#that may be uncharitable

[bixels]

The Ryoko Kui interview's reception is such a disaster over a pretty normal (yet still flawed) interview between a non-Japanese fan and Japanese artistic. This is discourse for discourse's sake, and it's no surprise that almost every Twitter user I've looked at who's using this interview to parade Kui around as a goated mangaka standing strong against Western ideology is anti-trans.

Like, I do think the interview was kinda wonky with its focus on fandom culture, which Kui clearly didn't have much interest in. But sometimes that happens. Sometimes interactions between two people, especially a fan and a creator, two people who view and interact with a piece of media in completely opposite perspectives, don't click. Does this really need to get blown up into a "West vs. East culture war" issue.

Anyways, Kui saying "I don't consider my audience's interpretations when writing. I leave it to their imaginations, but I have my own read on things too" is the healthiest, most normal thing an artist/writer who wants a non-parasocial audience could say. Artists and writers use this line all the time. If Kui didn't enjoy autistic Laius or Farcille headcanons, she would have probably voiced/signalled her discomfort, like she did on the topic of Senshi fanservice. Overall, Kui handled the interview really well. Props to her to sticking to her guns and keeping a healthy disconnect from the fandom. While I think the interviewer could've/should've been more tactful and restrained, the flaws in their questions is not a symptom of the woke mind virus trying to wriggle its way into the pure Japanese psyche. It's the sign of an over-eager fan who sees a piece of fiction differently than its creator.

[zazikels]

ok ok its my fault for being on reddit but r/houseofthedragon rn full of people arguing that demon and his 99% neck lizard have a stronger bond than aegon and sunfyre and it's so fucking frustrating that its entirely condolt's fucking fault that this is even a fucking argument because he thinks the greatest bond between a dragon and his rider to ever go that fucking hard in this universe is pRopaganda and gives dae mon and car ax es more screentime. i'm just so fucking done man. never showed us sunfyre TRULY until it was time for demon jr the anime edgelord to attack him and aegon, never get the fact that sunfyre is literally on aegon's arms, never got the coronation flying, DIDN'T GET ANYTHING UNTIL IT WAS TIME TO FUCK HIM UP FOR THE PLOT.

i wish this mf would get fucking fired before he has a chance to touch these two anymore because I don't think i can handle how he will underplay and butcher the fact that this dragon literally fought tooth and claw with a broken wing to find his way back to his rider.

[age-of-moonknight]

“What If Venom Bonded to Moon Knight?” What If…? Venom (Vol. 1/2024), #5.

Writer: Jeremy Holt; Pencilers and Inkers: Jesús Hervás and Geraldo Borges; Colorist: Ceci de la Cruz; Letterer: Ariana Maher

[doom-dreaming]

muttering "i will not gatekeep or complain, i will just block and move on" like a mantra to myself at least 5 times a day

[songofwizardry]

so I had the summer (in reality, like… almost three months) off from one of my volunteering roles and I’m 20 minutes into my first meeting back and I am already so irritated and angry. maybe this is Not A Good Sign.

[dewgongs]

maybe if i shift my view on me and my mothers relationship entirely... as in. like. seeing my own traits in comparison to hers as entirely neutral in a way. doesnt even have to be seen as above her or what she wants to do... but i think there is nothing wrong with being a little more patient. my mom is extremely impatient. probably the most impatient person i know. that is a flaw... not something to aspire to be

[m-ercutios]

i am out of patience for walkable city advocates unless they’re upfront about accessibility. like what are we doing to make sure disabled people can exist in public? a fifteen minute walk to get groceries or whatever might be easy for you but it just isn’t feasible for everyone.

[dyannawynnedayne]

Finally started playing pentiment. Love it but with my mix of often overly formal speech, picking up others speech patterns, and previous experience growing up hyper christian it is so over for my ability to talk like a human

[dailyoyo]

i need to think more abouyt roboy. i need to think more anout roboy. i keep forgetting him i dont want to forget him i like him.

[infirmux]

problem with spending a lovely day out with your best friend is that you will eventually have to return home and write essays (all the more egregious for the contrast) only way to avoid this i can see is to not have gone out at all which is not really a satisfactory solution either. something ought to be done

[atouchofsass]

I wonder why [word] [word]s [word]self neopronoun users have that completely different format instead of the subject/object/possessive format other pronoun sets

[svetzzi]

when you saw david lynchs dog comic for the first time did anyone else think "man tim burton ripped this off so hard"

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[hurremsultanns]

What was the point of the whole 'Hürrem's milk is poisoned' thing. Is it just more 'the seed is bad'?

[qiu-yan]

there is no such thing as a singular "true nature"

recently saw a (or rather, yet another) post dunking on jiang cheng for blaming wei wuxian and trying to strangle him after the fall of lotus pier. which is fair, because that honestly was rather terrible of him.

however, one specific aside in that post stood out to me:

as i saw in the post i'm now being a hater about, antis have the tendency of boiling down an entire character to just their worst moments. but the section i highlighted above interests me precisely because i think it sheds light on what logical fallacy causes the anti tendency towards this boiling-down.

one common thread i've seen across antis of all sorts of characters - whether the characters they're bashing be jiang cheng, jin guangyao, su minshan, or wei wuxian himself - is this idea of a singular "true nature." the idea is that people have a "true nature," which is typically hidden by polite manners and civilized society, but may then be exposed during moments of stress in which those manners are stripped away.

the implied corollary to this idea of a singular "true nature" that is only revealed on occasion, then, is the existence of "false natures": if the self that is exposed during moments of high duress is one's "true nature," then the self that is seen during moments of normalcy is not one's "true nature." one's "true nature" is determined from solely these moments of high duress; the "nature" implied by one's actions during all other times does not count. if we follow this framework, then the you who goes apeshit after a bad day is closer to your "true nature" than the you who has a normal day of fun with your friends; the you who goes apeshit after a bad day is more real than the you who has a normal day with friends; the you who goes apeshit after a bad day matters more in the cumulative assessment of your existence than the you on every other day of your life.

as you might expect, i don't agree with this worldview. i don't condone boiling an entire person down to their single most extreme moments, not only because it is uncharitable, but also because i don't accept this idea of a "true nature" to begin with. to make such sweeping statements about an individual's "true nature" is overly simplistic and reductive of the full complexity of humanity. furthermore, in order for the idea of [a true nature that is only revealed in moments of duress] to work, one must rank all of the actions and behaviors of an individual from least to most "true," as described above - but, in fact, everything an individual does makes up who they are.

there is no such thing as a singular "true nature." you are not some fundamental "true nature" hidden away under layers and layers of pretense. everything you do - not just the things you do in moments of duress - makes up your character. you are the sum of all of your actions, both mundane and extreme: the you who has a normal day with friends is very bit as true, as real, as the you who reacts in extreme ways in extreme circumstances.

jiang cheng is the person who blamed wei wuxian for the fall of lotus pier and tried to strangle him for it. jiang cheng is also the person who spent his childhood shielding wei wuxian from dogs. jiang cheng is also the person who loves jiang yanli and sincerely wishes for her happiness. jiang cheng is the person who repeatedly tried to warn wei wuxian from messing with lan wangji and who carried wei wuxian after he got beaten by the lan. jiang cheng is the person who feels his father loves wei wuxian more than him. jiang cheng is the person who failed to stand up for mianmian out of concern for his own sect. jiang cheng is the person who ran restlessly for seven days to rescue wei wuxian (and lan wangji) from the xuanwu's cave; jiang cheng is also the person who resented not being thanked for his hard work. jiang cheng is the person who spent 3 months tirelessly looking for wei wuxian. jiang cheng is the person who allowed wei wuxian to secede from yunmeng jiang without any support in order to keep yunmeng jiang safe. jiang cheng is the person who helped jiang yanli sneak into the burial mounds so that wei wuxian could see her wedding clothes. jiang cheng is the person who blamed wei wuxian for jiang yanli's death. jiang cheng is the person who led the first siege of the burial mounds. jiang cheng is not the person who killed wei wuxian.

jiang cheng is the person who blamed wei wuxian for the downfall of lotus pier and then tried to strangle wei wuxian for it. jiang cheng is also the person who, barely a few hours later, sacrificed his everything in order to save wei wuxian from the wens.

both of these statements are true. all of these statements are true. the fact that one of these statements is true does not stop any of the others from being equally true. the reason why i dislike this "true nature" framework so much is that it cherrypicks certain moments as unique truths at the cost of all others - it centers one specific moment as indicative of an individual's entire nature, and in doing so discards all other moments as mattering less. in favor of a singular, easily digestible statement (eg. "jiang cheng's true nature is one of selfishness"), it erases the full complexities and contradictions true to humanity.

it is erroneous to say that "jiang cheng trying to strangle wei wuxian indicates his true nature," because of all the other shit that jiang cheng did. it is ALSO erroneous to say that "jiang cheng sacrificing himself to save wei wuxian indicates his true nature," because of all the other fucking shit that jiang cheng did. the fact is that jiang cheng did both of those things and also a whole bunch of other shit, and we all just have to accept it.

what's funny here is that this same "true nature" thinking also gets applied to wei wuxian himself in-universe. to the general public in MDZS, wei wuxian is the guy who invented demonic cultivation, who created the weapon of mass destruction that was the yin tiger tally, who killed jin zixuan, who got jiang yanli killed, and who in a moment of extreme emotional distress killed over a thousand people at the nightless city pledge conference. in their discussions of wei wuxian, the public centers these specific acts as indicating wei wuxian's singular "true nature." everything else wei wuxian was - his inventiveness, his kindness, his selflessness, his playfulness, his genius - gets dismissed as "false natures" in comparison to the one "true nature."

but this isn't an accurate description of wei wuxian, because to take just wei wuxian's very worst moments and then make those moments his entire being is not fair. wei wuxian tortured countless wen cultivators during the sunshot campaign, wei wuxian killed jin zixuan and heavily injured jiang yanli before her death, wei wuxian killed over a thousand people at the nightless city pledge conference. wei wuxian also sacrificed his everything for jiang cheng, abandoned the easy way out in favor of protecting innocent people from suffering, and has repeatedly chosen to help others when he could have easily not done so. all of these statements are true. the fact that one of them is true does not prevent any of the others from being equally true. the wei wuxian who chose to help the wen remnants is every bit as real as the wei wuxian who killed over a thousand people at nightless city, and to take either of these moments and assert that it alone reveals a "true nature" while ignoring the other is to commit a logical fallacy.

tl;dr - people contain multitudes.

regarding what the op of the screenshot actually said: they are correct in that jiang cheng does display a repeated pattern of behavior in which he blames wei wuxian for his family's misfortunes and thus lashes out at wei wuxian. but the degree to which wei wuxian is actually blameless for this misfortune, i think, is much greyer than the op said.

[probablybadrpgideas]

Campaign where the players may not speak but only mime their actions, the DM can then proceed to interpret these movements as uncharitably as possible like some sort of messed up genie. Whatever the DM thinks you are miming out, is canonically what you are doing.