#the pinnacle of civilisation

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

No matter how much they view themselves as the pinnacle of the Cosmos,

the Infinity Knights have committed atrocities the likes of which rival the Blorgons, the Circuit Chaps, even the Snarling Lions!

[euphoricfilter]

hearts for dinner

pairing: yandere! taehyung x devil! reader

genre: fluff || smut || non-idol au || established relationship || yandere au

summary: how to wake up the devil

word count: 1.5k

tags/ warnings: fluff, mentions of death and murder, blood, yandere! tae, she does in fact eat hearts for breakfast lunch and dinner, eventual smut to come

notes: mother is back!!! with a mini series based off this idea!! and am fully open to questions about the au which can be turned into future drabbles :D

where you can find the rest of my work!!

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

fingers tease the ends of your hair, taehyung tugging gently.

he lays on his side beside you, head propped up by his hand as he stares at your sleep stricken face. ever so peaceful, fragile and delicate, warm, entirely unaware of the world around you.

though he supposes even when you’re awake, he doesn’t leave much room for your mind to wander.

a man having tamed the devil herself.

filing down sharp edges and dissolving her poisonous touch until you’d become nothing but soft, warm, pretty gooeyness. tooth rotting sweetness. a heart wrenching loveable being hidden in human form.

tucked away from people. tucked away from civilisation, kept between the walls of the cottage with everything you ask for.

your own crafted paradise, taehyung the creator of your world. the pinnacle of your mind, the core of every thought and feeling.

your life solely his to keep, held in calloused hands, stained in the blood of hundreds. though those lives of everyone who passed, had a new purpose. the purpose of feeding you— taehyung’s only reason to live.

to keep you alive. happy and alive.

<3

you briefly register the ghost of a touch over your cheek, a loose strand of hair tucked behind your ear before warm, soft, lips press over the supple skin of your neck.

you turn, sheets tangled around your waist, noise of question catching in your throat as you slowly slip into consciousness. a gentle slide into the waking world.

“sweet dove” taehyung murmurs against your skin, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

goosebumps prickle the skin of his arms as the scent of you sinks into his pores, the taste of you dancing across his tongue.

“hmm” you tug the blanket up higher, knees curling into your chest. utter warmth surrounding you.

he coos, “my little dove, i have breakfast for you”

you breathe out a long sigh, hands blindly reaching out for him, fingers pressing over his chest, trailing up his arms until your reach his neck, deft fingers curling around the necklace that dangles over his collarbones. your initials locked around his neck. a forever promise that he will never take off.

“can’t you smell it?” he brushes a knuckle down the line of your jaw, “i thought you’d enjoy it warm today… got too cold on the way home”

you peek an eye open, tongue wetting your bottom lip.

“you were gone all night” you croak, trying to pull him closer. quick to throw the blanket over his body to keep the warmth in.

“and how would you know that” he hums, “what time did you go to bed?”

you press your face into the pillow, words muffled, eyes slipping closed, ready for you to slip back into your own little dream world.

“i asked you a question, dove” he presses, arms slipping around your waist.

“6” you mutter.

“A.M. i assume” he presses on.

“mmhmm” you nod, “my gaming console died and i couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed to get the charger…”

a low rumble of laughter vibrates his chest.

“breakfast, then, i’ll tuck you back into bed for a nap. how about it?”

your eyes peel open, “okay” you nod, hands fumbling around under the blanket, looking for his hand.

your fingers wrap around his wrist, bringing it up to your face. you sniff, nose scrunching up at the onslaught of smells. apparent why’d he been gone so many hours of the night. because no matter how much he scrubbed his hands after, the sweet tickling scent of blood will never be missed by you.

“how many?” you wonder, and he smiles a toothy grin.

“enough to last you the week… that’s why i was gone for so long” he leans down, gentle kiss presses to your cheek in apology.

you sigh, leaning your cheek into his open palm “i missed you”

“oh darling” he croons, pulling you closer, face pressed against his chest.

you can feel the steady beat of his heart, the gentle rush of blood slipping through his veins.

“i think i may have missed you more” he whispers, words sweet like nectar as they drip off his tongue, “but i’m here now, just like how it should be”

“and you won’t leave?” you murmur, fingers grasping at his shirt.

“never”

“promise?” you swallow.

“you are my life” his fingers slip into your hair, tugging your head upwards to look at him, “we are forever. there is no end to us until the day our bodies decay, and even then you will never get rid of me. i am yours for eternity”

you nod, smile tugging at the corners of your lips “okay. what if i wanted to travel”

“then i’d follow” his answer is quick, no hesitation.

“and if i wanted to get married?”

“i am all yours”

your fingers skim over his cheek, “what if i wanted the stars?”

at this, he smiles, “i would venture far into the galaxy to pick you the most perfect stars, and name a constellation after you on the way”

“i would want to come with you” you tell him.

his fingers rake through your hair “i wouldn’t ever leave you behind”

you look up at him, silence stretching out between the both of you.

“what about—“ you start, though taehyung’s boisterous laughter cuts you off.

“anything. anything you ask for, it is yours. but first you need to eat, my little dove”

he peels the blanket off the both of you, whine of protest bubbling up your throat as the cool air of the bedroom caresses your skin.

“poor thing” he frowns, arms wrapping around you, pulling you up and off the mattress, “i’ll put the fire on while we eat” he hums, footsteps heavy as he trudges down the stairs, your arms wrapped around his neck

“hold on for a moment” he tells you, hoisting you up a little higher as he pulls out your chair at the dining table. gentle as he sits you down.

your bare feet touch the cold tiles, recoiling to press against your chest.

taehyung scuttles out of the kitchen, quick to grab you, your favourite blanket from the couch, wrapping it around your shoulders as he flitters around the kitchen.

your gaze wanders, eyes catching sight of the outside world. the vast forest seems never ending, darkness lurking just beyond the safety of the house.

“we can go out for a walk later if you like?” taehyung hums, “i have a new coat for you to try”

you turn to look at him, voice soft “i’m okay, thank you though”

he looks over his shoulder at you, holding eye contact. you feel your breath catch in your throat.

he tilts his head, turning back to the pan on the stove, “alright. tell me if you change your mind”

it’s only second after that he’s turning back to you, plate in hand.

you look at the heart, perfectly seared, puddle of blood still coating the plate even though cooked.

“let me know what you think” he smiles, taking the seat opposite yours.

you don’t bother with cutlery, fingers digging into the muscle, wet squelch of blood dripping down your palm, ever so warm. the tantalising smell of it enough to have yourself hungry.

“thank you” you look up at taehyung with a smile, and he simply grins, motioning for you to eat.

you bring the human heart up to your lips, tongue pressing against the muscle before your teeth sink into it.

you chew at it, molars tearing at the meat, swallowing down the metallic blood as it coats your tastebuds.

your fingers tighten around the heart. frown slowly pulling at taehyung’s lips, noticing how your cheeks don’t go rosy, he can tell your bloodlust is not nearly sated.

you drop the heart back onto the plate, not bothering that blood splatters onto the tablecloth.

“what’s wrong?” taehyung stands, taking the plate from in front of you.

“not good” you look up at him, bottom lip pulling into a pout.

“my dove” he kneels down before you, hand running over your cheek, “here—“ he stars, standing.

he moves towards the freezer, pulling the door open, then tugging the biggest drawer open.

“pick which one smells the tastiest, yeah?” he motions for you to look. freezer packed with individually wrapped hearts, the smallest shelf saved for his own meals.

“then i’ll cook you a nice breakfast, better this time” he starts, “then we can stay in bed for as long as you like, yeah?”

you nod at him, from still pulling at your lips, “please”

he smiles.

“i want something sweet for breakfast” you tell him, “something younger than the old piece of shit i just had”

“i should have known you wouldn’t like him… he was more my own indulgence than your dinner” he admits, “horrible man” it comes out barely above a whisper.

“taehyung” you call out to him as he rummages through the drawers.

he perks up, “yes, dove?”

“i love you”

and he can’t help the grim that stretches his cheeks, heart beating rapidly, locked away in his ribcage though so close to bursting through his skin. a heart full of awfully delicious love, ready for you to consume.

“and yet, i might love you more” he tells you.

[guiltyonsundays]

Margaret Atwood sat down to write Alias Grace and she said imagine the personification of 19th century ideas about white femininity (madonna whore complex embodied in a celebrated murderess and lunatic who may also be a virginal brutalised victim and is certainly a menial domestic servant skilled in textile crafts with a submissive yet composed demeanour) and white masculinity (a spoiled upper class manbaby who immediately judges every woman he interacts with on how attractive he finds them and has nonstop violent sexual fantasies while thinking himself the pinnacle of civilisation and chivalry and rational scientific endeavour) and then showed the man fucking falling to pieces while the woman is like. you good bro

[thepipeplaza]

The Temple of Form houses the Form Baton and is the oldest building in Diamond City. It is the cultural pinnacle of the ancient civilisation that created the Form rituals.

It is inhabited by the Splunks, alien-like creatures who appear to have lived alongside this civilisation.

Source(s):

Introduction, WarioWare: Smooth Moves, Nintendo Co., Ltd. website

Wario Blog, WarioWare: Smooth Moves, Nintendo Co., Ltd. website

[homunculus-argument]

Imagine if one of those "Ancient Rome was the pinnacle of Western Civilisation" lowkey white supremacist lite -sort of dudebros actually met an ancient Roman centurion. Like this dude born and raised in bumfuck idk Idaho who thinks he's civilised and cultured for misquoting Marcus Aurelius and thinks war and imperialism is inherently the pinnacle of civilised manhood, thinking he's going to meet an equal who'll respect him as a gym-built able-bodied man, and this latin-speaking motherfucker who has killed with that sword before just looks at him like "what the fuck is this germanic-speaking barbarian mongrel, is that a gaul? Ew."

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Why is Rassilon everywhere?

Why is Rassilon everywhere?

Ah, Rassilon! Praise be upon his mighty beautiful head! If you ever feel like you can’t swing a Dalek mutant without hitting something named after Rassilon, you’re definitely on Gallifrey.

Here's a few pointers to why Rassilon is so mighty:

🦸 The Founding Father

As one of the founding fathers of modern Time Lord society, his influence is in every aspect of Gallifreyan life. He's credited with many of Gallifrey's greatest advancements, including the discovery of time travel and the creation of the Eye of Harmony. Multiple powerful artefacts bear his name, like the Rod of Rassilon and the Ring of Rassilon, which I assure you aren't as dirty as they sound.

🐉 The Man, the Myth, the Legend

Rassilon's story is written into the very fabric of Gallifreyan mythology and legend. Stories of his heroic deeds, cunning strategies, and formidable powers are told to Time Tots from the moment they're capable of hero worship. It's said he battled great cosmic entities, outwitted ancient gods, and secured Gallifrey's place as the pinnacle of civilisation. What a guy.

📜 The Eternal Administrator

Even after his supposed demise, Rassilon's administrative policies and laws still guide the Time Lords. He wrote foundational texts that every budding Time Lord studies meticulously, and Rassilon's fingerprints are all over the rule book. It's like every bureaucratic form and procedural guideline has a little note from Rassilon saying, 'do it like this'.

🖥️ The Technological Genius

Rassilon's technological innovations are still in use millennia later. From TARDIS designs to the Matrix, his genius ensures that his presence is felt every time a Time Lord takes a trip through time or consults the grand repository of all Gallifreyan knowledge. Any piece of tech you can think of, Rassilon probably invented it.

🗳️ The Political Powerhouse

Politically, Rassilon’s legacy is unshakeable. His time as Lord President set the gold standard for Gallifreyan leadership. Subsequent leaders often find themselves compared to him, and many of the political structures and titles are relics of his era. He's even so generous as to return from the dead to lead Gallifrey in times of crisis.

🗿 The Cultural Icon

Culturally, Rassilon is the ultimate Gallifreyan icon. Festivals, holidays, and even everyday idioms are sprinkled with references to Rassilon. 'By Rassilon's beard!' is a common exclamation of surprise, while, 'What would Rassilon do?' is the go-to question for moral dilemmas, and the Horns of Rassilon is a hand sign you probably shouldn't do in polite company.

🧪 The Supreme Scientist

And let's not forget his contributions to Time Lord biology. Rassilon’s Imprimatur, a biochemical mark, allows Time Lords to safely pilot TARDISes, effectively bonding them to the fabric of time itself. There’s also the little matter of regeneration. This ability to cheat death every now and then is the cornerstone of Time Lord, and without Rassilon, it wouldn't be possible.

Some would dispute this was Rassilon's invention, but of course, they're liars.

🏫 So ...

Rassilon is everywhere because he's the ultimate Gallifreyan hero, lawmaker, inventor, politician, and cultural icon. His influence spans the practical, the mythical, and the everyday lives of Gallifreyan people, as well as all of you. Just remember—it's Rassilon's universe; you're just privileged to be living in it.

GIL adores Rassilon of course, in alignment with the views of our benefactors, the High Council. On a completely unrelated note, GIL also wishes the Celestial Intervention Agency a lovely day.

Related:

What's the structure of Gallifreyan DNA?: How their DNA is structured including the fourth strand, Rassilon’s Strand.

What is looming and how does it exist alongside natural reproduction?: Overview of looming and its place alongside natural reproduction in Gallifreyan society.

What does the Web of Time look like?: Overview on the Web of Time and its relevance.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴

[sol-consort]

piggy backing off of the last asker- and i know halloween is over now and all but- could i request more mass effect species reacting to halloween?

Halloween Pt.2

[part 1]

Like that meme said, what's stopping us from celebrating Halloween twice a year? I wrote that Valentine prompt out of season as well.

Krogans

As humans first integrated into galactic civilisation and brought our holidays with us, most species were intrigued

Except the korgans

Krogans couldn't have cared less for the new neighbours and their strange holidays

It's hard to be interested in some other species' party when your homeplanet is war plagued still

The tragedy of the genophage still affecting every waking day

So to invite them along on a holiday that's mainly for kids? When their scarce miracle children spend their entire childhood in one small camp for safety?

It feels like rubbing it in

You might just end up with a broken nose.

Even the ones willing to give it a chance don't get the best experience

Most people don't react well when confronted with a whole hulking Krogan drenched in fake blood at the front of their porch

So many shattered bowls of candy from being dropped in shock

But if this is happening after the cure of the genophage

Then the krogans would be more than willing to participate

Parents absolutely delighted at the idea of dressing up their children in costumes and accompanying them from door to door

Families finally getting to act like families and have the full welcoming warm neighbourhood experience as their world is rebuilt

Even the mercenary krogans feel a weight lift off of their shoulder

Being able to attend the adult Halloween parties in peace without guilt or fear

The krogans in Andromeda are more willing to give Halloween a go before fully establishing families

Much like they used human movies and high school proms as a point of reference when it came to courtship in romance after the gender integration

Halloween is adaptated out of necessity

To encourage fraternization

Throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks kind of deal

And the turian holidays suck, trust them they've tried, more akin to glorified boot camps.

So humanity's turn it is

The concept seems fun, although little strange

At least they can easily swap out the boring candy for something with actual punch to it

Their costume ideas are out of the ordinary

Ranging in creativity from masquerading as a rock of the average mineral kind

To a fully decked out thresher maw costume that makes you remember just how big and sharp their teeth are

They are effortlessly scary.

At least to humans

Ringing the bell to a krogan household would result in your candy bucket getting filled instantly by a big chunk of paper-wrapped meat.

They're grilling in the backyard

And ran out of candy

So here's you due, human

Don't ask what kind of meat is it.

Oh they will tell you if you ask

But you really don't want to know

Before you ask, no, you may not join

There are opened bottles of krogan liquor

And they don't feel like babysitting today.

-

Salarians

Another one for the "what do you mean you don't actually have any tricks??" team

Then why say it?

Why would they give you candy otherwise?

Isn't the whole candy thing an offering to avoid mischievous tricks?

Yet the only options you're presenting is either they give you candy or...nothing happens

Really you need to try harder

Here, they'll close the door and give a 5 minute head start to think of a trick before ringing the bell again

...

Really?

You couldn't come up with something?

And humans are supposed to be the pinnacle of creativity...

Five minutes is plenty of time!

Ugh fine just take your candy and go

Why yes, it is mini nutritions bar—

Where are you going human!??

-

It's not that salarians intentionally give out bad candy

But let's say their society focused so much on speedruning space travel and technology

So much so they neglected all other aspects

Including palatable food that isn't just nutritions packed meals

There is a reason why a lot of salarians enjoy human culinary arts so much

Even certian krogan dishes smell heavenly to them

When it comes to costumes, it's hard to get into character because of their "I'm lying" tell always being obvious to other salarians

Which completely breaks the illusion

They do like the decorations

The spooky pumpkin carving

The gore-themed food like human-eyeball shaped gummies

It's weirdly... fun

When picking their costumes, they mostly use the humanity as a frame of reference

That's how your salarian coworker zarrow ended dressing up in a sexy cat costume for the office Halloween party

What? It's the most popular costume in all of human history.

A lot of salarians end up taking a fancy to Halloween

Participating in it with the same intensity of humans who are a little too into anime

Some of them even put in the extra work to import "real" human candy straight from Earth.

Even if the Citadel sells the exact same one

They insist the ones from Earth are more "authentic"

Ringing the door to a salarian household

If it's not the bland nutritions bars nor the same ol'kitkat and M&M packs

Then you might actually receive some assorted salarian fruits

Sur'kesh planet-wide tropical biome allowed for the most delicious and juicy fruits to thrive

Their taste alone makes you realise why Salarians never bothered with cooking

[flodaya]

Thinking about how in May of this year, my South African constitution prevented a former president, who didn't finish his term and has criminal convictions against him from running for presidency under a new political party he founded. I thank it everyday.

The courts said Sir, you're a criminal, convicted, you're not going in there ever again

and they want to make me believe the US is the pinnacle of civilisation?? when in most other countries that orange man would not even have been allowed to run again

[sephirthoughts]

fiction is where we are free

fiction is the only place, in fact, where we are absolutely free

fiction is where we can do literally anything

fiction is where we can experience life and death and love and hate and become tyrants and saints and monsters and gods and there are no consequences whatsoever, because none of it is real. what a beautiful thing.

in this space, entire worlds live and die according to my whims and if i like, i can obliterate a civilisation with the stroke of a pen, and you want to tell me i can’t write some incestuous sex into the narrative? because it’s illegal and immoral?

ok then watch this: in my world, incest is the pinnacle of morality and sex with someone unrelated to oneself is the most reviled taboo. what, you want these two brothers to fuck other people? outside the family?? gross! they’ll go to jail, you sicko!

the point is that i made these people up. i made their world up. they do not obey your rules because they are not real.

let me impart to you the secret of ultimate power: when you stop reading, it all ceases to exist. so if you don’t like it…stop reading.

POOF. THEY’RE GONE. YOU HAVE POWER LIKE UNTO A GOD. GO FORTH YOUNG ONE AND USE THIS POWER WELL AND OFTEN

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 49

Summary: Alfred Ashford starts secondary school. Alexia Ashford receives psychiatric treatment after attacking her psychologist. Alexander Ashford reveals the CODE: Veronica project to his mother.

I

The pinnacle towered above a complex of stone and brick encircled by a high, thick stone wall. The wall bordered the only road connecting the estate to the London suburbs. A bronze plaque embedded in the stone announced the entrance to King Jacob II College.

Elizabeth bade him farewell on the threshold of the main building. Ailing with age, she barely leaned back to kiss Alfred on the cheek and had to leave after greeting headmaster Leslie Campbell and housemaster James McNamara-Douglas, both members of Jacob's Circle and attached to the respective clans. From that moment on, both men would be responsible for Alfred's care and education for the next five years.

The headmaster led him to his office to explain the social and educational dynamics of the institution. Alfred, now dressed in his frock coat and stiff collar, carried his bulky leather suitcase without complaint and with the housemaster on his back. King Jacob II College, the headmaster began, was part of the Jacobean educational project designed by Veronica Ashford and Rupert Campbell to ensure the political and economic influence of the remnant Stuart lineages in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and imperial possessions. King Jacob II was founded in the late 19th century as the boys' boarding school for the recruitment of the English and foreign elite concentrated in London. At the same time, Queen Anne College was erected as its female counterpart. Due to the success of the project, King Charles I and Queen Mary I colleges were opened in Edinburgh for the Scottish and Irish elite. Because of the geographical division, the funding and governance of the Scottish boarding schools remained in the hands of the Campbells, while the Ashfords took over the governance of the English pair. This separation also had to be respected by the families, which is why Alfred was compulsorily transferred to King Jacob II after preparatory school. And, unsurprisingly, the administration of the four schools rested exclusively with Jacob's Circle. There was no one, not one teacher, who was not an associate or member of the Circle. On the contrary, most of the student body came from a diversity of social and cultural backgrounds, with a handful of foreigners, and a small Jacobin minority. This Jacobin minority was concentrated in King's House, and it was these boys who always served as prefects. Alfred would be housed in a single dormitory in King's House, where he would share residence and communal life with thirty other boys. Finally, because he was Ashford, custom dictated that he was entitled to a couple of exclusive dormitory privileges. Alfred chose a television with VHS and the Atari 2600. He would get the movies and video games.

The course began with the one hundred and fifty students gathering in the auditorium to listen to the headmaster's speech. A giant painting of Veronica Ashford and another of Rupert Campbell hung on the wall, and Alfred felt the pressure. He broke out in a sweat and disguised the movement of his nervous hands by pretending to adjust his trousers. The painting of Veronica Ashford anticipated reading the biography of illustrious pupils like his great-great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather and grandfather, who contributed so much to the civilisational development of Britain. And, ultimately, in an adjoining room for the assembly of the student body with the faculty and school authorities, Alfred read the name inscribed on the wooden panels of Stanley Ashford, Thomas Ashford, Arthur Ashford, Edward Ashford, and Alexander Ashford. His name would be engraved after his father's just as his future son's name would be placed after his own. Alfred felt a knot in his stomach. Victory or death.

As in prep school, a first week of grace was granted for the freshmen to settle in. However, the week took an unexpected turn when the group of five prefects from his house bowed to him and invited him to join their group. Alfred accepted without a second thought. The prefects passed his test on his knowledge of the school and the staff and promised him their selfless protection. Alfred heartily welcomed the initiative as a qualitative improvement on his bitter and lonely experience at Watford. However, he soon discovered that his relationship with the gang was not peer-to-peer, but primus inter pares. He discovered this when Roderick, one of the five boys, brought him another boy to be his fag. Technically, the school had banned fagging last year, but Alfred could enjoy the approval of the prefects to dispose of one secretly. He ordered the boy called Henry to take care of the cleaning of his dormitory and to serve him tea for nothing, because it was Roderick who managed this service. In this way, no one disturbed him with trifles. But there was a second matter. An unexpected and disturbing fact that captured Alfred's imagination and all his attention.

The punishments. A month after the first day of school, Harvey, another prefect, invited him to come to the garret of the house. Alfred followed Harvey to the trapdoor. Before opening the lid, he held out a black Halloween mask simulating a rabbit's head to Alfred.

“Put it on.”

In the garret there were three children, two thirteen years old and one fourteen. The children were frightened by the sight of the monstrous rabbit. The five prefects rounded them up in a circle, and one of them asked the rabbit:

“How do we punish them?”

The rabbit called to one of the prefects to whisper the verdict in his ear. The prefect understood the rabbit's words and carried out his will. Three prefects held the victims while the other two wielded belts.

They knew where and how to strike so as not to leave marks or draw blood. Harvey put the rabbit mask in a hidden box and congratulated the prince on his creativity.

“See you next time.”

At first, he distracted himself by daydreaming and sketching children and prefects in a notebook. One of the teachers caught him but ignored the scene Alfred had drawn: a detailed and realistic depiction of the five prefects beating the three boys with their belts. He got bored with the belts and reimagined the scene from other angles and with other tools. First, he designed simple tools such as scissors, pruning shears, sticks and ropes. Secondly, he traced the shape of bladed weapons and instruments of torture such as the iron lady. And thirdly, he included new victims in the scene. He secretly made a quick sketch of his classmates and housemates and then introduced them into the scene, which constantly changed location and furnishings. In a catacomb, in his room at Ashford Hall, in a cemetery, in a shopping centre or in a laboratory with the Umbrella logo printed on the wall. As the number of locations and their difficulty increased, so did the definition of the bodies, their postures and expressions. He wanted it to be realistic and so he signed up for painting classes instead of marching with the cadets[1]. The painting classes improved his skill, as well as supplanting his abstinence for punishment. He once painted a picture in which he framed the reason he clung to the memory of the first punishment: power of influence, desire for importance and, above all, mitigation of emotional emptiness. The positive emotions of the punishment outweighed the negative emotions of family abandonment and parental absence. If he thought about the punishment, he forgot about other thoughts such as whether his father loved him or whether he was disappointed in him. Alfred wanted to prove his worth to him, but locked up in the boarding school he could think of no way to prove his manhood to him other than by wearing a kilt and killing Englishmen. Fortunately, the anguish didn't last more than two months. Harvey reappeared in his room with the rabbit mask stuffed in a sports bag.

“Let's go.”

Under his guidance, the punishments increased in variety, but habit drove him to seek more and be more reckless. To his face, he insulted fellow housemates for being lower class, was racist towards the only pair of Indians in King's House, beat up a middle-class boy who got too smart with the Stuart, shoved a boy's head down the toilet and forced a pair of freshmen to skinny-dip in the stream that ran through the estate. They lashed out with conservative slogans at the only leftist in the building while burning a picture of Fidel Castro with a lighter. At this point, Alfred's existence was limited to studying and inventing new outrages with which to reaffirm his status and evade the uncomfortable questions raised by the emotional void. A reign of terror in which he gave free rein to his limitless brutality.

In December 1982 Alfred made out with Henry. He had masturbated to a porn magazine that Roderick had smuggled into the study room he shared with him and Harvey. There weren't any girls at his school, so he went to try whoever was closest to hand. The two kissed roughly out of inexperience and without excitement on Alfred's part. In any case, Henry's warmth did him good and he threatened his subordinate to keep their relationship a secret.

“You're an asshole,” Henry replied.

In January 1983 Alfred showed up at the headmaster's office. He left with two letters and a reprimand for having been caught smuggling in a couple of VHS movies and a video game. He had to be subtle if he didn't want to lose his privileges. The Exorcist and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He watched them with Henry and loved them. Unfortunately, Henry was a lout with Atari’s Adventure.

The first letter was signed by his grandmother. She wrote that his father and sister were well in Antarctica and that she missed him very much. She wanted to hug her grandson again and go on a picnic with him. The second letter was signed George Frederick Benjamin Stanley Owen Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart from the Soviet Union. He knew who he was: his grandfather's younger brother Edward Ashford. Spurred by morbidity and surprise, he read the second letter.

II

Dear Alfred,

Perhaps you know who I am. We have never met in person, and never will, though you may have seen me in some picture my father forgot to tear up or burn. I will be brief and to the point. I am your great-uncle George and I feel an obligation to warn you about our family and about your future. What you do with this warning, and even with this letter, I leave up to you, but I want to tell you in writing what I know and have experienced.

You were born in 1971, three years after my older brother's death and more than ten years after my father's death. I imagine that Alexander must have spoken highly of both of them, as it is a moral imperative for a son to speak well of his father and grandfather, who nurtured and educated him. But my father and brother were not good people. They pretended to be, but inside them there was always an unparalleled penchant for contempt for human life. However, it is unfair to blame only the two of them. After all, we all share origin and responsibility for the lifestyle that our great-great-grandmother Veronica adopted and that we have uncritically cultivated because, as has already become evident, class, status and privilege suffocate the heart of humanity. Veronica and Rupert were no exception.

Do you know what lurks beneath the factory floors that Veronica ruled with an iron fist? But what can I tell you about her that you don't already know? A prodigy daughter of capital and empire. Thief, traitor and genocidal, just like her brother Rupert. Out of cowardice I missed my only chance to cremate her remains. Given her background, it did not strike me as odd that her only offspring, Stanley, was a friend of Aleister Crowley. I recall that in his later years he believed he was a messenger of Lucifer. He made Ouija boards to communicate with his mother's mummy and spent a fortune acquiring a huge secret collection of books, statuettes and esoteric artefacts. If you're curious, Stanley's secret basement is hidden behind one of the library's bookshelves. The book entitled De Vermis Mysteriis activates the opening mechanism. See with your own eyes the horrors from beyond the grave that he collected, for the horrors he perpetrated in the factories and in the colonies were destroyed so that no evidence would remain.

Grandfather Stanley had a pair of twins: Thomas and Arthur. Thomas was an alcoholic whoremonger with a taste for human flesh and my father, well, what can I tell you about my father. A staunch anti-communist, champion of the monarchy and conservative arrow, my father designed the propaganda that convinced British youth to get involved in the two world wars, built that undignified prison in Colorado and worked with the CIA on MK-Ultra, mistreating those poor teenagers in Florida.

When you are a child and naive, you tend to glorify the sins of the father, and idolatry blinds the masses. I was made aware of my mistake through my older brother. As the main heir, I thought Edward was taking it seriously to please our father. But I was wrong. Underneath his handsome and hearty facade, lurked a twisted and ruthless man who instigated and supported civil wars and coups in Latin America and Asia for the imperialist cause. It was he who was enraptured by the effects of the atomic bomb on civilian populations and who always advocated servility and starvation as the means to pacify a society as terrifying as ours. It was Edward who arranged for Alexander to travel at the age of sixteen to Indonesia to participate in the government's eugenics programs against the civilian and indigenous population.

I still wonder how a man capable of being so good to his family could finance the execution of such acts against the human species. The last I heard of him, he had founded a pharmaceutical company with an Englishman. My brother always had a very unique worldview: war and compassion, paternalism and authoritarianism. My brother, like my father, wanted to see the dream of a world once again ruled by the élites for the élites, as was the absolutist Stuart monarchy. My father and brother believed that we would return to this old order once the Bolshevik fever had passed.

That's why I left. For this reason, my father expelled me from Ashford Hall and deprived me of inheritance and family. The only thing I retain from my former life as an aristocrat is the name and surname, the accent and manners. I don't miss home, yet I am nostalgic for my lost innocence, when everything was vibrant and pure, devoid of danger and worry.

Tired of suffering, I fled to the Soviet Union alone and without a passport. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I did not die and rebuilt my life in Moscow after the Great Patriotic War. Sometimes I regret my decision; at other times I bask in my natural compassion for the unfortunate souls who were not born like us. There is no place on earth that is free from human shortcomings, but I intend to resist and not falter in my destiny to help others and to let myself be helped.

That is why, Alfred, I wanted to write this letter as a warning about the family you were born into. I last saw Alexander when he was twenty-three years old. So is the father, so will be the son. His determination for the old order is as strong as his father's was.

I know you have a twin sister, Alexia. After this warning, all I can say to you is to love each other so that you will not allow either of you to fall into empty illusions.

I wish you a happy life.

Your great uncle,

George Ashford

III

It was as if she wasn't there; she felt her body, but not her person. Sleepy, paused, on the verge of falling to the floor if it weren't for the fact that she had been tied to the chair by the abdomen with a belt. On her right wrist was an identification bracelet and to her left was a barred window. A table and a vacant chair with rounded edges made up the only furniture in the aseptic room.

The door opened. A dark-haired, bearded man sat in the chair. He carried a folder with him, the contents of which he arranged on the table. The bearded man was dressed in a doctor's coat with no logo or identification. He read each paper carefully.

The bearded man took out a blank sheet of paper from the folder and a pen. He wrote at the top of the sheet.

“I am Aaron Green, clinical psychologist and psychiatrist.” He smiled sympathetically. “Do you mind if we start with some basic questions to get to know each other better?”

Motionless. Aaron jotted down on the sheet of paper.

“If you don't feel like talking, you can nod or shake your head. We can still talk this way. Might you like to?”

Nodded.

“Your name is Alexia Ashford?”

Nodded.

“Alexia is a very beautiful and unusual name. Is it of Greek origin?

Nodded.

“I've read the rest of your names, but I prefer to stick with Alexia. Agreed?”

Nodded.

“You were born on January 24th, 1971?”

Nodded.

“Do you have siblings?”

Nodded.

“An older sibling? Younger?”

Denied.

“Twin?”

Nodded.

“Is it a boy?”

Nodded.

“And what's his name?”

Silence. Aaron consulted his papers.

“Alfred? Like Alfred Hitchcock and Alfred the Great?”

Nodded.

“Alfred is also an interesting name. Germanic. Its literal meaning is ‘advised by the elves’. Curious.”

Silence.

“Your father's name is Alexander Ashford?”

He nodded.

“Like Alexander the Great, I suppose.”

Quiet.

“Do you know where you are? The place, not the room.”

Denied.

“The Margaret Ashford Institute. The social engineering institute your great-grandfather Arthur founded.”

Silence.

“Why are you here?”

Silence.

“I'm going to do one thing. I'm going to try to reconstruct what happened and you nod or deny depending on whether you remember, okay?”

Nodded.

January 12th, 1983. She was working. An alarm suddenly went off. A female voice boomed in the room: ‘The self-destruct system has been activated. Please all personnel must evacuate immediately’. Her first reaction was to run to the laboratory attached to the study room. A disproportionately large ant was fiddling with its antennae on the glass of the tube. She stood in front of the insect, blank. Behind her, monitors displayed the data of an unfinished investigation. She approached the excited ant as the alarm massacred her eardrums. She touched the glass with a trembling hand. She was going to cry.

A door slammed. Alexander. There was blood on his face, but no wounds. He hugged Alexia so tightly that he choked her. He lifted her off the floor and carried her out of the study room. The ant stayed. The research stayed.

Alexander ran as if possessed, and at no point did he let his daughter touch the floor. They ascended to the lobby, where Martin and Jonathan greeted them armed. Alexander left his daughter by the elevator doors and grabbed the shotgun Martin handed him. The three men shouted at each other. Alexander bent down to talk to her. She didn't hear his words, only that his gaze radiated hatred. Martin and Jonathan led the way, Martin with an assault rifle and Jonathan with a shotgun. Alexander protected his daughter in the rear.

They walked out into the hall. Alexander caught her hand and forced her up the stairs at full speed. Her shoulder ached. Martin and Jonathan followed behind them.

Five minutes until detonation.

Alexander shot a man in the head. The impact of the pellets scattered the grey matter across the concrete and steel corridor.

In the helicopter, she looked at her hands. Bloodied.

Blank.

January 17th, 1983. Session with Dr Sarah Charleigh. She hadn't spoken since the incident. She seemed catatonic.

“What is the T-Veronica?”

She had written that name on the board they had given her to communicate with them. The T-Veronica was...

She stuck a pair of sewing scissors into Charleigh's thigh. All the way in. She slapped her across the face. According to Aaron's testimony, she was screaming at the top of her lungs. She broke furniture and various objects. She saw her face in the mirror and smashed her head against the glass. She drew blood on her forehead. Completely out of her mind, she had to be restrained by four. Aaron and his team sedated her and transported her by ambulance to the Institute. She was drugged and strapped to a stretcher, then in a single bedroom and now in an interrogation.

What is the T-Veronica?” Aaron repeated.

Anger. Sadness. Fear. Joy. Surprise. She didn't understand her emotions. She shifted in her seat. In front of her, she had a disproportionately large ant. Her first discovery and research project. But there was something else. She was a queen. A queen that was hers. Alone, confined in a cage and chained to an existence subject to the will of others who did not want to understand her, who considered her a fairground attraction. A queen who had learned to coexist with her affliction and to keep at bay the dilemma of whether or not to continue living; because in that cage she had contemplated herself and had concluded that she hated herself.

She hated herself for trusting her family.

She hated herself for hating her family.

She hated herself for loving her family.

She hated herself for allowing others to impose their dreams on her.

She hated herself for taking on those dreams as her own.

She hated herself for allowing others to laugh at her.

She hated herself for having smiled at those who laughed at her.

She hated herself for her conformity.

She hated herself for her emotional weakness.

She hated herself for loving Alfred.

She hated herself for loving.

She hated herself for not imposing her will.

That was the T-Veronica: her will. Her will be done on earth as it was in heaven. Her will to live and to transform her being into something else.

Into the queen. A nasty queen. That she would not feel that she would not suffer, that she would only be pure volition. To cease to exist to exist again. She no longer wanted to be Alexia.

The T-Veronica disintegrated in the explosion. The queen died. Alexia stayed.

What is the T-Veronica: she went mad because she remembered that she had lost it forever.

Forever.

Aaron finished filling out the sheet.

“Alexia.”

Alexia didn't raise her head. She didn't have the strength.

“We're going to help you. Trust us.”

The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.[2]

IV

Elizabeth hardened her words.

“You're a fool.”

Alexander didn't fight back. He had told her. He couldn't take it any longer and told her. The CODE project: Veronica. The incident at the Antarctic base.

He was depressed and did not know how to carry on his father's and his mother's legacy. Elizabeth insulted him for meddling in this absurd conspiracy. His father approved the project, and he went ahead believing that it would satisfy him; that this was what he had to do as a son. A father-son pact to go straight ahead, as he had always been told to do. Edward had loved his son, but he had always been accustomed to prioritising ends over means. Edward took advantage of Alexander so that he would carry out the wishes of the former one even after the death, as Elizabeth said with the utmost sincerity.

Elizabeth stroked his hand. Alexander began to cry. For decades, he had sought ways to positively influence his son to avoid disasters such as those described. However, fighting Arthur on his home turf was virtually impossible. Taking advantage of the fact that she was a foreigner, a Protestant and a non-conformist, Arthur manipulated the family to cast Elizabeth as an ignorant outsider and to focus Alexander's education on Edward. Elizabeth had to adopt a passive, complementary role to her husband's in order for the marriage to survive and thus retain custody of their son. But the results were nil. Arthur and Edward guided Alexander to be exactly like them, and they succeeded.

The Antarctic base exploded to kill the employees who had rebelled against Alexander's tyranny. The son's excuses for this decision were pitiful and absurd, and he could not fool his mother: he killed them out of hatred.

But she could not loathe her son. She would not do it for her last chance: Alfred and Alexia. He said to Alexander: I forbid Alexia to work until she comes of age, and I forbid you to see your children until I decide. Alexander bowed his head tearfully.

“But I want to see them,” he protested, sobbing.

“Who?”

“My children.”

“You only get one chance,” Elizabeth burst into tears.

They hugged each other.

“You only have one chance...”

[1] Combined Cadet Force (CCF).

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_king_is_dead,_long_live_the_king!

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

What is the earliest point in evolution could humans evolve written language? Let's say biologically, human evolution was similar to reality, could say Neanderthals have written language already? Like before civilisations began? Also, written language is certainly not only for the elite. In fact, it got started in various families and then got spread among the tribes. So we have thousands of different tribes and familes across the world - each with their own languages and writing systems. Of course, there are some similarities as people have travelled a bit and met neighbouring tribes. So basically before society was properly formed into civilisations, there should already be writing but civilisation is actually what prodded society to centralise communications and languages. Does this work? Basically, I just want a society that had writing from much earlier on than reality and figuring out how it could have been done.

Tex: Writing is developed, much like any other tool, as a function of necessity. If it’s not necessary for a society to develop it, then writing won’t exist for them. Civilisation is also, as a concept, prone to periodic re-defining as we accumulate more data and our perceptions of the data shift (for example, one could define the pinnacle of civilisation as taxes, where before another defined it as religion). Writing also has exceptionally little to do with biology as writing is a social construct meant to fill a void found in one’s culture. Consequentially, writing can also encompass a broad range of intentional markings that demonstrate specific meanings, from tally marks, to standardized pictures, to ideograms, to glyphs. What does your world need writing for? What niche does it fill? What were the people using as its predecessor, and what happened to cause them to change systems? Did the scope of their needs change, or did the perception of their needs change? What information is important for them to record, on a societal and personal level? Who teaches writing? Who learns it? What is the method of transmission, and for those that teach writing, is it their sole occupation or something on the side?

Utuabzu: Writing is old. Really old. At least 5000 years old. This seems a long time, but humans have been living in permanent settlements and practicing forms of agriculture in West Asia for about 9000 years. Homo sapiens has been around for at least 300,000 years. But only in the last few thousand years, in a handful of places, did humans independently come up with the idea that the spoken word could be preserved using symbols that others could be trained to decipher.

The earliest writing as far as we can tell is cuneiform, from Sumeria in what is now southern Iraq. It may or may not have had some influence on the development of Egyptian hieroglyphs from pictographs to an actual script - we have found Sumerian cylinder seals in very early Egyptian sites, indicating that the two groups were in contact. But from these two points the idea of writing spread through the Mediterranean and West Asia. The Indus Valley civilisation also used a script, but we are unable to decipher it and have relatively few examples to work from, so we cannot tell if it even is a true script or if it predates contact with Sumeria.*

Shang Dynasty China also developed the earliest form of Chinese script from the Oracle Bone tradition not long after this. This also spread, together with Chinese ideas, agricultural and governmental practices across much of eastern Asia.

Meanwhile cuneiform script was adopted by a wide range of cultures in West Asia, and inspired other scripts like Elamite, Old Persian and Ugaritic, which while using similar shapes were structured very differently. Egyptian hieroglyphs inspired Anatolian hieroglyphs and were later in the early Iron Age the basis that the Phoenician alphabet** - ancestor of alphabetic, abjad and abugida scripts from the Philippines to Iceland - was derived from.

Another place we see writing develop entirely independently is in Central America, where a pictographic system was employed from the Olmec period all the way through to the 16th Century, but only became a true script in the Mayan region [at time, need to check when]. The system employed elsewhere in Mesoamerica did not have the capacity to accurately render speech, so far as we are aware.***

There are also a handful of other instances that might or might not be examples of true scripts developing entirely independently, from rorotongo on Rapanui to the quipus of the Andes to [pretty sure there's one in central africa, but can't remember the name just now]. We simply don't have enough information to be certain about any of them. Oftentimes, because the media they were written on does not survive all that well, or was deliberately destroyed.

But something you should bear in mind is that complex societies don't necessarily require writing for a lot of their history. Many of the most impressive cultures of the ancient world were not widely or at all literate. There's no indication that the Mississippian culture that built sites like Cahokia had writing, nor did Teotihuacán or the various cultures of the Andes. There's no evidence of writing at Great Zimbabwe, nor at Jomon sites in Japan.

Even in cultures that did have writing, it was frequently not a widely known skill. Your average ancient Egyptian couldn't read hieroglyphs, and Chinese hanzi still take years to master. This is part of why so many traditional scripts were displaced in the 19th and early 20th century. Most people couldn't read them and when authorities decided to use Roman or Cyrillic or something else in mass education, it very quickly became much more widely understood than the traditional script.

To my knowledge, there's no examples of a pre-agricultural society developing writing independently. Some have derived scripts from those they came into contact with, or made entirely unique ones inspired by writing they knew of. But so far as I am aware, none have ever created a script entirely from scratch with no prior exposure to the concept of writing.

*the Sumerians appear to have called the Indus Valley Civilisation 'Meluhha', and were actively trading with it from at least the Bronze Age. Ur III records even tell of a colony of Meluhha merchants at Guabba, near Lagaš, and Sumerian cylinder seals have been found in Indus Valley sites.

**actually an abjad.

*** the conquistadors burned almost all pre Columbian codices, so we can't ever be 100% certain that no other variants of the system developed into true scripts. But it's unlikely.

[astralleywright]

I feel sort of the same with c2. I've skipped around with the early episodes, some just on podcast.

I want to give it a proper chance because the arcs sound so good (pirates, ancient civilisations etc) but I just can't get into the characters. I like a bit of conflict but it felt like the group were constantly jabbing each other's metaphorical bruises?

I don't want to be overly negative about something people obviously enjoy but it just hasn't hooked me in yet.

yeah, I watched over 100 hours of c2 and still didn't feel particularly compelled by many of the PCs or the overall relationship of the group. allegedly the Hells liking and trusting each other off the bat is toxic actually, somehow, and the M9 are the pinnacle of found family if I simply watch another 100 hours, but i found myself way more invested in the Hell's relationships with each other in the first stretch bc it seemed like they all actually liked each other. and ultimately its all preference; I just personally fuck with BH's "all-loving monsters" vibe way more than M9's "insular anti-heroes" thing. a lot of people prefer the opposite and that's fine, but when ppl try to make it out to be an objectively healthier and more cohesive dynamic for a party to have its like. alright.

[oleworm]

Coming back to this post because I've been thinking about it a lot myself, and it might sound rough to say it this way, but this obsession with preserving practices that are thought to be ancient in the same manner that one might preserve a species, or the understanding of other cultures as intermediate stadia in the evolution of human societies, with (the idea of) Western civilisation as the pinnacle and the "natural" end result, even from self-appointed progressives… It highlights to me how the mentality that led to the human zoo never died out, it just became inappropriate to be so open about it.

[nightfallwolfkin]

Sam and Gilly -- a Study in Character

The more times I see this scene, the more I am struck by the depth of Gilly’s character.

When we first meet Gilly, she is a terrified young woman, almost still a child herself, about to have her first baby by her incestuous and abusive husband/father, Craster. Her upbringing has been unimaginably bleak, frightful, and full of neglect and horror. She has nothing to hope for except that her baby might be a girl, so that she can keep her and raise her to be yet another of her father’s wives. We know that no sons are allowed to remain. Gilly at this point is portrayed as little more than afraid and desperate, but she shows at least enough bravery to approach Sam (probably the least intimidating of all the Night’s Watch present) and beg him to help her escape with her baby. She shows enough strength to flee with Sam from the riot at Craster’s, even though they are jumping from the frying pan into the fire, being alone beyond the wall with little hope of making it to civilisation.

For the next while, we mostly see Gilly as nervous, fearful, clingy, and ignorant. She can’t really help any of these states of being, considering that she’s got an infant to protect in a hellishly precarious situation and she’s had no education whatsoever. The pinnacle of her abilities as portrayed at this point is that she can build a fire, which is one up on Sam in that department at least. It’s easy, therefore, to pass her off as a minor character with not much part to play in the grand scheme of things. She’s little more than an ingenue, a person to be protected and to showcase the compassion and bravery and knowledge of other characters, namely Sam. This is not an ignoble thing, as Sam’s bravery in the face of absolute desperation is extremely important to establish. But it does her character a disservice that lingers even as she begins to develop and flesh out into a more fully realised person. Even at this early stage she shows signs of wisdom, as depicted in her conversation with Sam about boy’s names that extends to a comparison of their respective horrible paternal relationships. She shows us that she is capable of abstract thought and understanding depite her lack of education. But we still have an impression of Gilly that is based on a particular set of circumstances, and when those circumstances change, so does she, and so therefore must our opinion of her.

Once she finds herself at Castle Black, she is still in a rather uncomfortable situation, the only female surrounded by largely unsavoury men, her only protector the ‘weakest’ of them all. Nobody can accept the idea that Sam killed a White Walker, a hideous creature most of the men of the Night’s Watch have never seen, and those who have can’t imagine Sam, of all people, standing up to one. They know him as a coward and a weakling -- they are as limited by their early impressions of him as we are by our early impressions of Gilly. Only she has seen what is really inside him, what really matters, and so far, only he can see what matters about her. He is gentle, nurturing, patient and protective with her and Young Sam, her baby who has been given his name, though at this point he is still rather condescending in his attempts to teach her, and tiptoes around her volatile moods, her fears and frustrations that erupt from time to time as she tries to adjust to the world in which she finds herself. But she is adjusting faster than is immediately apparent to us, as we watch her through the lens we crafted for her. She is absorbing knowledge and skills as fast as she can, and often displays depths of strength, wisdom and humour that could never have been allowed to develop in her childhood home. We still, however, see her as annoyingly clingy and demanding when she insists on remaining with Sam even while he thinks he is protecting her by sending her away. And it turns out that she was no safer in Mole’s Town than she was at Castle Black. All she knows is that whatever the danger, she wants to be with Sam. When they leave Castle Black for Oldtown, and Sam tries to provide her a safe place with his family, we get the chance to see them come up against the prejudices of the outside world. This is depicted by Randyll Tarly’s disgust and disdain of his violently rejected heir Sam, and his absolute revulsion of Gilly when he discovers her origin as a wildling. Sam realises he can’t leave Gilly with someone who would think of her that way, in spite of her obvious acceptance by both his mother and his sister. They are helpless against Randyll’s authority and prejudices, and can only express their disagreement, not really able to act on it. Sam decides not only to take Gilly with him to Oldtown, but also takes his family’s Valyrian steel sword, one of the most priceless possessions anyone in this world can possibly have. In so doing, he shows how he is both developing and using his own core of steel. Like Gilly, he continues to be misjudged based on superficial appearances, when he contains at least as much intelligence, wisdom and fortitude as anybody else in the show, if not more so. Nobody could survive what they both have experienced in their lives and keep going without an unimaginable font of inner strength.

(continued)

[nanoland]

HEY SO who wants a sneak peek at the first page of my new book?

(coming out 10 November, preorder here to help an indie author out <3)

VOILA, MY GOOD BITCHES:

Chapter 1

He’d spotted seven snow-coated corpses on his way to the summit thus far and had paused only to spit on them for discouraging him.

“Daisyhearts!” he rasped as he dragged his aching body over another infernal rocky ledge, his fingers throbbing inside the thick, expensive gloves he’d stolen along with the rest of his climbing gear. “Custardspines! May your widows laugh when they think of you! May your – nngh, ow, ow – may your bones roll downhill and land in a cowpat!”

To give his mind something with which to occupy itself besides the biting cold, he wondered as to their identities.

His research had revealed that seventy-two men and women were known for a fact to have died on the way to Evil Veronica’s icy pinnacle, and over two thousand according to legend and rumour.

Most of the known casualties were idiots; highborn second sons with a chip on the shoulder, more money than sense, and everything to prove. They usually died before reaching the halfway mark, which he’d passed eighteen hours ago.

“Could have gone to university, you rich twit,” he chided one reddish-grey lump that might have been a boulder as easily as a person with a click of his tongue. “Could have become a renowned scholar or… or one of those wanky artists who paints meadows. Made something of yourself. What a waste.”

Which wasn’t entirely fair, he knew, given that many of the corpses had, in fact, been men of learning who’d made the climb in search of new plants, a better view of the stars, or, in one notable case that people were still chuckling over, to find out if angels could be charmed from the Heavens if you just got high enough and sang the right hymns.

Over there, for example.

Unless he was very much mistaken, that was the great bronze telescope of Lord Fabian, renowned astrologer and absolute loon, poking up from the pile of murderous white powder that had killed its erstwhile owner ten years ago.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he crooned at it. “I’ll tell you what, eh, if I could get you down the slope and back to civilisation, you’d probably earn me enough to buy a nice little observatory of my own. And drugs! Oh, I’d buy so many drugs. Enough to bury a horse in.”

Gods alive, he was cold.

EVIL MEN: 10 NOVEMBER 2023

[ramblings-from-the-ether]

EAM Ext. Plays: Civilization VI !

Context / Settling

A mysterious game about the rise and fall of empires has found its way into the game nights of Molly's adoptive family. How would they play a game that claims to be inspired by a history that never existed?

Players: Molly, Giovanni, Sylvie, Mera, Indus, Feenie, Trixie, Rick, Zora, Yoomtah, Naven, Ramsey, Howie and Percy.

(Also known as EAM Extended or EAM Ext; credits to @epitheterasedgen as the originator of the base EAM concept)

Game: Sid Meier's Civilization VI (with both Rise & Fall and Gathering Storm expansions).

Some things we're going to assume (but please put down theories and suggestions if you have any, we'd love to read them!):

This takes place between Redwood Run and Prison Of Plastic in terms of everyone's character development.

That everyone (see Players) is able to independently operate a computer as well as one that can run the game in question.

Everyone views the game as alternate history fantasy and all the 'factions' as fictional. "Why is Australia here?"

The game has a language setting for the EE universe's language so that the family can actually understand what they're doing. They assume all the other language settings as really well designed conlangs made by dedicated developers.

No one in the EE universe has any idea who made the game or how it was developed. All the names and developing firms do not show up in any records, and everyone just accepts it as part of the game's mysterious allure.

If no one can identify Roman numerals, then chances are the characters will refer to the game verbally as 'Civilisation: We' .

The game is hailed in the EE universe (or at least in communities aware of its existence) as being the pinnacle of alternate language and culture creations for a piece of entertainment.

Who do you think would try to study the languages the most, Sylvie, Feenie or somebody else?

List of civilisations that everyone would use

Molly = Mongolia under Kublai Khan

Giovanni = Hungary

Sylvie = Babylon

Mera = Phonicia

Indus = {Prefers} Maori or Gilgamesh (Sumer) {Mera may convince Indus to instead choose Ottomans}

Percy = Poland

Ramsey = Australia

Trixie = Macedonia

Feenie = Canada

Naven = Sweden

Zora = Norway

Yoomtah = Gran Colombia or Scythia

Howie = China

Rick = Maori {else Phonecia else Norway else Japan.}

Explanations for the list coming soon!