#the seven spheres

[sevenish-spheres]

Infernal Bestiary: The Stygian Contubernia

The Stygian Contubernia are the unlucky squads of devils assigned to dredge newly-arrived souls from the banks of the Styx in Avernas, and send them on their less-than-merry way along the Pale Roads to the great city of Dis. Stygian Contubernia normally contain eight devils (eight is deemed an unlucky number, insofar as devils believe in luck), reflecting their status as failures within the infernal hierarchy. Alongside this, Stygian Contubernia often make use of constructs such as Shackle Visages.

Furthermore, life on the banks of the Styx is far from easy, as frequent attacks from Acherai Reivers, attacks from wild Vhermas Devils and the many other beasts that prowl the Styx mean mortality rates are exceedingly high. Alongside this, whilst the Styx flows relatively sluggishly in Pandorum, it can still rapidly strip away the body and soul of a being immersed in it, meaning that many say that the devils within Stygian Contubernia often go mad. However, the Contubernia do offer one benefit to devils, as they afford their members far more individuality and personality than most infernal cohorts, at the cost of the fact that few devils ever are promoted out of their Contubernia once they join them.

Therefore, demotion to a Stygian Contubernium is regarded as the effective end of a devil’s career, and most devil's treat the members of such units with a mixture of fear and scorn. Listed below are the five devil types found within a Stygian Contubernium, alongside the constructs often found alongside them.

Kalvereen

Kalvereen are the guardians and overseers of the Styx itself, and appear as fishlike devils wearing pointed, almost featureless masks and wielding vicious, glowing mancatchers enchanted to entrance and ensnare the Pretas that emerge from the planar waterway. For this reason, Kalvereen are virtually exclusively found on Avernas, but do occasionally find employment as bodyguards and soulwarpers in lower layers. They tend to be treated as alien by other devils, as their time in the Styx has made almost every Kalvereen adopt its own strange idiosyncrasies and habits that most devils in the lower layers would baulk at for their unorganised nature. Kalvereens are the leaders of Stygian Contubernia, and generally serve as their representatives when dealing with other devils. They are remarkably powerful, capable of shepherding and controlling even large groups of Preta at once, and stunning or confusing other foes with an array of illusions and light-based spells.

Ixiniels

Although more commonly found serving as infernal scribes and accountants in other layers, disgraced Ixiniels often find their way to Stygian Contubernia, where they brand newly-emerged Pretas with a serial number that they will retain for the remainder of their time as a devil, and keep count of the souls secured by the Contubernium. They appear as humanoids wearing somewhat ragged brown robes and wide-brimmed hats. Their most distinctive feature is their faces, which are nothing more than bloody cavities within their heads, within which has been jammed several metal rods and beads, forming a strange abacus. Most contubernia contain two Ixiniels, one scribe to record the pretas captured, and one carrying the vast brand-staff they use to mark the unfortunate souls. However, in war-torn regions one Ixiniel may do both tasks, with their eighth spot in the unit taken up by a Varazu or similar militant devil.

Varazu

Varazus tend to form the basic fighters and workers of a contubernium. They appear as scaly, muscular humanoids dressed in light armour, and tend to sport curving horns alongside sharp scales where a beard might be on a person. Whilst in their usual regiments Varazu are silent and gruff legionaries, within the Stygian Contubernia they frequently adopt personalities and specialisations of their own. Many favour mancatchers or harpoon crossbows for capturing rogue pretas, but equally many adopt stranger weapons such as flails, falchions and throwing knives. Most contubernia contain 2-3 Varazus.

Stryckna

Dangerous flying devils, Strycknas are used in high-priority message deliveries and as aerial shock troops. Strycknas favour bows and crossbows, and are extraordinarily fast at using the latter. Within Stygian Contubernia, Strycknas frequently serve as lookouts and scouts, easily spotting emerging groups of pretas or enemies on the horizon. Strycknas appear as feathered, birdlike humanoids with generally beaked heads, although occasionally Strycknas with eerily human faces have been reported, and it is these individuals that most commonly serve as members of Stygian Contubernia.

Farfarello

Farfarellos are a form of mutated imp found within and around the Styx. They appear as imps with shrivelled wings, long beards and, most strikingly, fishlike tails. They are capable of surviving short immersions within the Styx, and for this reason are favoured by the Contubernia for driving stubborn preta out of the river and onto the banks where they can be more easily caught, although they equally often serve in similar roles to that of a usual imp, such as as assistants to other contubernia members, or as messengers and occasionally cooks in the contubernia that develop a taste for food (something deemed highly excessive for low-ranking devils outside of Consuuli, the layer of Gluttony). Due to their extended exposure to the waters of the Styx, Farafellos tend to be especially mad by infernal standards, often even talking back to their superiors. This behaviour is tolerated within the Contubernia due to their willingness to enter the Styx, but is likely the reason they haven’t seen much use outside of the ostracised unit. Alongside this, it is likely also the reason generally only one Farafello is found within a contubernium, as any more would likely drive the other members even more insane.

Finally, a construct mostly unique to the Stygian Contubernia and the other infernal units that regularly deal with pretas or prisoners.

Shackle Visages

Appearing as grinning or weeping masks made of whitish clay (or, more rarely, flayed skin) upon which are attached dozens of barbed chains, Shackle Visages are the constructs responsible for chaining up the mobs of Pretas and driving them along the Pale Roads. Despite being constructs, Shackle Visages seem to display remarkably sadistic tendencies, and groups may even gang up on a single preta if they deem it entertaining enough. However, they still unthinkingly obey the Kalvereens within the contubernia, and as such when not shackling pretas they tend to serve as perimeter guards and watchmen whilst the contubernia is on the move or at rest. Most contubernia are accompanied by two or three Shackle Visages at any one time, although due to frequent combat on the Styx this number can vary wildly. Alongside the majority of Pandorum’s constructs, Shackle Visages are manufactured in Kimeron, the layer of Sloth, although a few have been produced in forges within Avernas or Dis.

[stromuprisahat]

Expectations were low, but Oh My God!

I intended to write down the dialogues that don't make much sense, but then I figured it's no use to copy/paste all the subtitles. There's rarely anything that isn't plain stupid. The Witcher: Blood Origins is amalgam of badly used tropes I've seen thousand times before. 

The Elves

Forget the beautiful, graceful humanoids with equally stunning culture. The elves here are dirty, rude and equally pathetic as humans. The only difference is pointy ears. Their architecture is massive and angular, their blades, proverbial elven blades, often look like a total amateur with zero skill forged them out of scraps.

Elves are also morally corrupt. Colonization is a huge issue we won’t learn much about, except they’re just as bad as humans will become in future. Given the context the point seems to be they had it coming... in case you were starting to feel for their race in present time.

REPRESENTATION!!!

Recently I’ve read a post about how little representation is in “source” material. Shocking, isn’t it? Slavic fantasy, heavily inspired by mediaeval Poland doesn’t include POCs (read: Blacks and East-Asians, because I’ve never seen anyone complaining about lack of Native Americans... in pseudoEurope...). The show creators obviously decided to fix that by ticking off the proper boxes.

You’ve got Black elves, East-Asian, gay gay, chubby deaf-mute... well, at least this time the different colours came from distinct nations. If only the stereotypes were avoided.

Tropes and patterns

Soft, slightly feminine gay, gullible disabled, wise older East-Asian mentor,  washed out hippie healer, abused genius, forbidden love between protector and his charge, soldier who was done killing untill the enemy wiped out his home, redemption = sacrifice = suicide, two characters arguing about who’s gonna do the sacrificing only for the one, who “lost” to go behind the other one’s back and do it...

... sprinkle some well-known terms and names: chaotic power, Xin'trea, Eredin, Avallac’h... aaand done! Brand new tale from a widely-loved universe is done!

Perhaps try writing less of what could people find cool, and focus on a good story.

Rah, rah-ah-ah-ah!

Four episodes don’t offer much space to develop many characters. Seven good guys, at least four antagonists... personalities, interactions, needless romance... it’s interesting how much can actors express in only so many interactions.

Zacaré and Brother Death are believable. 

Meldof and Gwen's story's tragic, but rather sweet in a way. (Tho they could’ve refrained from that rape aspect.)

Éile and Fjall, flat and boring. One of the unsurprising, disappointing turns of events. Zero chemistry. Made to fuck with the sole purpose of making a baby to artificially connect them to Ciri, one of the MCs in the “original” series.

The WITCHER: Blood Origin

You're telling me that the first version of a witcher was a badass elf? This is really gonna piss Geralt off.

One would hope for something different, after all this fuss, but no. First “witcher" is just another butch guy, only with pointy ears.

How do we know the turning potion's ew? It's black!

How do we know he's really WITCHER 1.0? Yellow eyes!

How do we know he’s not quite himself? Black eyes and veins on his face!

I'm sure this improvised ritual had the same effects as carefully honed procedure sorcerers spent decades perfecting...

Fuck the Coup, free The People!

The story starts with a coup, killing off three monarchs with their bodyguards. Corrupt, elitist leadership’s gone, the new rulers- army, magicians and overlooked princess- plan to invade new worlds to gain resources their world’s lacking. Sounds like a decent idea? Our heroes would disagree. The empress needs to be destroyed, because people suffer.

You changed nothing. You're just another boot looking for more necks.

... reproaches the great Éile new empress. When was she supposed to do that? In a week? Change takes time and resources, Merwyn had none. Am I supposed to cheer, because now it's faceless "people" in charge? Do they have knowledge to rule? The skill? Anything? Or are they expected to wing it? Rule isn't about putting new people to the wheel and hope it will all work out. Talk about freedom won't feed you, run trade, economy, agriculture etc..

The worst thing's we know the Empire is crumbling. We know there's no food to redistribute, even the leadership has barely anything and you can't let the head starve if you want to fix anything. Merwyn's unforgivable sin was being born into the ruling class.

- You've no idea what elfkind even is. You're just another spoiled princess.

~ I am Empress!

- You are a child ~given~ the reins of a warhorse. You don't speak for elfkind.

... the writers try to gaslight us. We’re introduced clever, idealistic, inquisitive princess, who wants to help her people. When she’s confronted with reality, she tries to learn more. She goes from her family’s pawn to schemer, who makes allies and plans, frees herself from role of figurehead and reminds others the most important task is to feed their people. That’s a character I’d love to watch. Not a dumb singer, who rallies a mob, destroys government, helps to cause cataclysm and fucks off to countryside.

The Story of the Seven

What did those fame-deserving Seven achieve? Did they solve famine? Did they end war? Did they offer better way to rule? No, no and no.

But they (unintentionally) caused the Conjunction, brought the monsters and humans into weak, starving, disorganized society. The rightfully forgotten Seven effectively crippled their own race and destroyed any chance for defense they might have had.

I don’t know who is Jaskier’s song about, but it’s not about these Seven.

[breath-of-venus]

Seven Spheres —

A quick review from someone who’s not into hermetics

Reading Seven Spheres by Rufus Opus has been the first time in which I actually study planetary magic beyond the very surface. It was very illuminating, and I was very excited reading it and thinking about so many ways to incorporate planetary spirits and powers into my craft, but it was also a bit boring in the sense that the author talks too much about money and how the planets can help you financially, and that IS QUITE BORING. I understand the author got that in mind when starting his planetary workings, and that many people turn to magic to aid in their financial lives, but I was expecting a bit more… variety.

The book at times sounds very… coachy (as in “yeah you can do it if you just put the effort” kinda coach. Annoying). To me, that’s kinda silly. And also quite unrealistic often times.

Overall, it is a good book as an introduction to planetary magic, and although I encourage the classic healthy dose of skepticism in everything you read, you can tell the author is knowledgeable in the area. Even though I have my critiques, however, I did learn quite a bit reading it, so I do recommend it still. :)

As a closing note, since most of my followers are within the polytheistic and/or pagan sphere, I do feel the need to say that the book works in a system of angels, jesus (only in words but still) and a main creator deity. If that’s something you can manage within your personal beliefs, great, you won’t have a problem with the rituals; but if you can’t, at least you’ll have learned a bit of each of the classical planets and their magical influences (also you can get creative and adapt a thing or two, although I’m not sure you can do that with the main rituals without losing some of the oomph so to speak. But oh well…).

[itwoodbeprefect]

incident: found a decade old unfinished angsty draco malfoy/OFC fic complete with dramatic black and white faded overlay cover that i don't remember abandoning let alone starting but is very much still up on the web under a username people associate with me to this day. ego dead, brain injured.

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

My new headcanon is that Kipperlilly doesn't actively hate Penny because Penny was 2 years ahead of her and straight up just too good at being a rogue. Riz knew Penny personally, it made sense for him to go looking for her, even though she would've been a junior when he was a freshman. But Kipperlilly? Kipperlilly has never once seen Penny Luckstone in her goddamn life. Kipperlilly does not know who the 7th maiden is. What's her name, Patty Goodrock or whatever? Didn't she go missing once? Meanwhile Penny is up in the corner of the ceiling spiderman style, completely invisible, holding a knife, debating whether or not to stab a sophomore for talking shit about the kid she used to babysit.

What Kipperlilly does know is that someone else has been trying to set shit up for student government for a while and she hates them with a fucking passion but she can't find jack shit on who they are

It’s still so funny to me that Kipperlily had it out for Riz because she thought his sad backstory gave him an advantage and special treatment. Meanwhile Penny Luckstone is out here with a supportive, non tragic environment. She has two parents who love her and seven siblings who all adore her. She has no tragedy in her backstory other than being kidnapped by Kalvaxus, and she’s out here getting recruited for the Society of Shadows. Meanwhile Kipperlily is so lame that she had to team up with Porter just to be half as successful at being a rogue.

[mlpnextgen-bts]

Illumination

Every once in awhile I get this feeling like my character designs are mediocre compared to everyone else's, that's why other next gens and other people's art in general are more popular than mine ( at least I hope it's not that people think I'm bad at character creation or storytelling and has nothing to do with my art )

So I get the want to draw random designs for random characters that I at least hope are more pleasing to look at than the designs I already have. I have no idea if I succeeded here, but whatever here's a new character anyway that I'm quite proud of.

Her name is Illumination Midnight!

[feytalagog]

Hi mutuals and anyone else seeing this, I have another blog at @sevenish-spheres where I'm posting my own worldbuilding stuff so if that interests y'all I should be posting there reasonably regularly.

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - A Messy Fight

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

On their way to face Queen, Kris and the Fun Gang run into Tasque Manager, who demands impossible standards of order. Her criticisms might feel a little too familiar to Kris...but at least the rest of the Fun Gang have their back!

YAY, it's nice to finally get another comic all finished! This one obviously had to go on hold for awhile from my wrist injury. While I'm working on recovering, things are still going to be slow for awhile (probably the rest of the year), so it may be another wait before the next scene.

Alt text for these pages under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Kris, Ralsei, Susie and Noelle walk down a long, uniform stone hallway. Eyeless porcelain gargoyles shaped like big cats stand watch from atop pillars in the hallway. As they walk, Ralsei says, “We’re getting closer to Queen’s chambers. Stay on the alert, Kris!”

Panel 2 - Kris responds with a quick “I am.” As the Fun Gang continues down the hallway, one of the porcelain gargoyles turns its head to follow them.

Panel 3 - Im a medium shot, Lancer pops up from within Susie’s hair, and waves at Kris. He says, “Hey human person, is it hard to stay alert with all that hair in your eyes?” Susie grins, and sticks out her tongue in joking agreement. “Yeah, it’s gettin’ even messier.” Unbeknownst to the Fun Gang, in the background, one of the gargoyles starts to climb down the pillar.

Panel 4 - Closeup on Kris as they brush their long and messy hair out of their face. “I can see just fine,” they respond.

Panel 5 - Two of the gargoyles land on the ground, the panel’s focus on their clawed paws tapping against the stones.

Page 2 Panel 1 - Noelle turns her head, one ear perked up to listen to what’s behind them. She says, “Wait. I hear something…”

Panel 2 - Closeup on the clawed paws of the gargoyles as they charge forward.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Kris as they turn at the sound, reaching for their sword.

Panel 4 - Wide shot of the Fun Gang. They suddenly find themselves surrounded on all sides by four porcelain big cats, all snarling as they circle them. Susie glares back.

Panel 5 - Susie turns back to Lancer, still poking out of her hair. She says, “Uugh, more jerks! Better hide again.” Lancer responds with a disappointed “Aw man…” but does as he’s asked.

Panel 6 - “What are these things?” Kris asks, eyeing a gargoyle circling them, and keeping one hand on their sword hilt. “They’re tasques!” replies Ralsei.

Page 3

Panel 1 - Ralsei turns expectantly, looking ahead. “That means that their *manager* must be near…”

Panel 2 - Closeup on an armored boot as it steps into the middle of the hall. 

Panel 3 - The boot belongs to Tasque Manager. She appears as an armored knight with impeccably polished plate armor, decorated with sharp V-shaped emblems. She appears human in stature, except for her head, which is the bleached skull of a big cat, and with pointed ears. She wields a flail with seven spiked spheres on the end of a collection of cords. She holds up her hand, and says, “Halt, interlopers! I will not permit you to approach the Queen!”

Panel 4 - The Fun Gang remain surrounded by the gargoyles, but Kris still looks ready to fight. Susie sneers at Tasque Manager, and says, “Since when do we need *your* permission?” She responds, “I maintain *order* and *cleanliness* in this dwelling.”

Panel 5 - Straight on shot of Tasque Manager’s face, emphasizing her symmetry and sense of order. “Do you truly think you are worthy…of Queen’s presence in your disorderly state?”

Page 4

Panel 1 - Full shot of the Fun Gang just staring back. They all look pretty haggard, unkempt and gross in their own ways.

Panel 2 - Same shot as previous, although now Noelle tilts her head to the side. “Um…yes?” she offers quietly.

Ralsei helpfully gestures to Kris beside him. “Certainly! Kris even bathed just two weeks ago.”

Panel 3 - Tasque Manager is not having it, and yells back at the group: “LIES!! I can see the *filth* all over you, human! I can smell your STENCH!”

Panel 4 - She continues, “You’re unfit for these halls…you belong in the wastes that you reek of!” The insults are especially focused on Kris.

Panel 5 - Kris shuts their eyes, remembering something from their past…

Panel 6 - A series of flashback images, to when Kris was just a little kid, living as an orphan on the streets. They try to sneak around the back of a food stand in the market, looking for something to eat, when they’re spotted by an empire soldier in armor.

The soldier yanks them up roughly by the shirt and yells in their face: “What’re you doing around here, you filthy urchin?! This is a *nice* place!”

The soldier then throws Kris down into the gutter, splashing street water all over them. “Go stink up a gutter where you belong!” the soldier screams. 

Page 5

Panel 1 - Kris opens their eyes again, grimacing. This is clearly an unpleasant memory for them.

Panel 2 - They pull out their sword, and point it towards Tasque Manager. “Maybe my stench will give your dull and tasteless halls some character,” they say.

Panel 3 - Extreme close up on Tasque Manager’s unnaturally sharp teeth. “Human…”

Panel 4 - “I’ll flay your filthy skin from your bones!” she shrieks, and pulls the flail tight in front of her, ready to fight.

Panel 5 - Ralsei immediately teleports out of the range of battle with a burst of flame and smoke. Kris and the beasts eye the gargoyles as they begin to close in on them.

Panel 6 - “Susie! Noelle!” Kris begins the fight by giving them the ACT command. 

Panel 7 - Closeup on Noelle as she opens her mouth and uses her icy breath attack, aiming at one of the gargoyles.

Pavel 8 - However, the gargoyle runs just out of range of the incoming frost, and sprints towards Susie’s unprotected right side.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Closeup as the gargoyle leaps onto Susie and sinks its large teeth into her side, latching on like a lamprey eel. 

Panel 2 - Susie roars in pain and anger at the gargoyle, even as another one coming in from her left bites down into an empty space on her chest.

Panel 3 - Wide shot as the beasts struggle to shake off the gargoyles, but they’re too hard to reach. One more bites into Noelle’s flank, while the last circles, looking for another opening. In the foreground, Kris faces Tasque Manager in one on one combat.

Panel 4 - Kris, being less skilled at swordfighting, only manages to block incoming hits from the flail. All the while, Tasque Manager yells at them: “You humans are so *irrational! Unorderly!*” 

Panel 5 - Tasque Manager flings the flail at Kris’s face as she continues: “Wretched, chaotic creatures…it’s horrid how the gods and demons here desire your souls!”

Panel 6 - Kris remains face to face with Tasque Manager, the flail partially wrapped around their sword…way too close to their face. Still, they are curious about her statement. “Horrid? Never come across a human soul pure enough for you?” they ask.

Page 7

Panel 1 - Tasque Manager leans in to grab the flail, as Kris struggles to keep appropriate space between them. “Never. There is no such thing as a pure human soul,” she replies. 

Panel 2 - Noelle runs in a circle with the gargoyle still attached to her flank. Behind her, Susie lashes her tail angrily, trying to shake off the two biting into her own hide.

Panel 3 - In a fit of desperation, Susie finally rolls onto her side, trying to crush the gargoyle against the stone floor. A sound like breaking glass is heard.

Panel 4 - When she raises up again, the gargoyle is now in shattered porcelain pieces on the floor, although it did leave a nasty wound behind.

Panel 5 - Noelle turns her head, noticing the shattered remains. “Oh, Susie! They break like stone!”

Panel 6 - Susie also takes note of the shattered gargoyle, and gets an idea.

Panel 7 - Thinking fast, she goes and snaps her jaws around the gargoyle on Noelle’s flank, and tears it free.

Panel 8 - Still with one more gargoyle hanging from her neck, she swings her head around in a wide arc and tosses the gargoyle in her jaws at the far wall.

Page 8

Panel 1 - The gargoyle hits a pillar by the far wall, and shatters like porcelain.

Panel 2 - Tasque Manager is momentarily drawn away from Kris as she notices her shattered minions’ remains cluttering up the pristine floor. She shakes with rage. “You’re all making…”

Panel 3 - “SUCH A HORRIBLE MESS!” she screams, and rears back to attack Kris with her flail again.

Panels 4-5 - Kris is momentarily struck by another memory, and they wince in anticipation.

Panel 6 - In a flashback scene. Kris has somehow knocked over a cart full of fruits, and they lay scattered across the cobblestones, broken and smashed. An angry vendor stands nearby. 

Meanwhile, another empire soldier is already there, and grabs Kris by the hair. “LOOK AT THIS MESS YOU’VE MADE!” he screams, shaking Kris. 

Panel 7 - Tasque Manager charges forward, the flail coming in fast at Kris…

Panel 8 - And hits home, striking the, in the head, above their eye. Blood bursts from the head wound.

Page 9

Panel 1 - “KRIS!!” Closeup on Ralsei as he yells in alarm, his eyes wide.

Panel 2 - Kris staggers backward, shaking, and pressing their left hand to their temple.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Kris pulls their hand away, and finds it covered in blood.

Panel 4 -  Meanwhile, Susie rolls onto her chest again, crushing the gargoyle on her neck against the floor. It crunches into pieces like the others.

Panel 5 - In the background, Susie gets up and brushes the remaining shards off her neck. In the foreground, Noelle stomps the remaining gargoyle into pieces with her hooves.

Panel 6 - Kris turns and looks up at Tasque Manager. She raises her flail to strike once again. 

Panel 7 - Despite the fact that Kris is bleeding considerably from the head wound, they smile with realization, and charge in towards Tasque Manager. “The best part about human messes…”

Panel 8 - Tasque Manager takes a wide swing with her flail, but Kris swiftly ducks under it, and slides in close to her. 

Page 10

Panel 1 - Kris finishes, “Is that you can *always* make them worse!” Kris leaps up in front of Tasque Manager, and smears the blood on their hand across her polished breastplate. 

Panel 2 - Tasque Manager pulls back and shrieks in horror at the bloody stain on her armor, both arms raised.

Panel 3 - Kris pulls back, their head still bleeding, and points decisively at Tasque Manager. Noelle and Susie are standing ready behind them, and they give the [FIGHT] command.

Panel 4 - Tasque Manager tries in vain to wipe the blood off her armor, temporarily distracted…

Panel 5 - Which is enough time for Susie to come in from above and snap her jaws around Tasque Manager. She screams, and drops her flail.

Panel 6 - In a wider shot, Kris and Noelle look on as Noelle violently shakes her head with Tasque Manager in her jaws, like a dog shaking a chew toy. Pieces of her armor fly out as she’s tossed back and forth.

Page 11

Panel 1 - Finished with her attack, Susie spits out Tasque Manager, now a complete disassembled mess of armor and bone. Her pieces scatter across the stone floor.

Panel 2 - Noelle opens her mouth wide, and uses her frost breath again…

Panel 3 - …And her icy breath freezes the scattered pieces to the floor, leaving no chance of an easy reforming. Kris watches as the cat skull head skids free of the rest of the mess…

Panel 4 - And slides to a stop by their feet. Although broken up and frozen, Tasque Manager’s severed head can still speak, albeit weakly. “So disordered…scattered…filthy…”

Panel 5 - Low angle shot at the skull glares up at Kris with contempt. Kris has won, but she still has last insults to get in: “No wonder…you were discarded…”

Panel 6 - Kris closes their eyes again, another flashback coming back…

Panel 7 - Another series of flashback images to a younger, orphan Kris. They’re hiding in a pile of trash behind some boxes, shivering, terrified of encountering another soldier. Someone else can be seen approaching.

“Hey…” Kris looks up from their hiding position at the sound of a calmer voice. They see a hand being extended to them.

The hand belongs to a younger Asriel, reaching down to help them up. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Page 12 Panel 1 - Back in the present, Ralsei approaches Kris again, putting a reassuring hand on their shoulder. He smiles down at them. “Well done, Kris! We’re that much closer to Queen now.”

Panel 2 - Higher shot as the Fun Gang begins to regroup ans start back down the hall again. Susie leans back towards the frozen and broken Tasque Manager with a taunt: “Good luck cleaning *that* up, you stupid snob!”

Panel 3 - Lancer pops back out of Susie’s hair, one hand raised to his head to look around. “Did we win?” he asks.

“Obviously!” Susie replies with a grin.

Panel 4 - Lancer turns to Kris, who is walking at the head of the party. “Wow! I guess you really *can* see through that string bean hair!” Kris is still injured and messy, but doesn’t seem to mind. “Well enough.”

Panel 5 - A shot from behind the Fun Gang as they continue down the dark hall, heading towards the Queen. Behind them lies a giant mess of shattered porcelain, frozen armor pieces and broken bones. “You know…” Kris says, “I think I will let it grow wild and ugly for the foreseeable future.”

[worldofstoriesanddreams]

Isn't there an age limit?

The Justice League gathered in the meeting room to deal with yet another potential world ending threat. On the screen was a projection of an incoming alien armada. The invaders were as numerous as the stars. Each spaceship looked like a skull with many tentacles.

“These mechanical ships harvest a world’s resources, destroying all life, while terraforming the planet into servers which become part of Brainiac’s interstellar network,” Batman explained.

“We don’t have sufficient numbers to take them all down,” Martian Manhunter pointed out. “Is there a weakness we can target? Or do they have a leader we can capture to force the entire fleet into submission?”

“We need to locate Brainiac and infiltrate the ship he’s on.” While Batman spoke, a hush silence fell on the entire room. Everyone stared at the screen behind him, with mouths wide open.

Turning around, Batman stared in unbelief.

A massive sphere - a dead star, moved between Earth and the alien army. 

The cameras zoomed in on a red dot pushing it - Fawcett’s new local hero with the demeanour of a golden retriever - Captain Marvel. 

Gripping the titanic star like an oversized plastic ball, he swung it forward, hitting the incoming spaceships out of the galaxy.  

The Herculean man’s face lit with childish glee as he pumped his fist in the air. 

Grinning like an idiot, he carted the unimaginably heavy celestial object away, while whistling a ditty. 

How powerful was that man? 

More importantly, does he have any weakness in case he needs to be taken down?

“Phew,” Flash was the first to get his voice back. “The new guy took care of that. So can we go home now?”

“No,” Batman raised his hand. “Change of agenda. It’s time we expanded our membership.” Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. What better way to keep an eye on the new guy than to bring him into the fold.

Superman had a silly hopeful grin on his face. “I vote we invite Captain Marvel to join the League.”  The Last Son of Krypton must suspect that the new hero is a fellow Kryptonian.

“We don’t know anything about him,” Green Lantern cautioned.

“Better get him on our side than have him join our enemies,” Batman replied as the screen showed photos and articles about Captain Marvel gleaned from the internet for all to study.

“He’s clean.” Cyborg ran his checks on the man. “He’s a boy scout. Half of all the footage I have found — and I mean exactly half — shows him rescuing cats from trees or helping little old ladies cross the road while carrying groceries for them.”

“Cast your votes,” Batman ordered. “Do we want Captain Marvel to be a member of the Justice League?”

*

The decision was unanimous. Captain Marvel has a place in the Justice League, that is, if he wants it. With his power set, he would be a valuable asset to the team. All appearances of the new hero have shown that he is one of the good guys.

“I’ll ask him,” Superman volunteered. He was dying to meet the new guy. He had to be a fellow Kryptonian. Though he must have a chat with The Captain about Bat-paranoia, to hide how much Kryptonians can really do. Otherwise Bats might break out his Kryptonite stores to hit them both.

For example, while pushing a titanic star, for goodness sake, please make it look a lot more challenging.

According to Cyborg, Captain Marvel would appear in Fawcett right after a massive lightning strike from the clear, cloudless sky. The hero tended to patrol Fawcett for an hour before seven in the morning and for an hour after three in the afternoon on weekdays. His schedule was more unpredictable during the weekends. 

Clark was a reporter. 

Could The Captain be an elementary school teacher in his civilian identity?

It was a quarter past three on a Wednesday afternoon. Superman hovered four hundred feet above Fawcett’s busiest square, drawing a curious crowd while he waited for Captain Marvel to make his appearance.

Lightning struck an alley near a local elementary school.

“S-superman!” Captain Marvel hovered in front of him. 

The man’s brilliant blue eyes brimmed with excitement as he stared at Superman with an open-mouthed grin. 

“What brings you to Fawcett?” The Captain’s cheeks flushed as he stiffened, arms crossing his heavily muscled chest. If Superman didn’t know any better, he’d think Captain Marvel was starstruck.

“Captain Marvel,” Superman began, feeling a little self conscious.“I come on behalf of the Justice League. We’ve seen what you can do and want you to join our team.”

“You want me to join the Justice League?” The big guy was practically bouncing with excitement. If he were a golden retriever with a tail, he’d be wagging it.

Just as abruptly, he looked down, slouching as if trying to shrink his large frame. “But isn’t there an age limit to join the League?”

“We don’t discriminate against anyone based on their ages.” 

Superman whispered conspiratorially. “I don’t even know how old I was when my ship landed on earth. For all you know, it could have taken lightyears to get here.”

“Hmm,” Captain Marvel rubbed the back of his neck. “If you say so.”

“Take your time to think about it,” Superman handed him a League communicator. “This is for you. If you want to talk to us, just press this button,” he showed The Captain how to use the device.

“For me?” The guy looked as excited as a kid who had received a shiny new toy. 

“Yes, for you,” Superman replied. “Call us when you’ve decided.”

“I want in,” Captain looked up, grinning from ear to ear.

“Then, welcome to the Justice League!” Superman shook his hand. “Come with me to our headquarters.”

*

The flight to the Justice League’s Headquarters with Superman was fun. 

That giant satellite that Cap often flew past when he left earth’s atmosphere was the Justice League’s Watchtower -  a secret meeting place for Justice League members.

Billy was flying with Superman. 

Elated.

The SUPERMAN!

How cool was that?

His hero was a lot chattier in person. 

Superman talked about Krypton, his home world. His dad uploaded all Krypton’s history and knowledge into the A.I. of the spaceship that brought Kal-el to earth. 

Kal-el was Superman’s birth name.

“What’s your birth name?” Superman asked?

“William,” Cap replied.

“Wil-em,” Superman looked deep in thought. 

“The Ems — I think I know your bloodline.”

“You do?” The thought that Superman even cared about Billy’s family warmed him like a cup of hot chocolate. But as far as Billy knew, he was a Batson, not an Em. He was four when he lost his family. It’s been three years since. His memories of Daddy, Mummy and Mary were beginning to fade.

“Come with me to my Fortress of Solitude after your induction and I’ll show you Krypton’s records about the Ems,” Superman grinned as he tapped on the satellite.

A panel slid open.

“Where is it?” Cap asked as he flew into the airlock.

“In the Arctic,” he accompanied Cap in the dock.

“Are there polar bears?” Cap felt giddy with excitement.

“Plenty,” Superman laughed as he walked Cap through the massive hall. It was like nothing Billy had ever seen. 

“I can introduce you to a family of friendly bears,” Superman grinned.

“I would love that,” Billy’s heart did flip flops over the thought of getting to meet polar bears who were friends with Superman. Cap could speak all languages. He’d have a great time chatting with Superman’s bear buddies.

“Holy Moley,” Captain Marvel exclaimed as he walked through the security checkpoint. The doorway opened into futuristic corridor with interactive walls and holographic displays. 

Announcing the arrival of Superman and his guest Captain Marvel, a tinny voice rang out.

“Brace yourself,” Superman whispered. “The rest of the League is waiting for us in the meeting room.”

A metallic panel slid open revealing a grand meeting room. Batman sat at the head of the long table. Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Cyborg and Aquaman sat around it. There were two empty seats.

All eyes were on Captain Marvel.

“Holy Moley,” Cap whispered. He couldn’t help himself. It’s a bad habit he picked up from his late father.

“Guys,” Superman announced. “Captain Marvel has agreed to join the Justice League.”

The room broke into applause.

“Welcome to the team,” Flash whooped.

“Let’s celebrate,” Aquaman tilted a large bottle of whiskey, filled a glass and slid it across the table to Captain Marvel.

Cap looked at the glass in front of him and back at Aquaman. “Isn’t there an age limit?”

[sevenish-spheres]

Mandrakes and Manticores

Image Source

Had a random idea for this whilst placing a weird keyring (I think its a Green Man face) I got on holiday on top of a little model of Toothless from Httyd.

The Mandrake

Any child can tell you that greedy men become dragons, but none would think to speak of the fate of the schoolyard bully who drowned in the river, or the bandit leader who drank himself to death. For these pettier tyrants, whilst the soul catapults itself towards judgement and the Outer Spheres, the body and mind congeal, fermenting in a stew of bad memories and spite.

In most cases, little comes of this, the body eventually rotting away with little effect save a feeling of irritation or dread around the (usually unmarked) grave above. However, in a few cases, whether through wild magic or the actions of a spellcaster or undead such as a Yaga or Wight, the body may take root, metamorphosing into a feared Mandrake.

Named for a far more innocuous hallucinogenic that it bears some resemblance to, in its early stages a Mandrake appears as a huge tuber shaped like the person it once was, within which their remains are contained.

However, as the root grows towards the surface, its protrusions become increasingly fleshy, until it bursts forth as a great tree of muscle and cracked bark, within which the gestating forms of its children can be seen. At this point, most Mandrakes are burned down by enterprising monster hunters or townspeople, leaving the threat dormant until the plant blossoms again. If one wishes to destroy it permanently, however, the root must be dug up and slain once more. This is a dangerous task, as the root can emit a scream capable of killing those close to it. Hence, many resort to teams of dogs or magically deafened labourers to unearth and torch the foul root. Indeed, some deliberately cultivate Mandrakes, as their bodies contain various alchemical ingredients and serve as powerful arcane foci in their own right. However, such farms are dangerous, and tend to only grow very small roots or else use constructs or undead for the task of excavating the thrashing tuber.

The Manticore

If a Mandrake infestation is not destroyed, however, it may complete its incubation and release the creature contained within. This beast, known as a Manticore, is the personification of the mutual hatred of the slain villain and the people they menaced. When it first emerges from the Mandrake, a Manticore appears as a rotten lion bearing a human skull complete with many rows of teeth seemingly competing for space within its jaw. Alongside this, it sports a long, spine-covered tail dripping with caustic venom. These spines can be launched at terrifying speeds, and range in size from barely-visible needles to several-foot long barbs. Once birthed, the manticore is driven to consume the flesh of mortals, targeting especially those who it hated in life. As it does so, it begins to regenerate, skin and muscle covering the sinewy, mould-covered bones and the mane blossoming into a shock of red fur. As it continues to feed, the Manticore’s mind grows ever more complex and petty, with many eventually coming to rule their former hometowns, or extorting travellers along favoured roads. However, in the case of a few rare individuals, the Manticore may sprout vast, tattered wings that eventually grow into a full, flightworthy set. These rare Manticores fly off, eventually coming to a graveyard, battlefield or set of gallows. Here, they seek out the corpses of murderers and other wrongdoers, and impale them upon their spines. In time, these corpses grow to become more Mandrakes, meaning that given enough time and bloodshed regions can become beset by entire prides of Manticores.

Story Hooks

A partisan mob celebrates the recent execution of a palaceful of aristocrats. However, just below the city walls where the slain nobles hung, several dozen Mandrakes have taken root, and threaten to undermine the entire government if they aren’t put to the torch.

Grandfather Koschik Poxfeather is a feared Felen Yaga who has as of late taken to cultivating a crop of Mandrakes infused with several vicious strains of his signature diseases. These Manticores, notable for their scab-covered flesh and pus-dripping spines, are among some of the most dangerous but thankfully short-lived creatures to haunt his swampland home. Now, however, the Yaga seeks to find a way to extend these abominations' lifespan, and has begun to hunt the local elf population to do so.

A local cult of Nergal has attempted to transform their leader into a manticore. Whilst this has been unsuccessful thus far, the cult has realised that their previous test subjects had been too innocent to metamorphose properly, and has now set their eyes on a local prison.

Phineas Vakarn is a circus ringmaster renowned for his strange chimeric taxidermies. Whilst most of these were regarded as hoaxes by many arcanists and druids alike, the recent rumours that he has obtained a living ‘man-lion hybrid’ have worried many, especially since he plans to unveil it on the anniversary of the execution of a well-known serial killer.

[stromuprisahat]

Fjerdan eugenic experimets, Khergud, Ravkan bancrupcy 🤝 Conjunction of the Spheres and extermination of Elves

This is what happens when a bunch of incompetent well-meaning idiots decides to get rid of recently established leadership, because they're not up to their moral standards.

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗛 𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗔𝗧

　　　　　　　　　𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Where Y/N participates in the TRUTH OR EAT video from behind the camera.

WARNING: None.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

"What's the most romantic thing you've ever done?" Matt asked, taking his eyes off the open black notebook in front of him and focusing them on Chris, his hands playing with the green highlighter.

Chris let out a breathy laugh, looking beyond the camera, his blue eyes meeting Y/N's, who smiled, raising her eyebrows, awaiting her boyfriend's response.

"I think there are two most romantic things I've ever done, both obviously with Y/N, since she's the only girlfriend I've ever had. I know you only asked for one, but I can think of two with different spheres." Chris began, looking at Matt momentarily, who nodded.

"Hurry up Chris." Nick ordered with a smile on his face as he took Matt's notebook, already anticipating his brother's response. Being Y/N's best friend, he had inside information.

"The first was last year, when Y/N and I completed three years of dating and I gifted her a trip for both of us to Italy." Chris smiled big, his eyes shining as he counted while Nick and Matt looked at him with matching smiles, happy for their brother's happiness. "She always dreamed of visiting Italy, it being her favorite place in the world, and when the three years together came I thought this was the ideal way to celebrate. I really wanted to see her happy and achieving her dream."

"I remember that, it was the longest the three of us were apart from each other because you were there for seven days." Matt commented, nodding his head.

"Yes, I remember Chris planning the entire trip. We went to that travel agency with him and helped him choose the perfect package with the best hotel and best tours. It was like a honeymoon without a wedding." Nick continued Matt's reasoning.

"I was so nervous when I went to give her the envelope with the plane tickets, I don't know why, but I thought everything was going to go wrong." Chris said, rolling his eyes when Nick and Matt started laughing, commenting that they remembered all the times he asked if it was good enough or if they thought Y/N would like it.

The girl smiled big behind the camera, her eyes lit up with happiness as memories of the trip flashed through her mind.

"So I think that's one of the most romantic things I've done for her, and the other one I didn't even realize was that romantic until Y/N pointed it out to me." Chris began, gesturing with his hands, organizing the mess of tacos in front of him. "She has a horrible habit of tying only one bow on her sneaker, which makes the shoelaces come untied more easily. Whenever we're walking together, I'm the one who notices the untied sneaker first, so I always stop her, kneel down in just one knee, take her foot with the untied sneaker and place it on top of my other knee, and tie the shoelace for her-"

Chris stopped in his speech when he saw Nick and Matt making exaggerated expressions of surprise and "dying in love", laughing together, making him roll his eyes and look at his girlfriend in disbelief, who laughed quietly, sending him a wink, causing a blush to grow on his cheeks.

"May I continue?" The middle brother asked loudly, looking at Nick and Matt with a bored expression.

"Sorry." The two said in unison, wiping their eyes from the tears from their exaggerated laughter.

"And also when Y/N wears high heels on certain occasions, whenever we go out of the house together I don't let her buckle her heels, I kneel down on one knee and buckle them for her. This is kind of an act of service but that she finds super romantic, and I realized that it really is when I saw that no couple around us do it. There are many more romantic things that I have done for her, but if I were to say everything the video would last more than an hour. " Chris finished, smiling broadly and holding up a tumb to the camera, blowing an air kiss to his girlfriend, who pretended to take it with one hand and put it in her pocket.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

"Okay, next question, how long have you gone without showering?" Nick asked, glancing briefly at the question in the notebook before closing it with the highlighter in the middle, focusing his attention on Chris.

"Since almost four years ago I've been showering every day, Y/N rules!" Chris began, raising his arms in surrender. Nick let out a laugh as he looked at Y/N and saw her nodding quickly with her arms crossed.

Matt quickly looked at the girl when he saw Nick looking at her, laughing at her expression.

"Before I met my beautiful, perfect girlfriend, it was a weekend." Chris said, laughing as he mentioned his girlfriend in a joking tone.

"No, it was more than that. I know how long it was, let me answer." Matt jumped in, taking a sip of his soda when Nick told him to shut up, the sound of a low chuckle echoing faintly through the kitchen as Y/N tried to stop herself from laughing, watching the brothers bickering.

"I've already gone without showering from a Friday night until a Monday morning." Chris concluded, Nick muttering that he had already done the same. "Like, four days." He added.

"That example is less than four days, Chris." Nick commented while laughing, Matt following him.

"I'm a changed man, I don't do those things anymore." Chris said, crossing his arms and lifting his chin with a snobbish expression, increasing Nick and Matt's laughter.

"You men are so disgusting." Y/N whispered only for the three to hear, rolling her eyes.

Matt looked at her with an offended expression.

"Yeah guys, if I go a day without showering I'll sleep on the couch." Chris said looking at the camera as he opened the package of the next taco, putting an end to that discussion.

Nick passed the notebook back to Matt, starting the timer again so that Chris could go back to eating while Matt searched for the perfect question.

"The time is over!" The redhead announced, looking briefly at his phone screen while Matt closed the notebook, already with his question in mind.

"Okay, give me the inside scoop of the perfect Chris Sturniolo date night looks like?"

"What is this, Y/N who created my questions?" Chris asked after finishing chewing, letting out a laugh through his nose, his blue eyes looking briefly at his girlfriend only to see her with her arms raised in surrender as if she didn't know anything.

"Just answer the question Chris." Nick pressed, turning to face him.

"Can I give an example of a date I had with Y/N ​​and we always do it again because it was really good for us?" Chris asked, arranging the napkin on the table as he glanced briefly at his brothers, who nodded. "Okay, I guess first I have to establish here that for me, when it's a date, it's literally a whole date day. On my first date with Y/N, I picked her up with an Uber in the morning with a bouquet of flowers since I don't know how to drive and I didn't want to bother Matt, and we had brunch at a cafe attached to a bookstore, because when we were getting to know each other she said that she really liked reading books and drinking coffee. Boys, understand one fundamental thing, listen to everything your girl likes and has to say, it will help you a lot and contribute to your relationship." The boy said, pointing to the camera as he said the last part.

Y/N felt her body heat up with shyness and love as she remembered that day, holding herself back from going to Chris to hug him tightly and shower his face with kisses.

"Afterwards we went for a walk around the city while we talked and I took her to a place where they only have those teddy bear catching machines, you know?" He looked at his brothers receiving nods. "And we stayed there for a while, where I got her a teddy bear, she still sleeps with it to this day."

Chris informed the last part in a whisper as if it was a secret, ignoring his girlfriend who rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.

"Afterwards, as we were still satisfied from brunch, I took her to an amusement park close to where we were and we stayed there for hours, we even had dinner there at one of the hot dog stands, I remember I bought her some cotton candy later and I will never forget her happiness because of it." He counted with shining eyes, rolling his eyes at his brothers who made gestures of vomiting. "And finally, I took her to a park that had a lake with ducklings and we walked around there and fed them for a few hours, that's where we also had our first kiss." Nick and Matt made air-kissing gestures, making fun of Chris, who pushed their faces with his hands. "That was my perfect date."

The boy finished, smiling big and taking the taco in his hand, ready to finish eating and start to ask Nick questions.

"You two are so disgusting." Matt said in a joking tone, passing the notebook to Nick, knowing that Chris would sit there.

Y/N smiled behind the camera, her cheeks already hurting from how much she was doing it, her heart warming up while hearing Chris talk about them with so much love, feeling like she could fall in love with him all over again.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

extra - comments:

"omg Chris seems like a really great boyfriend!!"

"they are so pretty together."

"one day I want to have a partner who cares about me as much as Chris cares about Y/N."

"the fact that he took her TO ITALY just because he wanted to see her happy 😭"

"Chris, the last romantic man on earth."

"the way he talks about her 😫"

"get married already."

"petition for Y/N and Chris to make a video talking about all his romantic acts ✏️📄"

[ckret2]

Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist. 

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky. 

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room. 

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream. 

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here." 

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it. 

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

[serpentface]

GUARDIAN LIONS

An Odomache guardian lion cult statue (alabaster with gold plating and inlaid pearl and lapis lazuli), of the curved-reposed maned lioness variant.

Guardian lions are a Wardi architectural/artistic motif that confers protective benefits to the buildings or utilitarian objects on which they are placed. The practice of artworks depicting lions as place-guardians long predates the Faith of the Seven Faced God, and has been translated into contemporary practice as aspects of the Face Odomache.

This Face has core functions as a representation of sovereignty and military might, but additionally is interpreted as both a protective patriarch and nurturing mother to Its people. Lions represent this function well, as a powerful and venerated animal capable of both tremendous ferocity and gentleness (these functions combined in their renowned fierce protection of their own cubs).

Guardian lions come in three distinct sex variants, which impart different meanings.

Male guardian lions most typically are used to represent the Patriarch Odomache, the Face as a divine father that watches over the collective household of Its people. This iconography is most common in architectural guardian lions placed upon homes, as a representative of the father's intended function as the protector and arbiter of his family. They effectively 'guard' the culturally important private familial sphere, with their presence being a reminder to potential trespassers (literal and figurative) that retribution will be severe.

Maneless guardian lionesses are used to represent Odomache as a protector of pregnant women and children, in a form that suggests both an underlying ferocity and a feminine ideal of gentle nurturing. These are less common than the other variants, and mostly appear on smaller art and ritual objects used in conjunction with pregnancy and childrearing. Their most prominent core use is being a standard decoration on the carved ox horns used by midwives to bear oil (anointed upon mothers and newborns) and to pass over women in labor for spiritual protection. They're also common as small art objects or toys for babies and young children.

Maned guardian lionesses express a totality of these functions. Core depictions of the Face Odomache usually use a maned lioness, with the androgyny unifying Its functions as the Patriarch and the nurturing mother into a protective guardian mother to the collective people. These depictions have ubiquitous uses (the only context you Rarely see them in are as household guardians), and are the typical variant seen in important public spaces, and standard as cult statues to Odomache.

The guardian lion is a very old motif with regional variants, and comes in a variety of stylistic forms. There is very little standardization to the style (with some standardized elements only just beginning to develop in cult objects in recent history). However, there are very well-established conventions for the lion's posture that often distinguishes these guardian figures from non-functional, generic lion art, and imply more specified meanings.

STANDARD POSTURES:

Nursing lioness:

Glazed pottery nursing lioness. This is a decorative art object with guardian functions, likely to be placed near a child's bed.

The lion is at rest, belly turned out to the side to expose teats (occasionally accompanied by suckling cubs). Some unique variants are partially anthropomorphized, placing humanoid breasts in the chest area (rather than the more typical anatomically accurate teats). The posture is relaxed but alert, and will be positioned so that the face looks upon the point of approach. This pose is almost exclusively used for guardian lions as protectors for children, displaying a fierce animal mother figure in an entirely gentle, nurturing form.

Reposed:

Unpainted stone statue of a reposed male lion.

The lion is at rest. There is little active threat in its pose, instead invoking a relaxed, self-assured guardian. This motif appears often in non location-specific decoration or general public spaces.

Curved reposed:

Sketch of the curved-reposed alabaster maned lioness as seen from above, as it would appear in a temple shrine. A bowl is placed for libations, a tray for small offerings of flowers and grain.

The lion is at rest, with its front positioned to confront the viewer while the length of its body is simultaneously visible. It is a relaxed pose in a resting position, but the body's contortion makes it more confrontational towards onlookers, suggesting that a cautious and humble approach is necessary. This is most common in cult statues (where offerings will be placed along the length of its body).

Seated:

Seated Loberan house statue guardian, painted stone.

The lion is seated on its haunches, suggesting watchful alertness and an implied threat, but that the animal is secure in its strength and at rest. This type is the most common as an architectural feature for homes, representing patriarchal guardianship of the family and the domestic sphere within. This pose is almost always male, with very occasional maned lioness variants.

Standing/Striding:

Painted marble statue showing a standing/striding maned lioness. The statue is three dimensional with its sides carved in high relief; the pose will appear to be static when viewed from the front, and is mid-stride from the sides. The tail between the legs is unusual for a guardian lion motif and its placement is entirely due to the physical restrictions of this statue's form.

The lion is standing at attention or depicted mid-stride (often both simultaneously), suggesting readiness to strike. This confers a sense active protection and intimidation, and most often appears flanking the entrance in high status public spaces like temples and palaces. As a person approaches a standing+striding variant, they are greeted with a static front staring them down, and the lion appears to walk as they pass, suggesting they have entered an important space being guarded with high alertness- they can feel safe under its active protection (or know that it can and will (figuratively) come after them if they are a trespasser).

Conquering:

An oil lamp depicting a conquering maned lioness. The trampled figure's nudity in this context codifies him as a 'barbarian', while the artificially lengthened skull and long beard distinctly identifies him as a Finn king. This is a piece in the ancient artistic tradition known as 'seething and coping'.

The guardian lion stands over and/or actively tramples a prone form, usually human. It shows the conclusion of the guardian lion's function- the defeat and subduing of a threatening enemy. This enemy figure will often be expressed as a generic 'barbarian' (usually coded via nudity) or representing a specific population by depicting recognizable (real or imagined) practices of dress and adornment. Animals sometimes appear as 'enemies' instead, which can vary depending on the purpose- a dog (generally disliked animal) casts the enemy figure as pathetic and easily destroyed, a king hyena or crocodile (respected/feared large predators) casts the enemy as powerful but overcome by greater might.

This motif most often occurs in art used in state/military contexts (where it quite literally shows an embodiment of the state trampling a foreign enemy to death), but is used in everyday objects as well. The 'enemy' figure (whether a human caricature or an animal) can represent any number of threats perceived by an everyday person - bad luck, curses, a hated neighbor, thieves, livestock predators - and conveys a guardian spirit overcoming these threats.

[dotster001]

When You Escape Him...

Summary: Yandere Heartslaybul boys x gn!reader. He adopts a child that looks like the two of you. You run to give you both a chance at life. You never expected him to find you years later.

CW: Yandere, baby trapping through adoption, kidnapping, allusions to past abuse, drugging, injury to reader (Cater's part), manipulation

Savanaclaw Octavinelle Scarabia Pomefiore Ignihyde Diasomnia Non NRC Staff

Three years into your relationship, he had come home and placed a baby in your arms.

"They were left in a box, all alone. And, well, he looks like if the two of us had a child," he sheepishly stared at the ground. "I just, I just figured it must be a gift from the seven."

You knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tie himself to you through this boy. He looked just like him, and you were disgusted and scared.

Until he opened his eyes for the first time, and you found yourself staring into your own. 

And you knew. You had to give this child the opportunity for a better life. A life without him.

In the end, your son did the opposite of what he had intended. And the first moment you could, the two of you had escaped.

Your son's hair was as red as his "father's". He was the spitting image of him. He was only five,  yet the resemblance was so strong, there were moments where you would be filled with terror. But then you'd see your eyes staring back at you, and you'd calm down.

Despite the resemblance, he was a sweet, innocent thing. You didn't even think he was capable of anger. So easy going. So mellow. Sevens, you loved your boy.

But that sweet nature could cause trouble sometimes.

You were scrolling through your phone, trying to find an odd job so that you could pay the rent. Sunset Savannah rent was low, but still. When you were trying to stay off the grid, and moved every couple months, money was hard to come by.

Your son entered the room, smiling brightly.

"There's a man at the door who wants to talk to you. He says it's important."

"Baby, I told you not to open the door without me. It's dangerous." And also inconvenient. You'd rather your landlord not know you were home.

"I'm sorry," his lower lip quivered, and you quickly wrapped him in a hug.

"It's alright, love, just don't do it again. Stay here, I'll go talk to him."

You left him on the sofa. And went to the door that your son had left open. You put on a strained smile, and prepared to greet your landlord.

"Sorry for the wait-" you cut yourself off as icy terror filled your veins. Your eyes met Riddles, and you prepared for the worst. The shouting. The beheading. And if he was in his worst mood, his staff would come into play. Which, considering you'd escaped him for five years, he was definitely in a worse mood.

You'd been so careful! Had you gotten sloppy? Complacent? You didn't think you had. You knew Riddle had the money to pursue you, but you had hoped that since you had escaped the country, you would be past his sphere of influence.

You continued to stare, gritting your teeth for what was to come, but you were immediately shocked as he released a sob, and wrapped his arms around you, his tears soaking your shirt.

"I thought I'd lost you forever," he whispered, his grip tightening so much that you thought he was trying to break your ribs.

"Please don't cry, it's okay!" 

Oh, your sweet boy. Your poor sweet baby boy.

Riddle pulled away, and crouched to your son's level.

"I'm your father."

Your son's eyes widened. You'd tried to make the idea of two parents a foreign concept, but children had a way of talking. So the idea that he had a second parent, who came for him, made his eyes sparkle in delight.

Riddle scooped him up in his arms, and turned to go.

"Let's go home," he whispered, and the final piece of hope you'd been sustaining finally died.

You'd gotten forgetful. 

A large family like the Clover's, all of whom had chocolate centers, would have a large network of acquaintance's.

Even out here, in the middle of the countryside, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

As you were realizing now. All it would take was one person to recognize the "oldest Clover's missing spouse" and then it would be over. 

And your son…he looked like a Clover, even if he wasn't one biologically. One peek at him, it would be over, again.

As you realized now that you'd clearly fallen into a trap.

Your new neighbor had invited you and your son for tea. And you were so tired. So tired of running, of not having roots, that you had agreed. What could go wrong with a tea party?

Everything.

You entered the room, and there he was, already seated at the table. Giving you a very disappointed look.

"Thank you, Meredith. Can we have a moment alone?"

Your son wasn't old. But a ten year old like him was smart enough to see the resemblance between himself and the man before him. Even if it was a coincidence.

You had intended to tell him the truth about his "father" in a year or two.

But now he'd never believe you. With the warm smile on Trey's face as he opened his arms, your son would never believe the relationship was built on manipulation and perfectly hidden drugs. Someone with a smile as warm as Trey's would never do anything like that.

Your son ran into his arms, happily explaining about how happy he was to finally meet "daddy".

Meanwhile, Trey stared at you, his eyes cold as he held your son tighter. 

"Y/N," he finally said, his voice firm in the way that told you he was out of patience. "Drink your tea."

You stared at the pretty porcelain cup that sat waiting on the table. You had guesses of what would happen if you drank it. It would all be over. Ten years of hiding for nothing. But he had your son. It wasn't like you could go anywhere.

Your feet felt like they were weighed down with concrete blocks as you walked over to the cup, sat, and brought it to your lips with trembling fingers.

The black invading your vision was almost immediate, and you heard Trey explaining to your son, "An evil man stole you both from me. Their medicine will make them sleepy, but when they wake up we can finally be a family."

You didn't even have a phone. You changed your hair every few months. You wore a mask in public. Because you knew the second a photo of you made its way onto the internet, it would be over.

Your son had wanted a phone when he was about ten. And you'd been able to push it off until he reached thirteen, when you'd say him down and told him about the man who wanted to be his father. 

He was young, but when he heard how this man hurt you, and took you away from the people you loved, he understood quickly. 

Your boy was smart. And he was a responsible kid. So he never asked for a phone again.

He was fifteen  now. He was a smart boy, and very protective over you. He always joked that if he and Cater were ever in the same room, he'd punch him in the stomach. 

The two of you were at the store, getting groceries. You saw a flash of ginger hair out of the corner of your eye, but told yourself it was just your son's hair. The second and third ginger flashes were harder to ignore.

You shared a look with your son, and made a rush to the exit.

...Unfortunately, running straight into a crowd of ginger hair. Multiple Caters pinned you both down, pressing rags to your mouths, making you sleep.

When you woke up, you found yourself tied to a chair in a dark room.

"You're up."

His voice was far more bitter than you were used to, but you'd recognize it anywhere.

Cater stood from the corner he was seated in, and made his way over to you. A loud crack filled the room, and you didn't quite realize what had happened until your cheek began to sting, and you met his furious eyes as he shook with rage.

No matter what was wrong with your relationship, he had never laid a hand on you.  

"You promised me!" He screamed. "You promised I wouldn't have to be alone anymore!"

Another crack filled the room, and your cheek began to feel numb.

"We were supposed to be a family, Y/N!  The three of us, together! And you turned him against me!"

He raised his hand to slap you again, but froze with a sob. He collapsed burying his face in your lap as he sobbed. 

"Why? Why do you both hate me? Am I not good enough?" He cried, his voice cracking and choking as he spoke. "I'll be better! I'll be whoever you need me to be!"

You could only imagine how the reunion with your son had gone if he was like this already. You hoped he was behaving, so the both of you could reunite and figure out how to escape.

But if the multiple pairs of emerald eyes watching Cater sob in your lap were anything to go by, you were never going to be alone ever again.

Once you'd crossed the border of the country, you hadn't expected to ever run into Ace again. It wasn't that he was poor, per say, it was just that he wouldn't have the means to search for you forever. Private investigators were expensive. And it wasn't like he actually cared. 

At least that's how it felt. After one day of having your son, he admitted he was already bored, he just wanted to tie you to him. And he had told you every day of your relationship that he you were only together because he felt bad that you would never have anyone else who cares about you.

The longer you were away from him, the more your brain cleared, the more you realized that he probably did care. Quite a lot. But it was the tactic he used to make you dependent on him.

You were embarrassed by how well it had worked….

Your son was college aged now. He had received an invitation to NRC, but had turned it down in favor of protecting you. You were so grateful, and had worked with a friend who knew your situation to get him into a university without being able to tie it back to you.

You currently lived alone in your apartment. This evening, you were reading a book that your son had recommended, as you ate a basic dinner. There was a knock on the door, and you gently put your bookmark in.

You opened the door to three officers…one of them you unfortunately recognized.

"Deuce," you pleaded, and he looked everywhere but you.

"I'm sorry Y/N, I really am," he cleared his throat, and in his official voice. "Y/N Trappola. You have been missing for nineteen years. You must come with me for questioning."

There would be no questioning. He'd take you back, and drop you off with Ace. The wording was just in case one of your neighbors came to see what was going on.

The trip was long. And Deuce had tried to get you to tell him where your boy was. A sign that Ace actually cares, despite his cruel words. 

He'd eventually dug through your phone, and figured out who he was based on your messages back and forth. He'd called him, and given him an address to come meet you at.

"Remember when you were my friend too?" You spat at Deuce. It hurt him, you could tell, but you wanted it to hurt as much as you would inevitably hurt once you were back with Ace.

You happened to both arrive at the house at the same time. Your son looked between you and, at least to him, the unknown officer, but kept his mouth shut. 

The three of you walked up to the door together in silence. Deuce knocked on the door, and it was only a moment before he opened it.

He laughed hysterically. "Oh seven, you really found them! I can't believe you actually did it!"

He grinned at your son.

"Hah! You look just like your old man."

Your son growled. "You're not my old man."

"Hee hee, you're feisty like me too!" Ace grinned. Then he turned to you, affecting a look that was saying 'I'm not mad just disappointed'.

"Y/N," he said, his tone a threat in itself. "I'm sure you know how upset I am with you. How are you gonna make it up to me?"

Your son pulled his pen, but Ace was faster, throwing a painless stun spell at him.

He shook his head in mock disappointment.

"You really raised him all wrong, didn't you Y/N? Oh well, I guess I don't mind fixing both of you."

You'd thought once you crossed the border, you'd be safe. You hadn't realized that Deuce would have made friends in his time as an officer, and could use those connections to find you.

To your credit, you'd made it awhile before his investigator colleague had found the two of you.

But you'd hoped you could hide forever. Five years felt like nothing.

You'd paid your neighbor to watch your son while you went out for groceries, and were startled to see her not with him.

"Hm? Oh, his father relieved me of duty," she laughed, until she saw the distress on your face.

"Y/N?" 

You ran to your apartment, practically busting the door down. You found Deuce sitting with your sleeping son, staring at him as though he would disappear if he looked away.

"Hey Y/N," he hummed, still not looking at you. "What did I do wrong?"

The question floored you. It was on brand. He never knew what he was doing wrong with your relationship. Which made it easy for you to forgive him early on. But you couldn't ignore how he was hurting you forever.

"Deuce. Give him to me."

You slowly approached him like you'd approach a wild dog.

"Was it something I said?" He looked up at you with heartbroken eyes. "I didn't mean to. I promise I'll be better."

He stood up, and approached you.

"Come home, Y/N. We can start over."

You couldn't risk triggering his delinquent mode while he was holding your sleeping son. And it wasn't like you could hide again, not without leaving the sleeping angel behind.

And you didn't doubt that this time he'd do whatever was in his power to catch you if you ran.

"Give me my son," you whispered.

"Our son," he said firmly, and you froze, breathing deeply to try and calm him down.

"Our son," you repeated softly. You held out your hands, and he scrutinized you with a cold look.

"No. I'll hold on to him," he said, shifting away from you. "I just can't trust you anymore."

Normally, you'd have snapped at him that you could never trust him. But he had the advantage.

"Please, Deucey," you simpered, hoping his affection for you could still cloud his judgment.

"I'll think about it when we get home," he said with a soft smile. He stood up, and walked over to you, nuzzling your noses together. 

"C'mon,Y/N, let's go home," he calmly walked out with your son in his arms. What else could you do but follow?

[armthearmour]

Arms and Armor of the Hallstatt Celts: A (not-so) Brief Overview

The Hallstatt culture is an archaeologically-defined material culture group. The typesite for this group is in Hallstatt, Austria, where a deep salt mine which had been in use since the Neolithic served as the lifeblood of the local community. A substantial cemetery of approximately 1,300 burials near the mine has helped to clearly define artistic trends associated with this cultural group. The culture is associated with early Celtic or proto-Celtic language speaking groups, and for a long time, was thought to have been the origin of the proto-celtic language. This idea has since been debunked, as it is now known the first proto-Celtic speakers predated the Hallstatt culture.

The Hallstatt culture is divided into four phases, A-D (henceforth abbreviated as Ha. A-D). The first two of these phases are associated with the end of the bronze age in the region, the last two, with the beginning of the iron age.

Since the defining of the culture in 1846, Hallstatt influence has been found from Eastern France to Hungary, as far south as Serbia and as far North as Poland. The core Hallstatt region covers much of Austria and Southern Germany. By the Ha. C period, distinct practices had arisen in the Hallstatt sphere of influence: distinct enough for academics to split the culture into two “zones”, the East and the West.

Unfortunately, due to the antiquity of this culture and the utter lack of any written records concerning them, the archaeological record is both relatively thin, and the only source of information available for these people. As such, in constructing a timeline of Hallstatt arms and armor, there will be substantial gaps which we can only hope will be filled by future discoveries.

Armor

Three types of armor are commonly found in Hallstatt contexts: belts, cuirasses, and helmets.

That broad belts (both of leather and of bronze) are considered armor in the ancient Mediterranean is clear from references in which these items are placed in context with other armor. In the Iliad, for example, in book 7 after Ajax and Hector meet on the field of battle and fight to a stalemate, they exchange equipment. Hector “gave over his silver-studded sword, bringing with it the sheath and well-cut baldric” (l. 303-304), while Ajax reciprocated with “his war-belt bright with crimson” (l. 305). Additionally, a short list of military equipment issued by the Neo-Assyrian empire recovered in Tel Halaf lists 10 leather belts alongside bows, swords, spears, and other arms and armor.

A number of bronze and gold belt plates survive from both the Eastern and Western zones, though most of these plates date to the Ha. D period.

While the majority of these plates are decorated with embossed and incised geometric patterns, some (particularly from the Eastern zone) include scenes of warriors on foot and on horseback.

The cuirasses of the Hallstatt period exhibit an interesting progression. In their most basic form, these bronze cuirasses remain essentially the same from Ha. A-D. They are characterized by essentially simple forms: a tubular breast and backplate which terminates at the waist and includes a tall standing collar to defend the neck. The earliest examples, however, include substantial embossed decoration in much the same manner as appears on the belt plates.

Only in the late Ha. B to early Ha. C period does this decoration begin to take on a more anatomical form; a group of seven cuirasses recovered in Marmesse, France in 1974 shows this evolution nicely. These cuirasses retain the same form, though a slight taper is now evident near the waist. The circular embossing closely resembles that of the previous period, however embossed lines are now apparent, and the placement of the embossing is such as to evoke the musculature of the warrior wearing it.

The final stage of the cuirasse’s evolution arrives in Ha. D. This form is much more plain, lacking the apparent horror vacui which typified earlier iterations of this style. Instead, the anatomical element is even more pronounced: embossing emphasizes the warrior’s pectoral and abdominal muscles, and additional circular bronze plates are riveted to the upper chest to simulate nipples.

The final element of armor with substantial enough evidence in a Hallstatt context to be addressed is the helmet. Unfortunately, surviving helmets are extremely scarce, and there is no pictorial evidence to consult prior to the Ha. D period.

Four helmet types appear both archaeologically and artistically in Hallstatt contexts. We will call these the crested, the plated, the double-crested, and the Negau.

Only one artistic example of the crested helmet is to be found, and no archaeological examples. It is to be found on a grave good in the shape of a wagon adorned with many figures made ca. 600 BC and recovered in Strettweg, Austria.

A find from Normandy (outside the Hallstatt sphere of influence) dated ca. 1200-700 BC shows what this type of helmet may have looked like.

The plated type is nearly as obscure, represented by only a single survival and a single artwork. The helmet, recovered in Šentvid, Slovenia and dated ca. 800-450 BC, is curious for the distinct pearly texture of its surface.

A number of similar helmets appear on a situla recovered from the Certosa Necropolis in modern Bologna, Italy. This situla is dated ca. 600 BC, and bears a striking resemblance to other situlae found in Hallstatt contexts.

The most well attested form of Hallstatt helmet is the double-crested type. This type appears with the onset of Ha. D, and sees use until the end of the Hallstatt period. It is attested to by several survivals

and numerous depictions on a number of situlae

and belt plates.

This type is so-called for the twin crests that adorn the helmet’s skull; crests which, as is attested by the pictorial evidence, served as anchors to large plumes likely made from horse hair.

The final type is named for a town in Slovenia where a large cache of helmets of this type was found in 1812. The Negau type appears at the very tail end of Ha. D, and primarily in Etruscan and Italic contexts. However a number of finds (including the eponymous horde) come from regions of Hallstatt (and eventually La Téne) influence.

Weapons

The weapons which can be found in Hallstatt contexts are very much the same as those found elsewhere in Europe, consisting primarily on spears, axes, swords, and daggers. The spears and axes of the period are very similar to those found elsewhere in Europe and across the Mediterranean in the late bronze to early iron age, and as such will not be discussed further.

Indeed, even the swords of the Hallstatt bronze age (Ha. A-B) bear no significant differences from other swords found in Central and Western Europe at the time.

It is not until Ha. C, and the advent of the iron age, when two new types unique to the culture emerge. Though similar, these sword types, called Gündlingen

and Mindelheim, are distinguished by a number of factors.

First and foremost is size, with Mindelheim swords averaging around 85 cm or 33.5 in in length, while the Gündlingen type only averages 70-75 cm (27.5-29.5 in). Another striking feature of the Mindelheim type which is almost non-existent on Gündlingen swords is a pair of deep grooves on either side of the blade. Additionally, Gündlingen swords are only ever found in bronze, while Mindelheim can be found in either bronze or iron. Gündlingen swords seem to have been tremendously greater in popularity, with only 27 examples of the Mindelheim type being known to over 240 of the Gündlingen. There is also a geographical element: the majority of Mindelheim swords have been found in the east from Austria to Germany, Poland, and as far north as Sweden. Gündlingen swords, by contrast, have mostly been found in the west, as far as Britain and Ireland. Neither type, however, can be found in the core Hallstatt Regions after the advent of Ha. D, when daggers become the primary funerary good of the elite.

Daggers, of course, were not unknown in Hallstatt regions prior to 620 BC. A number of survivals from Ha. A-B attest to the fact that single-edged daggers were popular.

With the advent of the iron age and the rise in popularity of the peculiar Hallstatt sword types, daggers become more rare, until once again they spring back to the fore in Ha. D. At this time, a particular dagger type is almost ubiquitous. This dagger has long, straight quillons mirrored by a tubular pommel. The grip is thin, and the blade is broad and double-edged. This same basic form is present, both plain and with various embellishments, until the end of the Hallstatt period.