#that unfortunately shall remain unnamed

[fiendishthinking]

UGH can’t stop thinking about hunger tropes and vampires, ‘tis the season I fucking guess lmao

Particularly those scenarios where the vampire in question, normally either newly turned or just too pure-hearted, just…denies themselves the blood they need. And that in turn has so many physical effects. So many loud, eventually painful growls.

Especially when they can’t control themselves anymore? Ugh. Driving themselves so crazy trying to not hurt anyone that they end up losing their humanity altogether until their aching middle gets fed.

Whoever the unlucky victim (or lucky victim, I know I would be) ends up being would be able to hear just how hungry they are easily.

..definitely gonna elaborate and write some shit when I get off work, this is too good

[letters-from-ikemen]

A Letter for the rough times

To a poor little robin,

Word has reached my ears that you are going through a rough patch in your life. Now that is quite unfortunate to hear, though life is absolutely riddled with hapless and hopeless tragedies. To simply face the reality when it treats you so cruelly in return, much like a certain quack who shall forever remain here unnamed… I would imagine masochism can only be taken so far.

Now I would say something more helpful than “I’m sorry to hear,” but unfortunately my emotional capacity is just about as present as my sleep schedule. What if I said, though, that “you are doing a good job”? “May that which ails you disappear six, or maybe ten feet under”?

Of course, none of these words are lies? I speak naught but the pure and grounded truth. They are words of comfort, as you wanted, served on what I hope is a satisfactorily sized metaphorical platter.

Or were you perhaps wishing for something more?

Throwing your worries to the dump where they belong, drowning in a lovely dream you want to see, losing yourself in a pleasure that melts everything away…

If you are charmed by such prospects, you know I am more than happy to oblige.

My room is always open for you.

A letter for @yanderephantom, thank you for the request!

About this blog || Request Rules

[bp-zb1fics]

A little crazy

pairing: overprotective bf shanbin x s/o reader

genre: university au on unhingedness (same verse as perils, and no, it's not lasik), fluff

tw/tags: established relationship, some stereotypical characters, hanbin has a few quirks, character study lowkey, unwanted flirting, unintentional flirting, pet names, intimidation, he's sweet but a psycho, drinking, getting a lil tipsy, lowkey stalker vibes but not really, for plot purposes we will find it cute, threatening, idk how to tag this pls tell me if i missed something

wc: 2078

summary: your boyfriend is legitimately the sweetest person ever…except when someone tries to make moves on you. Then he gets…well…

a/n my advanced birthday fic for hanbin! Bc idk why I thought it was today I must have hallucinated but also idk if I have time to post on the actual day bc of real life commitments lmao whoops I struggle and try my best. Shout out to Kara aka @boysplanetmorelike for sparking this lil idea~

Check my pinned for more fics~

It’s not like he was perfect, even if people liked to think he was. Well, yes he is very boyfriend. That’s why he’s your boyfriend.

You, of all people, can attest to the fact he isn’t perfect. You’ve seen his hair in the morning. He’s definitely not at his prettiest. Sometimes he becomes a little control freak. You know that. You’re the one who they call to get him before he makes one of the poor freshmen cry unintentionally and then ends up feeling guilty about it and apologising profusely for the rest of the day, your poor soft-hearted man. And some might argue that yes he has his little ticks but they’re only minor character flaws if they can be considered flaws at all.

If only they knew.

Those who have had the pleasure of getting to know Sung Hanbin on a more, well, personal level are probably the only ones who will ever know. Poor souls, really.

And perhaps it isn’t as effective to explain as it is to show what exactly one of his more problematic personality issues is. Let’s take one unsuspecting, innocent afternoon.

Perspective. You’ve just finished class. It’s a pleasant day. You decide to meet at one of the benches under the trees outside your building. His class finishes a bit after yours so you wait, scrolling through your phone, peaceful, unbothered.

Enter unfortunate victim. For the purpose of this exercise, he shall remain unnamed. We’ll call him Victim #444. Or well, that guy.

He’s your typical fuckboy. Good looking in a sort of lukewarm way, hugely overconfident, probably thinks he has a bigger dick than he actually does, a horrible flirt, we’ve all met that type.

You share a class together. That’s how he makes conversation. Otherwise, he might not dare to approach at that time. Your talk goes something like this.

“Hey, you’re in Choi-seongsaengnim’s class too right?”

“Yeah?” You look up from your phone and he’s just there. He takes a seat on the same bench without asking. Well, it’s public property but he’s a little closer than you would like.

“He’s such a hardass, don’t you think? Like sure, he knows the lesson but he doesn’t need to act like this is the only class we’re taking.”

“Well, I mean-”

“-Like seongsaengnim, come on, I have a life outside of trying to figure out what the fuck your lessons mean.” You can add self-absorbed and stupid to this one’s list of notable traits.

“I think-” And definitely not letting you get a word in.

“Speaking of, have you got a partner for the latest project? Because, you know, I’ve been asked but I’m happy to make an exception if you want to pair up.”

“Actually, I already have-”

“Let me give you my number so we can contact each other? Maybe meet up, you know? I’ve got a nice little place to myself on the other side of campus.”

Ugh, as if. He’s leaning in so close that you can smell his cheap cologne. Before you can get up from the bench, arms wrap around you from the back and a very familiar voice coos in your ear.

“Ahh nae sarang, sorry I’m late.”

You turn your head, leaning into him.

“Hi Binnie-yah.”

He beams at you before directing his stare at the other guy. And so it begins.

“Oh, who’s this?”

You’re pretty sure Hanbin knew who this was. He knew who everyone was and at least one notable thing about them because he was quirky like that. Well, he wasn’t known as the university’s social butterfly for nothing. And you don’t want to spoil his fun so you let the guy introduce himself.

“Ah, you’re taking that major, yeah? So Junho-yah is your senior, how is he these days?”

“Oh, ah yes, Junho-sunbaenim’s been doing well, I don’t really see him around much actually.”

And bingo. The guy starts squirming. Faster than it usually takes. Your boyfriend’s made himself comfortable even though he’s half-hunched over and resting his chin on your shoulder, looking at the other guy with an unwavering stare. Sort of the way a spider would probably look at a fly before, well, you know.

“Really, well last I heard from him, he was complaining about how disrespectful his underclassmen are…but you’re not like that, aren’t you?”

“Ah, no, of course not sunbaenim.”

You can feel Hanbin’s smile get wider, his eyes crinkling in a way that you find adorable but you suspect might not be as cute for your unfortunate companion.

“That’s good, keep up the good work. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if any of my underclassmen were being disrespectful. Ah well, actually I can….”

He pauses and you swear that the guy stops breathing.

“...and I can definitely say that they’ll be very sorry that they even tried that with me.” Hanbin continues cheerily.

Suddenly he walks over and starts patting him on the shoulder. The guy flinches back.

“So next time, remember to be on your best behaviour and keep being polite, hmm? Don’t be so obvious? Maybe try not to be so shameless, yeah?”

“Ah, yes, of course, sunbaenim. Actually I- I just remembered I- I have to go- ah- sorry to disturb um- excuse me-”

You watch as he does a roughly 90 degree bow to both of you before walking off quickly.

“Less than 5 minutes, Binnie, that’s a new record.”

And your cute boyfriend is back, pouting and grabbing at your hands and squeezing them softly. If you were anyone else, you would have gotten whiplash.

“It’s not my fault if I want you all to myself, hmmm?”

Did you mention that your boyfriend was a little off in the head? Not in the should-be-confined-to-the-mental-hospital way but that slight sort of insanity that possesses him when someone tries to go for his little brother (rip Gunwook) or his little sister or his close friends or well, you.

And everyone else? Everyone else was not safe. If murder was legal, literally everyone else would probably be fearing for their lives. Which is probably a good thing that murder isn’t legal. Those incredibly lucky bastards.

Take one of the freshmen trying to chat you up during a party. They’ve been incredibly nice all evening, pouring you drinks and asking you all sorts of thoughtful questions about the major. So yes, you’re very happy to answer and give them little tips on how to ace a certain project.

“And it’s honestly fine if you mess up a little on your first test for Hwang-seongsaengnim’s class, he’s very nice when it comes to students forgetting a few names so don’t stress too much about it and make sure to ace the extra credit he gives.”

“Oh, thank you so much sunbaenim. That’s so helpful, I’ll definitely try my best.”

You can’t help but smile. So cute. Maybe it was the alcohol but you remember how it was like being a wide-eyed, overeager freshman listening attentively to your own seniors.

“It’s really no problem. Ask me anything, anytime. Seriously, don’t be afraid if you need advice.”

You reach over to pat them, swaying just a little from the amount of soju running through your body. They’re awfully red as well. You wonder why.

“How are you getting home, sunbaenim? Do you live nearby? I can walk with you if you’re comfortable with that, I don’t think it’s too safe to be out at this time.”

“Oh it’s no worries, I’ll be taking them home.”

“Ah Hanbinnie, meet my new dongsaeng” you’re not too sure when he got here or even why he’s here but Hanbin’s incredibly warm and his hands around your waist feel so nice. 

“This is my boyfriend.” You introduce him to the freshman. He dips his head in greeting as the other nearly tips over trying to bow. You make a concerned noise, making to catch the other but Hanbin firmly keeps you from moving, letting the freshman catch themselves instead.

“So nice to meet you, we’ll get going if that’s alright. It’s really not safe to be out this late, especially with someone you barely know.” You hardly register your boyfriend’s words but you’re not that drunk that you don’t know the smile he’s giving is about 95% fake and razor-sharp.

“Ah yes, get home safely, sunbaenim. I’ll find my way back so don’t worry.”

“Oh we won’t” You think you hear Hanbin say. Maybe. Could be your imagination. Because the next moment he’s nuzzling at your neck like a very spoiled cat, arms firmly holding you up as he guides you out of the bar and into the car.

“Nae sarang, you really need to take better care of yourself or I won’t want to let you out of my sight.” He says to you softly as he practically carries you into the passenger seat. It’s sweet, well the implication behind it is kinda creepy but you know he doesn’t mean it that way. (Does he?)

“You drove here?”

“Of course, I can’t let you go home all by yourself, can I?”

Like you said, there’s just a tiny screw loose in that head of his, considering the bar where you’re drinking is over an hour away from campus. You chalk it up to it being Hanbin. He can get a little paranoid on occasion. 

And sometimes, he goes a bit psycho. A little. Not a lot. Still, according to Gunwook, it’s terrifying. You really wouldn’t know but you’ve seen it.

You’ve come to wait for his dance club to finish when someone collides into you. It’s not too hard but it still knocks you off your feet and onto the ground with a thud.

“Yah, watch where you’re going, huh? I have a performance next week and I could have injured myself.”

It’s definitely one of the newer members because you don’t recognise them. Before you can say anything, Seo Won, one of the veterans, is already helping you up and asking if you’re okay. The one that knocked you over huffs and is about to say something else when Hanbin calls their name sharply.

Your boyfriend’s eyes narrow and maybe you’re a little lightheaded from the fall but also from the way his shirt clings to his body and his hair weighed down by sweat. It’s kinda hot but you’re not admitting that out loud. Not now, at least. He calls the other member’s name again and gestures him over.

He speaks too quietly for you to hear anything. All you know is that the other’s face pales drastically and he bows several times, walking over and apologising to you before practically hightailing out of the room.

Hanbin’s all over you in a matter of seconds, practically lifting you off the ground. It’s not good for your heart. Seo Won quickly backs off.

“My poor sarang, are you okay? Do you need anything? Ice? Are you bruised anywhere? Let me check.”

You don’t ever see the person who knocked you over again. Ever. You’d wonder about it but you’ve learned that it was better not to question sometimes. Especially when Hanbin insists on carrying you around for the rest of the day and practically waits on you hand and foot until the bruises fade. And it’s just a bruise. You do admit to him later that maybe you find it attractive when he’s a shade pissed and sweaty. Maybe you both get a little sweaty after that. And later, when you’re rightfully tired and sprawled out on top of him, you think about it.

Really, you wonder what goes through his mind sometimes.

[cut scene]

Hanbin smiles, all teeth and no sympathy. It’s like the serial killer before the murder.

“You speak to anyone like that ever again and I can do injuring for you, understood? No, don’t talk, just nod if you’ve managed to get it into that head of yours, hmm?”

A nod. Hanbin likes it when they’re like this. Quiet and white-faced and sweating nervously.

“Now go apologise to them. Sincerely. Like you mean it. And then, get lost. I don’t want to see your face for awhile, yes?”

Another nod. They take one step back and make to turn around.

“Oh wait.”

They freeze.

“Remember. Sincerely, okay? And don’t think I won’t know if it isn’t.”

A final nod.

“Very good. Now go.”

They go. Hanbin sighs. God, you’re going to drive him insane one day. (He already is)

[genericpuff]

hello! i was wondering if you're familiar with the process of a canvas story becoming an original/how long it normally takes? there was a comic on canvas i was following that was supposed to become an original but after almost a year of no updates and no move to originals, the author made a post about merch and then dropped off again. can it really take a year or longer to make the transition or is it more likely the author lost interest in the comic? (and i understand that redrawing pages or preparing a buffer would take time, it's more the complete lack of communication/updates and only popping up to drop merch that seems concerning to me)

Ah, I'm not an Originals creator so I'm definitely not an authority on this or fully informed of how things work behind the scenes in any way shape or form, but there have definitely been loads of cases where Canvas series took that length of time to become Originals. It often comes down to a variety of factors including (but not limited to):

If a series needs extensive time for pre-production and building a buffer, this can be affected by the genre (ex. action comics may take a lot more time to put together than romance comics due to having a lot more dynamic scenes that aren't just characters talking to each other)

Some creators will opt to leave their original Canvas episodes untouched but others will decide to rehaul them entirely for Originals. This means a lot of redrawing which adds onto that pre-production process.

Preparing for an Originals schedule isn't just preparing a buffer and/or rehauling episodes, for many creators it's also building extensive reference libraries made up of head turnarounds, expression sheets, 3D models, etc. for all the things they can reuse during the production process.

Webtoons itself ultimately decides when a series is set to launch, so despite a comic being ready for release, its actual launch date is often left entirely out of the creator's hands and up to Webtoons. Obviously I don't have any insight as to what decisions Webtoons is making on the backend and why (and neither do its creators in a lot of ways tbh) but sometimes it can be based purely on what Webtoons wants to release in that cycle depending on genre, theme, etc. Don't cite me on this because I'm VAGUELY remembering this from memory, but there was one incident where a creator was on a hiatus in between seasons and Webtoons announced their series was returning in the promo banner reels... before actually informing the creator their series was coming back. So that, of course, led to a lot of scrambling on the creator's part to put out all the promotional material they could to get their audience prepared for their series' return. If I dig up their name I'll be sure to update this. Though I also have a pal (who shall remain unnamed) who's an Originals creator who also had to deal with some very annoying lack of communication between themselves and Webtoons as to when their series was launching, if I recall correctly it was basically left up to a last minute "they'll call you when they call you" type situation.

All that said, there's undoubtedly only so much this particular creator you're referring to is allowed to say, and for all we know, that creator may know about as much as you do in regards to when specifically their series is launching. Unfortunately it's just the way of the beast with Webtoons, they're not exactly great at communicating so that lack of information ends up being extended to their creators and their audiences as well.

Hope that helps give you a little peace of mind that the creator is unlikely "ditching their project" and more so just still in pre-production phase! Definitely sending y'all good vibes that it releases soon <3

[lonelybeholding]

Do you ever find yourself agreeing with the words of someone you truly hate? Its- its certainly a strange feeling.

...

..Believe me, you're better off without it.

-Jonathan Sims (@a-lost-archivist)

Unfortunately, yes, it has happened to me Jon. The person(s) shall remain unnamed, but it has happened.

I think you've just accidentally done it again.

I did not need that reminder, Peter.

Just saying...

[gamefuna-official]

hey!!! was just playing walk and i think i found a secret(???? who the frick is reggie… my mom saw me playing it and she’s realy mad I thought you guys made games for kids. it was reallybscary :(

-walkingsimulatorfan144

Hi there! Walk was actually created by a game developer we had previously worked with (who shall remain unnamed), so we unfortunately don't have much to tell you, other than the fact that we at GameFuna had absolutely nothing to do with this at all and have long since cut ties with the aforementioned game developer. Thanks for the question!

[ashton-slashton]

For anyone who tags me or sends me posts by a certain tumblr user who posts a lot of Brad Dourif, thank you. But unfortunately that particular blog (which shall remain unnamed because I'm not like a TOTAL dick but I'll DM it if anyone is curious) has me and my partner blocked SPECIFICALLY because they're low key a wincest shipper and my partner and I have made it pretty clear we're SUPER not down with that.

So... yeah. That's why I've not been posting a lot of Brad Dourif content. They're like THE main person who posts gifs of him, and they have me blocked. 🤷🏻‍♂️ Oh well!

[neverregretthyfall]

AcTUM's Les Misérables

A few days I made a post about our local university adapting Les Mis for stage. Yesterday I went to watch the premiere and I really enjoyed it! It was super good and very engaging, the actors were fantastic and you could feel that they definitely read the brick as well. Unfortunately the pacing moved very fast and I think those not familiar with Les Mis might have gotten a little bit lost on occasion. All in all, I can definitely recommend going to the other two performances (June 17th and 18th) if you want to experience it for yourself.

Check out their website or their Instagram for more information (all in German).

Below you will find extensive notes on the stage play, keep reading if you’re curious ….

Technicalities: Modern AU, unspecified locations (just capitol city, smalltown, etc.), duration 2.5h (incl. intermission). The main message of the play was acceptance, tolerance and to show kindness to others.

(I will not rehash every plot-related detail that remains unchanged from the book, because otherwise this would get thrice as long)

‘Montreuil-sur-Mer’ (the smalltown) arc

We opened on JVJ being the mayor. He is the boss of a soup kitchen and to ease us into the story he talks to a new worker about his past. Unfortunately I cannot remember now if he really opened up about his own experiences or if he claims this happened to ‘a friend’.

Fantine is a recovering drug and alcohol addict and now works at JVJ’s soup kitchen. Due to her addiction she was forced by the court to give up Cosette into foster care (to the Thénardiers).

A letter sent to her by the court reveals her past to the colleagues and forewoman and Fantine is subsequently fired.

As she is now out of a job she turns to do illegal sex-work; they used some real cool shadow-play to show that, really enjoyed that part!

During this time she gets sick and is then caught by Javert, who wants to send her to jail for illegal prostitution. Fantine really panics then because she fears with a prison-sentence the court will never allow her to see Cosette ever again (!!)

The Arras plot is condensed to JVJ monologuing at the hospital with Javert overhearing him. While trying to arrest him, Fantine grabs a vase and knocks Javert unconscious (heck yeah, go Fantine!!). She then passes away from a combination of exhaustion and illness (one of the occasions that probably left non-fans super confused lol)

JVJ takes Fantine’s scarf as a memento and disappears …

Transition of dead Fantine rising and singing a song (aria) to Cosette (it was beautiful and very touching, I was super close to crying)

After getting Cosette from the Thénardiers, JVJ gives her Fantine’s scarf <3

‘Paris’ (the capitol city) arc

In true Marie (aka our Marius) and Cosette fashion they just stared at each other in the park, to shy to talk but really wanting to. Cosette then got called away by JVJ and accidentally left the scarf on the bench. Marie took it and vowed to find her again.

Marie studies law (as expected) and is an orphan (which she revealed super late).

Éponine is crushing hard on Marie, even reading a law book to impress her <3

Gavroche was super cool, he sang, made jokes, got the best one-liners and dabbed lol.

They included all of Thénardier’s aliases and he discovered the advantages of doing the ‘grandparent scam’ lmao.

Amis are introduced by running through the auditorium protesting, whistling, etc.

They are primarily fighting for queer rights (!!!)

Amis Count: 6/9

Named: Enjolras, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Joly

Unnamed: one of the actresses said something very Combeferre-vibe-y, so I just decided that’s her then, lol; the other one I have absolutely no clue, Marie said to her at the barricade that she still owed her some money, which would make me think it’s Courfeyrac but he was played by somebody else, so alas, it shall remain a mystery ….

We got the ‘You don’t believe in anything / I believe in you exchange’.

Grantaire’s red waist coat was replaced by a huge-ass Enjolras-inspired tattoo on his chest, which was absolutely fantastic.

Making Marisette queer really improved the story, and especially Marie’s arc. Now Marie had a concrete reason for joining the Amis at the barricade (fighting for her rights).

We got super close to Cosette actually joining the fight, but in the end she didn’t unfortunately …

Lamarque’s funeral got replaced by a demonstration for queer rights, as expected the demo turns violent due to police brutality.

The Amis sang both a protest song and later – during the barricade fight – a drinking song (very DYHTPS and Drink with Me vibes)

Joly got very bad stomach ache when the fighting started but obviously he would never abandon his friends :')

When Javert got revealed as a spy, Enjolras threatened to shoot him and you could see how badly her hands shook (possibly an easter egg to ‘He could be your brother / He is’ ?)

Amis fought back bravely against heavy armoured police but alas, they did not make it this time either, rip …

permets-tu was fully included, long live the republic and handholding inclusive (!!)

Javert died via gun to the head.

The ending was super hopeful, during the four months Marie recovered in the hospital, queer rights improved and the biggest surprise of it all: JVJ survived!!

End Quote (paraphrased because I cannot remember the exact wording and I also have to translate it to English): “Freedom is a right but it's also a privilege that was bought with the courage of others!”

Various notes on appearances:

Thénardier looked straight outta the 70s (sans hair), fantastic outfit, 10/10

Enjolras wore a lime-green pantsuit and she looked absolutely excellent

The Amis had different coloured fabrics across their wrists, which I am pretty sure combined to the rainbow flag

Joly wore make-up and nail polish

unknown person at the demo: incredible hippie-look, also 10/10

Éponine had her hair up in some super cute buns decorated with violet ribbons <3

Gavroche gave hipster child vibes

Marie wore chic pants and top (she looked both elegant and laissez-faire)

Cosette wore a black pencil skirt, combined with a violet top and the pink scarf

Javert wore a very nice long black coat and a fedora

JVJ blending in with the rest and wearing a simple sweater/shirt combination

Courfeyrac wore simple slacks and a patterend shirt-top

Grantaire had a very revealing thin shirt/blouse thing going on combined with an orange/red scarf

Well, that's it! Thank you for reading up until this point. If you get the chance, please go watch this stageplay or check out their other works <3

[firealder2005]

Whumpcember 2022 Day. 17 ICY DEEP

Featuring: Luke Skywalker Having A Bad Time. Tarkin Being An Unnamed Asshole. And Secrets Are Revealed!

also, warning. there is torture.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43598754

Enjoy!

Luke tightly clutched the fabric of his pants in his hands as he stared at the unimpressive cell wall before him.

He was really starting to regret his decisions.

He, Han, and Chewie had initially planned to rescue Princess Leia - but had been captured themselves.

He sighed, leaning against the wall as he eyed the camera in the corner of the ceiling. This whole day actually hadn’t been going to plan.

The door hissed open, and Luke straightened up, mouth tightening as the moff who had held a vibroblade to his throat entered, a sneer on his face.

“Your smuggler friend was quite adamant that he knows nothing of the Rebellion, and that he and his Wookie were only giving you and an older man a ride to Alderaan…” the moff stood over Luke’s sitting form, and the blonde boy crossed his arms and leaned away slightly.

“Oh don’t worry, this…Han Solo, wasn’t it?” the moff continued. “He was also very vocal about “going easy” on you, and seemed quite concerned for your well-being.” that knife-sharp smile was back and it made Luke uncomfortable. “However, the fact remains that your destination was Alderaan…a known rebel planet.”

That you obliterated. Luke angrily thought, recalling the asteroid field of Alderaan’s remains.

The moff crouched down until he was eye-to-eye with Luke. “Meaning, you and the older man you were with - whom I presume to be Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Luke flinched, and the moff’s smile grew. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid Lord Vader is hot on the Jedi’s trail…Vader is quite determined to kill him, you know.”

Luke couldn’t stand staring into the moff’s cold, unforgiving eyes, so he glanced away.

“Question is now,” the moff murmured, studying Luke’s face. “What to do with you…”

“I don’t know anything about the Rebellion,” Luke muttered. “I’ve never met any Rebels.”

The moff still had that thin smile on his face. “We shall see.” He stood, brushed off the non-existence dust off his perfectly cut uniform, and strolled out of the cell, the door closing with a stomach-turning thud .

Hours passed.

Or it felt like that.

Maybe only minutes had, but Luke digressed. Either way, it was a second, minute, hour too long in this cell. He had taken to absentmindedly pacing the perimeter of the cell, tracing the cell wall with his fingers.

He was so bored, but he was also terrified of what would happen if the moff came back.

The little whispers he could now identify as the Force told him that he did not want that to happen.

A low hiss made him freeze, fingers still on the wall, and he whipped his head around as the door slid open. The whispers increased in their frantic warnings, and Luke tensed as the moff entered.

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Obi-Wan Kenobi has yet to be found,” Luke relaxed slightly at the news, but still kept a wary eye on the Imperial. “But no matter. I have some questions for you.”

Luke crossed his arms again and leaned against the wall, trying to channel the confidence he always saw in Biggs, and more recently in Han.

“How did you come to be in the company of Kenobi?”

Okay. That seemed like a relatively safe question to answer…

Luke shrugged. “He was a loner back home. Kinda a hermit.”

The moff raised a brow. “I asked how you came to be in his company, not who he’s been.”

Luke glanced away, bit his lip, and muttered; “I came along with him after your stormtroopers torched my aunt and uncle inside our home.”

The moff’s expression didn’t change, much to Luke’s chagrin. Did he have any sort of compassion? Guilt?

“How unfortunate,” the moff blatherly said. “I seem to recall a homestead on Tatooine that suffered the same fate,” he took a few paces forward as Luke blinked. “Would that be your home planet, then? Tatooine?”

The whispers were back, telling him there was danger if he confirmed, but also danger if he didn’t.

His hesitation made the moff grab his chin and yank it around to face him. “Is it?”

Luke swallowed, and let out a quiet “Yes” of confirmation.

The moff let go on Luke’ chin, and the blonde reeled back against the wall, feeling the Force coil around as it whispered danger danger danger.

The moff scoffed. “What a coincidence - for my troops tracked some Rebellion droids to your aunt and uncle’s home. They were told resistance to inspect would result in the treatment any rebel would get,” he leaned forward. “And, unfortunately, they resisted.”

Luke fisted his hands into the fabric of his tunic, but the moff must have seen the anger flash across his face.

“What were those droids carrying?” the moff demanded.

“Wouldn’t you know?” Luke answered, anger still boiling in him. “Why do you need me to tell you?”

The Imperial once again had that thin smile. “Ah, so the Rebel does have a tongue.” He grabbed Luke by the arm and threw him back onto the bench. “And I think it’s time for you to use it. Where are those droids?”

“Don’t know,” Luke muttered, rubbing the side that had landed hard on the bench.

“I think you do,” the old man whispered. “And I know how to get you to talk.” the man gestured to the open cell doors, and a small, dangerous looking droid floated into the cell. Luke eyed the many needles and points warily, a trickle of fear entering him as the moff straightened up.

“I will be merciful, and give you one last chance,” the moff said, casually folding his hands behind his back as the droid got closer. Luke instinctively leaned away, but only trapped himself in the corner of the cell, opposite the blinking red camera. He felt his breathing rapidly increase as a needle extended, the tip sharp and threatening.

“Well?”

Luke glanced from the needle to the Imperial, firmly shut his mouth, and shook his head.

“Very well. IT-O, administer the serum. Use the IC-B version.” the moff still stood there, hands still clasped behind his back, as he watched the interrogation droid approach Luke with the needle.

Luke tensed, still trying to instinctively lean away from the oncoming threat, but it was useless. He flinched as the needle entered the area between his neck and collarbone, and Luke shuddered as the serum entered his system, feeling strangely cold.

He shivered as the droid retracted the needle and drifted away. Then the moff spoke.

“Where are the droids?”

Luke opened his mouth to lie again, but a vicious wave of cold through his blood made him shiver violently, and he doubled over and hugged himself, trying to rub warmth into his arms.

“Lying will only cause you pain,” he heard the moff say. “The truth, however, will be…mutually beneficial to both of us.”

Luke only shook his head, swaying a bit, as his mind spun. He faintly heard the click-clack of boots coming near, but only softly shook his head in the hopes of clearing it. A hand grabbed his chin and pulled it up, and Luke dazedly stared at the moff’s face.

“Where are the droids?” he asked again, voice sounding very slow.

Luke’s gaze drifted down, and his voice spoke without his consent. “H-here…” a light shiver this time trickled through him, but it didn’t hurt - not like when he had tried to lie.

“On the Death Star?”

Luke licked his lips, something frantically whispering to not answer, but that rack of freezing pain made him gasp and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Admirable,” the moff was speaking, but Luke was too preoccupied with the bitingly cold pain running through his body to notice. “But I’ll ask you again - are the droids on the Death Star?”

Luke let out a small whimper, and nodded, wanting the pain to stop .

And it did. The cold was still there, lying in wait to consume him if he dared to lie again, but it was a faint pulse throughout his bloodstream.

“Very good,” the moff placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder and then said; “Were you and Kenobi trying to return the droids to the princess? To Leia Organa?”

Luke shook his head, tensing as the cold flared but didn’t erupt.

The man hummed, then asked; “Were you and Kenobi trying to get the droids to Alderaan, then?”

“Y-yes,” Luke stuttered out, squeezed his eyes tighter, wishing he would stop talking.

It was like something else was compelling him to speak, alongside the deathly coldness.

“Why are you with Kenobi?” The moff seemed satisfied with his answers, but Luke got the horrible feeling he was enjoying seeing Luke suffer. “How did you come to know him?”

The fogginess drifted into his mind then, and Luke’s eyelashes fluttered.

“He knew my father,” he quietly muttered, shaking a bit as the cold drifted through his system. “H-he was going to teach me s-since - since my aunt and uncle died.”

That seemed to catch the moff’s interest. “Teach you?” he repeated, eyes locked onto Luke’s slightly swaying form. “Teach you what?”

The whispers were no longer whispers, but screams now. Luke winced and raised his hands to his ears, hoping to drown them out, but the Imperial grabbed his wrists and yanked them back down, looking far too eager then he should be.

“What was Obi-Wan Kenobi going to teach you?” he impatiently asked.

“Be like father…” Luke shook, flinching as the screams kept their shrill sound. Why were they screaming? Who was screaming? Why couldn’t he think straight anymore? “Father was a-a-”

“Yes?” the man prompted, eyes seeming to pin Luke to the corner.

“Jedi,” Luke mumbled, feeling his eyes beginning to flutter close. “Dad wassa Jedi…”

“Your name?” the moff softly asked.

“Luke,” the blonde boy answered, chin dropping onto his chest. The man grabbed his chin again and Luke was mildly irritated. He was so tired, and cold, and he couldn’t think straight! Couldn’t he just let him sleep ? “Luke Skywalker.”

The man’s grip tightened, a sly, victorious grin on his face. “Your father’s name?” though, he sounded like he already knew.

“Anakin,” Luke mumbled, trying and failing to get his face out of the Imperial’s increasingly tight grip. “His name was Anakin, he wassa Jedi…Ben said he was a great pilot - no, the best pilot,” Luke was rambling now. “And I’m gonna be a pilot too. And a Jedi like him.”

The man was staring at Luke like the tooka who got the cream. “IT-O, administer the antidote,” he ordered, smug face watching as Luke began to nod off again. “Thank you Luke, for this… enlightening conversation.”

“Hmm?” Luke hardly heard him, his attention had been caught by the figure standing in the doorway, seemingly frozen in shock. Alongside the shock, Luke faintly picked up on other emotions coming from the man.

Anger.

Joy.

Relief.

Horror.

Resolve.

He was big, wore black, and looked like a droid. Luke frowned. Hadn’t he seen this guy before? Didn’t he know him?

Ben had mentioned him, hadn’t he?

But no matter how hard he tried, Luke couldn’t keep his grip on that train of thought.

He passed out just as the moff turned to greet the figure.

“Greetings, Lord Vader. I believe you’re now aware of some… happy news.”

[mmeveronica]

Oh how unfortunate it is that Elaine Muck's diamond mine in western Oridaho is disrupting their temperate rainforests so much. Yeah I hear the locals only get paid in oranges grown there. Yeah it's so sad, a real shame their President, who shall remain unnamed, is taking so mnay bribes.

if i ever write something set in the united states im just going to do zero research whatsoever and make stuff up to sound cool it’s equality

[sootyships]

political cw

Not to be an ass and get all political but that feel when you go check out a random self-shipper's blog—who shall remain unnamed, but nobody who follows me!—and the 1st post on their blog just screams "our home country, most likely the Uniter States, is an extremely capitalistic shithole, so let's soothe our trauma by fetishizing something that seems completely different, like the Soviet Union!"

Yea I'm sure that's fuckin' easy when ya have no cause to actually know anything about it. For some people the Soviet Union was unfortunately a reality, and its effects can still be seen. Not to mention its successor which continues to pose a very real threat. Just the fact that they can fantasize like this shows how genuinely untouched they're by it all.

This by the way isn't some glowing review of the States or capitalism. Just feels like I need to clarify, in case someone forgets other things exist.

First off... Do we know whether science is a prestigious career in these unspecified some countries in eastern Europe? Iirc doctor is a very non-prestigious career in Russia at least, they're paid like teachers in the West, and are often women. So...

Secondly, anyone remember that time in history when the Soviet Union basically got rid of all of its learned people? I wonder why they needed all the scientists they could get...

Tell me you know nothing about eastern Europe without telling me, anyway. Surprisingly, not all of the things one associates with "backwards societies" apply to every society one thinks is supposed to be "backwards"...

[youngsuitcollection]

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[havana-great-time]

September 6th, 2022. La Habana.

My darlings —

You must forgive me missing yesterday's updates entirely when I have been quite consistent with writing to you all, though not so much with posting. (The only mildly unfortunate aspect of living here is the fact that I can only connect to the internet in certain parks. The scratch-off cards are absurdly cheap — the rate is 125 pesos for 5 hours, and thus just over a dollar for me — but the location remains inconvenient.)

Yesterday and today were my first days at the Universidad de la Habana, a thrilling, if extremely chaotic and somewhat tiring, experience. I began with an orientation at the Facultad de Filosofía, Historia y Sociología, where I suspect I will take all my classes. I also met a lovely young graduate of international relations; she assures me I can reach out to her for help anytime.

I wanted to begin my coursework with Sociología de las Migraciones, but alas! It was not to be. A student entered the classroom and announced that the professor had a fever and would not be holding class today, so I continued my wanderings through the incredible natural and architectural beauty of the campus before returning the ten or so blocks to my house for a quick lunch. Teología e Ideología de la Revolución Cubana was a memorable experience, to say the least. My first problem was that I could not locate the class — I was given a schedule, but neither maps nor building names nor room numbers. The professor talked with great energy and at high speeds, switching constantly between friendly jokes and serious content, but he was nowhere near as difficult to understand as his students. He announced that at the end of this class, we would be either firmly committed to the cause of the Cuban Revolution or firmly committed to its opposition. When he asked, at least two students plainly admitted to being opposed to the Cuban Revolution in its current incarnation and the government at present; the professor jokingly told the US students in the room to take notes on what happened to anti-revolutionaries in totalitarian Cuba. At the end of the class, he got out the USB stick and asked if anyone had brought their laptops, to assign the first set of readings and summarize them for the rest of the class. When no volunteers were forthcoming, he pointed at me and asked if I had brought one; since I had, I found myself in charge of the first week's readings. Very well; we shall see how it goes.

I also wished to take La Mujer Negra en La Habana Colonial, a 4th-year history elective, but neither was this to be; for whatever strange, unnamed reason, the classroom was deserted when I arrived there at classtime, and remained so for the twenty minutes I was there afterwards. There is no explanation forthcoming, it seems.

After a brief trip to the internet park to work on my applications, I joined several other students in Political Economy. A perfectly reasonable introductory class, of course, and I could certainly understand far more — but alas, introductory classes have long bored me, and I had just recently returned from the excitement of my previous class. I do not think I shall continue with my short-lived political economy studies.

Once I returned home, I tried to begin my readings, but soon got too tired to continue and promptly fell asleep.

Today was far busier than even yesterday; I sat in on four classes, and would probably choose all of them, if only I could. My first was Sociología Política, where we were asked to define politics in a short written exercise. I wrote that politics is the human activity relating to the organization of power and the structures of social life within a society; what a valuable exercise for all students of politics! It is always good to define the scope of one's field. We were also assigned a 5-page paper on whether there is political sociology in the Communist Manifesto, the instructions of which were sent via Whatsapp group chat. Alas, I will not be able to attend this class, since its Thursday class conflicts with another one of mine.

In Sociología de Género, where the professor arrived late due to a medical check-up, I was in my element. I have read nearly all the classic authors she mentioned, and the thenes and methods of analysis are certainly familiar to me; I was able to participate, and even had several of the Cuban students ask me for notes.

I continued onward to Historia de la Revolución Cubana, a highly recommended class. Unsurprising, then, that at least a dozen US students were also in attendance. It is recommended for good reason — the professor speaks quite clearly, in an engaging way, explaining today some of the background context that formed Cuban society in the 1950s. It is this class that conflicts with Political Sociology on Thursdays, and, having attended both, I must prioritize this one.

My fourth and final class of the day was Sociología de las Políticas Sociales, another quite interesting course on social politics, the activities of the state to attempt to protect certain vulnerable groups, its difficulties, the welfare state, and conservatism.

I returned for a very late lunch, upon which I sat down and read all of my homework for the coming Monday. On to further studies tomorrow!

Studiously yours,

MICHA.

[kettlequills]

how the dragon chases his tail

Miraak the Dragon Priest was not always a man haunting the halls of Apocrypha. Once, he was a little boy, and he had a terrible choice to make. On A03 here. For TESFest21, prompt: change.

CW: brief self harm, indoctrination, mention of castration, explicit references to violence and character death. Also, the Dragon Cult.

The boy that would be Miraak thrusts out his chest in pride when he sings. (He has another name, then, one that tastes of sweet snow and young summers. But that name is never written in any book and fades even from its bearer under the press of centuries, so the boy he shall be.)

 He is only young, but he knows he is the best singer in the cult choir, probably in the whole temple. The priest that directs the children always gives the boy solos and arranges the whole choir to compliment his voice. Not every child born in the village below gains the chance to serve out their due to the temple so quickly, and the boy is very sensible of the good fortune his lovely singing wins him.

 He is devastated, therefore, when his voice cracks halfway through a pure high note that should be      easy.  

 “It is natural – quite normal, a maturation process, of sorts,” Frinaar says hurriedly. Frinaar is an absently devoted man, but he lives for his choir pleasing the ear of his dragon master. (In five years, this love will not save him when his master grows bored and rends him chest to groin with one swipe. His organs will fall soft and pink from his belly, and he will be dead before he hits the ground.)

 But for now, the priest cranes his head around the corners before he takes them, ushering the boy along with sweeps of his voluminous, incense-stained robes, like he is quite afraid of anyone with less than perfect control over their voice to be found in the temple. “Quite normal – only so unfortunate – right before our master should return – so unfortunate. The display will not be the same without the lead and that understudy…”

 Frinaar clucks his tongue, ringing praise for the boy’s young rival, Jyric. (Older, and jealous of the boy’s special treatment by the priests, Jyric is resentful and bitter. He will not mourn the fate he hears the boy earns for himself, when the boy is a man. But he will not long outlive it either, for he will be seized with a terrible wasting disease that will take the strength from his bones, and abandoned by his kin, will succumb to it in shivering fever alone.)

 “Master may be displeased – so many of the choristers eaten, at recent, and…”  He pauses, sweeps down to look at the boy beneath one bushy brow. “You do not think – you do not think that you could      delay    it? Your voice breaking?” he asks hopefully.

     “Yes,”    the boy cries at once, desperate for any chance, and his voice cracks.

 Frinaar winces. “Get gone.” He brushes the boy vaguely towards the temple doors, muttering to himself. “I knew that we should fix them when we get them, then this would not happen! Or only permit girlchildren, but it’s ‘ah, Frinaar, how will our village grow, if you prevent our boys from becoming fathers and our girls becoming mothers?’ Well, I should like to see how our village will grow when the choristers are all off and the master is displeased!”

 Disappearing in a whirl of mumbling and swishing robes, Frinaar leaves the boy to it. For a moment, the boy stands there, hoping against hope that there is some mistake, and that Frinaar will come back to fetch him.

 The iron doors, carved with beautiful depictions of the dragons the temple serves, remain stubbornly closed. And the boy that would be Miraak is brave, and he is strong, but he is only a boy, and he is suffering the bitterest disappointment of his life.

 He bursts into tears, and the shame of it is enough to send him to his knees.

 Sat on the steps, knobbly knees drawn up to his forehead, he cries silently with the experience of any child who has lived every night of his life since his sixth winter in a crowded dormitory. He is lucky, he knows, because the boy has family in the village. A mother, and siblings; he sees them sometimes when the temple children are allowed to go down to the village to celebrate festivals. They are good people. His mother will be coming to get him.

 Not everyone has a mother to fetch them when their temple years are served. Some go to beg for an apprenticeship, a trade, or remain at the temple to join the ranks of warriors destined to guard the temple and barrows beyond. But the boy does not feel like it is luck now.

 Anything that takes him further from the temple and all that he has come to know feels like a curse.

 Eventually, though, he runs out of tears and instead dips his fingers in the snow, rubbing the cold water under his eyes to reduce the swelling. This too, he has practiced, how to look as if he has not just been crying. He straightens his spine and assumes a bored posture, like he has never been more confident and calm in his life. He is aware, after all, of the slits cut into the walls of the temple, for the guards to see approaching intruders on the temple steps where he sits.

 This is how his mother sees him, when she, huffing, reaches the top of the temple steps. She glances around, a little uncertainly, her smile tentative. (Her name is Sinawen, but the boy will not remember it all, when he is a man looking back through muddled memories. So, we will call her Sina, because her story is sad enough without the grief of eroded memory. She will burn in agony for the crimes of her son, having outlived all of her children save one, whose fate is murky to her on her deathbed, but whose suffering is assured.)

 “My son?” Sina says, and calls him by that name, that name that the boy would forget.

 “Mother,” he says back, determinedly keeping his voice at a low, even tone, and her whole face crinkles into a sunbeam of joy.

 “My boy!” she says, and rushes towards him, and quite before the boy can do anything at all he is enfolded into a huge hairy hug. She smells like peppermint and the winter trees she tends in their beds of snow and ice for the village. (It is important work. It is why she has only had to give one child to the temple, her lastborn, who takes most after his long-distant father.)

 The boy that would be Miraak hangs there in his mother’s arms and wishes that the ground would swallow him up on the spot. He hopes his rival Jyric has not found a slit to watch through, and laugh at the boy being coddled by his mother like a child. Humiliation makes rosy apples of his cheeks, and he pushes at her.

 (He is a child, still. How quickly do they wish for what they do not understand. Does he know that this will be the last time he gets such an embrace, steeped in a mother’s love, uncomplicated and clear as ice? Of course he doesn’t.)

 She releases him, used to the pride of the young, but she holds his hand when they go down the temple steps, and he lets her. Her black claws are like his, though the boy’s are clipped short so he will not tear the papers he works with, and when he looks up he sees her cloud of hair swaying in the breeze, salt-flecked cream, and this is the image he will hold of her in his heart, looking off towards the home the boy had been born in with a smile on her lips and tear-tracks on her cheeks.

 (Would it change anything, if he did know?)

 “I am so glad you are coming home, my son,” she says, “We have all missed you.”

 The boy says nothing at all at this, because there is a flicker of shame in his heart. Of all the children in the dormitory, he has been the quickest to scorn the homesick, the swiftest to pledge every thought in his mind to devouring whatever scraps of knowledge the priests have seen fit to grant their charges. He has not thought of coming      back,    in that vague way of inexperience, thought then that this heady time of learning would last forever.

 (He will learn, unfortunately, that there can be too much of such a good thing.)

 The village is not far from the temple, and Sina’s home not far from the village, nestled between cold white stands of frosty trees. A small shrine waits off the path, devoted to the owl-god Jhunal and the whale-god Stuhn, warding against demons drawn by the misty woods. It is well tended, but the boy still spots, hidden on the bark of a tree, a watchful carved eye that does not seem like it belongs with the rest of the shrine.

 The boy does not think anything of it.

 (Do you?)

 “Better things than that temple out there,” says the boy’s eldest brother, after they have eaten, and the misery on the boy’s face can no longer be attributed to hunger. He is wild and tangle-haired, spends his whole life to date out in the snows, and still feels constrained.

 (His name is Terren, and he will not survive a chance stumble into a bear trap, not far from the hunter’s path he had strayed from. A summer from this day, he will be a frozen corpse, found only the following spring when a lost hound tracks the wrong kill. The boy will remember him unnamed, as only as his shredded blue face, gnawed by animals, exposed bone pointing to the sky, and forget their relation, any sense of why this face hurts more than any other he has seen.)

 (It will be the kindest fate those with this boy’s blood meet.)

 “Yes!” pipes his second sibling, Minwen, a sister whose quick fingers at the distaff has won her valued approval, whose bright eyes look at the temple on the hill that swallows her brother with as much trepidation as curiosity. (She will die choking, and her quick fingers will not be enough to stem the blood warm and wet that will gush from her cut throat. The boy’s memory of her kindness will be taken from him, and of her all he will recall is blood-soaked snow and deep dragon-laughter.) “You could learn magic, at home with us.”

 “That’s stupid,” the boy snaps. His voice cracks and he sinks his head into his arms. “I’m      supposed    to be there now. I’m the best singer they have.      I,    ” he adds, venomously, thinking of Jyric, “      never    lose the beat.”

 It is true. The boy has a sense of timing that is as innate as it is perfect.

 (Any skill can be a torment, when cultivated by the right gardener.)

 “When you are a man,” his mother offers, quietly, mouth pinched around the edges, “couldn’t you go back?”

 “They don’t need any more apprentices,” the boy says glumly. “They have too many. Frinaar always complains. And that’s years, and      years    away. I’d rather die.”

 His siblings exchange glances. A depressing silence has settled over the table. The boy takes this as his due, too young to realise his selfishness.

 (I would love to tell you that he learns.)

 Sina sighs. “It may not be what you want, my son, but we are very happy to have you home.”

 (But you know better, don't you?)

 The boy’s brother Terren scoffs, a little, muttering something about ungratefulness. Minwen next to him elbows him sharply in the ribs, hissing      “Think of mother!”  

 (Please do think of her. Sinawen’s suffering will be eaten by her god. Someone could at least remember she existed. Eventually, her son won’t.)

 The boy says nothing, grinding his forehead into the wood of the table. He is consumed in his own misery, everything he has worked for in his young life ripped away from him. It isn’t      fair,    he thinks jealously. He doesn’t      want    to be a wood-grower like his mother, or a spinner, or a scout, or to join the everlasting battle against the beasts and bandits beyond the bounds of the village that has taken his father from the guards.

 (It isn’t about what the boy wants.)

 He wants… he wants the feeling he gets, when he is tasked to sweep the courtyard and lingers close to the wall where the master roosts, eyes running over dragon-words scratched with dragon-claws. The feeling that swells, hot and bright, when he sees dragons overhead, chasing each other’s tails and immense in their majesty. The power that he feels, somewhere just out of reach, when he sings out strong and brave and the whole of the choir rises up around him like a voice of thunder. He feels – he feels alone, in the warmth of his mother’s house, the people that are his family all around him.

 He feels alone when he squeezes a carefully-rescued scale no one misses in his hand, so hard that it draws blood. And something in him looks at the blood that wells around his skin, warm and red, and is disappointed that it doesn’t burn like acid dragonblood. He feels alone then, too. But it is a different      aloneness,    something that feels like a secret whispered in a language he doesn’t know.      Set apart,    instead of      left behind.  

 But, the boy thinks mulishly, he could learn another language. He can’t fill the gap that has grown after years away.

 (See how proud and foolish he is! Can you imagine yet how much the boy will regret this?)

 Dinner is eaten quickly, and Terren is out the door to roam the stands of ice-trees, trail hard claws over the bark. Minwen braids her mane around her fox-ears with ribbons. And his mother draws the boy outside, and takes him to stand beneath the tree with the watchful eye. Sina goes to her knees in the snow and holds her son’s face. Her eyes are deep and warm, crinkled with laugh lines at the edges.

 “You have the look of your father,” she tells him, “And his spirit, apparently.” She clucks her tongue. “He was insistent that we go to a temple village, for the winged ones. I see Kyne in his hawk-eyes like yours.”

 (Do you think that Kyne cares?)

 The boy is watching the sky, not paying attention. Something in him is itching. “You’re not supposed to say that,” he says. “You’re supposed to call them masters.”

 “When the priests can grow wood from ice alone, they can correct how I speak,” Sinawen says firmly. “You are not in the temple, any longer. I can teach you my art. How often did they even let you out? You were not made for stone tombs, my son.”

     “I    am a priest,” says the boy.

 “There are other gods,” Sina says, but his mother’s reply is drowned by the sweep of mighty wings overhead. Sina grabs her son as he lurches towards the temple, eyes tracing the shimmering, bluer-than-blue shape, the joyful roar of frost. It shakes his bones. He knows, without knowing, that the dragon is greeting its roost, crowing its mastery over the mortals that serve it.

 Something in the boy that will be Miraak aches to roar back.

 His mother’s amulet brushes his cheek, freed from the neckline of her shirt. It is carved of a single emerald, one eye half-hidden between two branching leaves. The eye looks at him steadily. (How soon a seed is planted.)

 The boy tugs impatiently against his mother’s arms.

 “I need to go,” he says, “I need –”

 He is aware of a distant, enormous sensation, somewhere in the place that knows without looking at the sun where the planets are, and how long it has been since he last looked. He is aware that something about this is important, terribly important, as if the world itself is waiting, waiting to see what he will do.

 Sina’s shoulders slump. (She has her own choice to make here. How she will pray that she did not.)

 “May the Woodland Man reveal the answers you seek,” his mother says, face buried in the loose tumble of the boy’s hair, “and when you are satisfied, She-Wolf guide you home.”

 (The boy will not remember this, but the eye of the gods opens on him.)

 Her arms loosen, just a little, and the boy tears himself free. He races up the path nimble as a mountain goat without a backward glance. The enormous feeling only grows stronger as the boy runs, until it begins to feel like he is being crushed under the soulful, silent weight of monumental purpose. He gasps for breath, but doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop even as he flies up the vast stone steps and into the thick iron doors. They creak open, only a little, and the boy throws the entire impatient weight of his child body against them again, and again, causing hollow booms to reverberate through the temple.

 (This temple will not even survive as a ruin. Its rocks will be torn apart, its iron doors melted down, its servants slaughtered. Nothing lasts forever. Bormahu-that-is-Alduin is always hungry.)

 “Who dares –      You?”    It is Frinaar who pulls the temple doors open, his face furrowing angrily into confusion, but the boy does not stop.

 He bowls past Frinaar, following the inexorable drumbeat of his soul, hardly knowing where he is going but not needing to as his feet follow the halls he has lived half his young life traversing. Frinaar is shouting behind him, at first loudly, then with increasing urgency, his robes flapping like dragon wings.

 Dragon wings. The boy sees them again, white as snowfall against the curve of the sky, and pivots on his foot, crashing out the door into the open courtyard where the dragon of the temple holds reign.

 The singing breaks off as the boy bursts in, and sudden silence drops sharp as a death-knell. Snow swirls about his eyes, but the boy can still see the great icy-blue form of a dragon crouching on the Wall that commemorates its greatness, a vast treasure of gold and gems spread out beneath its shading wings. The tribute of the temple.

 (How many fingers bled and bellies cramped for a master’s vanity this year? How little things change.)

 The boy has interrupted the ceremony.

 The dragon roars. “Why have you stopped?”

 Its voice is huge and rumbling, shaking the boy’s bones. (I won’t tell its name. The fate of this dragon is whispered in soft horror even amongst its scaled, cold-hearted brethren. There are some things simply too brutal to record, some fights too desperate to be remembered in the mind. The boy’s body will remember, though, and he will carry the scars of this dragon to his grave.)

 The choir looks at each other. (None of them will make it out alive.) The boy can see Jyric, moon-faced and trembling, staring at him like he is a daedra. (Maybe he is.) The dragon swings its great head and catches sight of the boy, a lone figure at the door. It leaps and lands with a crash that shakes the earth.

 (Is Bormahu-that-is-Akatosh even looking?)

 “Fool!” the dragon cries, “This is my temple! You will find no nest here!”

 The boy says nothing, seized in the grip of enormity. A choice is happening, vast and terrible, and he can feel it resounding down into his earbones, blocking out the dragon’s threat.

 (Is it his? Was any of it ever his choice at all?)

 Its head rears back as it draws in breath, and the choir scatters, diving nimbly out the way. The boy watches numbly, mind screaming to follow their suit as they have all practiced, but his body is still and firm. It knows, with granite certainty, that the boy can withstand the dragon’s Shout.

     “IIZ!”    The dragon roars, and ice barrels towards him. It strikes with the weight of a warhammer, and the boy staggers. But he remains standing, instinctively protecting his face with his arms. His hair is crusted into crystals, and ice cracks down his arms when he lowers them. They burn, distantly, with horrible pain.

 (Did it always have to end this way?)

 The dragon looks bewildered that the boy is not dead. The choir rustles as they slowly raise their heads. A shocked murmur runs through the courtyard. Some have frozen solid, unmoving lumps that quickly become dusted with the light snowfall, those that were huddling too close to the boy where he stands, garlanded with frost like a princeling at the epicentre of the blast.

 “I have to be here,” the boy says, “I-“ He struggles, wordless, for a way to convey the inexorable exhortations of his soul. “Take me with you. Burn me – claw me – but let me with you!”

 (We can’t stop this. It’s already happened.)

 He thinks of Sinawen, her hand tugging his, as if nothing is more natural in the world.  The strange pull – it has to be like what he has seen in his brother and sister. In the other children, who weep for their families, when the boy pretends he does not. He thinks of the words of his mother, how easily she folds him into her, as if there has been a place for him all this time, as if she has been waiting for him.

 The boy cries, helplessly, unable to name what he is feeling, the strange and intense kinship he feels to the dragon, the unbearable sense of loss when he thinks of that scar around that family table where a boy with a name like summer snows had once lived. Claw to claw, ice to ice, eye to sky. Is it love?

 (Maybe it even is, then. Is a boy a son because of flesh, or spirit? What about a boy whose heart is kissed by the dreadful Wheel of the Creator-Destroyer of Time? This boy has always had the look of his Bormah. He has the hunger, too.)

 The dragon pulls its head back again, but not to Shout, the boy knows, does not know how he knows. For a moment, there is no sound but the snow, soft as sighs on his shoulders. And then the dragon laughs, low and gravelly.

     “Geh,”    says the dragon. “Would that all took you as a guide for their service.”

 (Oh, they will. The boy will learn how little choice matters, will learn how to take it from his masters. He will teach this lesson on a firm Voice, and when they listen, and when they see, they will remember, because the boy is the son of his father, and there is no choice in orderly, eternal grind of the doom-driven.)

 The dragon lowers its head, amused, to regard the boy with one gleaming blue eye. Deep in its chest, it makes a strange clicking sound, ticking like a Dwemer time-piece. Then it snorts, and turns its great scaly body. Making for a tunnel cut into the cliff, its tail sweeps carelessly, nearly bowling over a dumbstruck Frinaar.

 “Come along, Miraak mal-sonaaki,” says the dragon, not looking back.

 (What is will, fate, if not another prison? This is a farce.)

 The boy hesitates for a moment, and then realises all at once that the dragon means      him.    He blinks, feels a small smile stretch his lips, wreathed in the warm glow of burgeoning confidence.

 (The mask this name gives him will become as part of him as his skin. It’s too late now. Fate has decreed that this boy’s hope must die to win his service.)

 Miraak runs after his master and feels each step ring with the hollow promise of fate. And though nothing simple has changed, for he is back in the temple and everything is right in his young world, he knows, blood-and-soul deep, that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

 (The gods are watching. Do you think they laugh?)

Gloss:

Bormahu - Our father. Dovahzul that when used by dragons means Akatosh, father of dragons. Also the Creator (Akatosh) and Destroyer (Alduin) of Time.

Woodland Man - Hermaeus Mora.

She-Wolf - Mara. God of love, handmaid to Kyne. 

Hawk-eyed Kyne - God of storms and sky. Compared to Kynareth. 

Whale god Stuhn - Warrior god of ransom, brother of Tsun. Compared to Stendar.

Owl-god Jhunal - God of wisdom, runes and mathematics. Compared to Julianos.

Frinaar - Eager Servant.

Miraak - Allegiance Guide. 

Mal - little or small. 

Sonaaki - my priest. 

Iiz - Ice.

[papabirdurskeks]

Alright then, here goes nothing: How did the friendship between your Ashen One(?) and Anwir come to be and what wacky adventures transpired in the Ringed Hellzone

Oh boy, the relationship between Anwir and the unnamed knight! c':

Its a very long story but I shall try to provide a quick synopsis of their relationship for you which hopefully can provide you with answers you need/want to know!

Our nameless Knight had met Anwir when he was very young, coming across the fearful Locust after she and a group of other knights had charged their way into the city to be rid of these coming "pests" infesting the lands. But, unlike her fellow Knights, she took pity on the young Locust and offered her hand to him in hopes to offer him comfort for the losses and slaughter he had bore witness to; heavy with regret for the actions she had partaken in.

Though reluctant and fearful, the young Locust would eventually warm up to the Knight and follow her everywhere. She would come to take care of him as best she was able to while also keeping his presence a secret from her fellow Knights, not wanting for him to suffer at their hands as the others had before him. Her constant care and gentle affections would have Anwir view the Knight as not just a friend but a mother figure as well, learning many things from her in the time he grew up with her.

But so much going on in a place that seemed to be in constant change, she had to shift her duties as a mother and a Knight; protecting both the land and Anwir from any potential threat that came their way, even if it meant her own companions who seemed suspicious of her absence at times. And as Anwir had grown older, he too had grown more protective and worried for her health and safety; sometimes running out to go and find and help her despite knowing the risks he put himself in should he be seen.

Often times she would scold him for coming out to look for her, but in the end, found herself thankful of his assistance and grateful she would be able to live another day. If she had been gone for too long, Anwir would always go out to find her and bring her back, helping to tend to her wounds and bring her back to full health each time.

Unfortunately, Anwir's presence would be found out by two other knights by accident on a day his mother had gone to tend to a few minor assignments; being discovered when he had slipped out thinking it was her coming back home. In finding out Anwir's presence, the Knights wasted no time to make an attack and be rid of the Locust; thinking with him being there, it meant only that others would not be far to come and devour everything in their path and threaten their existence once more.

Without much of a choice, Anwir would defend himself in the attack and eventually overcome the attacking Knights and killing one of them with a heavy bite into his neck as the other fled to get help; soon gaining both the taste of blood and human flesh for the first time in his life and unable to resist the old instincts of his kind to consume the human flesh. This would be a mistake he would ultimately regret when his mother had rushed back after hearing the news and discovered him in the midst of his bloody feast.

She was shocked and disgusted at first, not knowing what to say or do upon seeing such a sight before her but soon eventually came to her senses and found herself saddened and worried; seeing just how terrified and regretful Anwir had become in seeing him resort to such a state. Instead of killing him as any other Knight would, she instead choose to comfort him as best as she could. She knew soon enough that the others would be coming back to finish the job and be rid of the Locust. However, unwilling to see him die especially when seeing he was only defending himself, she decided to aid Anwir one last time; helping him make his escape far from their home as she fended off the other Knights to keep them off his trail.

Anwir would flee far into an unknown area and hide there for days, ridden with guilt and regret for what he had done. But with guilt also building up on leaving his mother behind, he'd soon make a return back to the home he had grown up in and found a gruesome discovery before him; her home destroyed and her body nowhere to be found. Only the scarf she wore around her head and neck remained in the destruction that was left behind...

And to this day, he remains as silently hateful towards any Knight he comes across; using his abilities of gentle and soothing sermons to offer comfort before ultimately killing and feasting on his new victim. Those clad in armor had not only slaughtered his kind but also taken the only person he had considered to be both his best friend and a mother to him.

And to this day, he remains as silently hateful towards any Knight he comes across; using his abilities of gentle and soothing sermons to offer comfort before ultimately killing and feasting on his new victim without remorse. While other people have fallen victim to Anwir's hunger and rage, no other party will suffer more then a weary Knight who had lost their way...

The story is still being worked on and changed here and there but I hope this suffices enough! x')

[merskrat]

Out of all of the things we could be focusing on, radblr is now arguing over pit bulls. While I’m not going to agree with the person (who shall remain unnamed) who said that it’s racist to hate on pit bulls, it’s very telling that another person responded by saying that “only tacky people have pit bulls in my country, they’re for trashy people,” etc, which kind of proves the point that I’m about to make, because there are socio-economic reasons for why these dogs end up being aggressive. When a certain type of dog becomes a status symbol for the lower classes (“tacky” people), those dogs do not receive the proper care, like socialization, spaying/neutering, even shelter (how many of these dogs have you seen tied up in a patch of dirt outside some dilapidated house?). This leads to dogs getting scared and aggressive when they are eventually put in situations that they are not used to (which is basically any situation with a strange animal, a child, etc), and breeding going unchecked, which leads to shelters overflowing with more and more unsocialized dogs. While I was living with my mom and stepdad, I exercised several “aggressive” pit bulls that my stepdad was training for free for the city shelter, trying to rehabilitate them so they could go to loving homes (he was not always successful unfortunately). The reason it was safe for me, a fifteen year old girl who weighed 105 lbs, was because most unsocialized pit bulls are dog aggressive, not people aggressive, and it was perfectly safe for me to interact with them as long as there were no other dogs around.

So while no, I don’t think it’s racist or even classist to point out that pit bulls can be aggressive, I think it’s in really bad taste to just write them off as naturally aggressive or a dog that only “tacky” (poor) people own. If you knew anything about dog psychology or the overbreeding of pit bulls and underfunding of shelters, or the cruelty of human beings, you would realize this. But just as a decent human, you should realize that it’s extremely rude to tell someone who owns and loves one of these dogs that her dog is a killer and that she is irresponsible for owning one. Dogs are literally part of our families and it can be really upsetting for me to hear that my senior dog, who I rescued from crack heads when he was eight weeks old and who has never acted aggressive with anyone or any animal (including cats, kittens, other dogs or puppies, chickens, mama and baby ducks, goats, llamas, pet rats, there’s probably more idk) is a ticking time bomb and it’s only a matter of time before he mauls someone. He also loves babies and kids too despite not even being socialized with them at a young age.

I also want to point out that “pit bull” is not a breed but a descriptor of a group of breeds, several of which are fairly expensive and sought after, like English staffordshire terriers or bull terriers (the dog from the target adds lol). I have a staffy, who falls under this “pit bull” umbrella. I think the dog most of you are referring to is the American pit bull terrier, but again, even those dogs aren’t born killers. They just happen to be a type of dog who often does not receive proper care or socialization.

I just want to say that I’m not even necessarily a “pit person,” I just got the dog that I got. He was tiny and sad and I bought him for $20 off of some crack heads who picked me up hitch hiking. I wouldn’t have chosen a pit bull at the time I don’t think, I don’t think I would even choose one in the future unless I went to an animal shelter and met one that I really vibed with. He was a really well behaved puppy, he was never destructive or anything like that, and I’ve found that he’s really low maintenance. He could sleep all day or spend all day hiking and be perfectly happy either way. I understand that a lot of pit bulls are aggressive, usually to other dogs but sometimes to people. I’m hoping to make you, the reader, understand some of the factors that go into making a dog that way. I would also like you to understand that it’s incredibly rude to tell me that my senior dog who has never hurt anyone is a natural born killer. Everyone who has ever met him loves him. Landlords who wanted to meet him before we move in. My friend who said he helped change her mind about pit bulls. My grandfather who is probably more excited to see my dog than he is me when I come to visit.

Ending by saying please don’t talk shit about my dog. I don’t have a normal dog/owner relationship with him because for years I was with him all day, every day while traveling with him. There was no leaving him at home when I went to work. We traveled by freight and by hitch hiking and went to 48 states together. I’ve had him for my entire adult life and I love him.