with you, your corpse deadening the fall; amidst the pain and the stench, he wails how sorry he is, that he didn’t mean it, the same way he didn’t think that leaving you behind would kill you.

On his hands and knees again he fills the hole. He’s burning through whatever sliver of strength he has left, he uses it to cover your body, until the soil is compact again, and he can crawl back to the beach: the witch had be adamant that the miracle should work in solitude, that you should raise from your tomb alone.

He doesn’t care that he mostly rolls and crawls down the slope, he’s too tired to notice how the rocks and sparse bushes tear at his face and clothes, he just wants to go home, with you.

Vhagar is still sitting on her haunches, her massive tail whips the sand nervously, yet she simply lifts one of her wings to protect him from the rain, and lets him abandon his tired body against hers, guarding his uneasy sleep.

In his dreams he keeps chasing you. He doesn’t know where you two are, you’re running through a dead forest, the skeletal branches of the trees grab at his clothes and hair, making it hard for him to catch you, no matter how hard he tries; sometimes he loses the sight of you in the mist, sometimes you’re so close to him, yet your slip through his fingers like air. He knows there’s danger ahead, but you wouldn’t listen to him, you keep running and laughing, egging him on, until he sees the glint of the morningstar: it’s too late.

He wakes up with a scream, confused by his surroundings and by the nightmare, then he remembers everything with a pang of pain in his chest: how long was his uneasy slumber? Above him Vhagar is still nervous, her own alertness seeps into his conscience and makes all the hairs on his body stand.

Still on his hands and knees he crawls out in the open, in his bones he feels Vhagar’s unhappy growl, and her mad desire to take to the skies. Not yet: he’s here for a reason, now his only fear is that the witch might have lied to him, and that you’d be gone for good.

He doesn’t know how he looks now, probably as bad as he feels, his body stabbed by pain with every small movement he makes. Even climbing back to his feet is a feat he can only manage by using Vhagar’s massive body for support and still he can’t extend his back in his usual ramrod stance, the lower portion of it hurting so badly he has to hunch a little.

Over him the sky is still a blanket of dark clouds that let slivers of moonlight through: he shouldn't have slept for too long, then.

The Gods must have blessed him because the storm has calmed and now there’s only an ice cold wind whipping his broken body; anxiously his eye starts scanning the beach, looking for you. How long does it take for a miracle to happen?

“Aemond.”

Fear bolts down his back as he turns around, facing the path he had taken to the slope.

“Aemond.”

It’s your voice calling him, yet all his instincts are screaming that he needs to run away.

Aemond forces himself to stay where he is, his eye trained on your approaching figure.

You’re walking with a slower gait than the one he’s used to, your wedding dress is in tatters and the wind slaps the flying scraps of fabrics against your body. Your, once, beautiful hair is now a ruined mess of blood and soil, the tresses hung down your back like dead things.

And your face.

He’s forcing himself not to look at you, to keep his eye trained away from what he had loved to look at the most. He can’t. He knows he’ll be turned into stone if he dared.

“Did you miss me, Aemond? I did. You were gone for so long.”

Unconsciously he takes a step back, trying to retreat back into Vhagar’s safe embrace: your voice is so wrong. It’s not the tone, not the lilt of your accent, but there’s something… off.

“I waited for you. Prayed the Gods that you’d be back. Did you to the same for me?”

He did. Every night spent away from you had been a torture he survived thanks to the hope to get back to you. He even came here because the idea of living without you was too repulsive to even form in his mind.

I don’t want to that thing to touch me. He thinks, with horror. I would die if that happens. Then why can’t he scramble on Vhagar’s back and fly away? Why are his feet planted on the barren shores of this nameless, cursed place?

“Don’t you want to hold me close, Aemond? I was so cold without you where I was.”

No! No! No! No! His mind screams. Behind him, Vhagar is growling, her fear, new and petrifying mixes with his own. Yet you’re approaching, unstoppable like a bad omen, your feet carry your undead corpse closer and closer.

There was a price to pay, the witch had said. No one comes back the way they were.

He had been a fool in bringing you here in the hope to restore his life the way it had been. A cursed fool, now he understands! That thing uneasily walking towards him is simply wearing your body, is using your voice, it’s not you, it’s a puppeteer, ancient, more than Old Valyria ever been. Perhaps the thing had been cursed to live here, and he has freed it, perhaps it’s Death itself that’s finally come to collect his cursed soul. Perhaps it’s the witch’s revenge.

Oh Gods please no! His mind begs, but you’re not stopping, you’re so close he can smell the stench of death coming from you: why hadn’t he before?

He can’t help but look into your eyes, dead and so, so cold, like they’ve never been before, they put him under a cursed spell that cancels everything around him: the wind, Vhagar’s fear, his own. There is a hell staring back at him, inescapable and that he has bought upon himself with his own desperation.

A pained whine escapes his lips when your ice fingers brush his cold cheeks, and then there’s the abyss of madness overtaking him, once again, and forever.

Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess, @xcharlottemikaelsonx, @qweencrimson

Ewanverse taglist: @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @zaldritzosrose @thought--bubble

[lazycats-stuff]

Bruce Wayne x male!reader

Another teacher oneshot! I want to write more, maybe about how the press found out.

Summary: Bruce and (Y/N) are together for a year now, without the press finding out. But one day that changes and press get the wind of it.

Warnings: Press being invasive, people saying that (Y/N) is cute, Bruce being protective.

(Y/N) smiled as he sat at the back of the manor, the side where there was just a clearing. watching boys running around, playing football. (Y/N) was wrapped in a blanket, due to the wind that was blowing, with a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. He wasn't a person to play sports, but he was more than happy to cheer them on.

He took a sip of his warm drink and looked at Alfred who sat down next to him.

" Do you need another blanket master (Y/N)? "

" No, Alfred thank you. And please just call me (Y/N), the title of a master makes me feel rich. "

Alfred simply nodded, but (Y/N) knew that Alfred would refer to him with the 'master' title. He shook his head in amusement and went back to look at his boyfriend. Bruce was wearing a grey shirt, that clung to him because of the sweat, but what made his mouth water were Bruce's muscles. Sure, it seems superficial, but he loved them. He felt safe wrapped in those arms, especially when Bruce got back from patrol.

" How about a break gentlemen? " Alfred yelled out, seeing how they were getting tired.

" Sure Alfred. " Bruce said, jogging towards his beloved. (Y/N) knew what Bruce's intention were.

" Bruce, I love you, but no kisses while you are sweaty. "

Bruce actually pouted, but complied. He took a sip of water, then glanced back at his boyfriend.

" Bruce, no. Shower first then you can kiss me. No ifs or buts. "

Bruce pouted once more, looking like a kicked puppy. The boys snickered at their father's reaction.

" Fine, you win. Guys, eat something. You wait here hun. "

Bruce left and the boys couldn't help but comment.

" You know (Y/N), I have never seen Bruce so whipped for somebody. And I have been with him the longest here. " Dick commented, smiling.

" I agree. Father is whipped for you. " Damian said, taking a sip of his water.

" I would say a simp. " Jason said.

Tim rolled his eyes at the name. (Y/N) simply hummed, fully aware of the meaning behind that word. He wanted to keep up with his students, so he took it upon himself to learn their slang. Urban dictionary was a good help.

" Tim, Jason is not really wrong. Bruce is always ready to take his credit card and simply buy me whatever I glanced at. I looked at Stephen King's book It. A simple glance. What I found the next day, in my room, with a rose and a note saying and I quote: ' Have a good day at work my darling. Your beloved Bruce. ' "

" I remember when you hid his wallet once, you were swamped with gits. I also remember, you said something about giving something for us before the Christmas break. You said something about like something small, like some candy and what not. " Damian remembered.

" And your father got me enough candy for the entire school. I don't think any of you realize how hard it is to explain to your coworkers how you could afford it. " (Y/N) snickered at the memory.

The boys chuckled quietly at that. But that sealed (Y/N)'s spot as the favorite teacher of the school.

" But you position as the best teacher in school was solified. " Dick added, sitting down on the chair.

" Really? " (Y/N), furrowing his eyebrows, looking at the boys as if they grew a second head. he was aware that the students liked him, he was a chill professor, but still wanted their best and always helped those who needed extra help... But he didn't think he was the best teacher there.

" Yup. We would never lie to you. " Jason said, taking a bite of the sandwich.

" I mean, you help us out with our assignments and you proofread them. " Jason said, cringing at the thought of his past assignments. Jesus Christ, how did he pass all of that?

" Don't cringe at the past assignments Jason, you came a long way. "

Jason wanted to say something, but smirked, looking behind (Y/N)'s shoulder.

" Okay, I showered, now there is no escape. " Bruce said, lifting (Y/N) up to sit him in his lap. (Y/N) yelped and bushed.

" My God Bruce, you are like a golden retriever and a cat mixed all in one. "

Bruce gave (Y/N) a kiss on the cheek and squeezed him a bit tighter. (Y/N) huffed, but leaned back on Bruce. He was so warm, ready to drift off.

(Y/N) sighed as he got into the faculty room. His coworkers were all acting as if they were teenagers.

" Okay, is anybody going to tell me what is going on or do I have to turn into Sherlock Holmes? " (Y/N) asked, not having a clue.

" Oh, just this. " JJ said, opening something on his phone. He handed (Y/N) the phone and he nearly died of shock. It was from a tabloid, revealing (Y/N)'s and Bruce's relationship to the world. There were pictures from their date recently... Bastards...

" Why didn't you tell us you started dating again? " Kaylee asked him, all happy for him.

(Y/N) was numb as he gave the phone back. He took a deep breath and excused himself from the room. He took his phone out and called Bruce. He went to a closet and waited for Bruce picked up.

" Hey hun, I know, I read it too. My PR team and I are working on it. I'm sorry. " Bruce apologized, feeling awful.

He can take the heat of the press, but (Y/N) can't. He was never in the spotlight and Bruce liked it. He wasn't ashamed of his lover, he wanted to show him off, but on (Y/N)'s terms. Not in the press'.

" It's not your fault Bruce, I should have known that this day would have come. "

" No, don't say that, you and I should have gone public on your accord. I can always leave earlier from work and pick you up. Do you need me to pick me up? "

(Y/N) smiled at Bruce's proposition.

" Pick me up at 3:30 then, I am substituting today. "

" Will do. Did your coworkers say anything about... Us? "

" Only good things B. "

" Okay. Somebody tries to do something, call me. Okay? "

" Okay Bruce. I love you. " (Y/N) said, smiling like an idiot.

" I love you too hun. "

(Y/N) hanged up and went back to the faculty room. He took a deep breath before entering. Everyone looked at him and JJ looked sad, regretful even.

" JJ, it's not your fault. I'm not mad, just shocked that the news got out. "

JJ nodded.

" Is he treating you well? "Kaylee asked.

" He is. "

" Good. He better. "

(Y/N) smiled.

" And we are not judging you based on your sexuality. " Tamara, the principal said, taking a cup of coffee.

" Anyone tries to, come to us. " Kaylee added.

(Y/N) nodded, taking a cup of warm coffee from JJ.

" So... When did this start? " JJ asked.

" A year and a half ago. " (Y/N) answered, sitting at the desk in the center of the room.

Kaylee smiled and gave him a side hug.

" I am happy for you. If my work bestie is happy, then so am I. But I want to meet him. He needs to know that if he hurts you, we will come after him. " Kaylee said, a dark look going through her eyes.

" Okay, lets not go there. " (Y/N) said.

" If you say so. "

And true to his word, Bruce picked him up at 3:30 exactly. And with the press, who were there watching taking photos and trying to get their attention.

Bruce was leaning on the front of his car, ignoring the press, simply waiting for his boyfriend to come out.

And once he did, he lit up. He stood up, fixed his posture and when (Y/N) was close, he brought him into a hug. (Y/N) didn't mind at all, but they need talk about the press.

" I know, lets go home. " Bruce said, as if he read his mind, pulling away and opening the door for his boyfriend.

And once they were home, they could relax. Well, everyone expect (Y/N). He was stressed out now.

" Hun? Are you okay? " Bruce asked, gently taking him into his arms on the sofa.

" I'm just... Really stressed... And tired. " (Y/N) replied, leaning back into Bruce, tracing random patterns on his forearm.

" I know, I'm sorry. "

" Bruce, it's not your fault. It's theirs. They have no concept of privacy... Bastards. " (Y/N) muttered.

" Hey guys, I will be quick, you are trending on Twitter. Bruce for being with a man and (Y/N) for... " Dick trailed off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

" For what Dick? " Bruce asked, anger and possessiveness clawing at his chest. He brought (Y/N) closer, nuzzling the crook of his neck.

" For his looks. People are saying that he is cute, hot, adorable... Nothing bad for now. "

Bruce hummed, a bit shocked, knowing how people are judgmental, so the positivity shocked him. Not the fact that (Y/N) is hot, adorable.

" Really? " (Y/N) asked, brows furrowing.

" Yes. Just wanted to let you know. They are saying that you two look adorable. " Dick said, leaving the room. He needs to finish his homework before patrol.

" Huh. " (Y/N) said, after a minute.

" A good huh, or... "

" A good one. "

Bruce sighed in relief. Okay. This is good.

" Would you like me to make a statement? " Bruce asked his lover, giving him a gentle kiss on the back of (Y/N)'s neck.

" Over what? "

" I don't know. Maybe post a picture of us or you, and write something. Or just write a Tweet, but that won't do any justice. "

" So Instagram? "

" I have a great picture of you. And you will be involved in writing it. I need an English major for this. "

" You got it Bruce. "

And they did just that. Bruce posted what he considered to be a beautiful photo of (Y/N), the one where he was laughing at something, on the sofa.

And in the caption:

' I have always said to the press, leave my loved ones out your headlines. That includes my children and now (Y/N). What the press did was beyond despicable, a complete invasion of privacy of someone who didn't want to be in the spotlight. And I am warning the paparazzies right now. Just like I said before, my kids and (Y/N) are off limits. I am not afraid to use force to protect the people I love. (Y/N), alongside my children are not to be followed around school. I will be dragging you and your companies to court if you do. And I'm not someone you want to get caught with in a legal battle. '

[spocks-husband]

🌟 Exciting News! 🌟

Hello friends!!

I'm in a bit of a tight spot financially right now, and I'd really really appreciate some help, and as such I'm so so thrilled to announce that I'll be opening up commissions for both fanfiction and visual art! If you've ever wanted a custom piece or a personalized story from me, now's your chance!

Here's the breakdown of pricing:

Fanfiction Commissions:

- Short Story (up to 700 words): $10

- Medium Story (700 - 2500 words): $40

- Long Story (2500+ words): $80 (+40 for every 1000 words beyond 2500)

What I will write:

•Angst

•Dead Dove

•Smut

•Basically anything :3

What I won't write:

•Spuhura

•Spapel

•Zutara

•BatCat

•Basically any ship I don't like lol sorry

•Right-Wing content

Visual Art Commissions:

- Sketches:

•Bust: $2

•Waist-up: $6

•Full Body: $8

- Lineart:

•Bust: $5

•Waist-up: $10

•Full Body: $18

- Full-color Illustration:

•Bust: $20

•Waist-Up: $45

•Full Body: $60

•Full Ref Sheet: $150

What I will draw:

•OCs

•Self inserts/personas

What I won't draw:

•NSFW (mostly just cause I don't know how my bad ☹️)

Fandoms I work in:

•Star Trek (TOS, TNG, DS9, VOY, ENT, PIC, DISCO)

•Avatar: The Last Airbender

•The Legend of Korra

•Hitman Games

•Stephen King

•Invincible

•The Boys

•DC

I'm also totally willing to do non-fandom stuff or fandoms I'm not in! It's just that these are the fandoms I'm most comfy in and know best.

Rules:

•Payment through either Cashapp, Venmo, PayPal, CDKeys, or Steam Credits :)

•Give me time to do it! I'm still in school I need time 😭

•I'd appreciate half upfront but we can work that out on a case-by-case basis

•Prices are subject to change depending on the complexity of the request

If you're interested in commissioning me or have any questions, feel free to send me a message! If you'd like references for my art/writing there are plenty on my page but I'd also be more than happy to send some in DMs. Thank you ^^

[vimesbootstheory]

Books of 2024

I've got a couple of days left in '24 but neither of the books I'm set to finish by the end of Tuesday are going to be either top 10 or bottom 10 material so I'm going to make this post now.

I read 185 books this year (maybe a couple more by Tuesday's end). I thought I'd list my top 10 favourites and my bottom 10 most disappointing. Not bottom 10 least favourite/worst, because I read a fair number of books this year that I knew would be bad, gag picks, things like that.

(ALTHOUGH shout out to Inferno by Dan Brown by being the actual worst book I read this year, I knew it would be bad because it's fucking Dan Brown and even with those basement-level expectations it still managed to piss me the fuck off. Fuck that book, seriously.)

Also, re-reads were not allowed on this list. I re-read Guards! Guards! and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest this year and they were both still as incredible as the first time I read them, but they don't get consideration here.

Top 10 Favourite Reads

10 - The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley -- I know what she did. Fucking compelling as hell book, though.

9 - Circe by Madeline Miller -- Beautifully written. Shame about the legacy of endless Greek myth retellings, but it doesn't take away from this.

8 - Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata -- Just finished this yesterday, loved it! Keiko's perspective on the world and people's expectations is too real.

7 - Imposter Syndrome by Kathy Wang -- So fun. Stylish yet grounded, honestly the closest I got this year to un-put-down-able.

6 - The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector -- You don't HAVE to be a writer to want to cradle and nurture this book, but I think it helps.

5 - Friday Black by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah -- My favourite of the short story collections I read this year. Every single story grabs you by the throat.

4 - NOS4A2 by Joe Hill -- I'm sure he's tired of the comparison, but I feel like this is everything I want a Stephen King book to be, but isn't. It's Stephen King, but with a good editor and compelling ladies!

3 - Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card -- It is so annoying to me how good this is. Fuck OSC, but fuck him even more for this being so good.

2 - Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky -- Apparently I love books about exploring mysterious zones with vague worldbuilding?? Because...

1 - Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer -- ... this trend nabbed the top 2 spots for me this year. GIVE ME ALL THE MYSTERIOUS ZONES.

Top 10 Most Disappointing Reads

10 - Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins -- What the hell happened here? This was a mess. The plot was awkwardly paced, the games felt gimmicky, just... bad.

9 - My Grandmother Asked Me To Tell You She's Sorry by Fredrik Backman -- Relentlessly twee. Miss me with all these HP references, too.

8 - The Vegetarian by Han Kang -- Very ???, but not in a fun way. Everyone's acting like it's their first day being a human.

7 - Behind Closed Doors by B.A. Paris -- Reads like something you'd pick up off a shelf in a grocery store or dollar store at random. Very amateurish prose.

6 - Demon Theory by Stephen Graham Jones -- This was heartbreaking because I've been pumped for years to get into SGJ, but this? Nah. The movie-pitch-as-novel schtick did not work for me at all, and after the first "movie" I quickly got lost.

5 - The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers -- Its only saving grace was being an easy read. Which alien do I have to fuck around here for some conflict and a gd plot? I guess "cozy scifi" is not for me.

4 - Peace by Gene Wolfe -- I was ready for this to be over about halfway through. What on earth. I also read Ziggurat this year, though, and that was good.

3 - The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon -- My second chance for Chabon, and unfortunately I think he's just not for me.

2 - On a Pale Horse by Piers Anthony -- The onslaught of misogyny, holy shit. Just read Pratchett's Mort, it's all of this, but done way, way better.

1 - Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore -- This was so fucking obnoxious. Please love yourself and don't read this. Don't be like me and finish everything you start. Why do I do this.

[ghostly-shenanigans-in-progress]

Any headcanons you have about Ghost Writer?

So, sorry it took forever to reply! Here’s a couple I had saved;

Ghostwriter did serve his time while in Walker’s prison after the Christmas truce episode. Surprisedly, he managed to get out early after convincing the warden on starting a book club with some of the good behavior inmates to prevent a potential boredom spurred prison riot. Even after getting out, Ghostwriter still hosts the book club for the prison on a biweekly basis along with his usual one he hosts at his library.

In his past life, he was a librarian, ghostwriter/copyeditor and archivist in the same library that is now is his lair. He died in the 1980s.

Ghostwriter died after being hit by a car on his way to work. it’s basically an isekai situation for him when he discovered his new powers and believes to be the main character/narrator in his own story. Until you know the real main character shows up lol.

I think his name was originally Stephen (Pronounced as “Steven”) Woolf Ellison, he will get annoyed if you pronounced his name wrong. His name is a combination reference to his favorite writers Virginia Woolf, Stephen King and Harlan Ellison.

Loves all genres but has a soft spot for science fiction, horror, thriller, and any thing that evokes a stream-of-consciousness prose style in the reader.

I see him and Danny making amends on their last encounter by Danny visiting his library and begging him to let him read a book that he originally had but got stolen/destroyed by Dash and he could not a find a new copy anywhere else. GW has a heart for kids that got bullied obviously and for ones that go the extra mile in being dedicated to their studies. He allowed him to use the book on two conditions, Danny read the book in the library until he finished it and that GW could edit/review it afterwards. And his form of payback was giving Danny the most scathing constructive criticism he had in his life for a book report.

Has pretty much memorized all the books in his lair and always accepting new additions but he’s super selective in the condition and content bc he’s a snob about literature. His skills in typing would make Technus jealous given his ghostly ability allows him to type faster than a normal human and even ghost.

His lair is also connected to a theater that belongs to an oc of mine known as the Director. Their lairs became connected due to their love for the arts and culture behind the creative arts. It has helped significantly in getting more people to visit their area to learn and enjoy that stuff ever since (Just be careful, the Director has the ability to make anyone he wants sing and perform if he thinks you can, think music meister but more well meaning).

He now hates oranges ever since the Christmas Truce incident. If you wanna befriend him, bring him a muffin or pear instead.

Only reason he goes by Ghostwriter than his original name is because he thought it was a requirement for ghosts to come up with a new name for themselves similar to a pen name.

[the-nosy-neighbor]

The Nature of the Beast (Black Ooze)

This post includes spoilers for Welcome Home a little bit, but there are also several spoilers for science fiction/horror movies/tv/stories.

It's nothing new though, I think the most recent reference is Deep Space Nine. Also !Spooky Pictures!

A history of oozing blob-like creatures in American film and television--

Ominous Obsidian Ooze:

According to tvtropes.org, this trope (of oozy black stuff) is called “Ominous Obsidian Ooze.”

It is defined by a black ooze, often shiny and often in stark contrast to its environment (and of course the example picture is Supernatural) . It is believed to have evolved from the prevalence of and concern about oil spills and other pollution.  I think, for me at least, that pollution does really fit the vibe.  It reminds me of Pollution from Good Omens.

So black ooze (the creature/entity) often leads to pain, mutation, unnatural death, and “even a Fate Worse Than Death.”

(So help me if we find out Sunny is the weathervane on Poppy’s house…)

Anyway, the ooze is speculated to have evolved from a fear of pollution, but also basic human fears such as water too dark to see into and water that you shouldn’t drink. 

The closest association I have from this trope is the Stephen King short story, "The Raft," which was dramatized on Creepshow 2.  I saw this as a younger kid, and the whole thing was spooky.  There is a group of teens at the lake, probably playing hooky and definitely smoking cigarettes.  They swim out to a raft in the middle of the lake (think floating wooden platform) and then this black slick on top of the water appears, and starts stalking and eating them, and they are trapped. 

Just for you, I went to see what the plot is because I probably have misremembered all the important bits. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Raft_(short_story), OK, so, college kids, one of the girls sees pretty rainbows on the surface and touches it, and she gets sucked in and “ripped to shreds”

So, then the beastie pulls someone through the cracks on the raft, and they are no longer safe on the raft.  The remaining woman faints, and the remaining guy can’t swim to shore while it is eating because he’d be leaving the woman to die, and he couldn’t swim fast enough while hauling her.  They spend time taking turns watching and then end up committing the sin of sex, so death it is.

The thing that I find interesting in this portrayal of the black ooze is that it is attractive to the viewer.  I guess secondarily, I find it interesting that this is a monster of inevitability, kind of like the Evil Dead universe, where they are trapped in one spot, die upon leaving the safe zone, but at the same time are convinced that they will die if they remain in the same place.  What I’m trying to say is that someone needs a chainsaw hand.

(Evil Dead has some black goo in the form of on or coming out of Deadites.)

Of course, there is a version in DvD, named “Black Pudding,” deltailed as “large ooze, unassigned.”  So thank goodness the ooze in neutral.  It is very strong and has a strong constitution.  Immune to blinging, charming, deafening, exhaustion, fright, and being knocked prone.  It also can eat through 2-inch thick wood or metal in 1 round.  It can also climb, including hanging upside down on the ceiling.  They can be split apart into separate entities of a smaller size with certain hits taken.  (https://www.dndbeyond.com/monsters/16808-black-pudding)

This is actually pretty reminiscent of the puppetmaster creature that I saw before, the Puppeteer Parasite, which seems to be somewhat cross-referenced to the pudding monster.  The Puppeteer Parasite catches a ride and eats your life force.  It can make you do things.  (I believe that Skip from Dropout’s Dimension 20, Starstruck is a creature similar to this.) https://www.dndbeyond.com/monsters/2506151-puppeteer-parasite

Star Trek had its own version of the black blob monster, Armus from the episode, “Skin of Evil.”  The concept in this episode is that the people of Vagra II had found a way to remove all evil from themselves and it mainifests as a black goo that can take the form of a human shape.  It could also absorb people, and inflict psychic damage and physical weakness while you were in there.  This guy famously killed Tasha Yar.  For some reason, I must usually skip this one, because it is very vague for me.  Anyway, it wants to torture people (castaways normally, they abandoned him on this planet) he wants to find a way to find those that made him for revenge purposes.  Picard pulls a fast one (Look, a three-headed monkey!) and they beam up and take off. https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Armus

Fun fact:  Later that year, Ensign Mariner, furious over Boimler being promoted to lieutenant junior grade and transferring to the USS Titan, threatened to "feed [him] to an Armus." (LD: "No Small Parts")

You could make an argument that Odo from DS9 is a creature of this type, as he is a shapeshifter that spends a necessary amount of time in a liquid state regularly.  If he doesn’t, he will be forced to revert (forced by his body).  Any time Odo is in a liquid or shifting state, however, he is gold. 

He doesn’t know if there are any others like him at the beginning, but as the show progresses, he forms a difficult relationship with his extended family, who exist as a sort of single consciousness, like the Borg, but more evolutionary instead of tech-based.  When the changelings are in their natural state, they essentially look like a gold ocean on the planet’s surface.  While this is dark, it also has the gold highlights.  In fairness to the theme, though, these are not good people and they believe themselves to be god-like creatures or at least more worthy than anyone else.  There is a whole period of the show where the paranoia of who is humanoid and who is changeling reaches a fever pitch. Listen, I could talk DS9 all day.  (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Changeling)

I think the original version of this being is the classic movie monster, The Blob.  “The Blob is an amorphous mass of alien goo that appears in the 1958 film of the same name. Appearing as nothing more than a mass of red gelatin, this creature possesses animalistic intelligence, acting purely on the instinct to feed. It feeds on flesh and gains mass as it consumes other creatures.”

Common tropes for ooze monsters:

Mesmerizing

Grows when it eats

Eats all life forms it comes across (the changelings qualify for this, but only in the conquering sense)

Eats the inexperienced

Can’t be killed by guns, electricity, or fire

Inescapable (at least seems to be)

This quote:  “The Blob does little else except eat and grow”  Same girl, same.  But I think that the eat grow cycle is the thing that might be most important about this kind of monster.  Impervious to ways that humans generally attempt to control or avoid things, and dead set on eating everyone.  (https://monster.fandom.com/wiki/Blob)

For Welcome Home, that could be a direct link.  We have seen the black goo underneath Home grow during our time with the website.  We’ve also noticed stringy bits that have started to reach outward from home, like fingers looking to grab.  Whatever else this force is, I think the idea that it is trying to devour people/puppets in some aspect is the right idea. 

Coming soon, part 2, where goo in Welcome Home specifically is explored.

[doomedandstoned]

FOSTERMOTHER Return with 3rd Full Length ‘Echo Manor’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

As of today, there are 30 days remaining until Autumn, and you can feel a certain wistfulness that mirrors the changing moods of the season in new album, 'Echo Manor' (2024) by FOSTERMOTHER. Though it was undoubtedly composed and recorded over a more extended period of time by the Houston trio, it fits the mood of right now. This is melancholy music for melancholy times. We find ourselves in this strange, mad world and it's comforting to find a sound like this that literally echoes our despair.

That's not to say this is angsty or angry music, just that it expresses a certain kind of longing for something better, a nagging emptiness, with elements of stoic acceptance in the singing. There's a haunting surrealness to a song like "In The Garden of Lies," for example. It's as atmospheric as walking into an abandoned building that has been overtaken by nature once again. In fact, the album begins with a reference to ghosts in "Wraith." Lyrics are fittingly vague, yet touch on something authentically felt: "Everyone is nothing, lonelier than we thought."

Keyboards have always added something special to the Fostermother sound, doubling down on the emotive punch of their sound, as on "Empty One." Both vocalist/guitarist Travis Weatherred and bassist/guitarist Stephen Griffin are credited with keyboards on this album, so I imagine a lot of thought was given to creating these misty, transient sonic environments.

The sweet spot of the album for me is right at "All We Know," one of my favorite tracks of the album for its those poignant bittersweet guitar harmonies. It's pure doom on the order of those moving riffs in Trouble's "The Tempter," but disguised in the vein of heavy rock. Deep and engaging, the vibe pierces right through you and tugs on those emotional heartstrings.

It keeps getting better too, with the infectious rhythmic groove of title track "Echo Manor" which feels like a dreamstate in which we're are sedately growing apart from ourselves. "This ghostly intrusion, a haunted illusion."

"Rituals Unknown" continues the lyrical emphasis on shadows and the immaterial realm. "I feel reversed," Travis sings. "I am reversed." The twin guitar harmonies are once again quite compelling. In the days following the pandemic, we have awakened to new realities about being human and in many ways perhaps we also feel like a ghost tossed about in the ether, with nothing really real to anchor ourselves to. Fostermother seem to suggest that everything is changing, constantly changing.

"King To A Dead Tree" is like a magic blend of dark rock, gothic rock, and doom metal, and features a guitar solo from fellow Houston musician Rusty Miller of High Desert Queen.

"Carry Me" is another standout, not for anything bombastic, but for its sense of melancholy. Fostermother has a knack for finding those moments to elevate to the forefront of our consciousness, with effective writing -- sometimes just the way one word is sung (here the song builds up to a release in the chorus "nowhere to go, feeling blue.").

"Watchers" brings us back to the grungy doom glory of vintage Fostermother with a brooding, stormy feel and some explosive guitar work. Some of the harmonies produced by the guitar and bass are so deeply moving that you can feel the psychic pain so keenly, as in "Lighthouse."

Fostermother's Echo Manor is an enigma in contemporary heavy music and for that reason alone it deserves hearing. Eerie, nostalgic, and deeply felt, with appealing vocal moments and warm, blanketing harmonies that really stay you. It comes out on Ripple Music on Friday, August 23rd on vinyl, compact disc, and digital formats (get it here). Stick it on a playlist with Pallbearer, Foot, Young Hunter, and Pinky Floyd.

Give ear...

Ripple Music · Fostermother - Echo Manor

SOME BUZZ

Fostermother are back! Long acclaimed by international critics for their catchy take on doom metal, the Texan trio takes a substantial turn in their career by revealing a more multi-faceted, atmosphere-driven facet of their music on "Echo Manor."

The band made an impression within the stoner and doom scene with their massive-sounding 2020 self-titled debut, "hitting both soft and hard in all the right places, leaving oddly-comforting destruction in its wake" according to Everything Is Noise. Signed to Ripple Music in 2021, the pair released their sophomore album "The Ocean" which reached #20 on the Doom Charts Top 100 albums of 2022.

Echo Manor by Fostermother

With drummer Jason Motamedi officially rounding out the lineup, Fostermother recorded their third album "Echo Manor", pushing their sound into heavy psych territory with hints of post-rock and progressive rock. It was produced, mixed and mastered by Travis Weatherred, with artwork by Kimberly Weatherred.

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[kaiba-cave]

Stephen King references his older books so often in newer ones that I have to wonder if he has like multiple assistants reading his old books to help him remember the details of them. Or if he re-reads them himself, or maybe still has really good notes about them handy.

Like the short story that I’m reading right now, the main character Vic, is the husband and father of the woman and boy in Cujo. Cujo was released in freaking 1981. It also takes place near the spot where Duma Key, another of his books, was. Duma Key came out in 2008. So this short story is simultaneously referring back to stuff from a book that’s 33 years old, and a book that’s 16 years old.

Like, I know I only write fan fic and maybe it’s different with your own original work but I wouldn’t be able to write a new story and reference old plot points of my own fics from say five years ago, let alone 33, without re-reading my own stories over and over first because there’s no way I’d just remember what I wrote before. 😂

And plus a lot of Stephen King’s early books were written while heavily under the influence of drugs and alcohol, lol. Which is another reason I’m like, no way he can just remember enough of his own stories from THAT long ago without researching them or having someone else tell him first when he includes such old details in brand new books, pfft.

I just find it so interesting and I always love it when I’m reading one of his books and suddenly I’m like WAIT that character/place/thing was in this other book of his! 😂

[themedievalproject]

Textile Time: The Coronation Mantle of Hungarian Monarchs

The Coronation Mantle. Copyright Hungarian National Museum, Budapest

Going through some old pictures, I found my picture of the incredible bronze relief of the Hungarian coronation mantle. Sculptor Rieger Tibor honored the 1000th anniversary of the coronation of King Stephen I with a recreation of the elaborately embroidered coronation mantle.

The Coronation Mantle, cast in bronze. On the exact spot where Francis I was coronated in 1792. Budapest, May 2022.

The original mantle wasn't designed for coronations. It was initially a vestment worn by a priest and made at the request of King Stephen I and his wife Gisela of Bavaria who donated it to the Church of the Virgin Mary in Székesfehérvár in 1031.

It wasn’t until the late 12th century, when due to its ornateness and connection to King Stephen I (later becoming St. Stephen in 1083) that the vestment transformed into a coronation mantle. Thereafter, it was worn by all future monarchs. The last time it was used was in 1916, by Charles IV.

A closer look at a copy of the mantle reveals iconography common at the time. We see more clearly that Christ is shown twice.

Unknown author, scanned by Szilas from A magyar Szent Korona by Tóth Endre, Szelényi Károly, Kossuth 2000, Budapest, Wikicommons, Public Domain

In the upper center, Christ treading on the beasts (a variant of Christ in Triumph), victorious over death, holding his feet on the necks of beasts- a dragon and a lion. This refers to Psalm 91:13, "Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet." aka the Devil. On either side of him sit a crew of Old Testament prophets.

By Unknown author - The Coronation Mantle, close up of Christ. Wikicommons, Public Domain

Below the upper Christ, in the center is Christ in Mandorla Majesty on the throne flanked by Apostles.

Last but not least, patrons of the mantle, Gisela of Bavaria and King Stephen I get themselves featured below the Christs.

It is possible to make out the crowns as well as the objects in hand. Gisela holds a type of tower or building. King Stephen with an orb and spear of sorts.

By Unknown author - Wikicommons, Public Domain

According to the Textile Research Centre, embroiderers used several stitch types- stem stitch, chain stitch and feather stitch. The couching technique was used to create additional details. 

Want to read more?

Textile Research Centre - Hungarian Coronation Mantle Rieger Tibor - The Coronation Mantle

[ingravinoveritas]

Not the first thing I'm thinking when Georgia has the pride flag in her vday post (bless her) being "ah, Michael :)"

(I love David's cards every year, they're so cute?)

Hi, Anons! (Grouping all these together since they're related.)

I did indeed see Georgia's Valentine's day post, and thought it was quite interesting. (It's here, for those who haven't seen it yet.) And let's get a few visuals up so we can discuss:

My first thought was that this appears to be Georgia's card to David, rather than David's card to her (which I think is what you were thinking it was, Anon #1). But we can see him holding it, and also the message on it seems more like Georgia's style than his (to me, at least). Interesting, though, that she shared both their cards last year, but only the one this time around.

I also found it curious that Georgia put the pride flag in her post, especially without any context. I know that it certainly could be because of the volatile atmosphere around gay/trans rights in the UK (particularly the horrific murder of Brianna Ghey), but Georgia posted a picture of Brianna in her Insta story yesterday, so I'm not sure the pride flag was related to that. It could also be a sign of support for Wilf...but I can't help thinking that it's somehow for David, too. Even if it's not said aloud, or specifically named, it's just...there, you know?

So I totally get you thinking of Michael, because that crossed my mind, too. I could so easily see Michael and David wishing each other a Happy Valentine's Day, and getting each other sweet little gifts. Nothing flashy or expensive, and certainly nothing "traditional" (flowers, chocolates, etc.), but something that is meaningful to them specifically. Like David getting Michael an autographed copy of his favorite Stephen King novel, or Michael getting David a pair of rainbow cufflinks or a childhood toy he'd always wanted but would never buy for himself.

(I could also see David giving Michael one of these cards:

...Or heck, either of them giving the other any one of several of these hilarious and cute Valentine's cards for same-sex couples.)

But yes...like you, Anon #2, I did notice the lack of a post from AL, and I also found it telling. It was pointed out to me by @invisibleicewands earlier that several folks spotted Michael in Cardiff today, so it does make one wonder whether he and AL were even together for V-Day. Whatever the case may be, to your point, Anon #3, I'm actually glad AL didn't comment on Georgia's post, because I'd rather no comment than some insincere, PR-laced sentiment that continues pushing the disingenuous "AL and Georgia are BFFs" narrative.

I do think AL has very much been trying to model herself after Georgia and her and Michael's relationship after GT and DT's for the last few years, but with limited (if any) success, especially given how much more attention Georgia's "other wife" posts have gotten than anything AL has ever posted. So it would not surprise me if AL was slightly jealous of or annoyed by Georgia's post (or more precisely by the fact that she had nothing to post next to it).

As for Michael dressing more like David, I assume you're referring to the ridiculous shirt Michael wore on Australian TV in December, but I'm not so sure I agree. Michael used to dress much more flamboyantly than he does now (top hats, onesies, and blue fur-lined paisley ponchos all come to mind), so if anything, I'd say Michael wearing that shirt was him dressing more like himself, rather than David. (I could definitely see David stealing that shirt from him, though.)

So, those are my thoughts on this year's Valentine's Day content. Thanks for writing in, Anons, and Happy V-Day to you all! 💗

[saschaederer]

- “(Several objects having been sticky) Icky”

- “Dick”

- “Simon Benz”

- “Threat” (initial reference to an image of a black cat behind me, shortly before I found that there’s garlic missing)

- “Joshua Weissmann” - “Burger” - Image of a smiley face projected unto a hinge - “loose” - “Taylor swift” - “bad joke” - “pussy”

- Artificial dream where I was in the hallway of the cellar of my apartments complex, suddenly there being a gestalt behind me, seemingly an elderly woman (reminiscent of the late queen) with a large, round hat and a small bird pertaining to a ‘peacock’ (initial reference to ‘peacocking’, mentioned in a JP video about more or less psychopathic dating advisors) holding a cellar door open and standing next to it, looking vantablack from top to bottom (like a shadow) (initial reference to a Delta alter). I asked “Who are you?” and woke up as I said „Show yourselves!“

- Artificial dream of me walking into a Burger King somewhat, seeing Simon Benz and telling myself that if he’s here, my brother has gotta be not too far away either, then spotting him by his side and telling them what I just thought. Me going up to the counter and choosing burgers for myself and somehow having trouble choosing between a whopper, the seasonal ‘big fat double cheese’ and what i want to have on the side, salad or fries, since I was already full

- Artificial dream of seeing Lisa (from the theatre I played in, in the past) on stage, dancing, and thinking that acting is actually quite similar to that and that’s why she must’ve overtook me back then, it’s a matter where you go by feeling and not think too hard about - her going off stage and talking to girls who talk to each other about how they’ve been loving their job, making a lot of money disseminating porn, only thing which is icky about it is how they have to collect the wank tissues from the guys too

- „Kastration“ (German: castration, initial reference to („my penis“) me)

- This https://imgur.com/a/36QoaEa displayed on my iPhone lockscreen (initial reference to a hypothetical girl of that age who’s been acting similar to me) - „my dream“ - „a dream of mine“ - „makes sense“ - „Julian Sens“ - „(„initial reference to“) rape“

- „Lea Pollert“ - „Die ich hübsch fand“ (German: Who I found pretty)

- „Denise Oppitz“

- „Alina Calavera“

- „Melisa Lerose“

- „KarissaEats“ (YouTuber)

- „Mikhaila (Peterson)“

- „Die ich hübsch fand“ (German: Who I found pretty, initial reference to the women above) - „Pertain“ - „Rape“

- „Kamala“ - „Harris“

- „Putin“ - „Shmuck“

- „Bitchan“ (Japanese nickname my mother has given me) „trauma“ - „naked“ - „mami“

- „(Stephen King’s) It“ - „(„initial reference to the“) system“

- „Gabriela Eimer“ - „(„Nicht“) hässlich“ (German: (Not) ugly)

- A muslim girl wearing a hijab looking at my crotch (insinuating a threat)

- „Gemma“ (initial reference to a girl from King William‘s college)

- The chorus of ‚Taylor Swift - Fortnight‘ playing in my head (initial reference to Marika Hashimoto) - „Touch, touch, touch you“ (initial reference to me)

- „Clara (Reelbach)“ - „Schaf“ (German: sheep) - „Mett„ (German: mince) - „Mettenheimer“

- Sounds alluding to electroshocks

- „Eggs (initial reference to my testicles) / ex (Denise Oppitz)“ - „buns“ - „meat“

- „Spam“ - „Spammy“

- „Jayztwocents“

- „Kai (Ederer)“

- „The system“ - „I will never betray you („Atreyu“) - „Joke“

- Sound of a blob (initial reference to acoustic resonance pertaining to a mass of people)

______________________________________________

REPORTS

- Somehow having apparently gained two to three kilos over the last month or so , although I had already reduced my meals to one and a half a day with only little breakfast, forcing me to do intermittent fasting going forward

- The artificial thoughts / vocalizations ‘closing in on me‘ in vicinity and intensity (“Tinkerbell”)

- New attempts at creating Reddit profiles failing over and over again by getting shadowbanned

- A mechanic in the game ’Hearthstone’, functioning in a manner which it never should

- Highly conflicting information on the internet, whether superglue is water-resistant or not

______________________________________________

PLEASE READ

How I handle threats I receive (Last Update: 14. 9. 2024):

[edrew0607]

Stranger Things Journal Entry

Stranger Things, the popular Netflix series created by the Duffer Brothers, is well-known for its deep dive into 1980s pop culture, mixing nostalgic homages with inventive storytelling. Intertextuality, in Stranger Things, is used as a powerful tool that connect audiences to the narrative on a more emotional level. But this raises an important question: does the show's intertextuality truly enhance the story, or does it sometimes feel like it's just relying on a series of familiar references?

Stranger Things is undeniably good at weaving in elements from the 1980s, from its themes and aesthetics to its character archetypes. For instance, the character of Eleven, with her telekinetic abilities and mysterious past, echoes elements from Stephen King's Firestarter and the character of Carrie. As Eric Goldman points out, " The Duffer Brothers have done a rather amazing job of combining different tones of the likes of Spielberg and Carpenter and making it all feel at home together, as the show goes from moments of wonder to moments of terror, all anchored by a very likeable group of kids" (Goldman)> This suggests that the show's intertextuality isn't just about visuals or nods to old movies; it is fundamental to how the story is told. It's hard not to feel the echoes of films like E.T. and The Goonies in the narrative beats, but the show also manages to carve out its unique path. This approach creates a feeling of comfort and familiarity, drawing viewers in through a shared cultural memory.

What's fascinating is how this use of intertextuality creates different experiences for different viewers. Some people might watch Stranger Things and feel like they are stepping back into their own childhoods, while others see it as a fresh, exciting story. Goldman notes that the show is great at creating a compelling overall mythology - can lose some focus as the series progresses (Goldman). This balancing act seems to be both the show's strength and its challenge, as it tries to appeal to multiples generations with varying expecations.

However, there's a risk that comes with leaning too heavily on nostalgia. I've noticed that sometimes, the show feels a bit too much like a game of "spot the referene," which can distract from the story itself. Sean T. Collins provides a critical perspective here, stating, "It's so fixated on stirring nostalgia for the science-fiction, fantasy, horror, and adventure tales of yore that it has no time or energy left over for what made those horror tales compelling in the first place: wresting with the fears and desires of the time period" (Collins). This critique makes me think about how sometimes the show's obsession with getting the details of the past "right" could overshadow the need for originality and depth in its storytelling.

Still, despite these critiques, I find that Stranger Things usually does a great job of making intertextuality feel like more than just a gimmick. For example, the show's portrayal of Hawkins, Indiana, with its small-town charm and underlying mysteries, echoes the settiung of Twin Peaks, blending a sense of familiarity with its own supernatural elements. The Duffer Brothers use these references to not only evoke nostalgia but also to engage with the themes of the past in a way that speaks to today's audience. The show explores issues like trauma, adolescence, and friendship by reimagining familiar 1980s tropes and using them to serve a modern narrative. It's not just about looking back; it's about rethinking what those stories meant and what they can mean now.

The intertextuality in Stranger Things mostly succeeds in adding richness and emotion to the series. When it is done thoughtfully, it connects to the audience on a deeper level, creating a tapestry of references that doesn't just lean on nostalgia but uses it to enhance the story. For me, that balance is key: when intertextuality is carefully woven into the fabric of the show, it becomes a powerful tool for storytelling, adding layers of meaning and emotional depth that might not be possible otherwise.