#the assistant did it

[afriendlyboat]

Oooop…well there we have it friends 👀🪦💀😬

Finish his sentence…….🙈🙉🙊

[sapphosewrites]

Teaching creative writing to 8 to 12 year olds this summer, a demographic whose stories include a shocking amount of murder. The use of "unalive" was so egregious I had to tell them, "if you aren't comfortable using the words death, die, and kill, you aren't mature enough to be writing about them yet". Kiddo asked me if that applies to adults as well, and I told them it very much does, so here's a PSA.

If you aren't comfortable using the words death, die, and kill, you aren't mature enough to be writing about them yet.

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

Plain-text version:

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[frontlinebicepsoftheninth]

one of my favorite things about gideon is the characterization of "born 2 be jock 😎🔥💪 forced 2 be goth 😔☠️🦴" like quite literally one of the funniest character choices i've seen an author make and pull off

[lunaria-maharlika]

Danny accidentally becomes the Ghost king, The president and the BIGGEST threat to Bruce's social status.

Pt 1 Danny becomes the Ghost king

"Fenton's were never allowed to have a "normal" life, we are either extremely successful or extremely unsuccessful, there is no in between. Maybe a spirit cursed us back in the days, but who knows, but one things for sure, all Fenton's will definitely make the news."

-Grandma Fenton from whatever generation

Danny's starting to believe that now. He used to think that it wasn't true, but now? He used to wish to have a normal life, be a good normal son with good grades an be an astronaut one day.

But like they said, a Fenton is either EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL OR EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL.

He was EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

Instead of a normal life he turned a half ghost teen superhero. But oh well, the Fenton's were also known for their ability to go with the flow

But how in the world did the flow get him here???

In Danny's defense, he wasn't really expecting this. The only thing in his mind at the moment was keeping his town and his people safe from pariah. He just wanted to get rid of the rotten fruitloop. He was EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL, so successful in fact that he ended up becoming Ghost king.

The fudge????

But okay, sure, he didn't wanna become king but if he also didn't want to give up the crown for others to take, what if an evil person becomes king and attacks amity again?? Fine, he'll be king, he'll figure it out. Just go with the flow.

Surprisingly, not only did he get the crown, he also got THE MONEY. as in literal gold and silver bars, coins and jewelry. Appearantly, one the kings a long long time ago, before at least two generations before pariah had an obsession with MONEY. So the king made a Permanent Royal Degree (a law that cannot be changed by any future kings) that when someone dies and becomes a ghost, 20% of the MONEY that they've acquired in their entire life. (The money turns into an equivalent of ghost currency in the realms but is still physically in the living. Kind of like how the soul is in the realms but the body is the earth. Also, the only reason money exists in the realms is for convenience and a sense of normalcy, it doesn't really have that much value unless the ghosts brings it to the living) would belong to the ghost king.

Basically, it's ghost taxes that only have to be paid once for the entire afterlife. (Or is it more of an entrance fee???)

But anyways, hes got the MONEY.

He's rich now and he thinks, "I have so much money it's disgusting"

So first things first, getting rid of some of it.

By this point, his parents know he's phantom and have changed their opinions on ghosts, instead of attacking they are now looking at ghost like they're equals and try and help them as an apology for hurting them.

They are also looking for a new project to spend time on. A new purpose

So Danny thought, why not give them the money then? Danny proposed to his mom a project to make things that can benefit both ghosts and humans.

Next thing he knows is that he's appearantly funding, building and making:

A ghost job agency

A human job agency

Ghost proof buildings (ghost can't pass through walls, it won't hurt them, just keep em out.)

Ghost proof clothes (overshadowing proof!)

A practical fashion line for ghost and humans (Bullet proof, blast proof etch. Borderline vigilante clothes that look like a civilians day to day outfit)

Homes for ghost and humans

A ghost obsession help center where they can ask humans to help with their obsession.

A school for both ghost and humans.

Liminal 101 because apparently because of the whole, pariah dark and, living in the ghosts kings haunt situation, everyone is liminal now

An entire line of technology that can be used by both ghosts and humans.

A fight arena where ghost and humans can fight for fun.

And so many other things , he can't remember

HIS NAME IS EVERYWHERE . His parents didn't even bother hiding the fact that their son somehow has enough money to fund these projects, everyone knows him now.

He ends up basically owning most of amity park.

And here he thought he wouldn't be the kind of king that expands their territory.

He was extremely UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

[cleolinda]

Have been dealing with my Anxiety Disorder™ lately, because [gestures at everything]. Normally it’s a real low level kind of thing, I’m on medication, I occasionally have therapy, but I think now we’re all just kind of In It for a while and that’s just something we gotta deal with.

I would strenuously encourage everyone reading this to find the things that keep you afloat, whether it’s a video game, a TV show, standup comedy, anime, a book series, your favorite YouTube channel, one song on loop for eight entire days, whatever it is. Just find something to climb into for a few hours and protect your peace, build up your reserves, for as long as you can.

I feel like I haven’t done much in 2024 except hang on by my fingernails, and sometimes you gotta call that good.

[one-of-many-mothmen]

I feel like if Jon had snapchat, his story would be completely unhinged. Like his story would be a picture of a cat and then a video of him running from the cops. A picture of his tea and a statement, then a picture of a dead body in an abandoned house. Just some really weird shit.

[mollysunder]

Sky and Viktor's relationship is such a horror movie to me. You've got a man who was frustrated by the limitations placed on his life that were out of his control, like his class, mobility, and general health. Despite everything, he manages to rise beyond his station and avoid being an assistant for the rest of his life.

Then you've got a woman from the same background who admires him and all that he's accomplished in spite of the similar class based prejudices they faced all the while she's his assistant. She works up the courage to take leap of faith and reach out to him with her own research to show what's possible if they worked together as equals. And then he gets her killed!

Sky's death isn't the end of it because while it affects Viktor it is in no way meaningful to Sky's life or value as a person whatsoever. Even the pendant he wears in her memory is based on the design of her notebook, but that was just her notebook's cover, she probably bought it from a store and the design itself is probably mass produced. Why not use Sky's signature that was in her letter and in the notebook, the thing part if the notebook with real value?

Then Sky's brought back in s2 and she really only exists to be Viktor's assistant again, who he kills, again! But this time it's different because this time Viktor's making a conscious decision to look Sky in the eye and kill her... to prove he's changed.

In the middle of all this, in no way has Sky's death been mourned by her family or anyone else who could have known her. Jayce wasn't affected by the reveal, he didn't think it was important to tell Heimerdinger, or anyone who knew her. Nothing about her life, death, or disappearance has spurred any emotional reaction or even curiosity about what happened to her.

Sky's new life was also extremely isolated because she became further tied to him (in some ways you could say she was defined by him). Viktor never mentioned Sky to anyone in the material plane during his commune arc, so she only exists to him and she has no way to communicate with others, she's just there for Viktor's sake.

Then in the finale we learn this all a part of a big time loop where Viktor actively set the wheels in motion to have him and Jayce create hextech together, but if everything follows as is, that means Sky is violently killed in those timelines too. That means Viktor weighed the costs and decided over and over and over again that Sky was expendable enough to let her die for his plan to work eventually. How is that not murder at this point?

What's worse is that post-finale Sky's humanity is a point of dispute amongst the fandom, the VAs, and the writers themselves. Sky's the hexcore manipulating Viktor. No, Sky's a manifestion of Viktor's guilt. No, she's actually supposed to represent his humanity/conscious made physical. And in none of these arguments do they discuss Sky as a person, she's just an object meant to serve Viktor both in the narrative sense and literal sense as his assistant.

The most absolutely maddening part is that with Viktor's new bio on the League site, not only have most traces of Viktor had been scrubbed by Piltover's archive, but Sky's life has been completely wiped. Her death was implied to have been swept under the rug, and only described as the "loss of life" consequence from his Hexcore experiment.

Viktor was afraid of dying a senseless death (created by the conditions Piltover condemned his birth to) in obscurity and then he turned it into Sky's destiny.

[demonic0angel]

Jason meet Jazz and, due to her highly liminal nature and some ghostly shenanigans, he gets the idea that she's secretly a vampire. He's kinda into the idea.

(They’re stupid, your honor 😭)

“So… what’s your opinion on Twilight?” Jason asked, leaning over the desk to look at Wolf.

She paused from reading her papers. Then she said, “Twilight by Stephanie Meyers?”

“Yeah. That one. Like with all of the werewolf and vampire stuff.”

“Well. In a way, I think it’s interesting how much of an impact it’s made, but I mostly think her writing is a reflection of her Mormon views, and the impact that it’s created on people isn’t so great when you realize that she’s discriminatory and judgemental.”

Damn, he agreed with her on everything. She was so perfect. It was almost a little sad how she was a vampire, which was probably why she covered herself so thoroughly in leather and fabric.

“I agree. I was asking more about the creatures inside though. It’s pretty fascinating that vampires sparkle in the daylight. It’s sad, of course, that they are dependent on blood and have to hide their immortality, but the plot point where Bella wanted to be immortal was quite interesting, even if a little tasteless. Not that it’s bad to be inhuman, y’know?”

She turned to him slowly. He couldn’t read her expression through her helmet, but he felt like her gaze was extremely confused. After a moment, she nodded quickly and said, “Uhm. Yes. Being inhuman is not a thing to be hated, but instead, respected like any other race. After all, we’re just trying to survive. I’m glad that you’re making your anti-discrimination policies even more clear, Hood.”

Jason blinked.

Why did he feel like they weren’t just on separate pages, but also on separate books?

He pulled down his jacket a little, revealing his neck. His armor loosened and Jason had the inkling of looking like a whore before he stomped down on the feeling. Not that it was wrong anyways. He was absolutely a whore for Wolf.

“Y’know, Princess,” he said in a very casual voice, “If you were a vampire or a demon, I’d let you feed on me.” He paused and added, “Only for research purposes, of course.”

She paused again, taking even longer to stare at him.

Jason also stared back at her, though he wasn’t really sure because both of them had helmets.

Eventually, she just awkwardly said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” He asked, hinting at her.

She nodded slowly. “… okay. I’ll feed on you if I need to.”

That was basically confirmation! Jason beamed and returned her nod. “That’s good. Feel free to do it whenever you need. I’m here for you, Wolf.”

“…….. thanks.”

[naffeclipse]

A sort of mad scientist AU where Y/N is, of course, a mad scientist. You suffer from chronic illness and you are desperate to make your experiments work but you struggle without help. You refuse to take on a human assistant out of a desire to not be treated as lesser--as if you can't conduct great, horrific experiments like the other crazed scientists. You stubbornly set yourself to work without any such succor in your tower and the days pass, wearing heavily on your soot marked hands and aching, waning body.

A solution appears right at your feet one evening while rummaging around for some material in the grimy streets (dead animals, toxic waste--the usual to carry out unethical tests) and discover two abandon animatronics in the back alley, left to rot and turn to rust. There's close to zilch hope for the two but you're not a mad scientist for no reason. You drag the endoskeletons home before prompting collapsing for a day or two after overextending yourself and paying the price.

Once you get your strength back (and cursing your weakness) you turn all your effort to cleaning and preparing the endoskeletons. The celestial model of the animatronics would be helpful in your work, no? One after the solar ball of gas which beams heat and light onto the world and the other after the gray rock which brightens the night and tugs on the tides. Sun and Moon. You solder wires and revamp the servos. You hold and handle the limbs and heads of the animatronics as if they were sleeping. Soon, they will wake.

There's just one problem. They need a spark. Not a bit of ember from fire or the first crack of electricity from a splitting fork of lightning. A spark of life. And you contain such material within yourself. It's dangerous to lord over life and play god, but you need them.

The night storms when you prepare the animatronics with their chassis open, lying down on tables. You are steady despite the buzz in your veins in the face of the most dangerous experiment you have conducted yet. With these two are your side, there will be many to come. You spill your blood, split away two pieces of your pulsing core, and set two tiny sparks of life from your beating heart into the animatronics. Your head spins with pain and hope. The hum of servos whirling to life touches your eardrums. A great rumble of thunder shakes the tower. Your vision is slowly swallowed by darkness as you start to collapse but before you fall, two glowing pairs of eyes open.

When you wake, you're in your bed, in the dark, and your chest is bandaged. You hardly have the strength to touch the blood-stains soaking into the gauze but a silver and blue hand stops you. Red eyes pierce you at your bedside, a dark personage holding your wrist. Standing on the other end of your bed is a tall figure with ghostly pale optics falling over you. Dread fills your marrow at what exactly you brought back from death. A raspy voice raises a question. Who are you?

The animatronics. They're alive. They want answers, and you are more than willing to supply them. You give a very detailed, breathy response about how this all came to be, and when you propose that they become your assistants in your endeavors, they silently share a glance and nod in unison.

Though you fear you got off to a rough start with them putting you into bed after making sure your heart was still beating, they prove to be everything you want—and more. They have no desire to return to whoever tossed them to the street and left them as scrap metal, and you finally have extra hands to hold together metal contraptions and nimble fingers to set the exact scalpel blade size you need in your hand when cutting into a carcass.

They do not infantilize you in your sickness, much to your aching relief. Sun, however, is poignant in reminding you that pushing yourself past your energy capability, such as walking into town and dragging back a metallic frame for a killing contraption, will result in you needing a day of recovery. Moon sharply remarks that willingly subjecting yourself to an overnight of experimenting with beating hearts and lightning strikes will most likely cause a pain flare, but they never stop you. They never decide for you. They see you—not the unending illness clawing at your edges and leaving its marks on your flesh.

Though you learn to manage yourself better—for science, of course. You request Sun's assistance for lifting heavy plates into place before you bolt and screw them down. He's all too cheerful to lend a hand. When it grows late, you allow Moon to lead you to bed before the fire in your muscles becomes a roaring inferno. He tells you softly that he's been recording the number of good and bad days you have, and that your flare-ups don't appear as often when you have a full night's rest. Your assistants are pleased—with the improvement in your experiments, of course.

It's rare, but sometimes you'll catch an odd sentence or two from Sun about where they were before, and how much nicer it is here. You give them much. You don't shout or throw things at them. He lays a hand over his chassis and smiles. Moon will look at you sometimes, and when you ask why he's staring, he says that you have never raised a hand to them. It's strange. He thought all mad scientists were the same. He's glad to be wrong.

You're glad they're with you too. Your science has never been madder and you don't lay through bad days alone anymore. You don't like talking about your chronic illness. The discussions you've had in the past with peers and professors revolved around how you're handling it and what it's doing to you today. Can you still do your work? It's not mad or experimental or new—it's just sad. Other people think you're sad and pitiful, and you would rather die trying to conduct a hazardous experiment than ever stop to tend to yourself.

Sun and Moon learn to take your mutters and curses in stride when another flare-up hits. They ask questions occasionally, wondering how long you've lived with this and if it would ever be cured but they seem to already suspect the answer. Sure, you've tried several times to manufacture an antidote to whatever poison sits in your veins, but such endeavors have only ended with you waking up, lying in your own vomit. They don't give you pity, not like the others have. No, Sun holds your hand between his large digits and asks if you've eaten anything yet. Moon touches your shoulder when you stare out of the circular window in your tower and asks if he can walk you to your bed.

They need you, and they know what great work you're doing here, crafting weapons of mass destruction, simmering glowing liquids, and putting together new creations—not like them, no. Nothing compares to your assistants.

[ancientouroboros]

this doesn't really count as a preview of my piece for the 2025/2026 gravity falls hunkles calendar but it doesn't really not count either

and the only way to understand what I mean, because I never remember to post my calendar art, is to go order one from @gfhunklescalendar and be part of the history we're making...together

after you order your calendar drop me an ask with your hunkle stan thoughts and I'll try to turn some of them into art

[hubba1892]

Hansi Flick, 59, gymnast football coach

[badninken]

Law: "I'M NOT HELPING YOU!! GET OFF!!"

About 15 minutes later:

Law has helpfully come up with and presented a plan. The samurai are getting a guided tour of the Polar Tang and probably some snacks while they wait to be safely transported to their destination.

Bonus zoom: Tiny Captain Trafalgar. Shouting!!

Why does he even bother? He's completely incapable of sticking to his own words. If anyone seems to be even just a little bit in need he's right there, grouchily helping them, seemingly without realizing it himself until it's too late and he's already mid or post-help. Doctor's curse.

[mushiver]

People who say Ford abused the shapeshifter, what.

I just read those pages. Fiddleford immediately wanted to freeze him, but Ford wrote, “I've grown attached to the creature.” He wasn't like OH ☝️ I must TORTURE this thing POST HASTE! He found a weird creature while digging and hand fed it some beans. The shapeshifter didn't show signs of being dangerous (besides "watch your fingers")

Ford named him Shifty and did experiments, which involved seeing what forms he could take by showing him a book of animals, and he upgraded his kennel when he grew. Ford considered him a pet, but noted that Fiddleford being raised as a farmhand made him unsentimental toward what he saw as “livestock.”

Ford continued to take care of him until Shifty went nuts and tied Fiddleford up to take his place and steal journal 3. Even as Ford froze the shapeshifter for their safety, he wrote that he felt remorseful for having to freeze his former pet, but even worse that he'd been fooled - and that Fiddleford had paid the price

[serpentface]

A braithuvi horse at rest under the close protection and watchful, scary, pale-eyed gaze of her herd's guardian, a dírgrahdain. Both are landraces developed within the Highlands. The ancestors of braithuvi (and other Highlands native horses) were brought overseas by the ancestors of the Hill Tribes, while the dogs were obtained from native livestock guardian landraces used by proto-Wardi tribes. Each have become distinct over their centuries of living in the Highlands, and dírgrahdain are have a particularly unique place in the cultural schema.

Braithuvi are a woolly horse breed (and one of many, wool horses are widespread, second only to camala in value for textiles) that are also somewhat specialized for milk production. Their meat is relatively poor (other horses are preferred), but they produce high yields of milk and thick, continuous growths of wool.

Horses are not as culturally significant as cattle to most in the Highlands, but are still highly valued animals that are critical to subsistence. Few plant-based textiles can be produced in the Highlands, and almost all in the region are made with braithuvi wool. They can eat a greater variety of forage than cattle, more efficiently converting energy intake from pastures into milk and wool. Their milk is considered to be the very best of all livestock, and is usually what is used to make the prized murre beverage.

Dogs have a very small specific place in the cultures of the Hill Tribes as utilitarian working animals (specifically for livestock and occasionally as home/village guardians), and rarely ever fill other functions. The practice of keeping dogs purely for companionship is virtually nonexistent (though affectionate bonds between people and their herding or household guard dogs will be fairly common), and their meat is considered worthless. Most dogs are not elevated within the cultural schema, and tend to be merely appreciated as useful, loyal animals. Livestock guardian dogs are an exception to this, and tend to be of more significant cultural import. They are animals that exist to protect the herds on which all subsistence depends, and thus have an elevated cultural status and roles in religion and folklore as uniquely protective entities.

Dírgrahdain are the key livestock guardian dogs in the region, and the only natively developed LGD. Their name means 'lion dog', both in reference to their maned appearance and their ability to fend off and even kill the largest of predators. The dogs are characterized by tall, long-legged builds, deep chests, a curly tail, thick hair (and a thicker winter coat), and a shaggy mane. Their bodies tend to be thinner and lankier than their fur coat suggests, but still well-muscled and powerful. Their coloration can vary wildly, but a black mask with a brown or reddish body like this is most typical. Unnerving, pale eyes are prized in these dogs, with the belief that they not only intimidate predators but are uniquely potent at fending off malicious spirits.

The dog's exclusive function is to protect livestock. They are used primarily for the defense of horses, which are small and very vulnerable to predators (lions, hyenas, king hyena, wild dogs, jackals, nechoi, and even eagles can be threats), though some dogs will usually be posted up with cattle herds to deter raiders.

Pups are most commonly born in the field among their herds. They will be carried in their master's coat while still nursing, but will be allowed to join their mother in her duties from the moment they are strong enough to follow. Dírgrahdain live with their herds day and night. Most will never see the inside of a home, and most seem to prefer it that way. They form close and protective bonds with their charges, and will thoroughly integrate themselves into the social fabric of the herd.

These dogs are not human-oriented, and will usually only form bonds with people that they have imprinted on as puppies (and will merely be cool and polite to those met later in life). They are highly aggressive towards strangers, and introductions must be done incrementally and with great care. This is desirable, as this trait makes them an excellent line of defense against livestock raids. Their loud, booming barks can alert of intruders from a great distance, and they can often successfully intimidate khait, causing some mounted raids to end in humiliating failure. Dírgrahdain are often killed in raids, either to fend off the attacking dog or to silence it before its master can be alerted. This is not outright dishonorable, but not something one will be commended for. Cattle raiding culture here values swiftness, stealth, and strategy- such smash and grab tactics are seen as brutish (and will often result in harsher retribution).

Like most LGDs, they primarily defend their herds by displays of aggression and power, using their loud bark, fearsome growl, and powerful bodies to chase and intimidate predators away without physical contact. Even so, it is necessary for all working dírgrahdain to be willing and able to physically confront predators when necessary. A well-trained, well-bonded dog will defend their herds with their very life, and is often effective in combat against even very large wild predators. Their dense ‘manes��� offer a degree of protection from wounds to the throat, and may be supplemented with spiked collars.

If a mother dog kills a predator, it is often customary to open the carcass and lead her puppies to feed on it. This is thought to teach the pups to be fearless against their enemies, and that they will grow up to be uniquely powerful and brave adults. Pups are given names upon reaching adult size, and ones who have consumed the flesh of predators will get unique names related to their mother's kill, or epithets as supplements to a given name (the exact details of this practice culturally varies). One might encounter dogs in the Highlands named things like Lionsbane, Hyena-killer, She Who Bites Jackals, Lion-Fed Shaggy (Lion-Fed being the honorable epithet, Shaggy being the dog's name, possibly given by a very small child)

The mere gaze of a dírgrahdain is said to fend off malicious spirits, and their thundering bark can scare away even the most dangerous of mountain devils. Their shed hair is needle felted into little dolls (usually into the form of dogs themselves) and placed into the cradles of infants and worn as charms by children to protect them from harm (both mundane and supernatural). Manes taken from dead dírgrahdain have uses among some of the Hill Tribes, and are typically only allowed to be used by their masters (unless recieved as a gift). The most prominent usages are being worn to fend off evil spirits and predators while traveling alone, and some traditions involve placing the manes around the necks or across the bellies of women in labor as a means of spiritual protection for mother and child during birth.

The Hill Tribes and Wardi both identify the same constellation along the ecliptic as a dog. In the case of the former, this stellar dog is identified as Mak-Urudain, a gigantic dírgrahdain with fur the color of flame and eyes as bright as stars, who is the eternal guardian of the Celestial Fields. He allows the souls of the worthy dead to pass into the afterlife and for esteemed ancestors to descend back to the land to guide the living, while preventing malicious spirits, devils, and the dishonored dead from entry.

One Bernike tale describes her attempting to fly into the Celestial Fields to steal the heavenly cattle who graze there. She took the form of a golden eagle, pretending to be an ancestor returning from a sojourn to the world of the living in order to get past the guardian hound. Mak-Urudain was not fooled for long, and led her on a long chase through the night sky before capturing her and hurling her out of the Celestial Fields.

She was never able to even touch the ground of the Fields (much less take any cattle), but had just enough time to take a single seed of heavenly grass in her beak. She returned to her mountain (missing most of her tail feathers and much of her pride) and planted the grass in her then-barren slopes. This is why the grass on Bernike's mountain is so tall and abundant and why cattle there grow so fat and healthy, like all cattle will in the afterlife. The howling winds heard from the mountaintops are playfully suggested to be the barks and howls of Mak-Urudain, calling down from the heavens to keep the witch grounded in the world of the living.

[onesidedradiostatic]

I looked at the post again where the VoxTek employee rants about Vox's weird obsession and someone in the notes said Vivziepop needs to give us this guy's name from Episode 2 and I had this horrible idea

Charlie: "Aw, I think it's so nice that you want to join the hotel when you could go anywhere you please now that you're free! We're so happy to have you! What's your name?"

The VoxTek employee, shaking slightly: "...Alastor."

Alastor's already squinting at this point and Charlie is like mmmh what a coincidence! We actually have an Alastor here!

And the VoxTek employee stutters "B-but you can name me something else if you want to! T-this is j-just a name that Vox called me"

The sound of glass shattering can be heard as Alastor crushes the drink in his hand with this look of absolute horror on his face.

(referring to this post)

anon this is horrible thank you for this.