#story: cosmic force

[cienie-isengardu]

I don’t remember who wrote this short story originally and sorry if I misremembered some details, but it was about a man who found a little boy in an egg and decided to raise the child as his own son. Despite the unusual event, years have passed and they were a happy normal family. But then one day strange men showed up for the boy and he went with them. Before he left, the boy said to his father something alongside it wasn’t supposed to be like that but because you loved me, everything has changed.

After the boy left, the man sought solace by talking to the priest who told him the boy was Antichrist and he sinned by raising him, but the man did not care for that. The story ends with the man arrested when he was checking out every egg at the shop in hope to find and save another boy hidden in the egg.

And this story always makes me think about Shmi Skywalker who loved Anakin despite the unusual circumstances he was born in (“there was no father”). She could not imagine what Anakin's true purpose was, even if she felt he was a special child meant for something bigger than being just a slave. And as we know he was the Chosen One whose purpose was to bring balance to the Force (and most likely being the Force’s answer for Darth Plagueis’ ability to manipulate the midi-chlorians). In Tatooine Ghost, Han Solo argued that “ If [Anakin]’d have been a nice guy, do you think he’d have ever gotten that close to Palpatine?” to eliminate the Emperor as Vader did. Which is a legit theory, but ultimately it was love that pushed Anakin to save Luke from Darth Sidious’ torture. So maybe, because Shmi loved her son unconditionally, it did - if not outright change then at least influenced what Force’s put in motion.

And you know what? I'm here for the potential cosmic horror that Anakin could be as the Chosen One and how much a mother's love changed it.

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

Haven’t been keeping up with Revenant, but seeing people hold Eramis to a similar level of villainy as beings like Savathûn and Rhulk to argue against her treatment in the story (or even the fact we haven’t killed her yet) is so… I’m tired guys

[grahoria]

You know what I think would be cool?

A book with an eldritch and/or cosmic horror in it, told in third person up until the point where the horror is encountered...

... and it’s so unfathomable that the narration is wrenched falteringly but inevitably into first person as its ill-fated attempts to describe the indescribable warp reality and the narration becomes a narrator.

For the remainder of the book, the narrator is very clearly scared and confused as they must now come to terms with their own existence while continuing to tell the story they were born from.

I dunno, I think that would be neat.

[celinamarniss]

Thanks for bringing that quote to my attention, @joysweeper !

[rhythmicreverie]

In the stars' grand cosmic ballet, A lost sibling, once anew, Brought chaos in this family play. Dark forces clashed, and light prevailed, As love and strength redefined the tale.

[corellianhounds]

It’s worth pointing out that Gideon’s clones weren’t him. They wouldn’t have had his memories or personality or motivations. If Gideon had been a strong Force-user and had created bodies for his own consciousness/soul to transfer to upon death, it would make sense for them to be there, but since that specifically was not the case, the clones as they were presented to us— especially in suspended animation— weren’t him. They’re just humans, as individual as Jango’s clones were from him. Gideon may have had some way to mind control them to get them to do his bidding, but the show never said a single word about that, and the clones aren’t exact copies by nature, and it sucks that that’s the implication the writer/show gave us since they didn’t really delve into that whole storyline.

That entire subplot about Gideon’s experiments should have been (pun not intended) fleshed out over at LEAST one whole season (if not spilling into two since these seasons are so short), and now it’s both just wasted, but also wasted space, while also leaving the audience with the in-universe understanding that the main character/writers just killed off a dozen presumably blank slate guys simply for being potential physical copies of the bad guy. Saying “They’re just clones” is akin to the prequel trilogy characters saying Jango’s clones are just cannon fodder or meat droids. “Just clones” is insulting.

They’re also not really introducing a new concept. This is Star Wars. The audience knows cloning exists, and we know it persists to the sequel trilogy, and we know it’s being used for nefarious purposes. They didn’t have to put the concept of clones into the show to introduce us to or foreshadow anything that comes next in the in-world timeline. They also didn’t have to set up anything for the sequel trilogy because the original characters made for the show weren’t connected to them when they started in season 1. Not every bit of expanded media has to connect to everything that has come before it in the source material.

My point is, if that story hook wasn’t going to be substantially explored or satisfactorily concluded (they wrapped it up in one episode with an out of place exposition monologue), and if it wasn’t needed to establish something we don’t already know, then it’s entirely unnecessary and should have been cut out from the beginning. Pershing could have just been experimenting on the kid with ways to directly give Moff Gideon Force-sensitivity via the kid’s physiology

[wp100]

maybe there should be a term that's like a sister term to 'plot armour', called 'plot power'

because how the hell did sylvanas even have the power to take the helm of domination off of bolvars head. 'plot power'. She can't die, and she has to be more powerful than the goddamned Lich King. So she took his helmet and disenchanted it right in front of him. IN FRONT OF US

[somewhere-south-of-neutral]

They finally created the Torment Wallpaper from foundational work of proto-cosmic gothic horror "Don't Subject Depressed Women to the Torment Wallpaper"

[casuallyanidiot]

Imagine Being stuck in the novel of a Yandere author...

Kina a soft continuation of this post.

tw. yandere, forced relationship, cosmic (?) horror

You get hit by a truck and end up in a story! Fortunately you're not the villainess destined to die a horrible fate. In fact, you get the luxury of being the main character and getting the hopeful happy end. Unfortunately, you don't recognize any of the plot points or the names of anything.

That part of it sucks, but you figure you could just follow how you assumed the story would go.

But you find it strange how much the male lead looks like that creepy guy from your work. There's a weird pit in your stomach when he sung your praises, and you can't help but recoil a bit in disgust when he kisses your hand. You know that it's your role in this story to end up with this guy, but geez he's so weird. If the two of you weren't in some weird historical fantasy world, you were sure that he would constantly be glued to your side.

Then you realize that, oh, hey you don't actually have to stick in the direction the plot of this world is trying to lead you in.

You find that the Northern Duke is quite cute, actually, and though he isn't as detailed as some of the other characters that were probably focused on more in the novel, he's still sweet enough. So, when the Male lead proposes to you, you politely reject him and run off to be with your new lover.

But when you arrive at the Duke's estate, you find that he's... the male lead?!

"You're not- how are you here?!" You say with narrowed eyes. The male lead merely smiles at you, if not a little confused. "My love? What are you talking about? Am I not your beloved Duke?" He laughs and spread his arms wide as if to embrace you. His skin feels colder than before for some reason, though you try to brush it off.

Your life in his estate was extremely strange from then on. It was like no one else could tell that the Duke had been replaced. He looked and acted completely different from before, and when you asked the staff about it, they looked at you as if you were the crazy one. They suggested that perhaps the two men were more alike than you initially thought, and that you should focus instead on settling into your role as his happy, unquestioning spouse. You tried not to frown, but with the way their eyes glazed over anytime you began to ask too many questions, you didn't think it mattered if they saw or not.

Your new fiancé was rather clingy. Annoyingly so. You had been trying to stand his lecherous touches and less than innocent advances for weeks now, to believe that perhaps you were crazy and had somehow mistaken the Duke and the Male lead for each other like everyone said you had. That it was just some byproduct of getting reincarnated.

But then you ended up speaking to a gardener.

She was obviously just a background character, one that probably wasn't even meant to be mentioned in the pages of this novel. She didn't even have a face, and her voice was disjointed and soft. When she spoke, her words echoed in the back of your brain as if she wasn't even meant to speak.

"The lord? He's been acting strange ever since you arrived here my lady," She said. You had to blink to make sure you heard her. To make sure she was actually there. "And his face doesn't look quite right. I'm glad you noticed, my lady. Someone has to."

When you sought her out the next day, she had disappeared without a trace.

You decided that whatever was happening with the estate, the Duke and his servants, was far too strange for you to ignore. Perhaps you had strayed far too much from the original plot and setting of the novel. Either way, it wasn't worth all the trouble. Not when the very thing you sought to avoid with the male lead seemed to follow you. Not when the world seemed to be shifting to try and keep you in the plot.

Wherever you went from then on, You would keep seeing the male lead appear. But it was the same as with the Duke. A character that was unique in appearance and personality would suddenly morph into him. And no one would notice. It was like it was completely normal to have dozens of copies of the same man occupying different names and roles.

You feel insane, like you've broken something in the world.

It's one night where you finally snap and stab one of the weird versions of the male lead where you find out the truth. You're panting and covered in blood, a knife gripped in your shaking hand. There's a manic relief that grasps you right then and there. Because, these characters aren't actually alive. They can't be. Not when they all have the same exact face and voice, smiling at you with empty eyes and words that don't feel like anyone would actually say them if this weren't a book.

You let out a sob of relief that for once you're not being reminded of the man who lurked around the corners of your pervious life. He made your skin crawl with the constant muttering under his breath, with the way he watched you. You did not want to see him in these, awful, awful mockeries of real people.

All you want to do, is have a happily ever after in this stupid novel.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a noise that's halfway between a sob and a laugh. The figure shambles up, seemingly unaffected by the wound in it's side. The face of the male lead, no, of that awful wannabe author, stares back at you without a care in the world.

"Did you get it out of your system? [Name]?" It asks you with a polite smile that doesn't reach the eyes and a tilt to the head.

You collapse to the ground, whimpering as the figure approaches you and pats you on the head. It said your name. Not the main character's name, your name from the real world. You swallow thickly as the puppet of a character kneels down with stilted motions. It's like every little movement is being directly controlled right now. As if it's being written right before your eyes.

"Are you ready to behave now?" It asks like you're some scared pet, and not a living, breathing thing that's being played with like a doll.

Your lips tremble as you nod. You feel something in your mind shatter as you realize that the happy ending written for this world was definitely not intended for you.

[cryptotheism]

The Cruelty Squad people are making a new game which features Orgone as a primary resource. What can you tell us about it (orgone)

In 1779, a young woman was being treated by a doctor. She reported a distinct feeling when a magnet was passed over her body. A guy named Anton Mesmer theorized that the body was a conduit for a "cosmic fluid" a pervasive invisible magnetic current which facilitated life, and explained why faith healers could heal the sick without touching them.

Mesmer was wrong, of course. But over the next 300 years, scientists kept discovering new invisible forces that permeated the entire universe. Naturally, people kept theorizing "what if life is made of this new magnetism/electricity/radiation stuff?"

Wilhelm Reich was alive in the 1930s, and he theorized that life itself was a fundamental particle of the universe, and that stray "bions" were given off whenever something was born or died. He called this radiation "orgone" energy. Additionally, he conceptualized it as a theoretical anti-entropic force. As in, it is the force which creates and perpetuates organization, as opposed to entropy.

Mesmer and Reich were both popular revisits during the New Age. So you hear all sorts of stories about people jerking off to charge crystals and runes and whatnot. The whole concept of a JO crystal is rooted in the idea of orgone.

[ruloaapaul]

STORYTIME BITCHES — HOW I ACCIDENTALLY SLEEP PARALYZED MYSELF INTO THE VOID STATE.

you wanna hear a little story time about how i fucking slid into the void state like it was my DMs at 2 AM? well, grab a snack and buckle the fuck up, because this is about to be the most chaotic, unhinged, and ICONIC void state experience you’ll ever hear. and yes, it all started with fucking sleep paralysis.

***

i was minding my damn business, trying to fall asleep like a normal human being. except—plot twist, bitch—i woke up, but my body DIDN’T. now, I’m no stranger to sleep paralysis. this wasn’t my first rodeo. but usually, i’d get all dramatic, start internally screaming, panicking, and trying to force my body to wake up like i was trapped in a horror movie. not today, satan. this time, i thought, “you know what? fuck it. let’s roll with it.” and baby, that was the best decision I EVER made.

***

so im lying there, completely frozen, staring at the ceiling, unable to even wiggle a toe. normally, this is where people start panicking. but i said, “NOPE. we’re gonna turn this sht into a spiritual awakening.” instead of fighting it, i just relaxed into it. And that’s when things got weird as fuck.

***

all of a sudden, my body started feeling weightless. like, full-on “i just smoked something illegal” type of floating. my arms? gone. my legs? didn’t know her. my entire physical body? irrelevant. it felt like i was sinking and floating at the same time, like my consciousness just detached from my body. and at this point, i had two options:

1. freak out and fuck it all up.

2. stay calm and become the baddest void-state diva alive.

so, obviously, i chose option 2.

***

the next thing i knew, i was in a space of pure blackness. no thoughts, no body, no sense of time—just infinite stillness. it wasn’t scary. it wasn’t boring. it was just… nothingness. and bitch, let me tell you, it was the most peaceful thing i’ve ever felt. this was it. this was the VOID STATE. now, you know me—i wasn’t about to waste this golden opportunity just floating around like some lost soul. i had shit to manifest.

***

once i realized i was in the void, i got straight to work. i didn’t waste time asking questions. i didn’t overthink it. i just stated my desires like the main character that I am.

“i have unlimited confidence.” boom, felt it sink in immediately.

“i manifest money effortlessly.” boom, i could feel abundance already flowing my way.

“my life is a fucking dream.” boom, reality bent to my will.

i wasn’t asking for these things. i wasn’t hoping for them. i just said it, felt it, and it was done. and that, my friends, is the real power of the void state. no resistance. no effort. just instant manifestation.

***

at some point, my body decided it was done being paralyzed, and i snapped right the fuck back into my bed. one second, i was vibing in the void, the next? i was staring at my ceiling like i just got hit by a cosmic bus.

and let me tell you, i felt DIFFERENT. i felt powerful. like i had just hacked the universe and came back with all the cheat codes. my energy was unmatched. and here’s the wildest part—everything i affirmed in the void started showing up in my real life.

my confidence? next level.

opportunities? popping up out of nowhere.

money? rolling in like the universe was throwing me a fucking parade.

and all i did was lay there, accept the void, and state what I wanted.

***

[zolo-san]

#the red strings trope man#the only unrealistic thing about this is how untangled n unfrayed that string looks cause bet your ass that Law would be fighting this the#whole time gnawing n tugging n worrying at it cause he absolutely refuse to accept that he has a wholeass soulmate like its not Luffy he#takes issue w its the choice thats taken from him n its crazier if only he can see it n its even crazier when luffy accepts the alliance#just like that literally in a heartbeat n its the contrast of Law still trying to snap the damn thing despite being in this alliance vs#luffy who seems comfortable n even satisfied w his choice n goddamn hes choosing Law isn't he like w/o knowing theyre tied (@datesanddamian)

Throwback to the snowy mountain ❄️

[aventurineswife]

🤔 do u have a thought about shrau with amphoreus ?

If I'm not wrong, they just believe in titan as their god right? What about shrau amphoreus with reader as a creator?

Like just Imagine it, when they knew about reader as a creator or aeon reader and how they will react

OKAY OKAY, I MAY NOT BE GOOD AT THIS BUT HEAR ME OUT!

If Amphoreus is a world that reveres Titans as gods, then suddenly discovering the Reader (aka you) as a Creator/Aeon would shake their entire belief system to its core. The Chrysos Heirs, warriors devoted to slaying corrupted Titans and recovering their Coreflames, would have to face the terrifying realization that the entity they’ve been unknowingly serving might be above the very gods they worship.

The Chrysos Heirs—Mydei, Phainon, Castorice—are devoted to prophecy and divine will. If they discovered that the true weaver of fate, the one who oversees their struggles and triumphs, is actually you, their entire worldview would fracture.

Mydei, the Undying Warrior, might react with reverence, but also conflict.

"The Coreflame trials, the prophecy, the Titans... were they mere threads in your tapestry? Have I only been playing my part in a story you have already written?"

He would feel both honored and trapped—knowing that his fate was not his own but also that his suffering had purpose.

Phainon, the Deliverer, might be the first to fully embrace you.

"If you are the one who spins the threads of destiny, then everything we have done… it has been for you, hasn’t it?"

He’d see it as a blessing, a sign that their struggles were leading toward something far greater. He might fully devote himself to you, no longer just as a warrior, but as a disciple.

Castorice, the Daughter of the River Styx, would have an eerie calm about it.

"Death and fate have always danced hand in hand. If you are the one who weaves, then I have been treading upon your strings all my life."

She might not even be surprised—only resigned, knowing that she had always been walking the path you had set.

The people of Amphoreus, especially those who still worship Titans as gods, would be terrified. If they learn that their world is merely a fragment of your design, it could split the faction into two:

Those who believe the Titans are still divine, and you are merely another force in the cosmos.

Those who believe you are the true god—the one above all, the being who even Titans obey.

Some might fall into despair, realizing that their gods are no more than pieces of a larger game board, and that your will can rewrite their fate at any moment. Others might become fanatical, believing that serving you is the only true path.

The Coreflames, remnants of the Titans’ divine power, might now take on an entirely new meaning—if the Titans were once creations under your will, then does that mean their power also stems from you?

If Mydei and Phainon failed the Coreflame Trial, was it because you willed it?

Phainon, who vanished after the trial, might see it as a test from you—a call to prove himself.

Mydei, bound by honor and sacrifice, might struggle with whether his suffering was truly his own choice… or merely an inevitable step in the story you wrote.

The most horrifying realization for them? That every battle, every struggle, every death was something you already knew would happen.

If Mydei has died a thousand times, then you—the Aeon of Fate—must have allowed it each time.

"You… knew? Every strike, every wound, every death I suffered—you saw them all?"

The idea that they were never free, that their victories and failures were written into existence, could be devastating.

Some would see you as salvation rather than as a distant, cosmic force. They’d offer the Coreflames to you as divine tribute, seeing them not as remnants of fallen Titans, but as pieces of a world you once shaped.

The most devout warriors might seek to serve you personally, casting aside their oaths to the Titans and the prophecy.

Mydei, should he fully accept your will, might become your sword of fate, carrying out your judgment across Amphoreus.

Phainon, ever the perfectionist, might strive to prove himself worthy in your eyes, seeking to become your chosen deliverer.

Castorice, attuned to the whispers of death, might become your priestess, ensuring that those who fall in battle meet their end as fate intended.

Once the truth of your existence reaches Amphoreus, the world would never be the same. The Titans' worshippers, the Chrysos Heirs, the Coreflame Trials—everything would shift under the weight of the realization that you have always been watching.

Some will fight for you.

Some will fear you.

Some will desperately seek your favor.

But no matter how they react, one truth remains: they were never beyond your reach.

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 01

chapter summary: you move to north carolina at a young age, growing up with healing powers and parents who believe in fate and soulmates. as you graduate high school, you decide to pursue your dreams in new york city.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 2,1k

warnings: none.

The first memories you have are painted in golden light.

Sun-drenched afternoons in the rolling fields of Mexico, where the wind carried the scent of wildflowers and the earth was warm beneath your bare feet. You remember chasing butterflies with Daniela, your small hands outstretched, giggling as the tiny creatures danced just out of reach. You remember your mother’s laughter, the sound rich and melodic, as she called you both inside for dinner, her long skirts swaying as she moved. You remember your father humming a song while he carved delicate patterns into a wooden flute, pausing only to tap your nose with sawdust-covered fingers.

Life was simple then. Happy.

Your parents were not like other parents. They saw the world differently—not just in shades of black and white, but in the swirling colors of fate, destiny, and unseen forces guiding every moment. Your mother would sit with you and Daniela under the shade of the big ceiba tree in your grandmother’s backyard, weaving stories with her words as effortlessly as she wove the colorful threads of her embroidery.

"The universe speaks to us," she would say, her fingers dancing over the fabric, pulling threads through with careful precision. "Everything that happens, happens for a reason. We are all connected, you know? Like these threads. Some of us are meant to meet, to change each other’s lives. Some are meant to love, to suffer, to grow."

"Like soulmates?" Daniela would ask, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.

Your mother would smile then, nodding as if she knew some great cosmic secret. "Sí, exactly. Almas gemelas. Some people are tied together long before they ever meet. You will feel it when it happens—like something pulling you toward them, even if you don’t understand why."

You loved those stories. They made the world feel magical, full of possibility. You and Daniela would whisper about them at night, lying under thin cotton sheets, the air still heavy with the heat of the day.

"What if we already met our soulmates and just don’t know it?" you mused once, staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster with your eyes.

Daniela laughed. "That would be funny. Maybe it’s Mamá and Papá. Maybe soulmates aren’t just for love, but for family too."

"Maybe."

It was a comforting thought. That no matter what happened, you and Daniela were meant to be together, bound by something stronger than time.

But fate had other plans.

When you were three years old, your father received an opportunity—one he couldn’t refuse. A new job, a new life, far away from the only home you had ever known. Just like that, the golden fields and the ceiba tree and your grandmother’s house became memories, locked away in the corners of your mind.

North Carolina was different. The air smelled of pine trees instead of sun-warmed earth. The sky stretched wide, but it lacked the endless vibrancy of the Mexican sunsets you had grown up with. And the language—sharp and foreign—felt strange on your tongue.

At first, you didn’t understand why you had to leave. You cried when the plane took off, gripping Daniela’s hand so tightly that your fingers ached. But your parents, ever the dreamers, promised that this was part of the plan.

"The universe is guiding us," your mother said, her voice gentle as she stroked your hair. "We have to trust it, mi amor."

So you tried. You learned English, watching cartoons and mimicking the voices until the words didn’t feel so foreign anymore. You made friends at school, though you still clung to Spanish like a lifeline, whispering secrets to Daniela in the language that felt most like home. You adjusted.

But part of you always wondered if fate had made a mistake.

The summer you turned seven, something happened that changed everything.

It was a hot afternoon, the kind where the air felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer. You and Daniela had spent most of the day outside, running through the grass, daring each other to climb the old oak tree in your backyard. It was the tallest tree you had ever seen, its thick branches stretching toward the sky like something out of a fairytale.

"Bet you can’t climb higher than me," Daniela teased, already scrambling up the rough bark.

"Watch me!" you shot back, gripping the trunk and pulling yourself up after her.

The two of you had always been fearless together, a team. If Daniela could do something, you could too. It was an unspoken rule between you.

But that day, the rule broke.

One moment, Daniela was laughing, perched on a thick branch, the wind rustling her dark hair. The next, she was slipping—her foot catching on a loose bit of bark, her arms flailing as she tumbled downward.

You screamed.

The world slowed.

She hit the ground with a sickening thud, her knee scraping against the dirt, blood welling up instantly. She gasped, eyes wide, as she clutched her leg.

"Ay, mierda, that hurts," she hissed through clenched teeth.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You dropped down beside her, hands hovering over the wound, unsure of what to do. The sight of blood made your stomach twist.

"Daniela—"

She waved you off. "It’s fine. It’s just—"

You reached out before she could finish.

And then, something impossible happened.

Warmth spread from your fingertips, a tingling sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. The cut—deep and jagged just moments before—began to close. The blood disappeared, as if rewinding time itself. Within seconds, the wound was gone.

Daniela stared at you.

You stared at your hands.

"That was so cool!" she exclaimed, her shock morphing into excitement. "Do it again!"

But you couldn’t move. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your breath shallow. What had you just done?

Your parents found out that night.

Daniela, never one to keep secrets, had rushed into the house the moment your mother called for dinner, blurting out everything before you could stop her.

Your father went still. Your mother’s hands trembled as she took yours, turning them over as if searching for some hidden mark.

"El destino," she whispered, awe and fear warring in her expression. "You were meant for something greater than you know."

After that, everything changed.

You learned to hide your powers, to keep them a secret from the world. Your parents made sure of it—explaining, in hushed voices, that people wouldn’t understand. That they would be afraid.

"The world is not always kind to those who are different," your father said one night, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite name.

Daniela, of course, had other ideas.

"You could be a superhero!" she whispered excitedly under the covers. "Like in the comic books! Imagine how many people you could help!"

"No one can know," you reminded her. "Papá said—"

"I know, I know." She sighed, rolling onto her back. Then, after a pause, she turned her head to look at you. "But I promise I’ll always protect you. No matter what."

You smiled, linking your pinky with hers.

"We take care of each other," you said, repeating the words that had become your shared mantra. "Always."

And for a long time, that was enough.

Until, years later, it wasn’t.

Because fate had a way of changing everything when you least expected it.

Leaving home was never easy, even when you had been preparing for it your whole life.

Growing up, your parents had always encouraged you and Daniela to dream beyond the horizon, to chase whatever destiny called to you. Education was important to them, not just as a means to a better life, but as a way to truly understand the world.

"Knowledge is the one thing no one can take from you," your father would say, tapping the side of his head with a knowing smile.

So when you got accepted into a university in New York City, it felt like fate was guiding you there.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The truth was, you needed to leave. You needed to know who you were beyond the quiet safety of your childhood home. You needed to learn what your powers meant, what you meant in the grand scheme of things.

But that didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

The house smelled like cinnamon and burning wax, the way it always did when your mother was nervous. She had spent the entire afternoon lighting candles, muttering quiet prayers under her breath as she moved through the small kitchen, her hands gripping the rosary she had owned since she was a girl.

Daniela was sprawled on the couch, arms crossed, her expression stormy.

"I still don’t get why you have to go so far," she muttered, kicking at the old wooden coffee table between you. "There are colleges here. Good ones."

You sighed. "It’s not just about school, Dani. I need to—" You hesitated, trying to find the right words.

How could you explain the feeling that had been gnawing at you for years? The restlessness, the sense that you were meant for something more?

"I just need to," you finished lamely.

Daniela scoffed. "That’s not an answer."

"I know."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.

Then, Daniela shifted, her expression softening just slightly. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don’t forget where you come from." She reached out, squeezing your hand. "And don’t let New York turn you into some stuck-up city girl."

You laughed, nudging her with your elbow. "I’d never."

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

Later that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you felt a weight settle in your chest. You had spent your entire life with Daniela always within arm’s reach, your constant, your other half.

Leaving her behind felt like tearing away a part of yourself.

"We take care of each other, always."

The words echoed in your mind, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if you could keep that promise.

New York was nothing like home.

It was loud, overwhelming—a living, breathing thing that pulsed with energy at all hours of the day. The first time you stepped off the bus, dragging your single suitcase behind you, you felt like you had been dropped into a completely different world.

Back home, the stars stretched wide across the night sky, unhindered by the glare of city lights. Here, they were swallowed by towering buildings and neon signs, blinking advertisements for things you couldn’t afford. The streets smelled of exhaust, coffee, and something fried from the food carts on every corner.

It was exhilarating.

And terrifying.

Your apartment was nothing special—just a tiny dorm room shared with a girl named Mia, who greeted you with a lazy wave and a bored, "You snore, I’m kicking you out."

You liked her immediately.

Classes started the following week, and it didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm. Mornings were spent buried in textbooks, afternoons balancing a part-time job at a bookstore, and nights walking the city, letting the buzz of life around you settle your nerves.

For the first time in your life, you were completely on your own.

And you weren’t sure if you loved it or hated it.

The first few months passed in a blur of late-night study sessions, cheap takeout, and phone calls home that always ended with your mother telling you to eat more. Daniela texted constantly, sending you updates about home—Papá finally fixed the truck, Mamá started taking painting classes, the neighbor’s cat had kittens, why don’t you ever call me first, are you forgetting about me?

You never answered that last one.

Because no matter how much you missed home, you were changing.

New York had a way of forcing you to grow, to see the world differently. It stripped away the small comforts you had always taken for granted and pushed you into situations you never thought you’d experience.

Like the night everything changed.

It was supposed to be just another night—another shift at the bookstore, another walk back to your dorm. But fate had other plans.

And they came in the form of a god with a scepter and an army of alien soldiers.

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@mythixmagic

[malusokay]

The Pomegranate Plague of Gen Z Poets

First, it was the moon. Then cigarettes. Then, girls by windows, ethereal in their ruin. Now? Pomegranates. (from my substack)

If you’ve spent enough time around poetry circles, you’ve seen it before. The doomed love, the Persephone complex, the vaguely sacrificial undertones. And, of course, the fruit.

The Persephone Myth (The Popular Version)

So you think you know the story: Persephone, wreathed in flowers, is stolen by Hades, dragged screaming into the Underworld. Her mother, Demeter, weeps and starves the earth in protest. Zeus, eventually deciding this is a problem, orders Persephone’s return—but oops, she ate six pomegranate seeds, so now she’s doomed forever.

That’s the version that survives in girl poetry, anyway.

What Promegerants Girls won’t tell you? The actual myth is a mess. There is no single, definitive version—just fragments, scraps stitched together across centuries. And the pomegranate seed detail?

It barely even shows up.

What We Actually Have:

• Persephone’s myth wasn’t even originally Greek. The story of a goddess being dragged into the underworld predates Greek mythology entirely.

• In Mesopotamian myth, Ishtar (Inanna) descends into the underworld to confront Ereshkigal, queen of the dead. She is stripped of her power and trapped, only escaping by offering someone else in her place—a theme that later appears in Persephone’s myth. This suggests Persephone’s story wasn’t a Greek invention but an adaptation of older Near Eastern fertility-death-rebirth cycles.

• Despoina (“the Mistress”) was worshipped before Persephone—and before Hades was even relevant. In older, pre-Olympian cult traditions, Despoina was the actual chthonic goddess of the underworld. She was venerated alongside Demeter and was probably a far more powerful, independent figure before later mythology reduced Persephone to “Hades’ wife.” Despoina’s cult was deliberately secretive, meaning much of her lore is lost—but she was deeply tied to the Eleusinian Mysteries, which were about life, death, and rebirth, not tragic romance.

• Hades wasn’t even a major figure in early versions of the myth. Before he was written in as “the husband,” the underworld was associated more with Gaia (Earth) and Nyx (Night). Hades’ later dominance in the story came as Olympian mythology reshaped older chthonic traditions.

• Persephone was originally Kore (“the Maiden”)—not a tragic heroine, but an archetype of the life-death-rebirth cycle tied to agriculture. She wasn’t a person; she was a function. The whole point was that she disappears, then re-emerges—her personality was secondary to the cosmic process she represented. Only much later did people start treating her as an individual.

• Hesiod’s Theogony (~8th century BCE), one of the oldest Greek texts, barely mentions Persephone. To him, she’s just Hades’ wife, no backstory necessary. This matters because it shows that her abduction wasn’t even a central myth at first—it developed later.

• The Homeric Hymn to Demeter (~7th century BCE) is our earliest and most detailed source. But forget romance—it’s a political nightmare. Hades kidnaps Persephone (the Greek verb used, ἁρπάζω, literally means “to snatch away”—no courtship, no tragic longing). Demeter shuts down the harvest, and Zeus steps in not out of fatherly love, but because no crops mean no sacrifices, and no sacrifices mean starving gods.

The pomegranate? One sentence. Persephone eats something in the Underworld, so she has to stay. That’s it. The number of seeds? Not even mentioned. The whole “I bit into a pomegranate and now I am bound to darkness forever ”dramatics? A complete invention.

• Ovid’s Metamorphoses (~8 CE) is where we finally get the six seeds detail—but Ovid was Roman, writing centuries after the Greek versions had already evolved. His retelling heightens the drama, turning Persephone into a tragic, doomed figure rather than a cosmic force tied to ritual.

• Later Orphic traditions tried to clean it up, recasting Persephone as the mother of Zagreus (a god later merged with Dionysus), tying her to death, rebirth, and mystery cults. At this point, the myth had already spiralled into layers of mysticism.

• Persephone wasn’t always tragic—she became terrifying. The helpless waif image is a modern fabrication. The ancient sources tell a different story—one where Persephone is feared, not mourned.

• In Euripides’ Helen (412 BCE), she is invoked as a vengeful queen of the dead.

• In Homer’s Odyssey (Book 10), Odysseus fears Persephone’s wrath during his necromantic ritual—she is powerful enough to control the dead without Hades.

• Hecate was Persephone’s underworld counterpart and guide. In later versions, Hecate leads Persephone back to the upper world, further reinforcing Hecate’s enduring role in the chthonic realm.

• In Roman tradition, Proserpina (Persephone) was linked to Libera, a goddess of wild fertility and ecstatic rites. This completely contradicts the modern image of her as a fragile, tragic figure.

The Pomegranate Wasn’t Inherently Tragic

• In Hippocratic medical texts, pomegranate juice was used for contraception and abortion remedies—a practical, everyday association, not one of doom.

• In Pliny the Elder’s Natural History (1st century CE), pomegranates were used to treat fevers and digestive issues. No poetic suffering, just ancient medicine.

• In Greek funerary practices, pomegranates symbolised rebirth, not entrapment. They weren’t about being bound to darkness forever—they were about the cycle of life continuing.

Why This Completely Destroys the Promegerants Version of Persephone

1. The myth is about agriculture and divine power, not doomed love. The earliest versions barely mention Hades—this was Demeter’s story, a myth about the life cycle, cosmic balance, and the survival of humanity.

2. Persephone wasn’t always Persephone. She was Kore, an agricultural symbol, not a tragic heroine. Her function came first, her personality second. The idea of her as a fully realised, suffering individual came centuries later.

3. She wasn’t even the first queen of the underworld. Despoina was worshipped before her—an older, more powerful chthonic goddess with nothing to do with victimhood or romance.

4. The pomegranate was never central to the original myth. It’s a tiny, passing detail used as an explanation for why Persephone had to stay in the Underworld. The number of seeds? A Roman invention.

5. The whole myth wasn’t even Greek to begin with. It likely evolved from Mesopotamian myths like Ishtar’s descent, meaning the Promegerants version is a distortion of a distortion.

6. Persephone wasn’t a victim—she was a force of nature. The later versions of her myth don’t show her as tragic—they show her as terrifying. She was a queen who ruled the dead, feared even by heroes. If Promegerants Girls really wanted to stay true to the myth, they wouldn’t write about Persephone tragically eating seeds—they’d write about her punishing mortals for disturbing the dead.

From Chthonic Queen to Tragic Girlcore

The Promegerants version of Persephone strips her of her original role and reduces her to an aesthetic prop. In the oldest sources, she isn’t even a person—she’s a cosmic force, an idea before she’s a character.

Persephone was never just a tragic girl in a dark room with red-stained lips. She was a goddess of cycles, a ritual figure whose presence dictated the survival of humanity. The oldest myths barely even cared about her personal emotions—because that wasn’t the point.

And the pomegranate? Once a symbol of fertility and power, now just a moody Tumblr metaphor for doomed relationships. Would the ancient Greeks recognize Promegerants Persephone?

Absolutely not.

They’d probably assume she was some mediocre Roman poet’s overdramatic rewrite.

In other words: the version we cling to is a late, Romanized, overly romanticised distortion of a much darker and weirder myth—one that was never about love, tragedy, or women choosing their suffering.

Why Has This Myth Been Hijacked?

Because it’s too easy. The modern interpretation lets poets turn Persephone into:

• A stolen innocence narrative—without engaging with its actual horror.

• A tragic queen figure—without ever giving her power.

• A martyr for womanhood—as if eating a fruit were some grand metaphor for the inevitability of suffering.

But Persephone’s story was never about being loved and ruined.

It was about bargaining, power, and gods who don’t care about human grief.

The Pomegranate Problem™

At this point, the pomegranate isn’t a symbol—it’s a decorative prop.

Its original meanings—fertility, power, the tension between life and death—have been stripped away, replaced with moody girlhood aesthetics.

Poets don’t use it because they understand its history. They use it because it sounds expensive—like a fruit for people who romanticise heartbreak in foreign cities.

But if your poem still works after swapping “pomegranate” for “grapes”, then what are we even doing here?

Read This Before You Write Another Pomegranate Poem

• Homer’s Odyssey → Pomegranates appear in King Alcinous’ eternal orchard, a symbol of wealth, abundance, and divine favour. Not doom.

• Euripides’ Ion → Associated with Aphrodite, symbolising fertility, passion, and desire. Again—not doom.

• Aristophanes’ Lysistrata → Used as an innuendo for female sexuality (which, frankly, would make for a far more interesting poem).

• Dionysian Mysteries → Linked to ecstatic rites, resurrection cults, and the cycle of life and death. If you want to write about pomegranates and darkness, this would actually make sense.

• Roman Religion → Sacred to Juno, particularly in marriage and childbirth rituals, reinforcing their connection to fertility and renewal, not suffering.

• Theophrastus’ Enquiry into Plants → Describes pomegranates as a cultivated luxury fruit, prized for its sweetness, medicinal properties, and status.

• Herodotus’ Histories → Mentions Persian warriors decorating their spears with pomegranates, symbolising strength, fertility, and victory.

• Pausanias’ Description of Greece → Describes pomegranate offerings at Demeter’s sanctuaries, representing fertility, rebirth, and ritual purification—never suffering.

• Plutarch’s Moralia → Links pomegranates to beauty, sensuality, and indulgence in Greek and Roman culture—so, more hedonistic pleasure, less tragic metaphor.

Next time someone writes about a pomegranate-stained mouth, ask them if they mean Persephone or Aristophanes’ sex jokes.

How to Write a Pomegranate Poem That Survives Scrutiny

If you must use it, at least be rigorous. If you’re going full Persephone-core, then be specific. Make it about something real.

Tell us if the juice stains the sheets, if the seeds taste like metal, if they stick between your teeth like regret.

Don’t just drop in “pomegranate” and expect us to do the heavy lifting.

Or consider letting the myth go.

There are so many other symbols, so many richer, underused classical references.

And If You’re Tired of the Pomegranate, Try These Instead

there’s a whole world of classical symbols that carry just as much weight—without the overuse. Here are a few:

Chthonic & Underworld Imagery:

• Asphodel – The ghostly, liminal flowers of the underworld in Greek myth, growing where souls linger. Less overdone than pomegranates, just as eerie.

• Lethe – The river of forgetfulness. Its waters erase memory, a far more unsettling metaphor for loss than a single piece of fruit.

• Orphic Gold Leaves – Real funeral tablets placed with the dead, inscribed with guidance for navigating the afterlife. The ultimate memento mori.

• Owls – Athena’s symbol, but also a nocturnal watcher associated with wisdom, death, and the unknown.

Fertility, Desire & Ruin:

• Fig Trees – Symbolizing sensuality, abundance, and decay (the Greeks also had fig-wood coffins).

• Laurel Wreaths – Victory and poetic ambition, but also a crown of temporary glory—since laurel leaves wither fast.

• Myrrh – A resin used for perfume and burial rites, evoking both seduction and decay. (Also linked to Myrrha, who was cursed to fall in love with her own father. Greek myths were wild.)

Dionysian Madness & Ecstasy:

• Thyrsus – A staff tipped with ivy and pinecones, wielded by Dionysus and his followers. Represents intoxication, divine frenzy, and the thin line between revelry and destruction.

• Ivy – Unlike flowers, it never dies in winter. Clings, suffocates, overtakes. A more interesting metaphor for entanglement than Persephone’s six seeds.

If you must use a pomegranate, at least make it bleed. But if you’re ready for something richer—there are so many other symbols waiting.

[wearepaladin]

The request has been made via tag and shall be honored accordingly.

Above video is made by the animator @atelier but the video poster here made some audio edits I like, for the record. It’s called knight in shining armor and I think it’s a succinct window into Elster’s kind of character for the uninitiated.

But for the initiated, let’s go a little deeper on why Elster is an excellent modern paladin archetype, because, as noted, they are a protagonist whose devotion to their lady, Ariane, goes above and beyond even as they face the darkness of a decaying cycle and the eldritch horror it spawns.

But it goes even further than that. Because the Elster we play isn’t the Elster who knew Ariane.

Backing up a bit: Elster 512 is a Replika/Android who fell in love with their human commanding officer, Ariane, while they were on a deep space mission, a love that by all accounts we have seen was both mutual and deeply sincere. But their mission was always a doomed one, the result of an authoritarian nation that knowingly sacrificed them as act of power to show their reach into the universe, regardless of the cost. Trapped in deep space, in a ship that was breaking down with dwindling resources, the inevitable took place and they both began to die. Elster died first to radiation exposure, unable to fulfill the promise of ending Ariane’s life to prevent her from dying a slow death.

Ariane doesn’t die, but somehow becomes an unconscious, dreaming deity, whose dying hallucinations goes well beyond her, courtesy of bio resonance, the local short hand for space magic. The true extent of what happens is up to player interpretation, but a cycle of madness and death that kills humans and turns replika or into monsters, and even those who resist these effects can have their memories overwritten or worse.

Enter the Elster we play, who is one of two things. Either another Elster unit who was present at Sierpinksi who had their memories overwritten with bio resanance, or, more likely given the sheer amount of dead Elster units we find, a duplication of the original Elster made from the ether with the original’s memory.

Therefore, Elster is driven entirely by the idea of a person they have never actually known. What the player experiences as Elster is the sum of everything Elster knows, and what Elster knows, that they made a promise to a woman that one version of themselves they loved, is enough to keep them going.

And this is the true crux of why Elster is such a Paladin archetype: you know enough to doubt so much about what you’re experiencing, and yet, Ariane is waiting. It is a cycle that cannot end without that promise fulfilled and perhaps cannot be ended regardless, and yet, Elster will, by their own words, do anything to fulfill it. To fulfill an oath made to a goddess in pain, whose love was enough to make what was supposed to be an unfeeling soldier into something more, capable of pressing on despite death after death, cycle after cycle.

And what is a Paladin beyond devoted, oath keeper, and slayer of both death and the dead?

Hey Signalis fans. If were to make the statement that Elster is a Paladin, tragic devotion variant, would any of you care to agree immediately or have me write about why?