#the realisation of the monster you are becoming and its such a... mundane thing something that otherwise would be pretty cool but here it

[trenchcrows]

Thinking about mag102 and the horror that is being able to understand french, truly the most terrifying thing to come from tma

[i-write-boop-spoops]

N Harmonia Fluff Alphabet

One anon asked for an N fluff alphabet and another asked for just any N content, so I hope this sates you both!

Not proof read so rip me

Enjoy!

A = Activities (what do they like to do with their s/o? how do they spend their free time?)

Rather expectantly, N loves looking after Pokemon with you! Whether you’re playing with, feeding or tending to them, he really enjoys seeing you being so sweet and kind to cute little mons and giant scary monsters alike.

He also loves just snuggling up with you and playing with each other’s’ hair. He really cherishes that kind of gentle, intimate affection.

Other than that, he really enjoys doing mundane things with you, stuff like going grocery shopping, cleaning the house, gardening etc, even before you live together. There’s something very comforting about it.

Oh, and he loves dancing with you!

B = Beauty (what do they admire about their s/o? what do they think is beautiful about them?)

He admires your kindness obviously, but also your determination and resilience! He thinks you’re so strong, and in turn, it emboldens him too!

As for physical beauty? He loves your smile, even just a little quirk of your lips makes him so happy. It’s just so precious!

C = Comfort (how do they help their s/o when they feel down? what makes them feel better?)

N isn’t the best at this kind of stuff, but he definitely tries his best to offer you support. Usually he just sits with you and lets you vent, or cry into his shoulder, often bringing a cute pokemon with him to cheer you up. He also likes bringing you on walks, hoping it might clear your head.

His words of affirmation, though few, are quite powerful, so you know he means them.

When he’s sad, he’d like to be treated in a similar fashion, just quiet support and cute Pokemon

D = Dreams (how do they picture their future with their s/o and in general?)

N doesn’t really know how he wants his life to go, the only thing he’s certain of is that he wants to continue improving the relationships between humans and Pokemon, and that he wants to be with you for the rest of time.

E = Equal (are they the dominant one in the relationship or are they rather passive?)

Due to his lack of experience, he’s definitely more on the passive side, preferring to let you take the lead when it comes to dates and stuff. Though he has no problem asserting himself (gently) if he wants to do something else instead.

F = Fight (how quick are they to forgive their s/o? what are they like in an argument? who says sorry first?)

N hates fighting with you, absolutely despises it, so he tends to avoid it when he can. Inevitably, like in all relationships, you end up in a few spats. He’s never mean to you, but he does try talk over you and has a habit of just walking out instead of working out the issue right away. Really he just goes for a walk to calm him down, and he’s usually back in an hour or two, but you probably don’t solve your disagreement until the next day.

He finds it quite easy to admit fault and apologise, so you don’t have to weasel a ‘sorry’ out of him. And due to his earnest nature, you know he means it.

G = Gifts (what kind of things do they gift to their s/o? are they spontaneous or do they stick to special events like anniversaries?)

When N gives a gift, most of the time, he doesn’t even realise it. He just sees something he thinks you’d like and just gives it to you without a second thought. Usually it’s pretty flora or candy, occasionally it’s a plush. Sometimes you get gifts very often, sometimes it’s weeks, maybe months, between each present.

H = Heart Eyes (what are they like in love? is it obvious to others? how do they express their love? do they brag about their s/o to others?)

N can be described as blissfully confused when in love. So soft and blushy and not totally sure what he’s feeling, but he sure does love it, and you. His Pokemon friends pick up on it immediately and root for the two of you.

Unintentionally brags. He just thinks you’re swell and tends to bring that up often, but he’s not trying to gloat.

I = Impression (what first attracted them to their s/o? how accurate was their first impression to how their s/o actually is?)

You seemed to handle that little joltik so carefully as you returned it to its mother galvantula, without an ounce of fear or malice in your eyes, and truly only kindness in your heart. It made him feel so at ease, like he had found a kindred spirit.

Not only was he right, he also found his soulmate too,

J = Jealousy (do they get jealous easily? how do they deal with it?)

N doesn’t quite understand jealousy. Like, you love each other, what does he have to worry about? He likes your friends a lot, and he finds anybody who tries to flirt with you more annoying than anything else

K = Kiss (are they a good kisser? what was their first kiss like? where do they kiss the most?)

At the beginning, N’s kisses are sweet but awkward, he’s so new to it, so he’s a bit afraid he might make a mistake. As your relationships progresses though, he becomes more comfortable and confident with it, and kisses reflect that, so soft and caring and full of meaning

I did a whole thing about N and kissing here

L = Little Things (what are the little things they love about their s/o? are they attentive?)

Really what doesn’t he love? It’s not that he puts you on a pedestal, he just genuinely finds you amazing and he loves you so much

M = Marriage (do they want to get married? how do they propose? what would the wedding be like?)

N doesn’t feel the need to marry you, as long as you’re in love, that’s what matters to him, a piece of paper doesn’t make it any more valid than it is in his eyes.

That being said, if you want to get married, he’s down for it, but don’t expect anything sappy or traditional. No proposal, no huge event, just the two of you exchanging heartfelt vows at the courthouse, with matching rings.

N = Nicknames (what do they call their s/o? what do they get called?)

He doesn’t really use nicknames, just the occasionally “Love” or “Dear”

On the flipside, he loves your nicknames for him. Some of his favourites are “Cutie”, “Sweetie”, “Greenie” and “Nat”

O = Open (do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? is it easy for them to share?)

While I wouldn’t say N is an open book, he doesn’t really hide things from you. He tells you how he feels without much fanfare, and you’re made aware of his past quite early on, even before you started dating.

P = Pancakes (are they a good cook? how often do they cook for their s/o? breakfast in bed or fancy dinner dates?)

N’s actually pretty good at cooking, and tends to cook pretty often, especially when you’re on the road together. His meals are simple and comforting, sometimes spicy, lots of soups and curries and rice.

Since he’s vegetarian, he prefers to cook for the two of you instead of going out, since most restaurants don’t have great options for him. That being said, if you find a place with a good menu, he’s totally down to take you there.

Q = Quirk (a random quality/ability that is beneficial to their relationship.)

N does not understand the concept of BS, so you don’t have to worry about playing weird mind games to find out what he really wants. As a result, your relationship is quite chill

R = Romance (how romantic are they? are they cliché or creative?)

Again, he’s not traditionally romantic, but he does care about you quite a lot and loves making you smile. And while it doesn’t say “I love you” very often, he means it, and that is a lot more valuable than any serenade or flower bouquet

S = Sleep (who falls asleep first? do they need their s/o close to them? do they have any bad habits?)

If you play with his hair, he’s out like a light. While he’s cuddles are lax and loose when he’s awake, he hugs you like a teddy when he’s fast asleep.

His sleep routine is shit though.

T = Thrill (do they need to spice up their relationship with new things or do they stick to a routine? how often do they do new things?)

N loves the cosiness of domestic mundanity, so it’s safe to say he likes to play it, well, safe. It gives him a sense of comfort and stability that he really appreciates.

U = Unity (did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? what traits do they share?)

Through being with you, N learns to be more attentive and emotional (in a healthy way), and to appreciate humans even more. He also feels more human too.

While you already loved Pokemon, he makes you see how truly amazing and special they are, and treat them even better than you did before.

V = Value (how important is their relationship to them? what is it worth compared to other things in their life?)

Your relationship is very important to him, but deep down, you know his love for Pokemon trumps his love for you. Though it never causes an issue with you

W = Wild Card (a random fluff headcanon.)

Likes to make matching flower crowns for the two of you and whatever Pokemon you’’re with at the time!

X = XOXO (do they like to kiss and cuddle? are they upfront about their relationship or rather shy when in public?)

N loves fluttery kisses and really tender hugs and cuddles, ones when you’re loosely tanged together and gently stroking each other’s skin.

He is not a PDA person at all, besides holding your hand and the occasional kiss. Some of it is shyness, but it’s mostly because he doesn’t feel the need to prove your relationship to anyone. He doesn’t use affection lightly.

Y = Yearning (how do they cope when they spend time away from their s/o? do they miss their s/o?)

He’s pretty okay on his own, since he’s quite used to it, but he does still miss you a lot. He finds comfort in things that remind you of him, a certain scent, a flower, a sound, even a Pokemon, it makes him feel like you’re with him

Z = Zoo (do they have pets? do they want some in the future?)

N doesn’t have any pets, mainly because he thinks Pokemon are friends. How many Poke-friends does he have? Too many for even him to count. My man radiates serious Disney Princess energy with the way Pokemon seem to flock to him.

That being said, he’s not against good people having Pokemon as pets, so if you have pokemon, you know he’ll be the best dad to them ever.

[kiingocreative]

The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

.

.

.

I often feel that it took me thirty years to write my first book, No Pain, No Game. Not because I was physically writing it for that long, but because finally publishing my first novel felt like the culmination of three decades of bad writing, half-finished novels, random short-stories and a million mundane diary entries. It took that long to experiment with my craft, hone my skills, and master the fear of putting my work out there for all to see.

Exaggerations aside, it actually took me three years to write No Pain, No Game, from typing the first word on an otherwise blank page to having a fully-fledged, ready-to-publish novel. Those three years consisted of mostly undisciplined writing, sitting down to work on the story as and when the urge arose, sometimes not looking at it for weeks on end, and only getting back to it when inspiration hit. Only when I got serious about publishing did I put in the hours consistently, whether or not I was in the mood for it. The whole experience felt like not so much like long distance running, but more like a slow, often sluggish stop-start stroll, with a heart-pumping sprint at the very end.

I came out of having published the book revved up from adrenaline, soaking in the momentum, fretting for more and ready to do it all again. Out came the laptop again, the rush to get the first draft over and done with and the mad rush into editing-land.

It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint (and not interval running, and not a slow leisurely walk)

The thing with sprinting, however, is that if you do it for too long, you quickly run out of breath and I soon learnt that maintaining that level of effort over time was unsustainable. Somewhere in the middle of editing my first draft, I hit a wall.

A big, fat, hundred feet high brick and mortar monster of a wall. I never saw it coming, and I face-planted right into it. For weeks after that I couldn’t look at my manuscript or social media, and I had to take a proper break from it all to restore.

The break gave me a chance to introspect and take stock of what had happened. It felt to me that, if I wanted to keep on writing more books (which I did) I had to pivot from my disorganised style of writing to a more committed endeavour. There’s nothing wrong with a leisurely walk, or random bouts of interval running, but I realised it wouldn’t give me the kind of results I was truly after. I had to look at writing as a marathon, and build the sort of stamina and endurance I needed to do this many times over without burning out.

From Dilettante to Disciplined Writer

When I think back to writing my first book, I wonder if there’s some truth in the saying that ignorance is bliss. Because I was less focused on the outcome at the time, I was better able to enjoy the ups and downs of the process, especially because I only sat to work at it when I felt like it. I was also mostly unaware of the mountain of logistics that come with writing and publishing a book, so I’d be able to see the distance I’d covered, without worrying about the miles that still stretched ahead of me. Yes, ignorance was, most definitely, a little bit like bliss.

Reminiscing on her own experience, author Shamika Lindsay says that, with her first book, ‘the process felt so different and [she] almost felt the pen gliding across the paper but with [the sequel], it was like pulling teeth’. In fact, she adds, starting to write her second book from scratch felt like ‘such a chore and [she] was just so eager to complete it because [she] felt like it took so much from [her] to write than the first book’.

For R. G. Tully, author of the Ardamin series, who put greater emphasis on the editing stage when working on his second book, the process also took longer and wasn’t always enjoyable. ‘The editing grind was exactly that, a grind’, he confesses.

But you have to do it whether you like it or not, because the only way out is through. There are, fortunately or unfortunately, no shortcuts. Fortunately, because it’s the very act of going through that arduous journey that makes you a better writer in the end. And unfortunately, because there can be times it’s just not all that pleasant.

You’ll be surprised the amount of distractions that manifest themselves when you desperately need a reason not to work on your manuscript — it’s actually quite spooky. Treating writing with discipline, organisation and professionalism is exactly what will prevent you falling off tracks, and what ultimately gets the work done. And that’s the difference between a published book and one that’ll sit indeterminately unfinished somewhere in your archives.

A Tough Act to Follow

Unfortunately, there’s still a little bit more to writing your second book than just great discipline. Even when you’re able to get yourself to follow through and show up for your craft, giving your first book a literary sibling can come with its own challenges, especially because you have something to compare it to.

And it’s not only you, but your readers too, who will be expecting certain standards from your writing, especially if it’s a series. Though it shouldn’t come in the way of writing the book you want to write, the relationship of trust you’ve built with your readership through your first book still needs to be honoured, and this can cause certain amounts of pressure.

‘I felt a little pressure to keep the same feel about the story’, R. G. Tully says, ‘and to include more from my secondary characters, give them a little more depth’.

Stormi Lewis, author of the Sophie Lee trilogy, puts it simply: ‘It was a little hard to decide how to exactly start [with the second book]. At first I was worried and became overwhelmed because so many loved the first one. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I had to step back and come to terms that they loved it for being unique. And the only way I could stay true to the story and give them what they really wanted was to focus on the story and not so much about what I thought they wanted for the second.’

For others, the comparison can be more inward-facing, like author Tara Lake, who admits that writing the second book in her series has been a challenge, because she’s ‘struggled with comparison of the self: past Tara had a lot more time to devote to writing, present Tara has much less time with [her] kids being home full time from school during much of the pandemic’.

For others still, some of that pressure can be self-imposed. When writing her second book, Freya McMillan shares that ‘[she] put a huge amount of pressure on [herself] as [she] wanted it to be meaningful in a particular way to honour [her] dad, who died a few years ago. Once [she] stopped doing that, it was much less challenging to write’.

It Ain’t All Bad.

I do want to pause here and add that not everyone faces such challenges. There are authors out there who launched into writing their second book with more ease than the first.

Sabrina Voerman tells me that ‘[her] second book came a lot easier to [her] than [her] first book. The idea hit [her] so hard and fast that it took [her] aback, and [she] could do nothing but write it’, and the entire novel was written in a matter of weeks, whilst her first book took years to finish.

Same for Trevor Wiltzen, who says that writing the sequel to his first book went smoothly, greatly helped by the fact that ‘[he] wrote the second book immediately after the first, [so he] knew the characters really well’. He admits he ‘found it very freeing and really enjoyed the process’.

Even Stormi Lewis, who struggled at first, adds that ‘once [she] got started, [she] was fine’ and that ‘[she] felt the writing was solid and [her] best book yet, simply because [she] really got to develop more of the characters and the story’.

As with everything, we must then conclude, there will be as many types of experiences as there are writers out there. So how can we best prepare for what’s to come?

A Chance to Grow

Performance coach Tony Robbins says that the quality of our lives is intricately linked to the quality of the questions we ask ourselves on a daily basis. So if we need to face something that’s outside our comfort zone — starting again from scratch on your second book for instance — is it a punishment or is it a gift? Is it a curse or an opportunity?

I’m tempted to think that the level of discomfort that can come with writing your second book is a gift, because it gives us a chance to grow.

It’s a chance to take everything we’ve learnt from doing it the first time around and take our learnings for a spin to see if it makes the process easier. It’s an opportunity to improve, to work at our craft in new and wonderful ways.

It’s both daunting and incredibly exciting to face a brand new story — or a different side to the same story for those writing series — and to dare to plunge into the unknown of where it’s fated to take you. It’ll see you grow and evolve as a writer and, in turn, you’ll get to watch your writing morph into something more mature than it was before.

I say look at your writing like you do the passing of seasons: different times will have different qualities, different characteristics, different feels to them. You live and learn through each of them, and gather a wealth of experiences that eventually inform who you become. Maintaining the discipline to write through every single one of them is what will ultimately give your work all its depth and substance.

All it takes is that first word on the page.

And the second.

And the third.

And all the words beyond that.

[gatherthesuspectspod]

A hundred ways to die in Wales

Hello Tumblr!

My first post ever here! I’m still learning the ropes, so please be kind!

This might be awfully presumptuous of me, but you may recognise the name from a few years back. Before all of this happened, I worked for BBC Radio 4 as their Welsh correspondent - a bit niche, I grant you, but I did alright on social media. I even had a blue tick on Twitter before it went down for good. 

At its peak, whatever media you worked in, scoops were delivered on social media. No one went to the radio or the newspapers for breaking news. Hell, even the TV news was struggling.  So, even radio journalists like me had to be twitter savvy, you know? 

It does make me wonder how Tumblr survived. As a journalist (well, former journalist) I should probably have done some research and found out…  

 My housemate, Jack, suggested I start to keep this blog so that he, in his exact words, ‘wouldn’t have to listen to me moan about not being a journalist anymore.’ So, here I am, coming to scream into the void that is the last social media platform standing (apart from LinkedIn… Shoulda known that even during the apocalypse, start-up CEO Chad Moneybags would still need to post motivational bullshit about 5 am starts and tagging every post with ‘#crushingit’)

Anyway, I’ve strayed slightly from the point… So, this blog isn't going to be full of hard-hitting investigative journalism or even those colourful local news stories you used to see about water skiing hamsters. It’s just going to be me, posting my thoughts about how much more screwed the world is than the previous week. 

Cheerful stuff, right? Well, as REM sang, ‘it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine’. And you know what, while fine might be stretching a bit, it could be worse...

Before it happened, when people thought about the end of the world, we always pictured some huge catastrophe. ‘The Hollywood Apocalypse,’ Jack calls it. You know the kind - people screaming in the streets as some unspeakable horror unfolds about them. 

In movies, the end of the world was always sudden, over in a flash,  with pockets of humanity left to pick up the pieces of a shattered world. Except, that’s not how it happened, not that we should be surprised, life rarely imitates the movies. 

In fact, it happened so slowly and contained so many individual strands that by the time it arrived, it took us even more by surprise - even the right-wing newspapers didn’t have time to come up with some ‘pithy’ name for it. I’ve always liked the term ‘tipping point,’ The point at which every one of those strands, however linked or disparate, tipped the scales so far against humanity, there was no turning back. 

I mean, we shouldn’t have been surprised. We had been warned, after all. For years (no, decades, even) scientists talked about how we were destroying the earth. From the changing climate to the destruction of entire ecosystems, all in the name of capitalism. 

People warned us it would lead to societal collapse. It wasn’t hard to see it coming, if you were paying attention. But, even if you were paying attention, the sheer magnitude of it was enough to cause even the strongest advocates some blind spots caused by existential terror. Like a Lovecraftian monster rising from the depths of the ocean, who could wrap their head around the true horror.  

Instead, we played out our little culture wars as the planet died… we elected people to distract and not solve… we lied and allowed ourselves to be lied to. Until, in the end, there were so many that no longer cared about the truth that finding a solution was never a possibility.   

The rise of ignorance led to the rise of populism, which led to the rise of fascism, and eventually isolationism. Each country, widowed and trapped in its own poky bachelor apartment of despair. With nothing but memories of past glories to keep it going while the world around slowly burns.

The thing about this kind of creeping apocalypse, this tipping point, is that there is a certain mundanity in it all. There are millions dead, but there was no Hollywood pre-credit sequence of terrified crowds running through Manhattan. 

This apocalypse had an absence of symbols - actually, no. That’s not quite right. I mean, we don’t have the statue of liberty drowning in sand while hyper-intelligent apes roam the planet, sure. But last week, the sea caught on fire… the fucking sea! You’d think after completely decimating the planet for a hundred years, some companies may have learned a lesson or two - like not setting dire to the fucking sea again!

And just today, the newspapers are full of pictures of yet another ghost town in West Wales slowly sinking into the sea. We have our symbols, alright. They are just smaller, more mundane than the Hollywood apocalypse we always felt we deserved - as a species, we are so arrogant that we feel even our extinction deserves something special, something showy. But, like I said, if you are paying attention, there are symbols to be found everywhere. 

Is our slow, boring apocalypse better than the ostentatious apocalypses of Tinseltown, complete with their big budget explosions and alien invasions? I’m honestly not sure. 

One part of me used to think that at least then it would be over quickly. This was a particularly comforting thought during the war, as English shells rained down on Cardiff. But, even the war fizzled slowly, bubbling away around the fringes, with neither country having the resources, will or money to mount any serious threat to the other. It turned out that not even the newly installed Albion dictatorship in England could get away with a costly hot war, while millions of its citizens starved to death. 

It sounds weird to say, but slowly you adjust to it. You know? Slowly, bit-by-bit, the fucking sea being on fire doesn’t seem such a big deal as it did a year ago. Slowly, bit-by-bit, you stop watching the news. You realise the images of starving children 50 miles away over the border have become the norm. 

You become desensitised to the food queues, the extreme swings in weather, the rapidly shrinking coastline. When was the last time you even saw a bee? It’s all just normal. But in spite of all of that, we still sit here, night after night, staring at our tiny plastic phones, reading the latest #crushingit update from that douchebag Chad, half hoping that there is still time for the aliens to show up and finish the job…

I realise that was quite a long run-on sentence, but it’s been a while. I’m out of practice. Like I said, it’s been three years since I last wrote, well, anything! I don’t know if anyone will even read this… I mean how many people can even access Tumblr anymore? But, Jack was right, it did help to get some stuff out.

Until next time (possibly), stay bored out there!

Kara

[inkdemonapologist]

Okay but I do actually want to know both the things you love and the things you could rant about from DCTL?

OH BOY UHHHHHH okay lets see, I'm gonna see if I can do the "add a readmore after you post it" thing and see if that'll keep it stable.......

But also, much like Sammy, I am incapable of shutting up unless you strike me in the head with a blunt object, so uh, forgive my wordiness:

THINGS I ENJOY:

- DCTL gave us Sammy's ink addiction and like, if you had asked me before all this "what would you most like to see in a franchise?" I would not have answered "one of the characters drinks ink accidentally and then discovers that he can't stop" but boy that sure is my favourite concept that I LOVE to see handled literally any other way than how the book handled it!!!

- I like what it added to Tom and Allison and Norman!! Like, it's not big twists on their characters or anything -- we already knew Tom felt he was doing the wrong thing, so getting to see his CRUSHING GUILT over creating the machine isn't New Information, but it's nice to see and understand more of him; for all of them I feel a lot more attached to them after getting to see more of them as people.

- Like 90% of the "I LOVE IT" category for me is how the book handled Joey, and Buddy's relationship with Joey. The way Joey isn't a Sinister Mastermind Who’s Just Screwing With Everyone but just manipulative in a more mundane way -- someone who thinks of himself as just the guy with the vision to call the shots; he wants what he wants and this is how he's learned to get it; he exploits people not through devious schemes, but just by offering them something that they want or need and asking too much in return, expecting their loyalty for his favours. And the way he interacts with Buddy, making Buddy complicit with him and keeping Buddy off-balance and insecure while making him a favourite and treating him as Special is just PERFECT --  gives a lot of content to kind of extrapolate off of when pondering what must've drawn the others in and convinced them to ignore the red flags. I was initially frustrated with the idea of Buddy not being an artist and jUST DECIDING TO LEARN TO ANIMATE ON THE SPOT ("I've never done this before but I'm sure I can just do an artist's job" is a weirdly common throwaway thing in media and as an artist iTS A PET PEEVE) but actually the way they use his plagiarism to make him trapped in a lie in ways Joey doesn't even realise ends up being a neat echo of other employees (coughTOMcough), who were involved in much graver sins but suddenly felt they couldn't object or they'd lose their one chance, just like Buddy. There's a lot here that I think is really great.

OKAY THATS THE GOOD STUFF, LET'S COMPLAIN ABOUT SAMMY:

- Uncomfortable Bigotry Vagueness that we all knew was gonna be in this list -- I dunno man, a guy committing a microaggression and getting startled and defensive when he's called out for it doesn't necessarily completely ruin his character I GUESS, but the way this was handled is just SO WEIRD AND VAGUE that it's uncomfortable and it doesn't seem to serve any real purpose. "Is Tom black?" is a question I actually have to ask because the text sort of implies he is while also dancing around it and apparently Word of God said he's not??? which makes Buddy's comment nonsensical???? And I mean, you could go that route, since Buddy wonders to himself if Sammy talks to everyone like this -- HE ACTUALLY DOES!! Even within the text of the novel, he uses "Joey" instead of Mr. Drew, which is consistent with his audiologs in the game -- but that makes the writing suggest "this character THINKS this guy might be racist but actually they're reading too much into it and it wasn't racially motivated at all, he's just a jerk!!" wHICH IS SOMEHOW EVEN MORE ICKY??? Anyway like yeah I guess it's not inconsistent with his character that while Sammy Lawrence may not have any specific grudge against minorities he has probably not checked his privilege or done the work to challenge his own internal biases, but “Your Fav Probably Contributes To Systemic Racism In Ways He Hasn’t Considered, As Do We All When Our Assumptions Go Unchecked” is still a wild thing to wade through in a fun story about demonic cartoons

- but yknow so is T H E   H O L O C A U S T

- Sammy's voice is wrong. I'm actually okay with him being a weird awkward asshole, I already kind of assumed he was and that's part of why I like him!! but there's so many places he doesn't quite... talk like himself? And not just in terms of word choice, like -- so in his monologue at the end, he's described as talking so quickly that his words are "tumbling out faster than he can speak them," which initially seems fine; like yeah, that's a Standard Scene we're familiar with, the person who's been Driven Mad With Insight becoming more and more manic as they try to convey it -- until I tried to imagine it and realised that Sammy doesn't talk like this. That's a really consistent quality I always notice about his voice; whether he's almost giddily excited in prophet mode, or he’s his irritated and overworked human self, or he's violently angry and his voice has that echo effect -- he always speaks very deliberately. He enunciates carefully. There's some circumstances where I'd buy this as showing that he's Not Himself, but I feel like those would kind of need to be in the middle of his transformation, not at the end of it.

- In fact a lot of the scenes with Sammy kind of have this feeling -- that it's not necessarily an exploration of Sammy as a character, but that he is filling a trope or archetype role here. Once he's fully transformed he excitedly describes the process as more of a mental compulsion, which is in contrast to his weird yeerk-infected behaviour when trying to get ink from Miss Lambert. Both of those scenes don't seem wrong on their own because they fit tropes we know -- but they feel weird when you try to fit them together.

- I also just in general am not a fan of the ink acting like a weird yeerk. It can be a parasite I guess but when it starts overwriting and puppeting people and crawling around to enter their body that's just a completely DIFFERENT kind of supernatural story and it’s not what im here for!!!

- THE FREAKIN!!! HE WILL SET US FREE!!!! WHY????????? SAMUEL LAWRENCE WHAT IS HE SETTING YOU FREE FROM??????? Sammy has No Motive for any of what he's doing, other than just Ink Made Me Do It. The whole thing that was INTERESTING about Sammy as a character is the contrast between this frustrated, ornery musician with no specific love for the cartoons he works on, and the manically devoted cultist he becomes. What happened in the middle there? What made him desperate enough to shift his mindset so much? "Something supernatural made him do things that don't benefit him in any way" is a very boring answer to this question!!! Susie was a victim who implies that her transformation has forced her to do things she didn't want to do, but we can still see her motive -- she wanted to be Alice, so she took a sketchy offer to try to get what she wanted. Even now, her violence echoes that goal -- to be a more perfect Alice. What did Sammy want? WHO KNOWS. Even in his ink-addled state at the end, we don't understand what he hopes the Ink Demon will even do for him, and in fact he seems to be responsible for creating the very scenario he's begging Bendy to reverse in the game.

- [sighs loudly into my hands]

- Overall I'm left wondering if the author just..... didn't like Sammy Lawrence? And I don't mean that in the sense of him being a rude jerk -- like, Joey is not a good person, but the author seems to be interested in him and in what makes him tick. There doesn't seem to be that same interest in Sammy. Sammy's role in the story is that of a monster, transformed into something murderous, unable to prevent or choose it. He's not a victim of anyone but the ink, no one had to manipulate him or figure out how his brain worked or what he wanted or what he feared or give him any reason to do the things he does -- ink got in his mouth and overwrote his personality. And we don't even get to see that change, not really. He starts out angry and defensive and continues being angry and defensive up until his very last scene, denying his ink-stealing but not really much else. We see all his prophetic sketches but we never see hints of this in him, we never see him start to act more excited and hopeful, we never see him seek out the demon he desires to please. Why do we never see Sammy struggling between his dismissive angry front and a building religious fervour he can't quite suppress? We don't get to see any of the in-between. There's no interest at all in why or even what it looked like as Sammy became what he became, when, to be honest, I suspect interest in precisely that is one reason he's such a big fav.

- It's funny, in a "cries into my hands" kind of way, when Sammy is just knocked in the head while monologuing and immediately removed from the story without further mention, like...... that sure is the pattern with him, isn't it, he just tries very very hard and never actually gets to matter, but it also fits right in here, too, in this book that doesn't want to think about his motives -- he rambles nonsensically, explaining nothing, gets one trademark phrase, and then is hastily removed so the story doesn't have to think about him anymore.

...................I think that's most of it.

...

Y'all............ I'm not ready for Sent From Above.......... I'm just not.... I'm not emotionally ready...... like..... Sammy has to be in that right..... he’s Susie’s boss and she has that big crush on him..................................... I’m not ready

[drabbledragon]

Linktober: Dark

Next up is day 10: Dark! I just wanted to thank you all for the likes, reblogs, and follows, and that I wish you all a very happy new year! 

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749021/chapters/69732201

Summary: There are circumstances that may lead one to take certain risks, and sometimes those risks lead to disaster.

Warnings: (Temporary) character death, mentions of violence, mentions of alcohol, and swearing.

Day 10: Dark

Wherever Time was, it was dark. There was not a single ounce of light here, and no matter where he looked or where he took a step forward, he was always met with pitch black. The darkness was suffocating, and he could feel his breath start to pick up once his hazy mind realised that there was no exit, that there was nothing to see, that there was no one else here to help him, and soon the whole room was starting to feel like it was closing in on him even though there were no walls and he suddenly couldn’t tell left from right or up from down or whether he was sitting or standing or lying down - it was all just dark, and it was slowly eating away at his sanity.

“You … out … right now …”

His breath caught in his throat. That fiery tone, that sweet, beautiful voice … that was … Malon, right?

Yes, of course. How could he forget the love of his life? The one he decided to settle down with on a small, peaceful ranch in the middle of Hyrule Field? The one who sang along with him whenever he played his ocarina and the one who watched beautiful sunsets with him as the last minutes of the day started to fade away? She was a constant soothing presence in his life, and he would never forgive himself if he ever forgot about Malon.

He stood still, hoping that in some way, listening to his wife’s voice could somehow lead him out of the darkness. It was strange that Malon’s voice was echoing from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and whatever she was saying was so choppy and fragmented that Time could barely make out the syllables of each word, but her voice was like a lifeline to him, and he was willing to try and latch onto it no matter how distant it was.

“What makes you believe that I should? I have not finished killing all the enemies here, nor have I finished correcting the mistakes in this timeline.”

This voice was deeper, colder, and more unforgiving than Malon’s, and each word rang out unnervingly clear in Time’s mind. The being’s tone was indifferent towards the words it was saying, as if the very notion of killing monsters and fixing mistakes in a timeline was just another mundane task that anyone could do. Time would’ve chuckled if the situation wasn’t all so disorientating. As if fixing something so complicated as a timeline was simple, he should know; he’s been struggling with trying to correct his mistakes for years now, and all his attempts have either led to the eventual destruction of Hyrule or to the creation of more timelines, which would only make his hair turn greyer from the added stress. Honestly, at this point, he was sure that only Hylia herself or some other god could fix this.

Wait. Another god. 

Another god.

His heart was suddenly racing, the thumping in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears getting overwhelmingly loud. Had he really put on the Fierce Deity mask and become that soulless, heartless god? What were even the circumstances that led him to do that? He swore that he would only use that thing if the situation at hand was nearly hopeless - if his or his loved ones’ lives were practically hanging by a thin thread - but surely it hadn’t come to that, had it?

Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t really remember what had happened. The latest memory he had at the moment was having to buy a new shield for Wild because he broke it while shield - surfing, but that was nearly a day ago - or was it just a few hours ago? Or a couple of minutes ago? Or maybe weeks ago? For someone renowned as the ‘Hero of Time’, his namesake was definitely failing him.

How long had it been since he had given the Fierce Deity control over his body? How long had it been since he last saw light? How long had it been since he’d last seen Malon, or any of the other heroes for that matter? Where were the other heroes? Where was he? 

“He … kill me … let … go.”

He lifted his head up at a dizzying speed and his eye widened with fear. No, what was Malon talking about? Why was she suddenly talking about ‘killing’ of all things? She knew so much about the Fierce Deity mask and its bloodlust so why in the world was she tempting that thing?

He sucked in a sharp breath. 

He needs out. He needs out right now.

“Let me out!” Time yelled out to no one, but even if it seemed as such, he knew that the deity could hear him. “ Let me out right now!”

“Link … enough … let … go.”

“I know you can hear me! Let me out right now!”

“... Dead … stop … enough.”

“I will burn you to ashes if you lay a single finger on Malon! You hear me?! I’ll kill you!”

Together, he and Malon pleaded from two different sides, the latter’s coming out in careful demands and the former’s coming out in harsh screams. It was impossible to know what was going on outside, and it made Time feel all the more fearful because he didn’t know if he was off simply killing a few Moblins and Lizalfos, or was about to stab a sword through his wife’s chest. He needs to know what was going on. He needs out.

After what felt like an eternity, he felt the floor tilt from beneath him when the Fierce Deity finally nodded and said, “ Very well.” Time’s world was suddenly flooded with light.

His body was already pitching forward before his mind could even register it, and the feel of strong arms coming to wrap around his chest was barely felt through the numbness in his body. His head lolled wearily onto the person’s shoulder, and he didn’t even bother to move the locks of hair that pressed haphazardly against his face. His whole being was sagging with both fatigue and relief, and when he was finally able to make out the white dress underneath his chin and the sight of ginger locks, he used all his remaining strength to lock Malon into a tight hug.

“Link!” She shouted in surprise, but he only squeezed harder, refusing to let her go as if she would disappear without his hold. He buried his head further into her neck and breathed in the familiar scent of hay and home - cooked meals, slowly easing his shoulders when his mind finally registered that he was free from the deity’s hold, he was able to use his own body again, and that he was back home, safe and sound. He pulled away for a second, ready to scold his wife for even attempting to do something so reckless as standing up to a god, but froze when he saw the state of Hyrule Field.

The field - his home -  was littered with bodies: those of monsters, humans, and Hylians all strewn about like tossed ragdolls. Blood coated the ground in dark, messy paint splatters on a grassy canvas, and the weapons and armor of the multitude of soldiers that came here were all broken into pieces, destroyed with clean and powerful slices. The whole place reeked of death, and it was nothing like the beautiful plains he was used to seeing.

What had the Fierce Deity done?

He didn’t even realise he was staggering until he felt his wife’s arms around him again.

“Link!” A frantic voice called out, and Time was barely able to recognize it as Malon’s. “ It’s going to be alright!”

He would’ve laughed if his throat wasn’t so tight. ‘Alright’? ‘Alright’? There was nothing that could be ‘alright’ about this situation; the Fierce Deity had killed innocent people - he had killed innocent people - and there was no magical way to grab all their souls and force them back into their respective bodies. They were dead, plain and simple.

His wife was leading him towards their home with one of his arms wrapped firmly across her shoulders and another arm delicately pressing his side to hers. Time could barely keep his heavy steps in time with Malon’s strides, and the right side of his face burned hotter than the flames on Volvagia’s back, but he tried to focus all of his attention on the determination etched onto Malon’s face, hoping vainly that he could draw some sort of hope from that.

His wife was settling him on their shared bed before he was even able to register it, and the soft plush of quilts and blankets did nothing to quell the massive pit in his stomach. Neither the sting of alcohol on his skin as his wounds were cleaned nor Malon’s gentle reassurances did nothing to bring him out of his shock; his mind was still lost in Hyrule Field, looking upon the corpses that littered the green like blooming weeds.

He wondered how long he had been gone for. Minutes? Hours? It could’ve very well been days if he was being completely honest. From the time he put on the mask to the time the Fierce Deity took it off, the Hero of Time was stuck in a dark limbo, where neither his senses nor time itself existed. He surmised that the only reason he was even able to rouse was because of Malon’s voice piercing through the darkness like an arrow to the heart, and he used that opportunity to frantically regain control of his body; otherwise, if he just let that chance flitter away, then he was sure the deity would just kill her along with everyone else.

He startled when a light touch settled on his shoulder, and his eye fell onto an anxious redhead.

“Malon?” His voice trembled like that of a fearful child, and the ranchhand smiled sadly at him.

“That’s right, Fairy Boy. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to the market to fetch some more supplies. I’ll be back in ten minutes, so don’t even think about moving, alright?”

With a tight nod, he watched her move towards the door leading to the hallway, but after a sudden thought came to mind, he quickly blurted out, “ The boys?”

He held his breath as his wife paused in the doorway, and he felt each second tick by excruciatingly slow. Finally, after what felt like years of waiting, she finally turned back and quietly said, “ It’ll be alright.”

The Hero of Time’s stomach dropped. The forced smile on his wife’s lips, the way she dug her nails into the wooden doorframe, the reassuring words she uttered trying to get him to relax even though his subconscious was telling him that he shouldn’t get such a luxury - he should’ve known that something was wrong. Something worse had happened while the Fierce Deity had possessed him, and the little child within him was too scared to find out.

The time between Malon coming home and tending to his remaining injuries was an absolute blur. He remembered her walking back into the room with a myriad of potions and bandages in her arms, and the idle small talk she tried to make as she immediately got back to work. Her voice was soothing, and Time did his best to listen to what she was saying but his mind refused to budge from the topic of the Fierce Deity and death, even long after his wife had left. He was just … numb; his body, his senses, his emotions, were all just numb, all because of a memory he could not remember.

A few harsh knocks pulled Time out of his thoughts, and the visitor didn’t even bother to wait for an invitation. Warriors came barging into the room within seconds, with Wild slowly trailing in behind him, his face well - hidden beneath his signature cloak. They stood together at one side of the bedroom, and the Hero of Time couldn’t even muster the courage to look either of them in the eye.

“What did you do?”

Every bit of Warriors’s words were filled with unadulterated rage, even if they were just barely above a whisper. As the seconds ticked by without an answer, he yelled out louder, “ Tell me, Time, what the fuck did you do?!”

The Hero of Time flinched at the words, and could only muster out a small, “ U - Um -.”

“Can you even begin to understand the gravity of your actions?!” And the Hero of Warriors didn’t even concern himself with formalities anymore. “ You killed hundreds of innocent people just for your own sick enjoyment! They were here to help us - sent graciously by the queen herself - and you just slaughtered them as if they were nothing more than pigs and cattle! And the way you killed Legend and Sky … exactly how long were you waiting to do that?”

No - Time’s breath caught in his throat - no, no, Hylia, he didn’t -.

“Are you happy that two of Hylia’s Chosen Heroes are gone now, with two others well on their way? I’m sure Hyrule loves being in a coma, and Twilight is just absolutely thrilled about bleeding to death!”

Time didn’t miss the way Wild stiffened at the mention of his mentor, nor the shuddering breath he took.

Warriors took a step forward as to shield the champion from Time’s gaze and growled out, “ Those four trusted you - we all trusted you - and you stabbed us in the back like the fucking traitor that you are.”

The Hero of Time flinched at the words. Traitors were the thing that their captain hated the most, and when he said that someone was a traitor, he wholeheartedly meant it. 

His fingers twisted harder into the sheets underneath him. As pathetic as it was, he was scared. He was too terrified to ask the dreaded question of how he killed Legend and Sky, too terrified to see how bad off Twilight and Hyrule were, and too terrified to explain that he was under the control of a deity whose powers he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He betrayed those young heroes who he had considered him as a leader and family, and he had undoubtedly shattered any chance of regaining their trust; all he could do now is wither under the captain’s denouncement and apologize for something that couldn’t be forgiven.

It was Warriors who finally broke the tense silence by sharply turning on his heel and leading the Hero of Wilds and himself out. “ You’re a filthy disgrace to the Kingdom of Hyrule,” He spat out. “ And if I find you anywhere near me or any of the other heroes, I’ll kill you.”

The slam of a door marked their exit, and the Hero of Time was left alone again. 

The room was filled with a warm glow from the fading sunset, and all the small picture frames and knickknacks scattered about the place were highlighted in a beautiful orange - red. He would usually appreciate the breathtaking scene, happy that his cruel and demanding adventures had led him to living on a peaceful farm with his loving wife, but he couldn’t this time, not with the knowledge that this field was stained with the blood of innocent soldiers and heroes long before and after him.

He messed up - he fucked up - and he didn’t even bother to hide the small tears that dribbled down his face and onto the beautifully - quilted fabric. He worked so hard to keep the Kingdom of Hyrule at peace, and did his best to help those in need regardless of how demanding they were, but no amount of good deeds could ever bring back any of the people he mercilessly slaughtered. Who would he even blame for his actions? Hylia? The Fierce Deity? They were both deities that obviously didn’t care what a Hylian said about them; they would just go on with their respective existences, not even batting an eye at the millions they had killed for the sake of getting what they wanted.

But Time wasn’t like that: he was a person with feelings, limits, traumas, and regrets, and no matter how immune he thought he was to the problems of this world, he would always come tumbling back down from his high horse as soon as he couldn’t take being the Hero of Time anymore. He had become arrogant, the years of saving people and being a beacon of hope finally getting to his head and allowing him to take the risk of letting the Fierce Deity have control over him, thinking that in some way, somehow, he could finally regain some resemblance of control and transform back into his usual self. He was beyond stupid to think that such a simple Hylian like him could take on an otherworldly god, and he was beyond stupid to think that his plan, no matter how well thought - out, could outsmart anyone that had existed for millennia. What a terrible decision that was, allowing something as powerful as a deity to keep him in the dark while it went on doing whatever it pleased. If only he could turn back time and - .

He stilled for a second before his head shot up in an instant. He was stumbling to his feet before he even knew it, and was eagerly making his way over to wear his item pouch resided on the dresser. His hand dug greedily into the bag like a hungry wolf, and he didn’t stop until his fingers brushed against a familiar ceramic. The item came out with little resistance, and he couldn’t help but stare as the sun’s rays bounced off his ocarina’s blue shell. 

He could do it: he could turn back time and prevent any of this from ever happening. The instrument was at his lips within milliseconds, his breath already ready to blow out the familiar tune, when a sudden thought came to mind:

What would happen to this timeline? Time knew for a fact that timelines don’t just disappear, if Legend’s and Hyrule’s, Wild’s and Twilight’s, and Wind’s eras were anything to go by, so what exactly would the Malon here be left with? Would the Link she knew just cease to exist? Or would a carbon copy of himself still exist with memories only the past him would know? And what about the other heroes? Would they go on in their travels with only four heroes instead of nine, significantly reducing their manpower and chances of success? And what if they failed to take care of the overarching threat? He could be leaving behind millions of distraught people to a dismal fate with no Hero of Time to blame.

But he couldn’t remain here; not when Sky, Legend, Twilight, and Hyrule were so close to an untimely death, if not already dead. So he would go back in time, prevent the Fierce Deity from ever having any control over him, and make sure that no one died at his hand.

With his mind made up, he blew into the Ocarina of Time, and watched as the seconds ticked backwards.

Time jolted as he was thrown back into time, and anxiously looked at his surroundings: it looked like he was outside a small tavern … yes, the one he and the Links had stumbled upon two days and 16 hours ago, and judging by the moon’s high position in the sky, it appears that this is the time they were about to leave. As if on cue, an irritated Legend groaned out,

“Ugh, does he always do this? I swear, Cityboy is going to drink himself into a coma one day.”

Warriors, the person in question, directed a dramatic pointed look towards the former and slurred out, “ Hey, I’ll go into a coma whenever I want to, thank you very much.”

A cheery Sky readjusted his grip on the captain’s arm and nervously laughed, “ It’s okay; I’m sure he’s a responsible drinker and knows when he’s reached his limit.” But then added in a smaller voice, “ But I don’t think drinking this much in one sitting is a good idea.”

“No, it’s fine! I’ve seen Wars drink a lot more than he did tonight! And the stuff they had here wasn’t even that strong anyways.” Wind chimed in, and Four from beside him could only stare in exasperation at the unlabeled bottle hidden behind the sailor’s back.

Wild jogged to the group seconds after and asked, “ Hey, are we gonna get going soon? Because Twi is rounding up all the dogs here again, and we don’t want another incident like last time.” And as if to emphasize his point, he jabbed his thumb towards the direction where his mentor was busy playing with a large number of said canines.

Hyrule regarded his travelling companion with an empathetic smile as he answered back with, “ Yeah, I think we were about to leave, right Time?” And when he looked to the group’s leader, he asked in a more concerned tone, “ … Time?”

The Hero of Time didn’t even realize he was staring at each one of them until a majority of them were staring back at him, each regarding him with a curious gaze. He quickly shook his thoughts away and said, “ Yes, we should get going before morning comes.”

So the group began to trek forward towards the inn they would eventually settle into approximately an hour later, all the while bustling about each other’s actions. Time smiled warmly at the group’s antics, but quickly set his jaw in a show of determination. He had another chance to set things right, and goddesses - be - damned if he let this opportunity just slip away.

He won’t let anyone die this time.  

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and The Witcher Chapter 11

Summery: Geralt goes to fight the Bruxa and Julia is bonding with Ciri

Word Count: 2500

Warning: Fight Scene, Supernatural event

A/N This is my first fight scene so if this is your thing would love some pointers :) 

Chapter 11

It had taken a full morning to gather his items from the merchants, and the Villager had met Geralt in the marketplace at noon. After eating a quick meal, they set off. It was a quiet Journey, the Villager whose name was Nial only spoke when necessary which suited Geralt's mood. That night they bedded down at a tavern in the next town. Geralt didn't sleep well, instead, his mind kept running through his plan of attack. The Bruxa had uncanny speed and invisibility so he would need the element of surprise, to catch it in the act of enticing someone. He would only have one chance, once it knew he was there he would have to act fast. Hopefully, striking it with his silver sword and if not then last resort allowing it to bite him which was not an option he wished to pursue.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day Geralt had left, Julia thankfully had no clients. During the morning Ciri and Julia had distracted themselves in the kitchen with Nessie learning how to bake Nessie's famous chocolate chip cookies. That afternoon Ciri stood in front of a Tobias and 10 other men, she held her sword and instructed them in the art of defensive sword techniques. "Remember to block your opponent, then think strategically don't just act out of anger." Dividing them into pairs they then began to practice her sword movements. Geralt had left instructions for Ciri to teach Tobias and any servants from the estate who wished to learn so there would be more than one prepared to fight.

While they practised Renee and Julia walked in the gardens picking flowers to brighten the bedrooms and the dining hall. As Julia was admiring the vivid colours of the roses, Renee settled her basket next to hers "Julia, I have to tell you something." Julia turned regarding Renee, her young friend seemed to be bursting at the seams with a joy that seemed to radiate from her being. Renee placed her hands on her belly and just smiled at Julia nodding. Pulling Renee into a hug she squeezed her friend, who she now considered as a daughter. Smiling she said "oh Renee, that is so exciting. How long have you known?" blushing Renee said, "I think this is a honeymoon baby"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following two days Geralt and Nial travelled at a steady pace arriving at his Village late on the third day. The weary travellers were greeted by Nial's wife Anna along with their youngest daughter. Anna led them into the small cottage. They were not poor, but it was a modest home with a single area that served as a living and eating area, as well as the kitchen. Off to the right of this room were two doors leading to the bedrooms one for the parents and one for the children. They shared a simple meal together of steamed vegetables. Together they sat on cushions on the floor around a small low table which held the steaming bowls of food and their cups of water.

Even though they had a terrible loss, there was a palpable love that was shared between them. It was made evident by a look, a gentle touch, and words of praise as Nial said "Anna, this is a beautiful meal. I have missed your cooking while we have been apart." Once the meal was finished Nial's daughter curled up in her father's lap a peace falling over the child's face as the adults talked. Nial making sure his daughter safely tucked in his arms was sleeping directed a more pointed conversation to Geralt "How are you going to catch and kill this monster. What will be your needs to accomplish this?"

Geralt looked to both Nial and Anna expecting to see anger, revenge on their faces but instead saw only sadness. Anna had moved to lean into Nial at this point and the family unit made Geralt's arms ache for Julia and Ciri. Lowering his head he looked at his hands, unsure of how to answer Nial's question. Looking back up to the grieving family he spoke "I will need to be diligent to keep watch to see if any more young men are enticed away from the village. Once I see that I will be able to follow and dispatch the Bruxa. They are cunning and unless they feel safe will not venture near again. I will sleep in this room as the window faces the forest. I should be able to see from this vantage point."

At this the small group fell silent, the weight of what was ahead for the Witcher weighed heavily on his mind. The small family also sensed this and quietly went about setting up for bed. Geralt watched as Nial stood his sleeping child in his arms. A look of love on his face as he gazed at her while walking to her room. Anna moved silently and quickly, setting up a pallet for Geralt to sleep or rest on as he kept watch from the window. She came to his side and placing a small hand on his arm whispered "Thank you for coming, we are praying to the unnamed God that you are successful in your hunt. We don't want any more families to have to endure the pain we have felt." She shyly reached up and kissed him on the cheek before exiting the room.

Geralt's hand went to his cheek, this was the first time outside of Wolnosci that he had been treated with such care. What was it about these people who sprouted homage to this unnamed God! Frustration was building in Geralt, he missed Julia, missed Ciri, and even missed the dam mundane of the estate. Looking out the window he tried to focus to adjust his eyes to the night. An hour passed as he tried to keep his mind focused and then he saw movement.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Julia had not been able to relax since Geralt had left three days ago. Renee and Ciri had tried everything to distract her and Renee had almost succeeded with her news. However here she was again full of worry. Ciri, Renee, and Tobias were doing sums over at the table in the library when Ciri looked over to Julia. She was sitting in her chair staring into the flames again her hands balling in her skirt brow furrowed. Wishing she could do something to ease Julia's worry she spoke to Tobias " Can I be excused, I think I need to go talk with Julia" seeing the concern in Ciri's eyes he excused her.

Ciri walked over to Julia and knelt by her chair, taking Julia's balled hands in hers. This startled Julia who looked down at the child with surprise. Seeing the child wanted to be with her she moved to the rug on the floor just as she would have with Geralt. Maneuvering themselves so Ciri was cuddled into Julia, her arms around the young girl Julia sighed. How did this precious child know she needed this physical contact? Ciri spoke quietly "Julia, Geralt will be ok. He's one of the best of the Witcher's." The young girl's voice held so much conviction Julia could not help but be soothed. Sighing Julia stroked Ciri's arm and responded "I know Ciri, but when you care about someone so deeply. It's hard to trust that they will be ok. You want the best for them, and you want to protect them. I hate that he is putting himself in harm's way. That I'm not there to help him if he is injured." Ciri knew what Julia was saying. She herself had pleaded with Geralt to take her with him so she could fight alongside him. It had only been Geralt extracting a promise to stay and protect Julia that made her agree to let him go.

The clock over the mantel struck 10 and as they all prepared to retire for the night Ciri looked to Julia. Feeling Julia needed more comfort Ciri asked: "Can sleep with you tonight?" Julia also sensing the child needed comfort agreed. Together they walked back to her room. Changing into there nightgowns they moved between the warmed sheets and Julia tucked Ciri into her arms. As Ciri's breathing started to even out, indicating she was falling asleep, Julia looked at the child in her arms. This child who had been unexpected had grown on Julia, and right now she was feeling a warm maternal love growing deeper inside her heart for Geralt's child surprise.

Geralt moved silently amongst the trees, just ahead of him he could see the young man and the tall raven-haired beauty. Her skin so white it glowed under the moon's rays making her hair stand out even more stark against her silhouette. She and the boy stood amongst the trees, her body leaning toward the young man who had fallen on his knees before her. Geralt knew he would only have one chance, one opportunity to kill this creature of the night. Confirming it was a Bruxa he took the vial of Black blood from his small bag hoping this would not be how he would kill the monster.  Wanting to cover all his options he swallowed the foul concoction. As he crept closer, he could hear her gentle coaxing, her lullaby of song that held the young man transfixed. Sword in hand he stepped into the clearing and took aim.

The blade connected with the flesh of the creature causing her to scream. The sonic sound echoed through the quiet night. A piercing wave reverberating within his head, causing Geralt to drop his sword, and hold his hands over his ears. The beautiful woman who had been standing in front of the young man now turned into a hideous black bat-like creature. Its hands becoming talons apart from the one which had been removed by the Witcher's first blow. Regaining some equilibrium Geralt dove for his sword as the creature turned from the Man towards its assailant. Grabbing his sword Geralt turned and took another precise swing, slashing the torso of the Bruxa. She screamed again causing Geralt to fall to his knees the sound almost piercing his eardrums this time. He just needed to get close enough to stab her through the chest Geralt thought, as the Bruxa jumped on him trying to tear his armour with its good talon. Reaching for his sword Geralt realised it was too far away. He struggled with the Bruxa trying to gain control as the creature looked like it was going for his neck.

Julia sat up in bed in a sweat, she had seen in her dream Geralt fighting with a dark creature. It had him pinned on the ground ready to strike. Ciri also sat up sensing Julia in distress and having also had a bad dream about Geralt. Panting Julia shared her dream, Ciri with surprise confirmed she had also dreamt the same. Julia trying to think what this could mean said "Ciri, we can't do much from here, but will you pray with me. It is all we can do for him" tears running down her cheeks Ciri nodded to Julia and together they held hands. Shutting her eyes Julia spoke with urgency "Unnamed God, we urgently seek your help, please send your angels to assist Geralt. Send them to his aid. We ask for his deliverance from this dark creature" as she spoke Ciri turned to her, her eyes turning a strange colour and she spoke with a different voice. "I hear you, child, do not fear" at that Ciri fainted into Julia's arms.

Geralt was desperate to get his sword or to loosen his hand enough to get his small dagger from its hidden place in his armour. When he thought all was lost and the creature was going to rip into his neck it looked up. Screamed at something in the trees, whatever had distracted the creature it gave him the advantage. He was able to get his silver dagger and plunge it into the Bruxa's chest. Hearing a final scream from the dark creature it fell to its side no breath left in its lungs.

Geralt assessed his wounds. The creature's talons had connected with his skin on his leg and the side of his neck. However, nothing that would not heal. He looked around and found the young man curled up in a ball hidden behind a tree. Kneeling down he spoke softly and with kindness  "its ok, the creature is no more." Placing a hand on the young man's shoulders he turned and looked up. Fear emanated from his eyes. "Come", helping the young man up the two of them walked back to the creature. Geralt needing to complete the job got some matches out from his bag and lit the creature alight. Looking around he saw the talon laying on the ground collecting it as proof he and the young man headed back to the Village.

Nial and Anna met him at the door to their cottage, seeing the young man Anna took him inside to warm him up. Nial saw the talon in Geralt's hand and uncharacteristically started to cry. Not sure what to do with the emotions of the man Geralt dropped the talon and awkwardly believing this is what Julia would have done, gave the man a side hug. He comforted Nial until the man had stopped his weeping, and drew him into the house.

The following day Geralt was taken by Nial to meet the alderman of the town. He was a burly man with a full mop of curly hair hidden under a funny tall hat. He greeted Geralt with a warm handshake and a big smile "Thank you Witcher for riding us of this terrible creature. Here is 3,000 Oren as thanks for your work" Geralt went to refuse payment as Julia had said they didn't need it. However, at the last moment, he had a thought, Geralt took the bag with thanks and turning to Nial said "Do you have a jeweler in town?" a smile crossing his face.

By lunchtime, Geralt had visited the local Jeweler and found exactly what he wanted. With the rest of the Oren, he bought provisions for the way home. With what was left he went to give it to Nial as a blessing to his family. Nial's face burned "no I can't take this Geralt, that's for your family." Geralt knowing this is what Julia would have wanted him to do put the bag in Nial's hand. "Please take it as a blessing from my house to yours" at this Anna gave Geralt a hug. They waved him and Rose off as he began his journey home, home to his family.   

Previous Chapter Ten                                                      Next Chapter Twelve 

I have Tagged people who follow me and who I follow if you want to be removed or added please let me know :)

@keanureevesisbae @darkverrmin @viking-raider @littlefreya@madbaddic7ed @the-soot-sprite @thelastsock @lovetusilver20@crimsonrae @demivampirew @ladyreapermc@henrycavillobsessed @nitannichionne @runawayolives @heartfelt-pen @omgkatinka @star017 @llly113 @sad-ghost-of-garbage @ayamenimthiriel @starstruckkittyangel @lebguardians @summersong69 @notyouraveragemochii @imneonpanda @carriebee1 @ivyfatale @thereisa8ella @lucy930 @sarahmichelle5 @stuckupstucky @cleodoramer @kmuir1 @elliepower @xobriellaxo24​ @xxxkatxo​ @supernovacocorocha​ @hennerslionhat​ @xo-mery-ox @waitedforlove743​ @ladamari68​

[amphtaminedreams]

The Eras of Lana Del Rey: Lookbook no.9

Hi to anyone reading,

Hope you’re okay! AND that you didn’t end up here because you searched the Lana Del Rey tag so you could see people ranting about her-you’re about to be very disappointed. Sorry. This is not about to be some Question for the Culture discourse because the world is bleak enough right now and the last thing we all need is to be reminded of that saga. 

Being a Lana Del Rey fan is easy, they said. She’s not a controversial artist, they said. And yet 2020 had to do what it does best and fuck everything up. 

Whether people like her or not, it’s made me so angry reading all the abuse she’s been getting about her appearance for the last couple of weeks, because I really thought that if we could agree on anything it was that attacking individuals for the way they look because you dislike something they’ve done (with the exception of shit like racist tattoos and blackfishing) is, you know, awful and judgemental as fuck? Like you do realise when you treat the word fat as a pejorative that the fat people you don’t have a problem with understood that you meant it as an insult too? I think what all those people tweeting about Lana’s weight, and that includes some of her fans, are forgetting is that she was in her early 20s when she was thrust into the limelight. As much as there’s this conspiracy that her dad bought her a career in the music industry, she’d made the decision to go it alone and had lived in a trailer park as a struggling musician for years. On top of that, we have the unreleased tracks with lyrics seemingly referencing an eating disorder in her younger years. OF COURSE her body is going to look different. Why is it that we treat weight gain as an inherently bad thing without any insight into the other factors that constitute a person’s “health”? It’s fucking insane that so many feel they have the right to comment on other’s bodies in the first place and it breaks my heart that she might be reading these comments. This wasn’t intended to necessarily be a rant about how much I love this woman but all the shit I’ve read about her on the internet these past few months have pushed me to it. You'll respect your queen of alternative music or I shall stan twice as hard on your behalf. You can thank me later when you come to your senses xoxo

I’d love to say it was intentional that I finally finished this post the week Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass was released but that would imply I have my shit way more together than I actually do. If I’m being completely honest, I’ve only heard L.A Who am I to Love You so far 1). because I want to wait for the hard copy for the rest and that doesn’t turn up til September and 2). because I do not have my shit together, lol. That being said, there is no doubt in my mind that I am going to love it-one thing I have always loved about Lana’s lyrics is how well they paint a picture and this is something that poetry only more freely allows for the exploration of. That ability to create such a strong narrative voice and atmosphere is a talent that extends to her visuals and the production of her records too, and is something I really missed when it comes to the Norman Fucking Rockwell era. I’m just going to say it: a strong aesthetic is to NFR as memorable songs are to Lust for Life. Lacking. Am I allowed to say that as a fan? The collaborations don’t do it for me, okay, and as as NFR is concerned, aside from The Greatest/Fuck It I Love You video which went down the whole neon surfer girl route, it’s hard to identify a cohesive theme. It’s understandable that at this point, she would want to just focus purely on the music, and it goes without saying that NFR will stand the test of time in that regard but I don’t think we can deny that when people think of Lana in the future, it’s not gonna be a green windbreaker that comes into their heads.

^Illustration credit to Filip Kozak (https://filipkozaksart.tumblr.com/?fbclid=IwAR3vwLX2pNxoFNhTPD1ky14LllPqlLtL1GxGlD79xuHxdtzcHLw-6aNBZWo)

And here’s where this Filip Kozak illustration comes into it; after years of it sitting in my camera roll for years, it finally has a use. There’s really nothing better to illustrate how mundane life has become this year than the disproportionate level of excitement my photo-hoarding-self experienced realising it would fit perfectly into this post and is thus eligible for deletion. Up there with being able to fit a whole box of biscuits onto the shelf at work rather than having to individually take out as many as I can and then shove them on top of the existing box of biscuits one by one. Truly riveting content on this Tumblr page. Back to the point-by using this as my stimulus for the post rather than the Lana Del Rey albums as outfits tag that went round on Twitter, I can conveniently exclude NFR as an outfit inspiration category, and that saves me from having to buy a charity shop windbreaker with its price bumped up 150% by some upper middle class Depop e-girl or boy who uses the word peng as a descriptor like it’s a nervous tic. To make up for leaving out NFR, I’ve tried to branch out a bit and do the outfits not just based on the music videos or album covers but also from street style and stage looks and photoshoots from around the same period too. It was hard not to be influenced by the general “vibe” and sound of the albums either when I was planning outfits, whether it’s the grand, orchestral instrumentals of Born to Die or the 70s psychedelic rock inspired riffs of Ultraviolence and hopefully that’ll show as well! Enjoy:D

Born to Die (Release Date: 27th January 2012)

It’s been 8 years, and when you ask most people what they think of when they hear the name Lana Del Rey, they’ll probably dismiss her as the one who sings about being sad and doing coke and sleeping with older men. That’s the Born to Die impact. Say what you want but it’s one of only a handful of albums released by a female artist to have spent more than 300 weeks on the Billboard 200 chart and it really established the mythos of “Lana Del Rey” because before all this, before all the think pieces from other women claiming she’d set feminism back hundreds of years with her music, before she ousted grayscale Effy Stonem as the queen of angsty teen Tumblr (which as you can probably guess was a subsection of the internet I was very much engulfed by, lmao), she was just Lizzie Grant, a relatively normal aspiring singer songwriter in her early twenties. But as Lana Del Rey, she was someone else-some beautiful, mystical being that personified the sentiment of being born in the wrong era. Whilst every other singer’s record labels seemed to be trying desperately to thrust them into the future and keep them on top of all the musical and stylistic trends, it was refreshing to hear someone whose music and visuals captured all the most glamorous elements of the past. Part Priscilla Presley/Jackie O reincarnation (the National Anthem video really illustrated how Lana is just as much a storyteller as she is a musician), part high level mobster’s wayward wife à la Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface, she was the good girl by day and the bad girl by night, and I think that’s a duality we can all relate to or would like to think we’re interesting enough to relate to deep down.

Her style from around this period was EVERYTHING. She had those grungy Tumblr girl elements, the camo jacket and the oversized pieces and the leather jackets, but she also heavily drew on the styles and silhouettes of the 50s and 60s with the beehives and the new look Dior inspired cinched waist dresses. Even now in 2020, I think this period is what most people would think if they were asked to describe Lana’s style. I made sure I got the grungy pieces in there with the chunky boots and the vinyl and the oversized leather but the foundation of her looks back then were usually these daintier throwback pieces like the white silk dress and the corset and the mint fur trimmed coat (House of Sunny’s Penny Pistachio coat).

Favourite lyrics from the album? “Now my life is sweet like cinnamon, like a fucking dream I'm living in” from Radio. Nobody asked but I’m gonna give it to you anyway.

Born to Die: The Paradise Edition (Release Date: 9th November 2012)

Lana’s Paradise EP contains probably my absolute favourite song of her’s, Ride, and with that, the beautiful opening monologue that will stay in my mind forever. This era was of course ushered in by Tropico, the short film that included the premiere of the songs Bel Air, Body Electric and Gods and Monsters, which established the ethereal tone of this period-it’s in the name, after all. Both the album and the videos were other-worldly and leaned heavily on religious symbolism which I’m sure pissed off many a middle-aged bible basher at the time. Most prominent in her lyrics were reflections on the freedom of the open road which corresponded with visuals of biker gangs and desert dwellers and modern interpretations of the Wild West, as was an attempt to capture the nature of the so-called “American spirit” which as Lana portrayed it shared more qualities with a kind of celestial, transient being than any kind of solid concept or identity. She played an emotionally detached stripper and a haunted saloon-style-bar singer (almost looking like a runaway bride) and Eve the “first woman” all in the same album and honestly, if that’s not iconic, I don’t know what is. We saw SO many incredible red carpet looks in this period too which built upon this idea of her as the fallen angel tempted by original sin that Tropico established; I feel like this era was all about laying bare the soul of the character she played, this broken, delicate but ultimately liberated being that was so dangerous to the idea of the strong, stable modern feminist ideal. She went about it in COMPLETELY the wrong way in a post that betrayed the ignorance of the privilege she has as a white female performer, but I think this is what she was getting at in it and Ultraviolence only went on to bolster her critics.

In response to the criticism she still receives about the choice to wear a Native American war bonnet in her Ride music video, I’d like to say that it really seems like she’s learnt from that-actions speak louder than words and so though it’s not my place to say whether this makes up for that error, the work she’s done with Native American reparations-focussed foundations since and the money she’s donated to the cause says a lot about her intentions. Again, I want to stress that it’s not my place to say! But it’s a detail that is often overlooked so I thought I’d mention it here. 

“I was a singer, not a very popular one. I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. But upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky, that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken. But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.”

Ultraviolence (Release Date: 13th June 2014)

AH, Ultraviolence. My favourite of Lana’s albums and imo, a masterpiece. ONE skip. ONE. Sorry Guns and Roses. I got stoned in my back garden and listened to this (for research purposes ofc, heh) and ended up deciding that this is what I want to listen to when I die (also whilst stoned). It sounds dramatic but listening to this album in that state of mind is such a heavenly experience that I’d be too zen to notice myself slipping away into nothingness on the basis that if I didn’t as long as I could stay in that bubble of awe, nothingness forever wouldn’t be so scary after all. I know, I know, that sentence has big Jaden Smith’s old tweets energy. But if an album is what helps me get over an existential crisis, I beg you allow me the nonsensical ramblings about how I felt like I was ascending into the stars.

Though in terms of the lyrical content the public perception is probably correct, I think the reputation Ultraviolence has as Lana’s darkest, most gothic album (which is something I’ve in incorporated into the outfits I put together) is mistaken; instrumentally and visually it drew more on 70s psychedelic rock and the bohemian counter culture of the period than anything, and her stage looks are a clear reflection of that, and also the outfits I was most excited to channel. It seems counter-intuitive to the moody atmosphere I associate the tracklist with but it’s my go-to summer album; it’s raw (probably her most stripped back work along with NFR, lots of the songs are barely edited) and it’s gloomy but let’s be real, hot as fuck-don’t bother making a sex playlist, just put Ultraviolence on shuffle, and you’re good to go. This was the album where Lana debuted some of her most criticised lyrics and where the notion that she glamourises abuse comes from, one of the points she also seemed to be getting at in the Instagram post, but imo it’s fair to say that she sang truthfully about the initial allure of a dangerous relationship and the nature of the mindset that facilitates staying with somebody poisonous where you do feel like you’re nothing without them. Turning horrific experiences into romantic tragedies is how Lana has always made her music and yeah, out of context there are some fucked up lyrics on the album, but policing how a woman expresses her trauma and complaining that she glorifies weakness because she wrote honestly about the reality of a complicated partnership is hardly any more “feminist” than the lyrics themselves. I can only guess that the reason Lana felt the need to bring up this criticism in 2020 is because these darker themes are going to be revisited in her upcoming album and that in spite of the issues with the way she expressed herself, this time critics will be more accepting of how she chooses to address these themes. 

On a lighter note “yeah my boyfriend's pretty cool, but he's not as cool as me” will always be a great line. Simple but effective. If my boyfriend ever is cooler than me it’ll be doing Lana a disservice.

Honeymoon (Release Date: 18th September 2015)

Considering that a lot of other Lana fans are of the opinion that this is her best album, I find it weird that I really don’t remember all that much about this period, other than High by the Beach being released and then hearing Salvatore and Freak for the first time. I guess because she didn’t do a Honeymoon specific tour and didn’t make that many public appearances in this period? It was definitely harder for me to find visual reference points beyond the HbtB music video and the cover art, so I mostly drew on the general vibe of the album, a cinematic accompaniment to a summer in Italy or the South of France, filled with exotic instrumentals and the sense of impending romantic doom that Lana does so well. I suppose if I associate the visuals of this era with anything it’s idyllic florals and warm tones, bygone country club pool days, a rich American’s vacation in Southern Europe, long walks on the beach (and as our Lord and Saviour Jujubee once said, big dicks and fried chicken). Apparently inspired by Lana’s relationship with Francesco Carrozini, it’s a hazy story of some ultra-feminine, submissive archetype becoming unhealthily enchanted by a mysterious “foreign man” who’s ultimately not all that good for her, which as the story goes turned out to be quite prophetic. Going against the grain, it’s my least favourite of her albums after Lust for Life, but in spite of that, I will always remember how obsessed I was with the sax riffs (I think? I don’t know my instruments all that well so forgive me, lol) on Freak and I definitely understand why it’s a firm favourite for so many.

“You could be a bad motherfucker, but that don’t make you a man.” was truly a cultural reset of a line.

-on an unrelated note, OMG, I never realised how I have my mouth open in literally every fucking photo I take, somebody tell me how to pose, please and thank you-

Lust for Life (Release Date: 21 July 2017)

Lust for Life is a controversial one. On the one hand, I appreciate that this album was the victory cry of a happier, more independent, politically-aware Lana in spite of it apparently being a far more optimistic sounding album than the one she wanted to release, but on the other there were way too many collaborations for me and this meant that the album lacked a sense of cohesion and the characteristic narrative thread that usually runs throughout her tracklist. Aside from Love, Cherry, Get Free and Tomorrow Never Came, most of the songs on the album aren’t hugely memorable and it’s a crying shame that a collaboration with STEVIE FUCKING NICKS of all people left so much to be desired. Coming from two witchy icons, I expected something absolutely magical so maybe I was setting myself up for failure, but come on. We could’ve had a real anthem there.

Aesthetically speaking however, this is one of my favourite eras for Lana, which is unsurprising when you consider the tracklist contains references to both Woodstock and Coachella. I’m not gonna lie, I think seeing Coachella fashion in my early teens was my style awakening-I remember seeing Vanessa Hudgens’ outfits and being like, wow, I want to be her (oh, what a fall from grace)-so the late 60s/early 70s flower power groupie style Lana adopted in this period really spoke to me. It was all long hair and dreamy pastels, and this era included some of the most head-to-toe coordinated looks we’ve ever seen from her. Of course I couldn’t completely abandon the grungy touches that I love, that I tend to associate with the early Lana street style days and the Paradise and Ultraviolence music videos rather than with this album, but I’m never gonna pass up an opportunity to whack out a good floral two piece and putting together Lust for Life inspired looks is the perfect excuse to do that.

So, that marks the end of this post! If you made it to the end, thank you so much for reading! I have a Yesstyle lookbook and review to edit but now that I’ve finished that, I’m trying to go down more of a style inspiration focussed  route with my lookbooks rather than just putting together outfits from clothes I’ve just bought (though I might still do one every so often to bring in a new season-let’s just ignore the fact that they’re all blending into one bc climate change for now, one catastrophe at a time please universe). I find that if you have a specific idea in mind of what you want, it’s super easy to find something similar on Depop and Ebay and that way you avoid buying new things and also take old things off a person’s hands that might otherwise end up being thrown out by a charity shop and then dumped into a landfill from there. Something I’d LOVE to do before this year is out is put together a lookbook based on the most stylish TV shows of the last decade, but that probably won’t be for a while-even so, if you have any recommendations of series to watch which could fit into this category, let me know! 

To finish, I need to go a little bit off-topic so forgive me, but I truly don’t know why this even needs to be said: WEAR A FUCKING MASK. IT IS NOT A POLITICAL ISSUE. IT IS A BASIC HYGIENIC PRACTICE THAT HELPS SPREAD THE STOP OF A HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS DISEASE! RUDIMENTAL SCIENCE! NOT A CHANCE TO PROVE HOW “EDGY” YOU ARE! SERIOUSLY, STOP MAKING A FUCKING PANDEMIC ABOUT YOURSELF! NOBODY ENJOYS WEARING THEM BUT THEY HELP PROTECT OTHERS! SO UNLESS YOU HAVE A VALID MEDICAL REASON NOT TO BE WEARING ONE, DON’T BE A SELFISH PRICK! 

Sorry to sign off on a rant-y note with something that has nothing to do with Lana, lol, but all the stupidity has been grinding me gears lately and I had to let it out on behalf of all retail workers: if we can wear a mask for 9 hours at a time, YOU can tolerate the mild discomfort of wearing one for 10 minutes. I know this doesn’t apply to the majority of people but there’s always a couple of arseholes, isn’t there!?

Stay safe,

Lauren x

[paullicino]

A Year like No Other

(Taken from, and funded by, my Patreon.)

A lot of people are now calling 2020 the lost year and it’s not difficult to see why. Most of us have never had a year remotely like this last one. For some of us, the calendar began to blur, weeks and even months merging into one another in a sickly, uneasy timelessness that had us double-checking what day it was. For others, there was stress after stress, as we worried about our health, our jobs, our governments, even our countries. And the two experiences certainly weren’t mutually exclusive.

This month, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on that, acknowledging both the struggles and the successes. It’s sometimes been a difficult twelve months for me, but it certainly hasn’t been without its inspirations and its wonderful moments. I wanted to share some of those, to talk about a few ideas and to spotlight the things that helped me through 2020. I hope it helps. I figure it’s as good a time as any for us to be sharing our blessings.

And I think that first involves celebrating you. I think that’s very important. This past month, a year on from the first COVID cases being widely-reported (and also the first reports of cases where I live), I’ve read a lot by people asking questions like “What difference does it all make?” or “What is the point?” when they look back. They ask these questions when they think about things like their life changes, their mask wearing, their activism or their voting. They see an ongoing pandemic, social unrest or political inaction and wonder why they should make an effort while others are lax or apathetic. It’s natural to wonder that. I think anyone can understand the fatigue, the cynicism and the disillusionment.

But I also, get this, have a Hot Take on this that says that the choices you made were vital. When you chose to wear a mask, to socially distance, to restrict when and where you went, you actively helped fight a deadly virus. You may well have saved lives, saved someone’s health, protected livelihoods by acting as you have. When you voted, shared a cause on social media, attended a protest or talked to even one person about helping others or making the world better, you contributed to improving your society.

In fact, I have capital-O Opinions about these things so strap in and hold on, 'cause here they come.

I’ve been very fortunate to share much of my work on the internet over the years, which is a very particular medium, and sometimes that work reaches a lot of people. My experience of this is that you never know who it truly reaches, or when, or even how, and most of the time you never find out. There’s certainly an immediacy to things where you can see, pretty quickly, what the instant reaction to something is, but that’s fleeting. It doesn’t last and, within moments, there’s already something newer demanding more responses.

In time, the true consequences of things shake out. People get back to you with their more considered opinions. Sometimes months, even years after you do something, you find out from someone what they thought about it, how it affected them or even how they were changed. It can take time for a person to realise how they were changed, too, and we rarely have perspective in the moment. Sometimes it takes us years to appreciate the choices and the actions of our friends, our family members, our teachers, our communities. People have contacted me about work I’ve done long, long after I first shared it, and many of those people have come from places that I never expected, have found my work in ways that I never expected. I think, now, that consequence never travels in straight lines. That cause and effect are strangers rather than siblings.

And so I hope it’s clear that the ramble you have so kindly indulged is meant to say that we don’t always notice the good things that we have done. We ask “What difference does it all make?” or “What is the point?” because we don’t get those answers immediately, or for a long time, or sometimes ever. But not knowing when we saved someone’s health, when we changed someone’s mind, even when we inspired someone’s actions doesn’t mean that we aren’t making a difference. There is a point to our life changes, our mask wearing, our activism and our voting.

I hope you can celebrate yourself and give yourself credit for the choices you made this last year. They have mattered.

I also want to thank you so, so much for supporting my Patreon. I know many of you have been with me since day one, for more than two years now, and I’m so grateful for both your capital-P Patronage and your presence, whether that’s in our Discord community or through your comments and your correspondence. That’s made a big difference to me this past year, helping me pay rent and put food on the table during a time when so much has been uncertain. 2020 was to be my first full year back in Canada after a complicated, circuitous absence and I had half-finished projects, freelance ideas and half a dozen tabs open in my browser with writing residencies to apply for, everywhere from nearby Richmond to the Yukon Territory. I hoped this would be a year that I’d both finally see more of Canada and be able to write about it, too. A lot of things didn’t quite work out, freelance budgets were slashed, work timelines lengthened and I became ill, but as I look back now I’m thankful for a great deal.

I still managed to fulfill some ambitions. At the start of 2020 I’d been finishing up some work on Zafir, which had been an absolute delight, and I was not far off starting spring work on Magical Kitties Save the Day. The close of the year saw me resuming work on a Feng Shui expansion and each of these projects has been really good for me. All of them gave me a chance to work with skillful, progressive people and to become a better designer.

As spring continued, I decided to make a one-off video about board gaming and mental health during a pandemic, partly to offer a practical and helpful introduction to playing board games online and looking after yourself, but also because I wanted people to feel that their actions during a pandemic mattered. Among the things I referenced and linked to, I’ve continued dipping into Headspace from time to time, and this helpful list of brief work-from-home tips has been further updated. I’ve also since further investigated the terrific work of Dr. Ali Mattu, a psychologist and therapist who has produced a lot of material over the last year focusing on how to handle the pandemic.

With the summer came widespread protests across the United States, which highlighted the oppressive and fatal consequences of systemic racism and the urgent need for police reform, both issues not exclusive to the that country (for me, the events echoed the protests that began on my Tottenham street in  2011 and the violent response to 2010’s student protests). I shared a list of resources that I thought were important at the time, but there also followed a wide call for white people to make more effort to both seek out, engage with and promote motion pictures made by Black Americans, or which reflected the Black experience. It wasn’t a big ask and, as well as watching films that had been recommended many times over (such as Us, Da 5 Bloods, The Last Black Man in San Francisco and the excellent BlacKkKlansman, which was the best film I saw last year), I also tried to diversify my social media feeds more. Instagram was host to a growing discussion about how the platform seems to (deliberately or accidentally) divide people by race, something which I think may still be the case, and several nature photographers I follow promoted Tsalani Lassiter and Rae Wynn-Grant. To my delight, among many of the things they speak about and share, both are experts on bears.

I thought it was important to look more closely at Canada, too, so I made more of an effort to follow Indigenous issues and have begun reading Indigenous news sources, including First Nations Drum, Windspeaker and the Nunatsiaq News. CBC runs its own Indigenous news section, much of which is written by Indigenous reporters.A lot of freelance and writing opportunities dried up as the pandemic contracted the world’s economies, but in 2020 I was able to start writing for VICE, working with my old colleague and friend Rob Zacny, and interview the world’s most famous board game designer. VICE has written a lot of relevant, helpful and informative material about current events over the last year and I was heartened by the words of a fellow VICE writer, Gita Jackson, who concluded her essay about living in The Cool Zone of historical possibility by reminding us how “In The Cool Zone, we can also rediscover hope.”

This year I was also inspired by Faith Fundal’s widely-shared CBC podcast They and Us, which was an excellent (and still rare) example of a mainstream media exploration of gender identity and trans rights, and really pleased for my friend Brendan, who launched his podcast project Hey, Lesson! in the autumn. Of course, I can’t mention podcasts without again reminding you of my love for the spooky, supernatural Death by Monsters, which I got to host last winter. It was my dear friend Paula, one of its presenters, who recommended that I start streaming regularly, something I now do here. She was absolutely right when she talked about how positive and social an experience it can be. It’s been a real joy, as well as added some important structure and schedule to my week.

And, of course, the arrival of my first full year as a Canadian resident meant that I got to celebrate my first anniversary as a Canadian resident. I paid my taxes! Let me tell you, it was a slightly confusing and esoteric experience, but it was also one of those mundane, humdrum things that confirms and validates you. Though I didn’t get to throw a party for that anniversary, I did get to enjoy my birthday celebrations before the pandemic really hit. My partner surprised me with a trip to the not-quite-remote-but-definitely-secluded Gibsons, on the quiet British Columbia coastline, which was the best birthday gift anyone’s ever given me and a chance to see more of the rocky, forested, mountainous fringes of a place I’ve fallen so in love with. Before Vancouver closed down, I was also able to collect more than a dozen people (representing five different nationalities!) together in a brewery and then a restaurant, something that now feels like an extremely alien concept. For some of us in our friend group, it’s the last memory we have of coming together and being in the same space. That gives it a pronounced poignancy, a bittersweet quality.

Finally, I’d like to share two more things with you. The first is particularly peculiar and personal: I found my wizard. After drafting this piece last summer, then sharing it in the autumn, a few suggestions led me not straight to my goal, but ultimately down the right path. The game that I was thinking of is called The Tomb of Drewan and I very much doubt that anyone, anywhere is likely to have heard of it. It’s thirty-nine years old this year and it was distributed by a publisher in Berkshire, not so far from where I grew up. It only took me three and a half decades to see what it looks like in colour.

Tracking down this game was a softly satisfying experience. It’s exactly as I remember. Everything makes sense. Reading through the manual reminds me of how difficult it was to try and understand this thing through a monochrome monitor, though I also think it was likely way too complex for the child I was. I don’t think I ever got anywhere. I don’t think I ever could have. But I at least know that my memory has served me well. That wizard was as real as could be.

The second thing is something about my own missing year, something that has also resurfaced in my memory as we’ve plodded through 2020. In the long, dark winter months, in the unstructured days and the collapsing weeks, I’ve been transported back to the early 2000s and to a time that now feels very familiar. Here's what that was like.

I’d been writing professionally for a few years, comfortably and competently, while still living in suburban Hampshire. As publishing moved from magazines to the internet, my work began to dry up, my options narrowed and, honestly, I didn’t respond to this shift by producing my best material. I also didn’t know what to do about all this change, becoming directionless and unsure. I didn’t yet have the confidence to take some of the larger steps that I eventually did and, instead, somewhere in all that I began to move backward. I struggled to find work. I slept the strangest hours. I was frustrated, but it also didn’t matter nearly enough to me because also, I was no longer motivated.

I have memories of waking up at all kinds of times of day and night. Of not knowing where to go. Of running out of things to take photographs of, after looking at the same local sights over and over. It was like living at the bottom of a well, with a tiny, distant view of the world and no handholds for climbing out. I wasted time because I had time to waste, something I deeply regret now, and I became crabby, unhealthy and inward-looking. I was far from my best.

The last time I was in England I found myself going through old things from the early 2000s. I found many of the books I read, a great deal of writing I’d done and, in particular, a lot of my old RPG notes. A lot of old RPG notes, an absolute wealth of work that far exceeded anything I’d done outside of any work except that on Paranoia. I’ve written before about my roleplaying past and how I have fond memories of it, but I had completely forgotten exactly how much material I had collected together. I had so many biographies that I’d indexed them. I was starting to form an encyclopedia of everything I’d done, just so that I could find and reference the things I needed.

I had also read so much, which both prepared me for my degree and began to make me a better writer. I’d mostly stopped reading in my mid-teens and this was a new spurt of interest that led me toward many of the tastes and preferences I have today. I began to develop my fiction and non-fiction writing styles and I developed an interest in non-fiction that had paid me back a thousandfold.

I was building a new me.

I see now that I didn’t lose a year. I was certainly caught in a swamp of sorts, struggling to make progress, but the experiences I had during that time still mattered. They didn’t matter right away and they didn’t matter in any way that seemed at all obvious to me at the time, but they helped to shape me and to guide me, to show me both what I wanted and, certainly, what I didn’t want. If I had the chance to repeat it, I’d for sure live that missing year differently. I’d live it so much better, so much wiser and so much more fruitfully, but I can at least see it now as not the waste I long thought that it was.

And so I hope it’s clear that the ramble you have so kindly indulged is meant to say that, some time in the future, you may look back on 2020 and find your successes, your satisfaction, even your strength. I don’t mean to disregard anyone’s suffering or sadness, your feelings are valid and the pain, loss and difficulties you’ve encountered are very real. I don’t much like people who dismiss the feelings of others and I apologise if I’ve been too glib. I think a past version of myself needed to read something like this, a long time ago, and I only want to give them, you or anyone who might see this, hope for the future, a few reasons to be optimistic and, very importantly, a reminder to celebrate yourself.

Happy 2021. You made a difference. You always have.

[invisibleicewands]

Michael Sheen (old) interview

He’s played the prime minister and the messiah – now Michael Sheen is plumbing the psyche of the original man in black. Caroline McGinn asks him about the dark side.                                                                                  

It’s been a big year for Michael Sheen. A lifechanger, in fact. The   42-year-old actor is widely admired for his uncanny ability to play   real-life characters: a Bambi-ish Tony Blair in a trilogy of films that   included ‘The Queen’; David Frost for Peter Morgan’s play-turned-movie   ‘Frost/Nixon’; and most recently, a demon-ridden Brian Clough in ‘The   Damned United’. But no previous role has come close to the Christ-like   leader Sheen played in ‘The Passion’ in his South Wales home town this   Easter: an epic 72-hour piece of community theatre which ended in Sheen being crucified on a local roundabout.

‘The Passion’, a local take on the Gospel commissioned by the storming new National Theatre of Wales, was more than just a play. It was a collective story that Sheen probably couldn’t have told anywhere but in Port Talbot, a town divided by the roaring M4 and dominated by a giant steelworks that was once the largest employer in Wales; a place where churchgoing and storytelling are still alive. It’s also his parents’ home. Sheen was so moved that talking about it makes him choke up. ‘I did this seven-mile procession with the cross,’ he recalls, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘It was boiling hot. There were 12,000-15,000 people. And I was seeing these bare-chested tattooed blokes standing outside pubs with pints, with kids, with tears in their eyes going, “Go on, Michael, you can do it!” It’s quite rare to be in the middle of an experience knowing it is probably the most meaningful one I will ever have in my life. Something in me relaxed after that, I think. I could say, “If I died tomorrow, I did that.”’

Over a glass of red wine in the bar at the Young Vic, where he is about to play Hamlet, Sheen does seem completely relaxed: eager, open and very Welsh, with his squiggle of dark brown hair and his neat, expressive hands. He has a shapeshifter’s face: mobile, not memorable, too blurry and mercurial for a romantic lead. And it is a pleasure to hear his real voice: un-damned by Clough’s nasal, northern scorn or Blair’s prim inflections, it is a gloriously unstoppable lilting flow which seems, to my English ears, to come straight from the Valleys.

Sheen currently lives in LA to be close to his 12-year-old daughter with ex-partner Kate Beckinsale. He is an unlikely denizen of La La Land, with his bike helmet, his puppyish friendliness and his lack of pretensions. His spectacular return to his roots at Easter has, he says, redefined who he thinks he is, and what he wants to do with his work: something which he expresses in probably the longest sentence I’ve ever heard anyone deliver. ‘“The Passion” did for me what I hoped it could do for everyone in the town, potentially, which is to experience your life and your home in a different way, because I think there is a tendency – and I have it, and I notice other people have it too, probably everyone has it but certainly people who come from quite challenged areas – there’s a sense that your life is of no interest, that your story is mundane and there is no, for want of a better word, numinosity, no transcendence, and so to be able to tell a story about the biggest things there can probably be, a version of the “greatest story ever told” in the town that is seen to be the least likely town for that to happen in, then the people in that town, every time they go around that roundabout, which is many times, can go, “Not only is that where I get fish and chips, it’s also where the crucifixion happened,” and the everyday becomes transcendent – to something that is miraculous.’

Thanks to Sheen’s great-grandfather, street preaching runs in the family. But the starry-eyed idealism behind doing a passion play in Port Talbot, to reach thousands of people who would never set foot in a theatre, might easily have backfired. It was an unglamorous risk for a local bloke-turned-Hollywood big shot to take. You can’t imagine the area’s other famous filmmaking sons, ultra-cool customer Antony Hopkins or hard-living Richard Burton, pulling it off – though Burton did enjoy making a splash on the local beach with Liz Taylor and his private helicopter. ‘The Passion’ was supposed to shine a light on the miracle workers who do what Sheen calls the ‘unseemly’ work of care: for the old, the sick, the battered wives and the young offenders. For it to work, its makers had to gain the trust of the town.

‘After the Last Supper, when the Manics played, I was put on trial on the back of a truck and the crowd took over,’ he says. ‘It was at that moment I realised they understood it was their story. It was frightening and exhilarating. We didn’t know what was going to happen. Along the procession route people put photos of things they’d lost. Then, on the cross, I did a litany. Of things I remembered, or that I’d gathered from people, of people and places that don’t exist any more.’ It was Sheen’s epic personal connection to South Wales, where his dad once worked as a Jack Nicholson impersonator, and where his great-grandfather got rich when God told him to buy a tin mine. Sheen’s codirector Bill Mitchell and writer Owen Sheers spent a year getting stories from locals, and fed them into the piece. ‘I was just a participant: we all were,’ he says. ‘My mum and dad said a woman came to their house and told them I’d called her mother’s name when I was on the cross, and it had changed something for her. The need that drama first came from was community, witness, celebration and catharsis. We were trying to find a way for that to happen on a large scale.’

The Port Talbot ‘Passion’ has already gone down in theatre history. So where do you go after scaling the twin messianic peaks of Blair and Christ? Down into the doubt-ridden depths of Hamlet, naturally, the biggest role that a young (or young-ish in this case) actor can play. Judging by Sheen’s wordflow, those famous soliloquies won’t be a problem. After all, the actor made his name on stage: he won his first professional role at the Globe opposite Vanessa Redgrave in 1991 before he had graduated from Rada.

His CV is full of monster roles: Caligula, Peer Gynt, Amadeus (playing  Mozart was his break into Broadway in 1999). Clough, and even Blair and  Frost, creep into that list – though he’s obviously bored of talking  about the factional film roles that made him famous: ‘I’ve done  relatively few characters based on real people,’ he protests, just a  little bit too much. ‘I’ve been working on stage now for more years than  I care to mention.’

‘Project Hamlet’ has been on the cards for a while, but Sheen was waiting ‘for the right director and the right theatre’. Unlike recent celebrity Hamlets David Tennant and Jude Law, he didn’t want to do conventional West End Shakespeare, hence the Young Vic, with its younger, mixed audience and its imaginative approach, which includes – mysteriously – reconfiguring the playing space so that ‘Hamlet’ audiences must arrive 30 minutes early to take a ‘different route’ in. Sheen’s director of choice is Ian Rickson, the ex-Royal Court boss who has helped actors achieve career-defining roles (Kristin Scott-Thomas in ‘The Seagull’; Mark Rylance in ‘Jerusalem’). Hamlet tends to demand something very personal from actors: one reason why so many of them crack up over it, though Sheen seems remarkably unfurrowed by the prospect. ‘It is,’ he says, ‘good not to have to worry about people saying, “He doesn’t sound like Hamlet.” It’s me: I’m not doing a voice or playing a character, so to speak. It’ll sound like me and look like me, a bit of Welsh mixed with a bit of posh.’

Sheen sees ‘Hamlet’ as ‘like a portal. Or a living organism in some way. Other Shakespeare plays don’t have that quality of seeming to change. “Hamlet” works on you and sucks up everything you have. It’s a bit like looking into the abyss. What “Hamlet” makes everyone confront are all the things that are most frightening: irrationality, betrayal, madness and abandonment. It is very, very dark, and it dances along through that darkness.’

Sheen’s prince promises to be darker than most. Not just a mad Hamlet, but maybe even a bad Hamlet. ‘Me and Ian have taken a completely different approach,’ he explains. ‘The most interesting way to approach it is not to trust anything that Hamlet says, to assume that he’s an unreliable narrator. And once you do that, you realise how many assumptions there are about the play.’ Sheen cites Philip K Dick, David Lynch and Edgar Allan Poe as influences. The production will be set in a world ‘that feels as if we’re in some sort of institution’. Madness will be the keynote: ‘I discovered when working on it,’ says Sheen, ‘that it’s the first time anyone used the phrase “the mind’s eye”.’ Horatio says, “A mote it is, to trouble the mind’s eye.” Meaning a piece of grit. It sums up what I think the play is. It’s a bit of grit in the mind’s eye of the Western world. We’ve tried to expel it, by smoothing out its inconsistencies and by stopping it from being irritating. That’s a way to neutralise it and make it safer. But actually it’s the most dangerous of plays.’

Rickson and Sheen have found unorthodox inspiration in anti-psychiatrist RD Laing and G Wilson Knight, the twentieth century scholar who wrote an off-beam but brilliant essay on Hamlet, the ‘ambassador of death’ in the land of the living. ‘Laing said that if you take mad people on their own terms then maybe they’re just talking in a sort of heightened language about their lived experience,’ says Sheen. ‘And our take on “Hamlet” definitely questions the boundaries of what you would consider madness to be.’

So where do you go as an actor, after the heights of being crucified, and the depths of Hamlet’s psyche? ‘The answer to that is that I just don’t know,’ says Sheen. There are a couple of projects: Sheen says he was ‘roped in’ on a set visit to a new untitled film by cinema’s man of mystery, Terrence Malick, starring Sheen’s girlfriend and ‘Midnight in Paris’ co-star Rachel McAdams. And there’s also Wales-set thriller ‘Resistance’, out this month. But he has his heart set on directing a film about Edgar Allan Poe. ‘He was an extraordinary character. Very dark.’ The legacy of this life-changing year is a sharper, stronger passion for a live Welsh tradition: storytelling. ‘I just don’t know where you go after “The Passion” and “Hamlet”,’ says Sheen ‘But I do know that I want to tell stories that are powerful, that can reach people and equate to Greek theatre now. People still do need that. They respond to it. But you have to take risks to find them.’

(x)

[cavernovs]

FLESH & BLOOD.

Impromptu Self-Para, ft. @ilbuia​ Jakoris & Scarlett Davenport Manor, Basement.  Word Count: 2.5K + (Voluntary read)

Triggers: mutilation tw, violence tw, NSFW tw, blood and mild gore descriptions tw, toxicity tw.

Underneath flesh lies an infection; a virus formed of magic where dead cells suffer under its own insatiable desire to destroy. Endless it seems is the need where it demonstrates something more than an ordinary pestilence. Jakoris in chains; a method to disavow the spread of such a monster, stop it before it becomes all consuming and leaves only a shell of a beast; a creature that tears apart all in some prerequisite to devour. A virus that’s been reborn in a murderous form; reprograms the functions of the body to instead kill itself and behind it leaves more than apoptosis; a being that cannot be killed by the most mundane forms; The Ripper. The Davenport’s danger to himself and those around him, profound. He knows why he’s there, bound like an animal. The darkness doesn’t hide the man from his own histories, a basement a little too familiar, though, a voraciousness he’s never quite known before.

Never known before powerful magics invaded him at the hands of the High Sage. A replay of memories roll; it’s all he can do in such restrictions, think about his complete loss of control; consider the attack he posed upon his return; the ones he left in pieces on the streets, unrecognisable appendages discarded like rotten meat. It still hadn’t been enough, the nails that rake down his throat, leave ghostly punctures from within. If only there to encourage the Davenport to release all tendrils of whatever is left of him to retain.

The chains rattle when he shifts, a penetrating sound of the door creaking at the other end of the room. Leaves him with the aide-mémoire of why he has to be there; slumped like a lost warrior against the basement wall. Doesn’t stop the predatory eyes from finding the form that obscures the artificial light broken in from the open doorway. Streams in and causes the vampire to squint at the new presence.

SJ’s the last of all his figurations; he knows what he did to her, recalls that vicious attack as if it were only minutes ago. Understands that whilst he’s unforgiving in what he did; it’s a foolish move to send the little vamp in a room with him. Shadows from lack of light cast over the man and strange shapes made clear only by the way fangs glint of the new beams of light; faux and make evident the bloodstains that deface clothes. Soaked is the cotton on his torso, stained deep with a maroon where it’s dried and left him sticky; a discomfort that’s nothing in comparison to the urge that brings him to want to lunge at Scar. Binds the hinderance even an off-kilter man recognises wouldn’t break no matter how strong he thinks he is in that moment.

He doesn’t want her there. Prefers the solace of isolation, at least removes the temptation from being there just out of reach. Like dangling something sweet in front of him and refusing to let him have it, because even if Jack’s aware no matter what he chases he cannot stop the magic the High Sage has riddled deep into his core, she’s better than nothing at all.

It’s formed of desire that way Jakoris is on his feet again, teeth bared at the woman who’s made clear in teasing words that she’s there to play babysitter. An irony where she’s a child herself.

Well, I certainly never thought babysitting you would be on my list of duties.

“Then cross it off and get out,”

That’s how it started, rousing one another; venom so harsh that becomes a contradiction to itself. Jack’s mind doesn’t have the niggle that tells him, stop, the whisper in his mind that’s usually the level on his control, the one that wills him to remain in power. It’s hidden in everything he says, until she kept pushing. Maintains her distance against the man contained, stays aware where most might not – doesn’t let him take her so easily.

But she does let him, eventually.

One broken neck later and a darkening mind that can silver-tongue the manipulator.

She even changed his clothes whilst he slept.

“Enjoying the view now? How kind of you to leave me with some dignity,”

I much preferred the view without them, but I figured I’d play nice.

“Why’d you put them back on then?”

I shouldn’t have.

Words the weapons that clawed hands cannot be when steel grows tighter around Jack’s wrists; a captive in his own home, mercilessly taunted; teased by a woman he’s got no interest in. Only works to grind the cogs in his mind, she never gave him a shirt back in his impromptu defeat and the dark red smears that are sunken into his skin bury in the crevasses of his stomach discolour him like he might never get the crimson off. He deserves everything he gets. Even in the twisted mind of the Ripper, he wonders if she’s there because of what he did; an interest that’s formed of something primitive; an object of desire neither knew of. Jack’s tongue still picks up on the remnants of her blood; craves anything that might offer a reprise from the agony that the virulent parasite reaps on his body. Saps all the energy from him. Only knows to retrieve it from anything that teeth can bury in, that he can entomb himself in; she’s got all of that in front of him.

And he’s never considered Scarlett as that. But there’s a lot of firsts that come from a bitter witch’s spells.

There’s a game being played; chess the closest comparison to anything tangible. Every move they each make isn’t physical; nothing that lets Jack near her to let the beast play with the rules he’s prepared to break. She never listened to him coaxing her back out the room; almost lost beneath the warring of his mind split into two. But he’s not sure he wants her to leave anymore. A philosophical-like need to dig fangs into her once more, if only as a distraction; an excuse that isn’t the plummeting thoughts of how his body refuses to listen; to synchronise.

That’s how his mind begins to gutterball. There’s some rationality in the young vampire when she refuses to cave to his return provocations, forged truths that border a throwback to earlier that day.

“If you were afraid; if you never liked what I did to you, you’d have refused to come into this room, Scar.”

It’s a thought that’s spoken with such a victory that Jakoris’ pull on the restraints feel like they might break as though a code has been cracked. That from within the echoes of the dark they’re in, two sides of sanity – he figures, it’s a foul snarl of impatience almost, a captured vampire that balances on the threshold of his own thoughts. The younger version; potentially as broken as he is, tries to fix herself with something else even more broken.

So what, you think I’m back for more?

“I think you’re looking for something little vamp,”

The throwaway, bitten out through suppressed hunger when the walls feel like they’re closing in, that SJ’s the only thing left within them that matters in the grand scheme. Ideas of Evanora and Jessie out in the fray looking for answers to his affliction long crushed by the hiss of a man deteriorating; becoming heated by consistent taunts. It’s never been obvious to Jack until now that Scar’s as good at the game as Jack thought he was.

Only, she’s not got physical chains holding her back from acting on it.

Until, she suddenly does.

The Davenport never realised how much he missed the sensation of something else than hunger, Scar’s teeth in his throat like she’s finally decided to place his King in check leaves her in close enough proximity that a re-enactment of de ja vu flickers when he returns the favour and with a need he hates to admit is there, digs his own into her. It’s another bout of intimacy, stirs another kind of consciousness to the brink of overflowing. Lust forged from a blood exchange; the aphrodisiac that’s often addictive. Hardens muscles, incites Jack want to curl hands around her, touch her like she’s his if only for his own satisfaction – to balance the pain with the pleasure like he’s all too good at. If only for one evening; in a state of weakness.

Another thing he loathes about the room beyond the surface level of what it means, is how SJ irrevocably has the power over him by default. If he hadn’t been wrestled into chains, if being a word he can’t exactly enjoy in that moment. Not like how Scarlett crumbles to the one they’re playing and he can utilise the rage; the lack of control against someone who claims they can handle it.

The intimacy is broken when she retracts, lingers only in the way that her tongue leaves wet trails on his skin, laps up his blood where hers spills down his chin and leaves droplets on the concrete floor. Messy where he’s unable to govern the actions of the other. Jakoris’ head tips, dares her in a way that he’s not sure of the result, eyes flickering to the chain

“Unlock it Scar,” I fucking dare you. Offers the game with new stakes.

You know I can’t let you leave Jack…I never thought you’d taste so good, can I trust you, Jack?

Could she fuck.

“Probably not, but you really fucking want to,”

The way the tune changes on her side, the way she’s so confident to play the line of fire; dangle the victory flag and poke the viper until it bites. Jack sees that in the hues of her eyes; he’s not sure what lies hidden beyond, but the hands that fall on the chain is his own kind of conquest. And she releases him. A kind of dark chuckle that slips from his lips when she does, is fast enough to wrap around her throat and draw her to it. The consideration of how dangerous she wanted to play; with rules that have been crossed out and replaced with blood and flesh as the only notable pieces on the board, he squeezes her throat. It’s a fleeting image that passes his mind, the idea of just popping it off her spine, snapping it as some childish revenge to how she’d done it to him earlier; left him groaning and agonised as to make some lost point of valour.

Though she’s sacrificed her control and given it back to him; the Ripper that’s got next to none in that moment, but enough to at least choose distraction over the urge to simply tear the woman to pieces. He can do that after he’s done with her. Like her skin under his grip is a tease of its own, when he drags her forward, near makes his half naked body flush against her own, fangs raking down her lobe to follow the line of her chin, the urge to clench his jaw, puncture her like a snake almost wins against the desire that instead pulls him to her lips.

Then he draws blood, lower lip his where he finds an escape that isn’t the one that released him entirely from the prison he’s in; the room; his mind; the parts of his body that want something else completely.

“Take them off Scar,” A delay against her lips, a demand that’s primal. “Now,”

You’re not even gonna say please, Jack? What should I take off first?

Everything plays into his hand from then.

The hooded lids that find her face again, darkens when her hands ghost over his abdomen; run that theme of tease the monster that she’s been adamant to play all evening. And she’s probably still unaware what that leads to, the kind of thing that makes Jack stop understanding the word no and how Scarlett’s lost every opportunity she had to run out that door, because he’s not letting go.

“I’m going to ruin you, Scar.”

The kind of aptitude that drills deep; comes from the way she’s spent her duty as supervisor instead torturing him. The masochist who only feeds that fire with everything his mind allows.

I hope that’s a promise Jack.

If he cared to speak, to continue the toying, he’d have let the words: Oh you’ve no idea, baby, pass his lips when he drags his hand down her, lets her obey his order like submission is finally where she belongs. That she never quite understood the power she once had before she gave it away. On a fucking platter and let him reign over her body like she wants to be torn apart. Her antagonising implies as much, if not more.

Clothes are the first things to vanish, shredded by strong hands and there’s exposure between them both. A tension of bodies at war, one half free to play as the underdog of the battle; of lips, of skin of every time their teeth find a new unblemished spot on pale flesh. Stain it red as though the colour of their desire cannot be anything but. The same association as rage, cracking of bones where masochism hits its limitations; healed fast where fingers works rhythms in places that incite moans that in a vampire’s household, are probably heard if anyone’s fucking listening. And yet, the way blood spills onto the floor, decorates the basement like it’s paint on renovation is all that matters. Teeth on flesh, backs on hard floors, fucks in a way Jakoris could never with anyone mortal.

But Scar heals, and she knows it.

Jack doesn’t recover quite the same – because nothing he takes besides her body fuels him like it should, the weakening of joints that only enrage a ferality in him to go harder to compensate. The wounds she leaves on him, enjoyed in a sick way that leave him with a feeling that overpowers his hunger for nourishment; replaces it with a yearning for her that he can’t shake. And like hell does he care to understand it. The Davenport keeps his promise, leaves her in her own mess, by the third round; a hat trick, he’s beginning to notice the falter in both of them, that each other’s blood isn’t anything more than a turn-on, doesn’t satiate the vampire’s primordial needs to their core.

The rooms in disrepair, red more than grey; glows almost in the darkness of them, Scarlett’s skin shredded and healing, potentially to leave scars. Heavy rise and falls of chests that are heard between satisfied noises that are involuntary, still tight against each other when Jack’s last restriction allows; only imagines what could have been had he been completely free. Then comes the final plummet – after the rest of the countless comings, where Jakoris’ mind cannot process the pain with the pleasure and the hunger starts to viral it’s way back up his veins to pull the thick cords at his jaw. He can’t take anymore from her; he’ll kill her. That whisper of a voice screams at him, but it’s not loud enough.

The sound of footsteps outside the basement door, partnered with the final thrust given that near ceases the vampire fucking in some heated rage; a complicated partnership purely forged of magic and need; distractions and everything that systems the addiction of becoming caught up in a vampiric haze. Jakoris’ hands on Scar’s body, the marks left and the way they pant like animals loose; leaves everything but the carcasses all over the room, fluids that Jack’s likely to be left in when she goes.

Because she has to go and he knows that; the footsteps echo loud and like a desperate creature about to lose its prey, he digs his nails into her to stop her from running.

In their positions, she’s undoubtedly stronger, for once; the little vampire has a strength over the Ripper that can’t find satisfaction in feeding, no matter how hard he tries. And she does tear from him, stumbles where he notes how their legs near buckle under limbs exhausted and like it’s some loss for them all, Jack crashes to his knees, another crack resounds off the walls where Scar manages to catch herself before anything else breaks, a desperation in both their breaths where naked bodies dyed in each other’s blood; torn epithelium from one another’s teeth as they once hunted for that need.

It’s nothing in comparison in the way rabid eyes snap to the door when it moves with someone’s shadow casting a shape below it.

And Jack still wants blood. 

[catsafarithewriter]

Re: prompts: “Hello? Can you let me in? I tried blowing up your door but it didn't work.”

A/N: Inspiration for this one caught me by surprise, prompted by the song Come Along by Cosmo Sheldrake (suggested by glitterowl on Discord), with inspiration creeping in from The Property of Hate webcomic by Sarah Jolley and Counting Stars comic by Strangely Katie. (Oh, and the animated short: Entropy probably had a hand in all this too.)

Right, now I’ve finished plugging all these wonderful creations (check them out though) onwards. 

x

come come come come come along now

run away from the hum-drum

x

In her time in student accommodation, Haru had become accustomed to the strangeness of life. Especially during the wee small hours of the night. There had been the time someone had set the sofa in the common room alight (and sent everyone scurrying out into the quad to wait out the fire alarm) and another incident involving drain pipes being climbed, and another sleepless night spent waiting for the flooded boiler to be fixed.

So Haru didn’t respond immediately when her balcony door shook on its hinges. 

Technically it was a balcony door. There was a balcony beyond it, certainly, but health and safety had seen fit to seal it shut on fear of accidents, so now Haru had a very large glass window with a doorhandle. 

There was a tap at her window-door. 

A polite, wood-against-glass tap, and not something she was used to hearing since she was on the third floor of the building. It was at this point she rolled over towards the sound and saw the figure standing on her balcony. 

“Hello?” it said. “Can you let me in? I tried blowing up your door but it didn’t work.”

She stared. The figure looked almost human - tailored suit and top hat and a cane in one hand - but the outline looked… off. She couldn’t tell if that was just her tiredness or if there was a fancy dress party going on somewhere on campus. With a lot of drink, apparently. 

She leant over and unlatched the small window - that was a window and not a refurbished door - and said, “It’s 3am.”

The figure didn’t move. “Is it? And is that… bad? I can never keep track of human time.”

“I have an 8am class tomorrow. Today.” She blinked and the world swam a little more into focus. She realised the figure wasn’t just on her balcony - they were perched on the railing itself. So much for health and safety. “Go away.“

The figure dissolved away. 

Haru started to think that that was that, when something flipped through the small open window and landed on her desk. It stepped off the desk and dissolved again, and this time Haru could see its form solidifying back into a taller, human-sized form. 

“Go away?” the figure echoed. “And after I’ve come all this way to find you? I think not.” 

Haru stared. Again. She slowly reached across and flicked her bedside light on. The figure’s appearance came into sharp relief, and now she could see not only the top hat and suit, but the feline face and orange tail that had thrown her off originally. Impressive suit, if that’s what it was. Could be, but even the most diehard cosplayer probably couldn’t make themselves shrink at will. 

The figure - cat, creature, monster - tugged at its sleeve, and Haru saw a flash of orange fur between glove and shirt. 

“Am I dreaming?” she asked eventually. 

The cat head tilted. “Goodness gracious, I hope not. Otherwise this trip has gone terribly wrong somewhere.” 

“Only I’m pretty sure I should be dreaming.”

“How so?”

“For starters, human-sized cats don’t exist.”

The feline head tilted the other way. “You have big cats, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“And small cats,” the figure continued, “so why not human-sized cats?”

“Cats don’t normally wear suits,” Haru said. 

“There’s your answer then. I am not a normal cat.”

Haru dragged her dressing gown off her chair and pulled it around her shoulders as she swung her feet out of bed. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “So if you’re not a normal cat and you’re not a dream, then what are you?”

“I should have thought that was perfectly clear. I am me.”

Haru wrinkled her nose. “That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it? Then what are you?”

“Human. And cold,” she added with a meaningful look to the open window. The creature stood between her and it, and - dream or no - she wasn’t about to go anywhere near the magical stranger. 

The figure didn’t take the hint, waving her answer away with one immaculate white-gloved hand. “Nonsense. That isn’t what you are. Those are merely passing, window-dressing comforts–”

“Being human is passing?” Haru asked. 

“Naturally. With the kind of adventures you’re set to have, you could end up as a squirrel. Or an oak tree. Or an antique chair.” 

“I don’t fancy being a chair.”

“Well, of course you don’t. You’re far too attached to being human - how are you going to change with that sort of attitude?”

Haru eyed it - him? - and raised an eyebrow. “If this is a dream, I’d like to wake up now.”

“Charming.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You wished for me.”

“I… No, I didn’t. Pretty sure I’d remember asking for this,” she said.

“You most certainly did,” the figure said, and gestured to Haru’s desk with a sweeping motion. 

She looked to the jar of folded paper stars.

She had put the last one in only that evening.

“A thousand paper stars for one wish,” the figure said. 

“But,” Haru blurted out, “I never wished for you.” She blinked. “Sorry. That was kinda rude. But still–”

“You wished for adventure,” the figure said, plainly unperturbed by Haru’s curt dismissal. “For other worlds and excitement and action. What form did you think it would take?”

Haru blinked. Again. Maybe she had asked for adventure; her life was predictable and mundane and she was tired of university exams being the monster that clung to her days, but even so… “Even so,” she said, “I didn’t think that it’d actually…”

“Actually what?” the figure asked. “Work? Then why did you wish?”

“I don’t know. Because it was fun and therapeutic and I liked the idea that maybe it was…” She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Magic?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. 

The figure sat down at the desk chair, somehow avoiding the piles of worn clothing. “Young woman–”

“Haru,” she supplied automatically, and then wondered if that had been a mistake. There were tales, after all, of creatures that could steal someone’s soul and mind away once their name was given. 

The figure smiled, but there was no cunning behind it. “Baron.”

It took Haru several more seconds to realise that the figure was giving a name in kind. 

“Miss Haru,” the figure - Baron - started again, “do you think your wish would have brought me here had you wanted a pony, or an unlimited supply of chocolate chip cookies, or eternally good internet access?”

“Not unless you were bringing the pony,” Haru said. Her eyes widened. “Are you telling me I could have wished for perfect wifi?”

“Not exactly–”

“Man, did I waste those stars.”

Baron’s lips twitched, as if he were fighting back the urge to laugh or scowl. Haru hoped it was the former. “Miss Haru, only a person’s truest innermost wish will work on the paper star magic. Whether or not you thought it would work, your wish was honest. You want adventure.”

Haru opened her mouth and found she had no immediate dispute to that. She narrowed her eyes. “Fine, but that still doesn’t give you permission to blow up my window.”

“No harm done, however?”

“You still tried!”

“It wouldn’t open; what other option should I have taken?”

“You could have left.” She inhaled deeply. The dream - if that was what it was - still didn’t disappear. “But you didn’t and here you are. So, what happens now?”

“Well, that is up to you. You wished for adventure and it came knocking. But only you can take that first step.” Baron tapped the sealed door with the crook of his cane and the nails keeping it in place popped out. The handle clicked. 

The door swung easily open. 

“And after the first step?” Haru asked. 

“Adventure.” 

Baron stepped out into the threshold, two steps and his feet lifted up from the balcony floor. His cane tapped against the air, a tap-tap-tap wooden sound, and a staircase built from air swam hazily into view. He smiled at Haru’s expression, and extended a hand towards her. 

“Come along, Miss Haru. You did wish for this.” 

She eyed the offered hand and the offer that went with it, and then to the glittering eyes. Like gems. In fact, she wasn’t sure they weren’t gemstones. Something about this strange individual led her to believe just about anything could be true. 

“If I say yes,” she asked quietly, “what’s going to happen?”

“Oh, absolutely anything.” Those eyes glimmered. “But isn’t that the point?”

She looked to her room - to the walls covered in photos of friends and family from back home and of her time at university, quiet attempts to maker herself feel like a part of something bigger. To the pile of coursebooks and the messageboard with dates and assignments pinned to it. To all the familiar pieces she had collected; her favourite pens, a cuddly toy from childhood, the memorial t-shirt from a concert… All the little things that carved out her space in this lost corner of the universe. 

Everything that cried out to the world: look at me, this is me. 

What was it Baron had said?

I am me.

She looked back to the figure, to his alien silhouette and unearthly eyes and presence that spoke of worlds and magic beyond her own. 

“Come along now,” he said, one gloved hand resting in the space between them. “Don’t you want to run away from the hum-drum?”

[preserving-ferretbrain]

When Harry Met Buffy

by Dan H

Thursday, 14 June 2007

Dan compares portrayals of childhood in the popular media. Or something.~

(This article contains spoilers for a TV series which everybody has seen, and a set of books which everybody has read. Just so you know.)

At some point during my university career, I had to make a choice between actually getting a decent degree and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Needless to say there was no competition, and I am now the proud owner of a 2.2 in Physics and a lot of information about Sunnydale.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer went off the rails a bit in the later seasons. It went off the rails for a number of reasons - tensions among the cast and crew, Joss Whedon being distracted by other projects, Marti Noxon - but its biggest problem, in my opinion, was that it lost sight of its core metaphor.

The strength of Buffy seasons 1-3 was that it stuck to a very clear, very simple formula. You take a stock Teen Issue (I'm going out with a guy who isn't suitable, my mother is putting me under a lot of pressure, I'm trying to live up to my elder brother) and then give it a supernatural slant (I'm going out with a vampire, my mother is literally possessing my body, I've animated the dead body of my elder brother and am trying to build him a girlfriend out of corpse parts). That was the way it worked. It kept this formula more or less throughout series four and five, but it mixed up the formula a bit: Joyce's illness in series five is wholly mundane, and it's college life that causes Buffy's biggest problems in series four, not the cybernetic killing machine. Series six and seven went even further, making "Buffy never learned to live in the real world because she spent all of her time fighting monsters" a central theme, despite the fact that the "monsters" had always been placeholders for real-world issues.

To put it another way, the great strength of Buffy is that it tackles teenage concerns from a resolutely teenage perspective. When you're sixteen, after all, everything is the end of the world. Buffy's distorted, teenaged view of reality, where a bad breakup is an unimaginable horror and high school is doing its damnedest to kill you becomes literal reality. This works brilliantly for three series, and then they start to run into problems.

The thing is, Buffy grows up. The show covers seven years, and Joss felt that it was very important that she not stay sixteen forever.

The problem is that a big part of growing up is the development of your worldview. Learning that things don't really work the way you thought they did. Or, to put it another way, a big part of being twenty-two is realising what a pillock you were when you were sixteen.

But Buffy can't really do that, because she's a fictional character, and her sixteen-year-old worldview is the literal truth of the earlier series. Angel, her high-school boyfriend, really was the love of her life, and when things went wrong he actually lost his soul and started killing people. You can't get a sense of perspective on something like that. You can't look back on your youth and say "gosh, it seems so silly now to have worried about the Master rising and plunging the world into hell." Its early-season strengths become its late-season flaws. Buffy can never truly grow up, because she is trapped, forever, in a world where her teenage angst is physical reality.

Which brings me to Harry Potter.

Like Buffy, Harry Potter has a seven-year arc, over which his creator takes great pride in telling us that He Will Grow Up. And, like the nutrimatic machine, Harry's problems are Almost But Not Quite Totally Unlike Buffy's.

The Potter books are told exclusively from Harry's point of view: so much so that Harry has to spend half of each book skulking around under his invisibility cloak so he can hear all the plot-dumps Rowling needs to pass on to the reader. However, unlike Buffy, we don't follow Harry from a world inside his own head. We follow him around looking over his shoulder, but we are only observers. Buffy/Angel is convincing because, on some level, we feel what Buffy is feeling, and we are swept away in an overwhelming rush of teenage emotion. Harry/Ginny, on the other hand, feels lacklustre, because we see it from the outside, as two awkward teens fumbling through a parody of romance.

The Potter approach is not without its advantages. It makes the seven-year arc somewhat more consistent: we know from the start that it's Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the War in The Wizarding World which is important, and Harry's journey from two-dimensional eleven-year-old to two-dimensional-eighteen-year-old is essentially one of learning facts about his world. (On a tangent, it's interesting to note that Potter has a detailed, prewritten world with a large mythology, and Buffy doesn't).

In

an earlier article

, I compared the Potter books to the works of Enid Blyton and like Blyton, Rowling writes about children from the outside. She writes about childhood in hindsight, and seems to view it with a mixture of sentimentality and contempt. Your school days, she seems to say, were the most wonderful days of your life, because you were too dumb to realise how crappy the world really was.

All of this would be fair enough, a lot of Children's books do basically work like that: the hero starts out as a picture of youth and innocence, only to have it stripped away by exposure to Real World Issues. It's the To Kill a Mockingbird school of children's fiction: the child gradually learns about the complexities of the real world, progressing from a nave worldview to a sophisticated one over the course of the story. His Dark Materials follows a similar formula. The problem with Potter is that the "real world" of the Potterverse is so utterly childish. Harry is growing up into a world where everybody is still obsessed with school, where the only person that He Who Must Not Be Named is afraid of is his old teacher, where three fifteen year old kids competing in a school sporting event is international news.

So Harry's journey is that of a child growing up and learning about the world, but what he learns is that there is no world outside of Hogwarts. Unlike Buffy, whose later-season problems are the result of legitimate creative decisions, Harry's late-series implausibility is a result of his inhabiting a world which is poorly conceived and badly realised.

Harry Potter is often praised for dealing with difficult real-world themes, like death and racism. It doesn't. It's true that people die in the books, but they do so as a result of magical, fantasy violence, which simply doesn't capture the experience of bereavement in a meaningful way. Quite a lot of children, reading Harry Potter, might well have lost a friend or family member due to illness, old age, or accident. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that none of them have had anybody they care about killed by evil wizards. The deaths in Harry Potter are part of the fantasy, they're no more real than chocolate frogs and Quiddich.

Then there's the "racism". Wizardry apparently runs in families, and those who don't come from a wizarding line get called "mudbloods". There's some half-baked talk of killing the mudbloods, but nobody ever does anything about it, and it's only ever evil people that even think like that. That isn't confronting the issue of racism, that's using a cheap metaphor for racism as another way to demonstrate how evil your villains are. It is a metaphor, furthermore, which only has any impact if your audience already recognises it - we know that it's wrong for Draco to call Hermione a mudblood, because it's "like racism". It's not using a fantasy world to explore a real world issue, it's using a real world issue to explore a fantasy world.

And this, I think, is why I think Buffy succeeds and Potter - despite sales figures - ultimately fails. Buffy has its metaphors screwed on right. Well, apart from that bit with the crackhouse in series six. Buffy takes issues that its audience will be highly familiar with (academic pressure, romantic disaster, teenage insecurity) and uses the language of the supernatural to explore them in an emotionally believable way. Harry Potter, on the other hand uses real-world issues (racism, slavery, death) as a cheap way to add colour to an otherwise unconvincing fantasy world.

In Sunnydale, Joss Whedon created a world which reflects the mind of a young girl growing up in America, and he succeeded admirably. In Hogwarts, Joanne Rowling attempted to create a dark, believable world for a young boy to grow up in, and she failed dismally.Themes:

J.K. Rowling

,

Books

,

TV & Movies

,

Young Adult / Children

,

Whedonverse

~

bookmark this with - facebook - delicious - digg - stumbleupon - reddit

~Comments (

go to latest

)

Rami

at 09:00 on 2007-06-15Hmmm... that's interesting. I'm one of the few people who's neither read Harry (though I've seen one of the films) nor watched Buffy (not consistently, at least), but I'm inclined to agree that Whedon's way of presenting his world is deeper and more meaningful though perhaps less immediately obvious. Heck, I didn't appreciate Whedon at all until I saw Firefly...

[wolfpawn]

When Ghosts Come For Us

Chapter 17

NOTE This is based on the movie Crimson Peak, so if any of the subject matter in that was uncomfortable for you, you will find this similar. I will *NOT* be describing incest in this, it will only be implied, same as the movie.

WARNING None.

Also, I do not own any image or gif used in this story.

Rating - Mature

Charlotte looked at the black building as the carriage pulled up outside it. In truth, she hated the building. It had created Lucille and the monster she became, she and her hateful parents were the reason for Cordelia’s demise, almost as much as her own parents. It was huge and utterly impractical as a building. She spent more time walking up and down the stairs than in the rooms she moved between floors for. Inhaling deeply, she exited the carriage and walked into the house. There was no sign of Thomas anywhere, she walked around in search of him on the bottom floor before heading upstairs. She felt slightly uncertain as she went up the steps before getting to the hallway. It was empty and eerie.

‘Thomas?’ There was no response. She walked first to Lucille’s door, but noticed that she was sleeping. Quietly, she moved away and to their room, again it was empty. She looked across to the art room across the hallway and decided to check there. Again, there was no sign of Thomas, but what did catch her eye was a set of paints next to her easel. She walked over and looked at them for a moment, as well as some beautiful new brushes. She picked them up and inspected them, they were new and she knew them to be an expensive brand. Frowning, she wondered how they got there.

She was inspecting them when a dark shadow came to the door, turning, Thomas was there looking at her. ‘Do you like them?’

‘I...they are beautiful, when…?’

‘I got them in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne.’ He explained. ‘I had planned on giving them to you on my return, but all things considered, I forgot about them. I rediscovered them today, so I thought it would be something nice for you, you got me so much, I had gotten you nothing, though, since everything, you have not even come in here.’

‘I do not have the time, sadly.’ She sighed. ‘Thank you, Thomas. It was a lovely gesture and I appreciate it greatly. I did not get you that watch to acquire something in return.’ She smiled, walking over to him and giving him a kiss. Again, like with earlier, Thomas pulled her to him, kissing her with more and more passion as he did. When she urged them to pull apart, his pupils were wide and there almost seemed to be a feral look to his eyes. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘No.’

‘Come, we will eat together and then I will tend to Lucille. She is resting at present, so I dare say she will be hungry on her waking. You should see what I got her, I think she will like them.’ She linked hands with him and gently urged him to the door. ‘I may also have been a tad bold.’

‘Toffee?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, happy to see his corresponding smile. ‘So, was there any issue in my absence?’

‘Nothing, Lucille is asleep and I have been working on something to assist process the clay quicker.’

‘Wonderful, I would love to see what it is you have in mind when you are satisfied to do so, of course.’

Thomas’s smile brightened at her genuine interest in his work. ‘What of the town?’

‘Nothing of much note. I got everything we ordered, I bought a few items Lucille would need and I went to Dr Thompson for her medicine and ended up being brought in for tea.’

Thomas looked at her quizzically. ‘By Dr Thompson?’

‘No, he was not there on my arriving, his housekeeper invited me to wait and have some tea. She was lovely company. Then, Dr Thompson returned, his housekeeper shamed him adequately in my presence about a woman he is smitten for, then the butcher came about some puppies and I ordered a goose and a duck, he will have his brother-in-law bring them in a few days, he wants to have them hung first for a while, the brother-in-law is apparently our foreman for the mines, and it is all paid for, won’t that be lovely?’

‘Why was the butcher talking about dogs?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Not in an eating manner, of course, but he has some gorgeous pups and the doctor is taking one. Oh, I am envious. Cocker Spaniels, they are such fine creatures.’

‘You like dogs?’

‘I love them. A good solid loyal creature. I always wanted one, as did Cordelia, or I suspect she asked too because I wanted one, but my parents were adamant, no pets. I even tried to argue a good hunting dog is good for my father’s walks, but to no avail.’ She stated sadly.

‘And with…?’

Charlotte took a moment to realise who Thomas was referencing before she realised he was unable to even speak William Hamilton’s name. ‘He was not a dog lover.’

‘I see.’

‘Odd, something I wanted so badly, and even with twenty-eight thousand a year, it is not possible.’ She mumbled to herself as she descended the steps.

*

Thomas looked at his wife sceptically. ‘I am not sure…’

‘Thomas, it is perfect. Now she will not be confined to the bed. She will like that and you know it.’ She smiled.

‘Very well, but promise me you will not go hauling her out onto it by yourself and risk hurting yourself.’ Thomas pleaded, noting that Charlotte avoided replying.

*

Lucille still attempted to spit words of hatred at Charlotte, who in turn, continued to speak chirpily at her, annoying her further. The humiliation of being utterly dependant on the woman she now loathed beyond words ate at her, and to make matters worse, Thomas seemed oblivious to it all and did not seem to question anything, he merely accepted it. To her devastation, he did not bother to come to her often for company. She had heard herself daily when Charlotte urged her brother to go to her, but he chose Charlotte, every time it was possible. She had suspected he had become something akin to smitten with the woman, but seeing how he seemed to constantly be speaking with her, the laughter of not just the irritating woman, but now her brother also filling the house, she realised just how much Charlotte had won him over.

She had tried to prevent such happening, she had learnt from Cushing what to do to prevent Thomas’ interest going elsewhere, she never allowed them much time together, she prevented them from doing anything that allowed them to spend too much time alone, but now, all they had was time alone, Thomas either working on the mines or something in the workshop or following Charlotte around speaking with her. The constant noise of the pair talking, even regarding mundane matters irked her more every hour. She often yearned for sleep to take her again so she did not have to hear them. The only thing that gave her much solace was knowing that there was no way that Charlotte’s plan could last forever, she would have to be like the smiling witch and wait, biding her time, until she could strike. It would have to be swift like with Cushing, who, even with her broken leg from her fall over the balcony, fought, two stab wounds to the chest, one in each lung, and then through the cheek, watching as blood filled her eyeball, a tear streak of blood down her face as death took her, and the doctor getting similar enough treatment, both now rotting in the clay as the others had before them.

She suspected that even if she were to catch Charlotte by surprise, the other woman would not allow what she had done to Lucille happen her. There was also the very real matter that Charlotte had endured great agony and come through it. Her back was so badly scarred, even Lucille could not fathom the pain she had endured, and she came through it, and with the facade of the idiot gone, the look in her eyes of survival instinct was plain to see. It scared Lucille because in it, in its own twisted way, it reminded her of herself, a survivor.

Lucille was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of the elevator, then the sound of something wheeling out of it before it being sent down again, the object that was wheeling was brought along the corridor until it got to the door. When Charlotte entered the room, she was startled to see the fresh linen in her hands. She placed them down gently and left again, returning only a moment later with some more linen and then doing the same but with food. ‘Good afternoon, Lucille. I got you a few purchases today in the town, they will make life so much easier and more pleasant for you now.’ Lucille glared at her hatefully. ‘I have a little meal for you now, and when that is done, I am going to draw you a bath.’ Lucille’s hateful glare faltered. ‘Oh, you would like that. I gathered you would. Yes, I also got you a lovely new silken nightdress, and I was thinking, a slight trim of your hair, only two inches, I swear, nothing more, and a nice braid to keep it tidy, what do you think?’

In truth, Lucille wanted to throw her off the building after stabbing her a hundred times, but with that not an option, she knew she would have to accept whatever she could and simply grunted.

‘Excellent. I made chicken soup. It is a cold day and this will stave off a chill.’ She smiled, placing the soup on the dresser and walking over to Lucille, loosening the straps and forcing her to sit up before cushioning around her. ‘Right, so we will start with that and I will draw the bath then.’ She smiled, the same irritating smile that bothered Lucille from the day she was misfortunate enough to lay eyes on the other woman and slowly fed Lucille the soup. ‘Thomas is after coming up with a new way to process the clay, isn’t that wonderful? And I was in the town earlier, I ordered goose and duck, extravagant enough, I know, but I felt a treat was in order. I am not sure your opinion on Duck an l’Orange, but I adore it, so if you do not like it, I will not add it to your food, if you do, there will be plenty there. I know your opinion on potatoes, but they are one of the only things I can get to thicken your soup so they will have to suffice.’ She rambled. ‘I also heard, from Edward’s housekeeper, no less, the story that circulates regarding Edith Cushing and the doctor, they fled back to America, supposedly, leaving poor Thomas here with no wife and a broken heart. If they only knew what lay in the vats under this house. I think I should find a way, sometime, to give those people a proper burial. I will have to think of how I could ever have that happen. We shall see.’ She continued. ‘I think we should try and get a paper every so often, I found out the Americans are adding more states, or talking about it at least, honestly, they will have the whole land mass as a state soon, Mexico has been downsized, wait and see, they will go after the Pacific islands soon enough.’ She placed the empty bowl down. ‘I will draw your bath.’ She rose from her seat and left the room doing just as she said she would. On her return, Lucille seemed to be thinking a particular question. ‘I had something ordered for you, actually, a few things, including something to keep you from slipping into the bath should I leave you for a moment, so I will get them and then you will see my new idea.’ She smiled, leaving the room.

She was gone for close to twenty minutes when the elevator started again, and with it, the voices of Charlotte and Thomas followed it.

‘I am not sure, Lottie.’

‘She will like it, I know it.’

‘But it is added work for you.’

‘I don’t mind. Besides, I might able to have time to do some art again this way.’

‘I am not sure, but if it makes you happy.’

Lucille’s rage grew to near nauseating levels at Thomas’s concern not for her, but for Charlotte. She felt her heart breaking as Thomas, the very love of her life, was willingly pushing her away, after everything she did for him, and accepting the woman who had ruined everything they ever had.

‘Wait and see, Thomas, she will like it.’ Charlotte walked into the room, Thomas soon after. ‘By the way, why did you not read to her today? I left her book ready.’

‘I was busy with the mine opening.’

‘Well, ensure you do it later. It is not nice to be too busy and not have time for her, is it Lucille?’ She asked; though the smirk barely hidden in her features made Lucille nigh on incandescent with rage. ‘Bring in the chair. Look at this Lucille, this will revolutionise your care.’ Thomas brought in a chair that was similar to the kind that elderly or insane people would be wheeled around in, causing Lucille to become both angry and elated at the idea of getting out of the bed. ‘See, I said she would like it. ‘We can bring you all over the house again now. You won’t be cooped up in here.’

She used the chair to bring Lucille to the bathroom before checking the temperature of the bath and ascertaining it was to a suitable temperature before getting the system she had ordered and put it in.

‘Is it safe?’ Thomas asked, walking in.

‘Yes, it is, they are becoming very popular. Why don’t you just scurry on out, it is not appropriate for you to see your sister in any manner of indecency.’ She shooed, ushering him from the room. ‘Now, I got this little thing for when you are bathing.’ Charlotte commented, pulling out a light dress. ‘It saves me having to look at you too, so that is most definitely a good thing.’ She assisted Lucille into the different attire before lifting her into the warm bath and strapping her into the contraption to prevent her from slipping under the water. ‘I am across the hall tidying your bed, enjoy.’ She stated boredly as she walked away before going to the other room, changing the sheets and tidying before going back in to the bathroom and doing as she said, washing and tidying the ends of Lucille’s hair before tying it in a French braid and lifting her from the bath before placing her in the chair again and wheeling her to the room. Once there, she dried and dressed the other woman in a warm and comfortable nightdress and strapped her into the bed. ‘I will get your dinner, rest.’ She stated before she left. ‘Tomorrow I will bring you downstairs. For now, I want to spend some time with my husband.’

*

That night, as she readied for bed, Charlotte heard Thomas coming in behind her. She paid him no heed as she tied her hair in a braid simply to prevent it getting tangled in her sleep. When she turned around to face him, he was in only a shirt and britches, as he tended to be, something she had to admit she found him attractive in. That was not what caught her eye though, what did was the look on Thomas’s face, he walked over to her, saying nothing as he gently put his hand to her face before kissing her. Charlotte knew what would come next, every kiss of late ended up with them kissing more passionately, and this was no different. Within moments, he was urging her backwards until she fell onto the bed before he stood over her and grabbed her leg.

The look in his eyes scared her, he seemed almost feral. She felt fear surge through her as he stood above her, his larger frame all of a sudden looking far more menacing. She reached for her pillow frantically knowing that there was a blade there she kept for emergencies, but as it stood she could not reach it. She became worried when Thomas gripped her thigh tightly, her dress skirt falling to her waist and pulled her closer to him and further from her weapon. She was about to kick out when he pressed his lips to her inner thigh, before doing it again, kissing his way up her thigh. Charlotte watched confused as he did so, his eyes on hers as he did. When he got to the top, he climbed up over her until his hands were on either side of her head before leaning down and kissing her with incredible passion, the likes of which she had never experienced from him before. As he leant against her, not placing all of his weight on her, she felt her body react to the very clear actions he was doing, realising what he was initiating, she was terrified, considering her past experience with such acts, but he continued to kiss her and grind against her, but do no more. It took her a moment to realise what he was doing was waiting for her to move on proceedings.

When she put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his back, she did not feel the revulsion her father had instilled in her, in fact, she felt almost anxious and lightheaded, and when she slid her hands further down and removed Thomas’s pants from his waist, the soft skin of his derriere in her grasp. Gasping quietly, he took hold of her and turned them both so he was lying on his back with her straddling his waist, just over his groin. For a moment, she looked at him confused, having genuinely never been in such a position before. 

Tom seemed to realise she had little knowledge of what was happening, so he lifted her skirt enough to get under it and aligned himself with her body before pressing up and slowly enter her. Charlotte could not help the noise she made as her body reacted to what was happening. When he pulled her down slightly so he was lying correctly on the bed, he moved slightly, causing Charlotte to realise what he wished for her to do, so she began to cant her hips, realising the sensation was actually odd in a positive manner, so she did it again and again, noting it began to feel good as she looked at Thomas, who looked at her in almost reverent, his face filled with pleasure as he found himself becoming more and more aroused by her actions. Filled with a confidence she was uncertain as to how she had, she moved more before leaning down to kiss Thomas, who reciprocated as passionately, both unable to stave off the pleasure they felt.

Tags

@sigridlaufeyson @wolfsmom1 @ilovekingt  @lokilover9 @whovianwookie86-captainxev @texmexdarling @lokiloveheart

[savevsfacemelt]

Crowmurder essay #1 - Conception

What’s a Crowmurder, you ask? It’s a Monster of the Week campaign I ran online for most of the last year. I blog my notes after each session of some games I run, but not all of them; with this one, I decided to write about it once it was over, because it’s a good case study of the way I develop and run campaigns/stories.

I also thought it would run 6 sessions, not 15. My bad.

Anyway, this is the first of three essays about the game, looking at my planning and brainstorming before play started. To make sense of it, you might want to first read the adventure logs on the campaign’s OP page.

Ready? Let’s begin.

The core idea

It may not seem obvious - none of my players realised it - but Crowmurder was conceived as a homage to/recontextualisation of the classic D&D adventure Ravenloft, transplanted into a modern-day milieu.

...okay, that begs the question of why I wanted to run such a game, but I don’t have an answer for that; I got the idea one day and it stuck while many others didn’t. It stayed in the back of my mind for several years, until the interminable lockdowns of 2020 prompted me to run more games to keep myself busy and my friends entertained.

Pinning down the basics

It would have been pretty easy to run Ravenloft as-is, just transplanted to modern-day Romania or something, but that was too obvious and dull to consider. Instead I wanted to completely change its context, while retaining an action/horror feel - which meant I needed a setting and a system that would retain and support that genre of game.

Picking Monster of the Week as the system was the easy part. I’ve run it before, it has lots of fun character abilities, I’m very comfortable with the Apocalypse World system - or so I thought. (We’ll talk about that in the last essay.) A recent supplement included some more character playbooks and solid GMing advice/options, so this was the perfect chance to give them a try.

Picking a time/place was harder. My immediate impulse for modern-day games is to set them in Melbourne - I did that the previous time I ran MotW - but that wasn’t a good fit for Ravenloft, which is set in an isolated wilderness. I needed a rural setting, one that could hold natural and unnatural dangers; that tone of isolation also suggested a pre-internet/smartphone time period. Eventually I decided the mid-1970s would be an interesting time, and that an American swamp would be a good replacement for the forests of Barovia.

Now I had to work out what to do with them.

The main elements

I read the original Ravenloft module several times, working out which elements to keep and which to lose. The main thing I wanted to excise was the dungeon-crawling element - which is pretty much 80% of the adventure! But that still left a number of key points:

a wilderness with dangerous wildlife

an isolated town cut off by mists

an vampire noble in a castle

a young woman who was the reincarnation of a lost love

monsters and mortals in service to the undead lord

a group of wanderers who played both sides

Lots of stuff there to base a game on! I sketched out some simple recontextualizations of those points:

a swamp full of snakes and gators

a town cut off by storms and rain

an undead businessman in a decaying mansion

the wanderers could be Cajun ‘swamp folk’

The reincarnation angle, and the monsters/servants, could stay roughly as-is.

With those fundamentals down, the next step was (ugh) research.

Research and rethinking

I don’t love doing research; it’s the primary reason I write stories/run games in fantasy/SF settings, so that I can just make shit up. But modern-day games gain verisimilitude and flavour from being anchored in real details, so it was time to break out the books. Or at least Wikipedia.

I had two main angles of research: interesting supernatural stuff to populate the game, and details of ‘70s swamp life. I started with the mundane details, because anything I found might help inform the supernatural details.

What I found was that many pop-culture depictions of life within American swamp regions are shallow and racist. Most of these regions are in the South, and those communities were disproportionately poor, black, and still shaped by the racist legacy of the Civil War. Stories set in those regions tend to ignore the real issues of race and power in favour of cheap, hurtful tropes like ‘Cajun thieves’ and ‘voodoo witches’. I quickly dumped all the rough ideas I had along those lines, and decided to develop a setting/story anchored in the history and social impact of the Civil War. Picking Louisiana as the state, and reading up on its history, I revised my ‘undead businessman’ into an undead Antebellum aristocrat, his mansion an old plantation house, and the reincarnation plot thread would tie back to the crimes he committed during the Civil War.

Switching over to the supernatural angle, I wanted to emphasise motifs of crows and darkness. Online searches of regional myth didn’t offer much, and I wanted to avoid overused or problematic tropes so I hit up one of my favourite reference books - Theresa Bane’s Encyclopaedia of Demons in World Religions and Cultures - for ideas. My search terms (crow, raven, darkness, shadow etc.) threw up a few demons from goetia and medieval writings, which had possibilities but didn’t thrill me... and then I discovered Nai-Batar, a daeva from Zoroastrian mythology. That diverged hard from expectations, so hard that I dismissed it at first, but the idea got its hooks into me - the daeva had great story potential as out-of-context monsters that could make the story weird and fascinating.

The plan comes together

After some more research (and a bunch of image searches), I had the core of my story plan. An aristocrat occultist (named Corbeau, which is French for ‘crow’) brings Persian artefacts to his plantation home, unlocking the arcane secrets of the daeva. He uses them to become a lich or revenant, and now he builds up his swamp fiefdom while lusting after a local woman who’s the reincarnation of a slave. His efforts to control her would be the major plot driver, and prompt some questions about slavery and power.

It was a rough core, but I fleshed it out with enough colour and detail to work as the underpinnings of a short game.

Then my players created characters and changed everything.

More on that in the next essay.

[lnicol1990]

BatIM - Fine Print

Double upload tonight!

For @squigglydigglydoo​‘s Toon Henry AU. I was expecting this to be a fairly quick and easy one, and it was! Although, compared to God’s Toll, I think that was something of a given.

I hope you all enjoy!

You can also read this on DeviantArt.

Humans were a peculiar race.

Only they dreamt and strived for what they could not achieve. Only they chased the impossible. Only they reached out to his kind, seeking arcane solutions to their mundane problems.

While others went for the desperate, the forlorn and the naïve, he always answered the calls of artists. Artists had always intrigued him with their imagination and desires. While some would seek him out for some… uninspired task –ruin a rival, punish a wayward lover– most looked to improve their own standing. They sought inspiration. They sought passion. They sought knowledge to master a technique.

All measureable.

All controllable.

Others would give them what they wanted and demand a steep price for it, but he knew better. He knew how to work with artists. They would dance to the tune he played for them; they always did.

Ask for a modest price, something they would consider worthless, a novelty, and they would accept without question. Give them what they ask for, but only so far; inspiration for one painting, passion for one song. And then, once they had what they wanted, they would want more, and he was so reasonable they would ask of him again… and again… and again.

And he would give it to them, little by little. And he would take from them, little by little.

By the time he would ask them for the ultimate price, they had lost everything of value and were all too willing to give him the final piece.

Humans were a predictable race.

His latest beneficiary called himself Joey Drew, who was not an artist by any definition. But, he was a man with… impressive vision, and all to correct a deformed leg. Had it been simple healing Joey wanted, he wouldn’t have bothered with the man, but the man’s solution? His desire? Now that had intrigued him.

So, he’d picked up his fiddle and played for the man. Something simple, a modest price. After all, was anyone going to miss a few office knick-knacks?

And boy, did Joey take his vision far on such a tiny sacrifice. The man had struggled, failed and persevered to make those silly little drawings come to life. He’d fully expected the human to come to him for help, instructions, on how to use that ‘Ink Machine’ to create those ‘cartoons’. Instead, the human had toiled on his own for over six months to produce his vision’s desire, convincing himself that he was inept, rather than realise the limits of the deal.

Everyone else in the animation studio had left by the time Joey had mastered crafting cartoon objects, and the business had gone under.

He had to admit curiosity at that point. Would Joey deflate, abandon the dream, blame him and his deal for the failing of the company? Instead, the loss fuelled the man further, turning desperate curiosity into spite-tinged obsession.

Humans were a fascinating race.

Afterwards, Joey pushed forwards with his ambition, seeking to make more than simple objects. No, the man’s desire was life, living creatures made from ink. At first, it had been a doll, an inanimate object that Joey turned to ink and tried to breathe life into, without success. After many more failures, the human attempted to make living dolls out of nothing but ink.

All collapsed into lifeless puddles.

He had smiled and looked on eagerly. Soon… Soon Joey would summon him again and ask for the Machine to make living cartoons, and he would ask for another price, far steeper than he would usually ask, but the man was more stubborn than most of his other… clients, and there was now far less that the human could offer him in exchange.

But, much to his surprise, Joey didn’t call him. Instead, he called his employees, begging them to return and promising to show them much.

And they’d come, one at a time, to speak with Joey, to see what he wanted them to see. They were swayed with sweet words and the grandeur of the man’s vision. They trusted their old employer, stood as instructed, and were met with a torrent of ink from the Machine.

They had screamed in terror as they drowned in the unnatural liquid, screamed in pain as it changed them, and then fallen silent as it killed them. Their bodies were a gruesome mess of flesh and blood and ink.

And he had taken their souls as a gift from his latest interest.

To the man’s credit, Joey had been horrified when the first employee had died. The man had even fled the studio in terror, and didn’t return for a whole week. But, return the man did, and continued with the experiments, even when the next ex-employee came visiting.

Humans were a stubborn race.

The man got better at turning the old employees into cartoons –well, not killing them at least. The bodies became fully made of ink, but barely resembled anything that could be considered human, and certainly not what he had come to understand as a cartoon. Each of them, still alive and with only pain, anger and instinct to guide them, had fled to the basement levels.

It was after the creation of several of those creatures that Joey finally summoned him again.

“That Machine either kills anyone it touches, or turns them into those… those… monsters!”

“You wanted a machine that could create your cartoons. You never said you wanted them to live.”

“Of course, I wanted them to live! Surely that was obvious!”

“I don’t deal in ‘obvious’, Joey Drew of Joey Drew Studios. I deal in explicitly agreed terms. If you are unsatisfied with what you received, you should have made your demands clearer.”

“How dare you! You- you tricked me!”

“I have done no such thing. Of course, should you wish to… correct your earlier mistake, I am willing to make another deal with you.”

“You would change the Ink Machine so it can create living, breathing cartoons?”

“If that is what you seek.”

“And you’d make it turn real people into cartoons as well, not those… monsters?”

“If that is what you seek. Although, I am curious; you are asking for no small feat of me. What is it you think you can offer? Your business has collapsed; this building of yours is falling apart. What can you possibly hope to offer in fair exchange?”

Humans were a careful race.

Joey made him no offer, nor asked him what he sought as his price. Instead, the man dismissed him, no deal made.

He wondered if Joey would return to the Ink Machine, as the man had called it. But, the human ignored the Machine, choosing instead to wander the studio’s halls. He watched Joey walk around as if seeing it for the first time, realising the state it had become due to the man’s inattention.

He thought that the man might give up, realise the scope and dangers of pursuing his dream and leave. It wouldn’t be the first time he had lost a human this way, and he doubted it would be the last.  Even if it did happen, he’d already ensured that he wouldn’t leave the arrangement emptyhanded.

But then, Joey stopped at a desk, unused by any during his time observing the studio. He watched as the man looked through the aging papers before something caught the human’s eye. The man stared at that one sheet for a long moment before making a peculiar barking noise the he had learnt humans called laughter.

The man rushed back to the Ink Machine as quickly as he could. With a sense of purpose he had never felt from the man before, Joey took the controls of the Machine and sent it into a flurry of activity. He watched as the human moved with precision and confidence, only ever looking away from the Machine to glance at the paper the man had brought with him.

A deluge of ink poured from the Machine’s nozzle and landed on the floor in a large puddle, shapeless. But, he watched the puddle take form before his very eyes. It rose into basic shapes at first before becoming more defined, more recognisable.

It was then that Joey drew a fresh summoning circle in the room, not bothering to go down to the one in the basement. Without a moment’s hesitation, before the circle’s ink had even dried, Joey summoned him again.

“I have something to offer you now.”

“You offer me a doll?”

“Well, I can’t make it alive just yet, now can I? You were right; there’s nothing I can give you that’s worth living toons. So, in exchange for what I want –living toons and turning real people into them as well– how about I give you this one?”

“You offer me a vessel.”

“Well, do you want it, or not?”

He recognised the form as the studio’s favoured cartoon, though he’d never bothered to learn its name. It was meant to be an entity of his kind, though its appearance was underwhelming. Round and unthreatening, nothing could be further from his true form.

It would be underestimated.

It would be trusted.

It would allow him access to new beneficiaries, beyond summonings.

Yes… The more he considered it, the more it appealed to him. If he accepted this, he would have no need for this man anymore. Others would often struggle to find vessels with which to enter the human world, but he had been offered it out of Joey’s sheer desperation to bring cartoons to life.

Humans were a creative race.

“Very well; I am intrigued, Joey Drew of Joey Drew Studios. Your machine will hold the spark of life for your creations, and will transform any living creature into your… cartoons –at your will. In exchange, you will give me a vessel. Do you accept this deal?”

“I accept.”

Joey wasted no time returning to the Machine’s controls. He watched the man spin dials, pull levers and flick switches until the Machine roared into life once again. Ink poured out of the great contraption and flooded the room before centralising on the doll, his vessel. The doll disappeared under the ink for a moment and then everything collapsed, the black liquid covering the room again.

The doll was now lying on the floor, limbs no longer ramrod straight but relaxed at gentle angles. One hand curled into a slight fist while the other was straighter, resting on the floor with its palm facing upwards. The doll’s eyes were now closed and its mouth was small and relaxed, not stretched into that large grin. Its chest rose and fell slowly as it breathed shallowly.

As if it was asleep.

He smiled in a grotesque parody of the human expression: the vessel was perfect for him. And, with the bargain struck, he could leave the circle and claim what was his. Calmly and with poise, he strode out of the confines of the ring and into the ink. With each step, he drew closer to his vessel.

Closer.

And closer.

As he drew close enough to reach out for his vessel, there was a loud clunk behind him. Intrigued, he turned to the source of the sound, and found himself staring at Joey Drew, with a peculiar expression on his face. He and the man locked eyes, neither blinking as the human continued to tinker with the Ink Machine’s controls.

And then, the Ink Machine sprang back into activity. But, instead of churning out any more ink, it began to suck the ink on the floor into it. He realised that his vessel was also being pulled into the Machine, and then noticed with a start that he was as well.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“This? This is me upholding my end of the deal, just like we agreed.”

“This is not part of our agreement. You would give me a vessel.”

“And I am; I’m just turning you into a toon, as well. You never said I couldn’t. And if you aren’t happy about this, well… what did you say earlier? You should have made your demands clearer.”

It was an excellent point, he had to admit. It was also something he would have expected from another of his kind, but a human? He hadn’t expected it from a human. Such duplicity was worthy of praise and admiration… were it not happening to him.

His strength failed and he was finally pulled into the Machine, cursing Joey’s name as went.

In the black, everything was still and quiet. He couldn’t feel anything as he thrashed around, could barely feel himself move. As the moment dragged on with nothing happening, he felt apprehension crawl through his body, making his skin tingle.

And then, something felt strange, out of place, though he couldn’t identify what it was. The feeling of wrongness continued, getting stronger with each breath he took. Was he breathing? That was something mortals did; they breathed.

Suddenly, a face appeared from his memory, a human he had dealt with years before meeting Joey. He felt it fizzle and fade away into… felt what? What had he been thinking of? A new face appeared, different from all the others he had seen. It was animalistic but gentle, friendly… familiar. Of course! Of course, he knew that face! How could he forget it?

Other memories were present, thoughts of rituals and arcane magic, of deals and dirty tricks –all of them were wrong. They didn’t belong in his mind, why were they there? What did they mean? What–

What was he getting upset over?

Rules began to fill in the gaps in his memory, of stretching, smearing, Hammerspace and status quo. That felt right. That was better than… whatever had or hadn’t been there before.

Everything was beginning to feel right to him; the odd pocket of thought that didn’t belong were gone before he could figure out why they were there, easing his worries. Why he had felt so angry, so afraid, when everything was finally clicking into place? He did recognise one strange thought, though, before it was gone and forgotten.

Humans were a cunning race.

---***---

Everything was quiet and still in the dark, and he could barely feel his body around him. It felt like he was in water of some kind, but surely water wasn’t so dark. And, if it was water, why was he breathing softly? Shouldn’t he be drowning if he was in water, or at least forced to hold his breath?

Curious, he reached out with a hand and felt something shift, the water broke away from his fingers and something cold brushed againt him, he could feel it through his glove. He stretched out until he could feel the cold caress his wrist and he moved his hand about, trying to find something else to touch.

His hand landed on something solid, something that didn’t move when he pressed against it. Instead, he felt himself being pulled towards this solid thing, his arm straining at the sudden work. He reached out with his other arm, faster, more confident this time, and his whole arm landed on this solid object he’d found. His fingers found a slight groove into the objects surface and he clung to it and pulled himself up.

Light filled his vision, blinding him with its sudden appearance. The cold on his face made him gasp, air chilling his throat and filling his lungs for the first time. As his breathing slowed and his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he looked around.

He was in a room with a strange machine. Looking down, he realised that he was in a dark liquid and he was gabbing onto some sort of platform above it. But… the liquid was so small, almost nothing but a puddle. Maybe he’d found an opening in the platform, and this dark water was just underneath.

Regardless, he altered his grip on the platform edge and pushed himself up, revealing his chest and then his waist. He startled at that point, noticing that the opening was shrinking as he escaped it. Fear suddenly pushing him onwards, he struggled until he managed to get a knee onto the platform. Using it as leverage, he managed to get his other leg out and then his last one.

The opening close as it he pulled the last of his shoe out.

He took a moment, gasping for air, to stare at the hole that had disappeared. Once his breathing calmed, he noticed that he could hear another sound coming from behind him.

Turning round, he saw a creature… a man lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, gasping much like he had been. Had the man just escaped from the dark water too? He watched the man turn his head to something and reach out with a trembling hand. After a moment, the man turned onto his side to try again with his other hand.

He followed the man’s focus and noticed a long, thin stick on the floor, one end of it curved. Realising that the man wanted the stick for… whatever reason, he quickly raced over to it and picked it up. Turning back to the man, who was struggling to get to his feet, he held up the stick in offering.

“Is this what ya wanted?” he asked.

“Yes… yes, thank you,” the man mumbled, barely looking up at him.

The man was holding his head with one hand while taking the stick from him with the other. He watched as the man held the stick by its curve and began pushing himself up, the other hand suddenly reaching out for… balance? Help?

He grabbed the waving hand and pulled until the man was finally standing, albeit leaning heavily on the stick –too heavily, that didn’t look right. He let the man’s hand go and watched as the man nurse his head one final time before turning his attention to him.

The man’s earlier dazed expression quickly turned to recognition, then shock… and then fear. He didn’t understand that last one and frowned in concern. Was the man afraid of him? Why? But, the man’s face quickly calmed and he looked at him curiously.

“Did… did it work?” the man muttered quietly, probably to himself, and reached out to him but stopped short of touching him. It was as if the man was afraid he would melt or disappear. “Do you know your name, who you are?”

“Me?” he asked, perplexed at the question. But as soon as he thought about it, the answer was obvious and he couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that he’d even had to think. He beamed at the man and threw his arms out wide in introduction. “I’m Bendy; Bendy the Dancing Demon!”

“It did work!” the man laughed breathlessly. He reached out and touched Bendy, laying his hand on the little devil’s horn. Tears ran down the man’s face as he continued to laugh and smile, his face filled with joy and relief. “You– and what about me? Do you know who I am?”

“You?” Bendy echoed, frowning in confusion.

“It’s alright if you don’t; we’ve never really met, but I… I guess I’m just hoping…”

The man trailed off, clearly unable to put his thoughts into words. But as Bendy looked at him, he realised that the man did look familiar, and he wracked his brain for the answer.

“You’re… you’re Joey… Drew?” the little devil offered uncertainly. But, when the man –Joey– nodded his head, he felt the rest of the information fall into place. “You’re my creator!”

“Yes! Yes, that’s right. You do know me.” Joey smiled brightly at him, tears still streaming down the man’s face.

“But… no, wait. That’s wrong, though,” Bendy muttered suddenly, frowning as other thoughts, other facts came to the forefront of his mind. He noticed Joey frown back at him, his eyes suddenly fearful again. He ignored the fear and focused on his own thoughts. “There’s… someone else. Henry Ross. He’s my creator.”

Joey relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes. After another breath, he opened his eyes and looked behind himself to the machine. There was a control panel full of levers and switches and dials, and on to the top was a yellow, aging sheet of paper. Joey chuckled before turning back to Bendy, smiling.

“I can see why you might have… thought that.” Joey nodded. He paused for a moment before continuing. “Do you know what you are, beyond a dancing demon?”

“I’m a cartoon,” he answered instantly.

“Yes, yes! Exactly. And cartoons are drawn by artists,” Joey explained. He waited until Bendy nodded in understanding. “Now, Henry was an artist. He drew you, but he didn’t create you.”

“Oh. So, Henry is my… artist?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The man nodded at him again. He patted Bendy on the head when the little devil opened his mouth to ask more questions. “We can talk more about it later, alright? I promise. But, one last question, from me. Do you know where you are?”

Bendy looked around the room again, taking in everything he saw. There was the machine, was that how Joey had created him, in this real, physical body? There were chests of drawers in the corners of the room, a couple of chairs and a strange drawing of him resting by the door.

Nothing seemed familiar to him.

He shook his head as he looked back to Joey worriedly, wondering if he should have known the answer. But the man only smiled at him and patted him on the head in what felt like a comforting manner.

“It’s alright; I was thinking that one might have been a stretch for you,” Joey reassured him. “We’re in my studio, my animation studio.”

“That’s where you created me? And, where Henry drew me?” he asked, feeling like he already knew the answer. He wasn’t surprised when Joey nodded at him, and his smile widened further. Bendy smiled back in response. “Then… then I’m home!”

“That’s right, my little devil. You’re home.”