#the shadow is long and prosaic

[othernaut]

Character Creation Challenge 2025, Day 2: Burning Wheel

The first thing she did after getting out was to name herself. Then her wolf. Then the trees, stones, and individual birds and beasts. Drunk on names, she named the arrows as she let them fly, the loudest crackles of her meager campfire. None of the old rules mattered anymore. No one could tell her what to do. If that night was the only night she lived, it was worth it.

But that wasn't the only night; there were others, and the giddiness of freedom only lasted so long. Hunger was an ever-present motivator, shelter and warmth. Her past, like an unwanted embrace, came at her in the day when she tried to sleep. Little Brother felt hunger more keenly than her, fumed with the solitude that she embraced. She could never travel far enough, it seemed, to leave the black mountain's shadow. And the fear - she found so many new things to fear. The green leaves and wild, soft things that were always intimated at being forbidden - not for someone like her. The sounds of unfamiliar speech over a wooded hill. The little signs of other people, dropped horseshoes and picked-through bushes - would they hate her?

Everyone hated her. The whole of the mountain seethed with hate, it underlined all she had learned. Some days she near choked with it, feverish, sick with hate. She hated the situation she had been forced to endure, hated the fact that her daughters were still back home - that she still thought of that pit of pointless misery as "home". The resentment in turning over a stone in search of insects and finding a dropped brass button, that others should have such fine things while all her life was rotten work and pain.

But more and more, day by day, there was a novel sensation - a quietude, a stillness in her emotion that hadn't been there previously. She felt it when she slept against Little Brother's warm, rough hide, when he kicked and whined in his sleep. When she washed herself in clean water, drank the river as it passed - she felt it then. Not the numbness of a new injury before it had learned to sting, not the confident reel of drunkenness. Something new. Had any orc felt this any time before?

No words for it in her sole, vile tongue. No use for it among the orcs and goblins. But it was peace she was feeling, subtle as starlight, and she craved it like an addict.

All from the thought: What if I just left? And years of preparation, but still. What if I just left? Death and consumption a sure thing under the leaves, according to her masters. Death and consumption a sure thing under the mountain.

No going back. Never again.

*****

Name: Hunched and Horned Under the Great Green Moon Concept: Burnt-out orc hunter looking for a way out of the bleak life Lifepaths: 5 (wanna roll the die of fate) Age: 28

Will: B3; Perception B3; Power B4, Forte B4, Agility B5, Speed B5 Health: B4; Mortal Wound: B10; Reflexes: B5; Steel: B5; Hatred: B4 Superficial: 3, Light: 5, Midi: 7, Severe: 8, Traumatic: 9, Mortal: 10 Skills: Foraging B2, Bow B4, Mounted Combat, Riding B2, Armor, Spear B2, Intimidation B2, Black Bile Poison, Scavenging B1, Hunting B3, Field Dressing B1, Stealthy B3, Tracking B2, Vile Poisoner B2 Traits: Cannibal, Cold Black Blood, Breeder, Fanged and Clawed, Loathsome and Twisted, Lynx-Eyed Like Burning Coals, Vile Language, Tasting the Lash, Brash, Cry of Doom, Scavenger

Gear: Run of the mill bow, Great Wolf mount (Last Little Brother), Traveling gear, Rags Circles: B0, Resources: B0 Relationships: She Who Froths the Blood to Boiling, Chain-Forger Made and Remade, twin daughters, still back in it, both named and strong. No idea what they might think of their wayward mother, what they might be doing. A contentious thing, even when Moon was in the mountains. Beliefs: I refuse to accept misery if there is no point to it. The wild and untravelled places hold the only joy some of us will ever know. I want to believe that my people aren't past saving. Instincts: If not intimately familiar with an area, I stalk through it slowly and stealthily. I ensure my weapons are always poisoned. I ensure my wolf is well-fed and happy, even before myself.

Lifepaths: Born Chattel, 10 yrs; Scavenger, 3 yrs; Nightseeker, 4+1 yrs; Black Hunter, 5 yrs; DIE OF FATE! Rolled a 6, I'm fine; Astride the Beast, 5 yrs.

*****

When I first bought Burning Wheel, $9.99 Canadian for two books at the used bookstore, I bounced off of it halfway through the main rolling mechanics. Later on, displeased at the waste, I tried to roll a character and bounced, again, off the simultaneous profundity and restrictiveness of the lifepaths. I didn't like it. I couldn't tell you why, but the dislike was deeper than these wordless things tend to be - an instinctual flinching back, an "ugh" murmured softly to myself whenever someone praised it.

I have those words now. It has been analyzed, experienced. Burning Wheel is, fundamentally, up its own ass.

Burning Wheel is a system could be defined less as a "game" and more as a "difficult-to-play art project made through the mechanism of game design" - but hey, I like Noumenon, and that is the definition of difficult-to-play art project made through the mechanism of game design. This flinching, then, comes because I detect a mote of the less-than-genuine. The system reads less as an attempt to express than an attempt to impress.

Role-playing games are complex endeavors, even at the most one-page, storygame simplistic. There's always going to be something you get wrong, a mechanic you just forget to use, a story beat that slipped under the waves. But I try to imagine playing this thing - not even session zero, just, like, session two. The game after the training wheels come off, after you've made your characters, rolled some dice to test out how it feels. The part where you're supposed to remember everything. The part where you're supposed to know not only how to distribute metacurrency for yourself, but the triggers to distribute it to other players. The part where you have to engage with the advancement mechanics and realize you have so much bookkeeping to do - so much professed freedom, but so little control.

And I imagine going back to D&D. It's complex, too, but Christ, compare the base-level rolling mechanics. Roll a d20, apply positive or negative modifiers, there you go. And there are no absolute forbiddances or mandatories hidden, like, halfway through an otherwise unrelated paragraph. And no one calls you an idiot if you don't like it.

If you have a good DM, and you have a group of enthusiastic players, and you have a solid story you want to tell - yes, of course, you can play a good game of Burning Wheel. But it is fundamentally not my jam, and at the last, I'm grateful now to know why.

Next up: Further media disappointments told through the medium of dice.

[yolli-es]

you should do jinx giving reader a tattoo of her name 🙏

That's much better, isn't it?

Tags: possessive, jealousy, manipulation.

You are so active omg, is it because of season 2? I also have to say that this is quite proprietary and reminds me of a Yandere!Jinx.

This is starting to get annoying. Everything was going so well, and now?

Usually, you were always closely connected to each other, not just emotionally. It was so long and constant that it became an unspoken rule of Zaun. You've done many things, from having dinner together to revolution.

But now you've suddenly started going out "on business" too often. How could Jinx not worry?

Jinx followed yours next time. It's only for your safety, of course. A couple of hours, and she saw the root of the problem—the weird girl you were discussing with. A small, about 20 years old. It was annoying that she caught your attention like that. Weird, painful, and absolutely unbearable. It took all of Jinx's strength to contain herself. These meetings continued, and, in fact, there was nothing too close about them. On the contrary, you kept your distance and spoke absolutely calmly. Which could not be said about this girl. She was strangely leaning towards you, constantly fixing her hair and trying to touch you all the time. Jinx was really nervous, waiting for the right moment to ruin everything.

The moment when you give in to her.

This did not happen, and the truth came to light.

Luckily, it was much more prosaic. You were sneaking off to meet a jeweler for a cute hair clip. It was a gift for Jinx for your third anniversary. With all the running around, she forgot about it. How awkward...

"So... this is for me, huh? It's very beautiful," her fingers slid over the chilling metal of the small pin. The shape of the curved cross suited her. She didn't know what kind of metal it was, but it shimmered blue and pink in the light, remaining chillingly black in the shadows. Beautiful.

"Cool, huh? I had to work hard to get this, but... whatever. It was worth it." You seemed happier than Jinx herself, leaning over in front of her as you picked up her right braid and wondered where to put it, "It might not be very practical, but I'm sure it's really cute. Don't worry if it gets lost, okay?"

You finally looked at your girlfriend and understood her mood. She shrank, looking tensely at the floor and picking at her pants with her nails. Stuck in her dark thoughts right now. However, having anticipated your next move, Jinx spoke up: "I have a gift for you too." It suddenly dawned on her; her eyes lit up, and her back straightened. Jinx was ready to flare up with impatience. "M.. yeah? I'm so glad it is. I like it already, trust me," you giggled, sitting down next to Jinx as she grabbed your hands in anticipation. The hairpin would wait on the table for now. "Oh, something unusual," Jinx sat you down with your back to her, stood up, and rushed over to a huge box of art supplies.

You sat quietly, expecting something like a painting or a painted gun. The same one you got last time. Two is better than one!

Jinx will always be unpredictable.

When the noise became more than an explanation, you finally turned around. There was a small table behind you with colorful bottles on it and... a tattoo machine? This can't be.

"Ta-dam!" Jinx sat down on a chair on one side of the table, gesturing for you to sit opposite. "What? Wait, wait, you want to give me a tattoo?" Your voice wavered. You loved Jinx and trusted her in many ways, but let her give you a tattoo? "Oh, come on!" Jinx rolled her eyes, slamming her head down on the table, "You think I can't do it? Don't tell me you didn't check out my tattoos. I got them myself, you know!"

This didn't give you any confidence.

"No, you know... I just don't know what kind of tattoo I want," you turned away, shrugging awkwardly. Jinx chuckled, propping her head up in her hands and licking her lips. "I already decided, toots. What could be cooler than your girlfriend's name, hm?", Her voice sounded confident. So you didn't take it as a joke. However, Jinx didn't let you answer, grabbing your hands and not very carefully sitting you down opposite. "You know, I saw you with that girl... I was worried," she started slowly and from a distance. "You did nothing wrong, and I didn't doubt you. And yet, people are very tricky," she paused, gently taking your hand and looking into your eyes, "So I would like you to have a small tattoo; how about you? I promise it will look stylish." That stumped you for a minute. Yes, you wanted your tattoo, and yes, you love Jinx. But getting one for that reason? "Please," Jinx looked at you with her doe eyes, and that huskiness in her voice was driving you crazy. "Oh, maybe just one, huh? A small one," you chuckled. 

Of course, Jinx was manipulating you for what she wanted. In the most childish and stupid way, you just couldn't help but sneer. Was it a double game, and Jinx knew about your understanding from the start? It doesn't matter; She has already started working.

Pink is the most beautiful color, isn't it?

Despite her obviously selfish desire and rather daring start, Jinx did everything carefully. After all, it was your first time doing it, and she couldn't make you feel anything other than excitement and admiration. She was spinning around you, unable to sit still, turning on music, telling all sorts of nonsense, and taking breaks to relax. She just didn't want to make things worse than she probably already did.

It all ended quickly.

"That's much better, isn't it?", Jinx couldn't help but smile as she looked at the fresh tattoo on your skin. "You look your best, as always, toots." You liked it no less; it actually looked sweet. And very possessive. You liked this display of her love; this affection gave you a strange strength.

You smiled as you took her hand and said with a deliberately innocent look, "Okay, now it's your turn."

The problem is that you love her no less.

Still, there is not a word about yandere in the request, so she's just super jealous and possessive. I hope that the person who asked was thinking about something like this 🙌��

[tomlinfonda]

Inside me there are two wolves.

One who thinks that the writers are either stupid or cruel, and that the finale was so incomprehensibly bad that I shouldn't try to make sense of it. And that I should move on.

The other one is a subtext-and-metaphor-hungry beast that is manically obsessed with finding a reason, at least subtextually, for the incomprehensible mess they made out of these characters, especially Ted, in the finale.

Everyone is so right to point out that Ted in previous episodes would not have acted like this. I think the reason for the sudden regression in his character is Dottie.

That morning, full of smiles, in a good mood, Ted starts his walk to work.

He cheerfully strolls through the streets, saying hello to his neighbors, making chit-chat with them. He is (as Trent said it in 1x03) out there in the community. He is, more importantly, part of a community. Until suddenly-

"Mom?"

Dottie's arrival changes everything. Ted gets worse and worse throughout the episode. In the hotel room in Manchester, the football anthem "Blue Moon", with the haunting lyric "You saw me standing alone" plays over Ted's lonesome figure, in the shadows, depressed.

Juxtapose that with his first scene: the lively neighborhood and daylight.

At the end of the episode, his conversation with his (manipulative) mom hits him deep. He feels immense guilt over not being there for Henry. And he's been torn over this for the entire season.

His mom, and the way she acts, and the way she manipulates him, push him in the wrong direction: Kansas.

I think Ted has disassociated for most of the finale. But I also think that he is intentionally pushing people away. Maybe he thinks that this will make it easier for him to leave, maybe he thinks that this will make it easier for them to let him go. Maybe he just hates himself so much that he cannot accept their help. Maybe he feels guilty that they're showing him so much love, when he knows he will abandon them.

Either way, he quits. Something that he would not have done, even in season 1. So his regression goes farther than the first episode, deeper into his past. He goes from:

to having doubts on the plane about leaving without winning the whole fucking thing

but leaving anyway.

And this is one of the most curious things to me. Rebecca offers to bring Henry to him in England by helping relocate Michelle:

And yet, he refuses. So, sure, this is about being there for his son. But given the choice between his son with his beloved community, and his son without his beloved community, he chooses the latter.

I've heard the argument that we don't know for sure that Ted doesn't have a support system in Kansas. But from a narrative perspective, it's important that we haven't been shown that hypothetical support system at all. And given that he actually returns to Kansas without the one person who we know supported him before coming to England, it comes across as a terribly isolating situation.

So why would Ted choose to part from his found family, even though bringing his son into that family would be an option? My theory is that he just really fucking hates himself. I think he wants to punish himself, maybe for being away from Henry for so long, maybe for something else. I don't think he believes that he deserves love or even credit for how he helped the club.

I mean, Rebecca and Trent offer him exactly that this episode: credit for what the did for the club.

And he rejects them both, choosing instead to remove himself from their lives, to erase himself from the narrative.

I think he's lower mentally than we've seen him for a while.

I think he's in his dark forest.

So the plane departs and then lands. And Ted is back in Kansas, driven through the prosaic, picket-fenced, isolating, depressing American suburbs to the house where Henry and the ex-wife who doesn't love him are waiting for him.

And the light might be golden, and he might be reunited with his son. But as we close in on the last shot of the show, you can see his smile try to fight the sadness in his eyes and you know.

He's not happy.

[balioc]

Holiday Engineering: Lamptide

OK, let's put my money where my mouth is.

Lamptide is the invented-from-scratch holiday that I actually celebrate. It has its roots in a roleplaying game that I ran some years ago with @cloakofshadow and @mirror-lock, but after the game finished, I decided that I wanted to import a modified version of the festival into real life.

And it's worked very well! Or so I posit. We've had well-attended Lamptide celebrations for a couple of years running, and not only do people show up and enjoy themselves, there's a distinctive holiday spirit. The weird rites and activities do in fact happen. Which is possibly just because my friends are good sports, but...I think we're reaching the point where some version of Lamptide might well take place without me pushing it along.

As a holiday-engineering project, it's a work-in-progress. I am still tinkering with the observances, and the pieces definitely aren't yet all in place. I don't personally have the expertise to create some of the holiday stuff I'd want to create. Moreover, the population that celebrates Lamptide is still very small, and in some ways homogeneous -- mostly childless urban professional-types -- so the holiday doesn't have the context that it would need to manifest in all the forms that I imagine for it.

But I'm proud of it. And, at the least, it provides an example of what it looks like for a holiday to be built from the ground up.

Vibe. This is where I started. (Both in the RPG and in real life, actually.) In the RPG, Lamptide is an intercalary day, and like many intercalary festivals it's a weird and occult time. In real life, of course, I do not control the calendar. But even so, Lamptide is meant to have that same feel, manifesting as a carnival of spooks and revelry. To some extent, it's meant to serve as a Halloween-like that works better for me than actual Halloween does.

And much like Halloween, in theory, its core rituals can be practiced in three different "modes" depending on context. For families with kids, it's a cutesy holiday of flamboyant fun. For older kids and adolescents, it's a holiday of mischief and boundary-pushing (in a way that is, I hope, less obnoxious than the adolescent version of Halloween). For independent adults, it can be contemplative and/or literary and/or Spicy and Sexy, to taste.

Theme. In a highflown theoretical sense: Lamptide is the festival of narrative conquering material reality, of ideas and illusions becoming more-real-than-real. It is the day when you leave the sunlit world behind and walk back into Plato's cave, because our art allows us to create such beautiful shadows on the walls.

(The "lamp" of Lamptide is, notionally, the lamp whose light reveals what-is-not.)

In a more-everyday sense: Lamptide is a festival of magic.

Timing. Lamptide is observed on the spring equinox. There are a few reasons for this, some of them rooted in stuff from the RPG, but the big one is that it's almost halfway around the calendar from Halloween. I really don't want to compete with Halloween, to the extent that I can avoid it; I would lose that competition very hard. And there are enough obvious points of similarity that it's a real danger.

Early spring is also a good time for holidays generally, in the contemporary US. There's relatively little going on then, and people feel kind of festive because the worst of winter is over.

Mythology. The personification of the holiday is Father Lantern, an ogre-like character who carries a lamp. In the (notional) tales, he shines his lamp on you, and in its light you see an otherworldly version of yourself -- a creature that you could be, if you left ordinary reality behind. More prosaically, if he shows up at your doorstep and you offer him candy, he will tell you stories (or gift you with media).

Father Lantern is mostly a funny and approachable figure. He is long-winded and pretentious, in love with the sound of his own voice. But there is meant to be an edge of menace to him; he is an ogre, which means that there's always the danger that he'll just eat you, especially if you're a child. (This is not a behavior-enforcement thing -- he's not Krampus, and Lamptide is not that kind of holiday. Father Lantern's whims are inscrutable.)

I haven't yet experimented with having someone play Father Lantern, in the way that people play Santa Claus, but it's an obvious possibility.

Decorations. You put lamps and lanterns everywhere. If you can keep your celebration space lit entirely by lantern-light, that is to be commended. Silhouettes and shadow-plays are very much in the holiday spirit.

Holiday attire. Masks -- masquerade-style masks, the kind that allow people to eat and talk comfortably -- are very strongly encouraged. (When I throw Lamptide parties, this is the only thing about which I actually nudge people.) In terms of creating distinctive atmosphere, this fires on all cylinders. A space full of masked people feels otherworldly and ritualized and, well, magic. And the symbolism is super on-the-nose.

Fancy and flamboyant clothes are also encouraged.

Ritual interactions. The Lamptide tradition is to greet people with curses and maledictions. This is done in the spirit of theater superstition; it is a topsy-turvy intercalary carnival, after all. "Die in a fire" is the standard form of cheery holiday well-wishing, although you're encouraged to be creative if you're so inclined.

(Does this mostly give little kids an excuse to be gleeful about saying stuff they'd normally never be allowed to say? Maybe.)

Activities. There are two big ones.

Divination. Lamptide is a time for fortune-telling. Tarot cards are my go-to, and offering Tarot readings at Lamptide parties has proven to be a big hit, but any form of divination at all -- ranging from Actual Fucking Haruspexy to "let's ask ChatGPT about our future husbands" -- is praiseworthy. When my son was less than a year old, I had him crawl around the floor and choose Symbolically Portentous Objects like he was the infant Dalai Lama or something, and it was great.

Bribery, especially candy bribery. One of the core dynamics of a Lamptide celebration is that you walk in carrying candy, or other things that you're happy to give away, and you offer your prizes to people in exchange for them doing stuff that you want them to do. For families with little kids, this is a chance for the parents to reward their children for showing off cool skills / desired behaviors in a concrete ritual framework, and for the children to get their parents to do silly stuff. For teens, it's a structure for something that's essentially Truth or Dare with more flexibility. The applications for Spicy Sexy grownup parties are left as an exercise for the reader.

(I have thoughts about expanding the candy bribery thing into a practice of Reverse Wassailing / Trick-or-Treating, essentially, where you walk around town offering strangers candy in exchange for singing with you or otherwise doing cute harmless stuff. I haven't yet worked out exactly the right feel, though. And, well, things being how they are, you need a pretty thick social skin to be willing to offer strangers candy without a widely-accepted social framework.)

Undeveloped aspects of the holiday, which I hope to flesh out in future years:

Traditional food. We don't really have anything other than candy, right now, and it's an obvious lacuna. Lamptide isn't really a sit-down-for-a-nice-dinner kind of holiday...although I guess it could be...but I suspect it would be useful to come up with some kind of Classic Lamptide Hors d'Ouevre or Classic Lamptide Crudité or something else appropriate for a party where people are milling around doing different things. (Not a dessert, I don't want to compete with the candy.) Sadly, I have no culinary genius, so I'm going to have to outsource for this one.

Music. @cloakofshadow has written some alternate lyrics for Christmas carols, but a thriving holiday should really have its own songs with their own distinctive melodies. Which means that I should probably find a competent composer to help me out.

Gifts. It would be very In-Theme for Lamptide to be the holiday when you give people the books / movies / video games / etc. that you want them to consume for your sake. I haven't yet done anything with that idea, but I am definitely considering it strongly.

[artful-aries]

Prosaic Introductions: Innocent Perspectives (Dottore x Reader)

A part two of my Prosaic Introductions drabble, this time in the point of view of the reader! It can be read as a stand alone though, but you’re missing out on some juicy context without part one. This has been highly requested for some time, so I hope everyone enjoys :3

Word Count: 1.6k

Content Warnings: none

Dottore was by far the strangest man you ever had the pleasure of meeting. His presence brought a chill to any room he stepped into, maintaining a hard distance from anyone and everyone, and he never took off that weird mask. You wondered if he wore it for some medical reason or if perhaps he was self conscious of the top half of his face. Nonetheless, you still could somehow tell whenever his eyes would bore into you with an intensity that could probably put Archons to shame.

On the outside, the Harbinger seemed entirely unapproachable, even dangerous, and yet you found yourself being drawn in by him. Perhaps you were merely a moth drawn to the flame, or more accurately, the fly caught in his web, but you found yourself always throwing caution to the wind when it came to him.

It had been a few weeks since Dottore had given you a cryptic response about making time to see you after he helped chase away a belligerent idiot, something that you found more attractive than was probably morally acceptable. You would go days at a time without seeing the man and wonder if he had gotten busy or simply grown bored of you when he would pop back into your life, like he somehow read your mind and knew you wanted to see him. Given the nature of his role as a Harbinger, part of you wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow could read your mind, but given that he still interacted with you it was reasonable to conclude that he couldn’t read your thoughts. At least, not the embarrassing ones, which in your opinion were the only ones that mattered in this case.

Now you found yourself aimlessly wandering the streets of the market you always preferred to shop at with the tall, cold man in tow. He crept like a shadow as he idly followed you, seemingly wholly content with walking by your side in complete silence.

“So…what was it that brought you to the market today? Did you need more supplies for your research?” You asked politely, taking the opportunity to cast a quick glance at the Harbinger.

The corner of his mouth tapered up ever so slightly, so subtle that you almost wondered if you imagined it as he spoke, “I was not in need of supplies today, (Y/N). I came for other reasons.”

Getting a straight answer out of Dottore was almost like pulling teeth; he seemed to relish in your confusion, a fact which would have been extremely irritating if it was anyone else, but with him it was almost like trying to solve a complicated puzzle, one that you felt like you would feel very rewarded in solving.

You positioned yourself in front of him, walking backwards so that you could continue to face him as you grinned, “What’s the reason you came today then, hm?”

The attempt at being a little flirty was brought to a swift end by your own clumsiness as your back hit a shop’s shelf, making you give a small grunt at the feeling. A piece of pottery on the top shelf rattled at the force, rolling its way to the edge before it dropped off the side, falling swiftly towards your head. You barely had time to react before Dottore swiftly moved closer to you, catching the vase with one hand as he looked at you with what you could only assume to be an amused expression.

“It’s certainly quite fascinating how you’ve managed to survive this long,” Dottore spoke with a hint of mirth in his voice as he gently put the vase back, “You seem to be insistent on getting into all kinds of trouble that requires my intervention.”

The shop keeper, having heard the commotion, stormed up to chastise you both, but upon realizing who you were with, they turned pale and immediately spun on their heels and headed in the opposite direction. Dottore smirked in a way that you were convinced was his way of saying ‘See? I told you so’.

“Well, it’s not my fault you make yourself so dependable,” You teased, but you could feel your face flushing a little bit in embarrassment at your blunder, “At any rate, you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Doesn’t a Harbinger have more pressing matters to attend to than following me around?”

“Perhaps,” He smiled, showing his sharp teeth for a moment as both of you began to aimlessly walk together once more, “But I am here despite my obligations to the Tsaritsa.”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned that the Doctor seemed to be playing hooky with his duties to Snezhnaya, and it didn’t escape your notice that he continued to dance around your question.

Before you could press again, Dottore gave another cryptic answer, “You could say that I’m actively participating in collecting data for research as we speak.”

You gave him an incredulous look, not believing that he was doing anything even remotely close to research. He didn’t even have a notebook or anything, so what could he possibly be researching?

“And what is it that the Doctor is researching this time? Surely it’s something so spectacular that you don’t have to run any tests or take notes,” You replied with a small laugh, believing him to just be testing you to see how gullible you were.

“You,” Dottore said simply, not even casting a glance in your direction, as though it was the most normal response in the world.

…Huh?

You found your next words leaving your mouth before you could stop yourself, “Is that your way of asking me on a date?”

Dottore stopped in his tracks, making you nearly stumble as you stopped mid-gait as you looked at him. He stared at you intently, or at least you assumed so behind his mask. The damn thing kept you from being able to figure out what was going through his head at the moment. Was he shocked? Angry? Embarrassed? You had no clue. All you knew was that he was staring at you like his life depended on it, not moving a muscle.

“A date,” Dottore slowly repeated, more as a statement than a question.

You swallowed hard, clamming up as you worried that you somehow offended the man in front of you. Perhaps it was presumptuous to assume he was even attracted to your gender, let alone you as an individual.

“U-Um, nevermind, it was…I was just-“ You struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what you had said that wasn’t just writing it off as a bad joke, but you were drawing a blank.

Then Dottore gave a small chuckle, his arms crossing over his chest as he replied in an amused tone, “You mean a date as in a romantic outing, do you not?”

Archons, you would give anything to die on the spot right now.

“If you’re into that,” You answered, cringing internally at your own wishy-washy response. Why did you have to dig yourself into an even deeper hole?

The silence was dreadful, and you could only stand there and shift awkwardly as Dottore stared you down through his mask. You wish he would say something, anything, if only to break the tense silence. At this point, you wouldn’t even care if he laughed at you if it meant getting past this awkward moment.

“How amusing,” The Harbinger smirked as he stepped closer to you, making you snap out of your internal lamenting of your awkwardness, “Fine then, we shall go on a date, (Y/N). I believe this could produce quite interesting results.”

You gaped at him for a moment before blinking a few times, “Y-You’re serious? You’ll take me on a date?”

You couldn’t believe you had gotten this far with a man who terrified entire nations. At one point you had convinced yourself he was entirely aromantic and asexual with how little he seemed interested in your average interpersonal relationships. Yet here he was, this stoic, indifferent man was agreeing to go on a date with you. If it were anyone else, you would have assumed they agreed as a joke, but Dottore didn’t seem like the type of man to agree to such a thing on mere humor alone.

“I believe you’ll see just how serious I am very soon,” Dottore spoke with a smug look, “Don’t tell me that you’re trying to back out now, hm? It would be a great disappointment to miss this opportunity.”

There was a certain tone in his voice that felt…slightly detached, but you couldn’t put your finger on why. Considering the man was inherently detached from those around him, you simply wrote it off as just his usual cold mannerisms seeping through.

“No, I’m definitely not backing out,” You insisted, your cheeks heating up a little as you looked at him, “So…when will you take me on a date then?”

Dottore hummed at your response, clearly entertained at your embarrassed state, “I believe I’ll leave that as a surprise. Wouldn’t want to ruin all the fun, now would we?”

Before you could protest at how ridiculous that was, Dottore already started walking off, waving to you over his shoulder as he spoke, “Until next time, (Y/N). I look forward to our date.”

“I- Wait, you can’t just- Are you even listening to me?” You called out to him, but it was clear that he had no intention of returning to the conversation as he disappeared into the crowd. If that man didn’t interest you so much, you would have cursed him out by now with how often he left you puzzled and confused at his actions, you were sure of it. With an exasperated sigh, you began walking back home, but there was a bit of a spring in your step that wasn’t there previously. Dottore was a strange man indeed, but perhaps that meant you were even stranger for seeking his affections.

[zileans-big-cl0ck]

Hii, if ya feel up to it could you write some comforting headcanons for Yasuo and Talon? They need some good hugs but honestly what league champion doesn't

(if you feel like writing for others too go for it, I like to read anything you make)

✦–Comforting them headcanons.✦ (SFW)

✦Hurt/comfort, because they also deserve a hug. A lot of hugs. Every single one of them.

✧ prompt: ✧ hurt/comfort.

✧ champions: ✧ Talon, the Blade’s Shadow; Yasuo, the Unforgiven; Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace.

✧ reader: ✧ gender neutral.

✧ author’s note: ✧ oh, dear readers and anons, you don’t even know how appreciated I feel whenever you send me some positive energy or compliments, haha! Every time it’s so adorable, I couldn’t feel any better. Thank you for everythig, especially since english is not my first language, so. I basically have no idea what I am doing. Ah, but apart of this anecdote, the reader is really into self care, but I think it shouldn’t be a problem since we are doing a comforting post.

masterlist

✦Talon, the Blade’s Shadow.

He left his blade by the door, because he would never want you to see it in the comforting space of your home, begrimed with blood and disgustingly obscure.

He has lost his prey. His target fleed - he failed; he didn’t manage to complete the only merit of his life that he truly named his own, his passion and devotion, the thing he has been created to do.

If he fails in something so elementary, a thing fankled into his soul and his whole being, an aspect pierced into his heart, then what is his worth?

You spotted his inconvenient posture imidiately, sensing an unnatural twist in his mood, so used to his everyday harshness, enriched by a little bit of sweetness towards only your person. But this time he was different - apathetic with stilted aura of dullness around. Talon let himself tiredly slide on your shared bed, ignoring you just because of the guilt that has been oppressing his heart.

And you, instead of letting him perish alone, you offered him your silent comfort - just yourself by his side. You sat there, your head on his shoulder, gentle touch of your hand on his back, maybe even the tip of your fingers making little circles, massaging.

You asked him what happened, though for the most of the following time you remain quiet, relishing the moment, only you two as the centre of the universe.

But he still felt the enveloping sensation of the failed mission, a feeling he had never experienced before; he has dishonoured his sacred mission. Should he be allowed to feel comforted after a mistake so unforgivable? If he could, he would wear the disgrace as a punishment, visible and vociferous, so everyone would see his shamefull attempts to find comfort in someone else, unworthy of it and pathetic.

Talon was always a mysterious person, but you were like a stronghold for him - it wasn’t a long time until you heard these thoughts of his vocalized out loud, honest and brutal. He murmured them into your ear, while you listened silently, cherishing this sacred moment of his true, intimate self, the person behind the blade.

His thoughts seemed like a form of self-flagellation, noxious and malign. Something pitiful that made your eyes wet, little droplets settling on your eyelashes.

You couldn’t listen to him anymore, saying those denigrating and disgusting statements about himself. All it was untrue, made from the years of abandonment and loneliness, and you were positive to cure it.

But how many times more will you hear him saying that his name doesn’t matter? That as an assasin he is not a human being - he is just a blade that cuts efficiently, deeply and terminally.

“I couldn’t wish for a better person in my life than you, love.” You beggined with you voice brittle, like you were telling him a unconfronted secret. “There is nothing that could make me feel even slightly different. I love you the same amount, as you should love yourself.”

Your words were prosaic, menial. But these were honest promises of adoring him countlessly times, endlessly and for eons, until he comprehends the feelings you wanted him to nurse not only for you, but also himself.

And at some point Talon chuckled, though it wasn’t a sign of joy - it was depressing, unnatural. He tried assuring you that it wasn’t a problem big enough to enwrap you, his beloved one, in - but you could sense his poignant sadness running through his body, just like you could feel his pulsing heart or heavy breath.

You promised him to dedicate to him all of your time, just to assure Talon in his human ability to make mistakes, even so meaningful; to help with his low esteem, even if he firmly disagreed to have anything to do with the mythical term of the mentioned ’low esteem’.

You wrapped your hands around him, tigh and lovely, planning on imprisoning him in a cage made of adoration from someone, who could gave him the comfort he deserved.

Talon left his blade by the door as a symbol of rejection - he rejected the person beyond this place, the one who covered his face with a hood, exchanging him for a more relaxed one, the one made from flesh and honest feelings, the real ones, the right ones, and the absolutely normal ones.

✦Yasuo, the Unforgiven.

As we know, Yasuo escaped Ionia after the unfortunate tragedy that led him despair.

He was lost and longing for a company, though he stated out loud that he didn’t want anyone nerby - he was still too fragile, still in shock of the brutal act he allowed himself to do, bewildered, horrified by himself.

He didn’t want to hurt another human being again. He didn’t want to accompany yet another person, only to betray them nor to give up on them. Another loose would be too painful, too demolishing.

For them, of course. He thought he could handle all of this crushing on his mind.

But Yasuo wouldn’t survive seeing his acquaintance being betrayed by him, once again.

He wasn’t eager to befriend new people here, in Bilgewater; he didn’t seek anyone particular. You found him by yourself, and soon became his only comfort in those times, only way to drift his depressing thoughts away.

And even though it was admirable, your acts of desperate tries, as he considered you as the most valued person in his life, you knew he shouldn’t be feeling so much pain. It could broke even the toughest weilder. His nailed heart pulsing right in his chest was aching and trying to free itself every time Yasuo bestowed you with his deep, sad eyes.

He suffered in silence, though he claimed that you were the only cure for this desease that was gutting his body.

You could name this curse - it was guilt in its purest form. And you were determined to free Yasuo from it.

At some point, he must have opened himself before you, render a vivisection of himself, show you his insides and the putridity that has enveloped his heart and soul. Something you should despise, scream and shout at the sight of, bewildered and cheesed.

But instead of pushing him away as he expected, almost desired, instead of feeling overwhelmed by the emotions he had dropped on your shoulders, you hugged him tightly, the words of comfort pouring from your mouth.

”That wasn’t your fault.” ”You regret this, and you are not the same person you were back then.” ”That was an accident.” ”You are always there for me - let me be here for you now.”

So he declaimed the weight of the world like a poem. About his past and his brother, who has lose to his blade in the accident. You cried with him, mixing your own tears with his own, brushing his problems and concerns off.

You couldn’t even imagine how deeply was he hurt. But humans tend to crawl for the concept of empathetic co-suffering; it makes them feel understood and is crutial when it comes to comforting, therefore it was enough for him: getting the heavy burden off his own mind, sharing it to the world, admitting that he had commited something unforgivable.

You forgave him, though he has never hurted you. But any mercy given from a human being was a relief for Yasuo.

✦Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace.

Cassiopeia didn’t need your comfort. She despised it. It made her look pathetic and weak, even if she already looked miserable as half a serpent.

But she was a proud woman, a lover of many in her halcyon days of glory. Everyone longed for her and everyone needed her like an antidote for a deadly poison. It was a desire not in a lovely, romantic way, but in a frantic, melodramatic and amusing form of begging for sparing a life.

She manipulated the whole nation of pathetic Noxians into her hands, toyed with them on one of her palms, treating those little figures like ants, just simple pawns on the board that she created from her life. She would be considered infantile if anyone knew what a little mouse wanted to adhere to her, hug her scaled waist and tell her that… she deserved love.

Of course she did! You should have seen her when she was still human, not an abomination, just a twisted figure of her past self.

”No, I am not thinking like this of myself, little mouse. Do not approach me, we can bargain from a distance-”

She would admire your confidency with honesty, if only you weren’t so… clingy. Your hugged her in a devoted way that spoke without words - that you will always follow her as her dearest worshipper, even if she turned into something more fearsome than a half-snake. Even if she turned into a sculpture, you would attend her every day.

Cassiopeia indeed had to admit to herself, in her own convoluted way of a serpent, that your confession made her feel better. Like she had one person that was truly her admirer, not just another human she led on and wrapped around her claw, ready to allure and use. And that her little mouse was kind of adorable; more like a pet, but at least a faithful one.

It was a change of perspectives for her, a phenomenon that made her smile softly, her hand slidding from the top of your head to your back, where she pushed you closer, admiring and loving.

[myemuisemo]

Moor is more in chapter VI, "Baskerville Hall" of the Letters from Watson distribution of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Although not much happens, the chapter contains a lot of characterization, for both place and people.

Place

The train whisks Watson, Mortimer, and Sir Henry Baskerville from modern London through the bucolic countryside to the romantic (in the literary sense) moor. As an American, my understanding of moors is entirely as a feature of English literature, a desolate place where characters roam in hooded cloaks, bent against the wind, on their way to terrible fates.

It turns out that moors are vibrant ecosystems in their desolate ways (wikipedia). The reason I could not go check out the local moor anywhere that I've lived in the U.S. is that... our geography doesn't create moors. We have to settle for swamps and marshes, which were among my favorite locals in Connecticut but not, alas, good for roaming in a brooding way.

All along, we've been set up for gothic literature: the prevailing atmosphere of fear, the rumor of supernatural events, and the dead hand of the past guiding the tragedies of the present. Baskerville Hall is constructed not so much of stones as of familiar tropes that readers had been oohing and aahing over since at least the "romantic" movement of the 1830s. My cinnamon roll Dr. Watson appears to buy into the mood completely.

Meanwhile, Sir Henry Baskerville is ready to line the yew alley with electric lights, which were still fairly new. If we assume he means incandescent lamps (consistent with the Swan & Edison reference), the first street lamp lit was in Newcastle in February 1879, followed by Cleveland, Ohio, later that year.

Sir Charles had previously done some redecorating, so those modern bedrooms might have had wallpaper like these 1880s remnants from Bolling & Co. This one is described as "simply defies description."

Other than observer Watson, the moor has two outsiders trying to influence events: Sir Henry Baskerville and the escaped convict Selden, which brings us to...

People

In making a list of all the people Watson is to keep an eye on -- or out for -- it occurred to me that, up this chapter, we have seen most characters from the perspective of James Mortimer, which skews perception of who is important.

Sir Henry Baskerville is perceived by Watson as a romantic hero.

There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes.

Sir Henry do" es seem pleased to arrive, and oh my, this is such a gothic description!

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him.

At least the walls aren't bleeding red clay, right?

James Mortimer keeps being sold to us as entirely honest and above board, but then he comes out with the bit about Sir Charles having a "very rare" type of head, entirely different from his heir's head. Watson appears not to notice how ridiculous that sounds.

James Desmond, the default heir to Sir Henry, is confirmed by Holmes to be a harmless old man with no interest in money.

Barrymore the manservant, is perceived by Watson as "a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features." (We'll just have Barrymore played by Tom Hiddleston as a combination of Sir Thomas Sharpe and the Night Manager.)

Barrymore's hints about wishing to leave come across as louche, even though a butler and a cook/housekeeper using an inheritance to buy a nice inn would be entirely unexceptional.

(Is Barrymore a lost heir? Gothic lit is full of those.)

Selden, the Notting Heir murderer is largely perceived by Watson, as "this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out." Selden gives us evil encroaching on the peace of the countryside.

Perkins, the groom, perceived by Watson as "a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow," gets a name only because Mortimer addresses him by it. Based on such minimal description, he's practically a Brownie.

Then we have characters that are perceived for us, so far, only by James Mortimer. Only the two "gentlemen" are referred to by name.

Stapleton is a naturalist, and so would know a great deal about the moor.

Mr. Frankland of Lafter Hall is presumably the local MP, inheriting a tradition of being able to frank mail (send it for free, a privilege that ended in 1840) and owning land. I'll bet moderate amounts that Lafter Hall is a livelier and lighter domicile, built somewhat later than Baskerville Hall.

Of the women, we know only their roles.

Mrs. Barrymore, the cook/housekeeper, is presumed to be in accordance with her husband's statements.

Mrs. Mortimer presumably did not have both a large dowry and a love of London, given James Mortimer's choice to take a country practice.

Miss Stapleton is "a young lady of attractions," so she likely has a substantial dowry. She may also have a pleasing and lively manner.

Of non-gentleman-class men, we also know lilttle.

Moorland farmer #1 and #2 have so far existed only to testify to terrors on the moor.

"One or two other neighbors" by this point should be set dressing -- it's getting a little late for any to have motivations.

Hard-faced men with guns are hunting for Selden. While it's unlikely they have anything to do with mysterious glowing dogs on the moor, what a place to hide if one wanted to! “The farmers don’t like it”: the escape, or the presence of armed men supervising coming and goings? The south coast of Devon was known for smuggling.

So we have the cast assembled for a variety of gothic goings-ons! And with the hound, we have a Boggart: a malevolent spirit that haunts a specific family line.

And then Watson hears that most gothic sound: "It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow."

Sherlock Holmes would be looking for bird calls or gramophones, as well as interviewing Mrs. Barrymore about whether she has migraines. I'm a little disappointed that Watson doesn't pursue this strange noise. Had he read and recalled Wuthering Heights, "the rustle of ivy on the wall" would in no way have reassured him that all was well.

[cryinthevortex]

Favorite Sentence Wednesday Saturday Thursday Today

Lovely @pixiedurango tagged me to this game.

What's this? Another questionnaire. I want to do this before Rook gets home.

"Yes! Let's!"

In the Shadow of Demon's Wings

"Despite all this privilege, he was currently on his proverbial knees, feeling helpless, trying to be worthy not of a title, but of a woman instead"

Not my finest moment.

"Do you have many of. those?"

The Birds with Black Feathers

We were climbing the Treviso bell tower.

"There was a moment of peace; the world was quiet, warm and nothing momentarily troubled him as the darkness enveloped them, pierced only by a shimmer of the white, hopeful moon."

"So pretentious, Lucanis."

Do you really wish to play this, Spite?

"Not if you choose things. like this."

You know I will keep selecting these types of sentences just to see you go away. You're giving me a headache.

From the First time to Forever

Rook got us a lubricant from Emmrich.

“From Emmrich actually,” Rook replied. “Probably not embalming fluid, then again, I couldn’t get any stiffer than this.” 

"Now, See Lucanis. This is funny. Rook is funny."

Seven Days of Satinalia. Chapter 1.

This one? I was made a Town Fool by Caterina and crowned Antiva's ruler for the day.

“I promise to dishonor Antiva’s customs and laws with my very presence and make a mockery of everything the kingship stands for.“ 

Spite. Stop laughing.

"It was funny."

Only afterwards.

"Also during. Just ask Rook."

He laughs at most things.

Two Knives and The Darkness of the Night

“Lucanis got to play with his two favourite things in the world: her and his knives."

"Lucanis?"

We...had ... fun with knives.

Excuse me.

"You come back?"

There. Onwards.

The First Talon

"Coranto is a friendly dance- unless the duplicitous love of your life dances with your traitorous brother."

A lovers' spat.

"You were tied up. that evening. with stockings."

It was a fine ending to a mostly disastrous event.

The Autumn Roses of Villa Dellamorte

And Lucanis—one more victim in a long line of them—taking the blows, yielding, accepting them, until he too would become the one holding the cane

"Lucanis is gone. I continue."

Illario's Gambit

"He hardly knew how to be an adult, considering that he had the concentration, temperament, and emotional self-regulation abilities of a very nasty toddler. "

"That is why he is funny. Makes it sound. like a bad thing."

A Warden and A Crow Walk into a Memory Wipe

"Lucanis was dosed with. Sex-Pollen. Rook smelled aroused, but panicking."

"Lucanis may have inhaled it—or lobotomized himself by losing every single inhibition— and I think he had more of those than a fucking Chantry Sister to begin with!"

Ok, Spite. Well, not a bad choice. A mildly embarrassing moment, but not entirely unfunny.

Not a fucking Chance you Sleep there

Rook may have been under the impression, that I disliked him.

"Would he go for a thought-free, I know you dislike me, but stop thinking about that and just fuck me, okay? -kind of thing? "

He concluded correctly.

Stop Playing with your Food, Rook

“Such a romantic,” Rook coos. “Particularly with that romantic Fereldan accent that makes you insert expletives in the middle of your prose.”

I used an expletive when I was in Rook's body—as a part of a magical body-swap spell gone awry.

"Nothing new. You also use expletives. when in his body. No magic needed"

Spite. Come on.

High Culture, Low Expectations.

Caterina opened the door to the Villa. I was surprised.

 For someone who prepared for most eventualities while shaping his beard in the morning, it was almost unpleasant to have missed this possibility.

"Boring! More Rook. Less you."

Go play with the cat.

"No."

In the absence of Rook

"It was a bittersweet consolation, having lost someone to complete your contract; it had removed the enemy Queen from the chessboard, but he had lost a Rook in exchange. 

A prosaic moment. Hard times.

Shut up, Spite.

You're So Fucking Unprofessional, Lucanis

“I’ve never received a love confession in the heat of the moment from a man on the brink of madness, meant for a man.”

Rook professed his love for me, to a prostitute. I received this knowledge eventually, so it worked out fine.

Mierda. Rook is home. Perhaps its good, so many to choose from.

"Can I send this?"

Go ahead, Spite.

"Do I want to know what you're doing?"

[thisismori]

i.

In this newfound world, the boundaries of your reality blur, and the line between dreams and waking life dissolves. No longer do you need to conjure fictional landscapes to escape to, for you have found a tangible connection with another soul—a connection that transcends the confines of fantasy. With them, you embark on a journey of profound depth, where your words are met with genuine understanding and your desires are embraced as if they were their own. They have the remarkable ability to breathe life into love songs, infusing them with renewed meaning. It's as though they've emerged from the pages of a storybook, too incredible to be real, yet unequivocally genuine.

Her presence, ethereal and enigmatic, possesses the ineffable power to unfurl the fragile strands of life's intricate tapestry, unveiling a truth I had perpetually denied. How had I remained so impervious to her existence, to the symphony of words she wove around me with the delicacy of a silken cocoon? Every utterance she bestowed upon me resonated as a harmonious, melodic embrace, carefully tending to the fractured pieces of my heart, healing the wounds I had concealed from the unfeeling world.

From the obscurity of the shadows, she emerged as a silent guardian, an ever-watchful sentinel who had observed me from a distance, enduring with patience the celestial alignment of cosmic forces that would, at long last, converge our divergent paths. In her presence, I unearthed a sanctuary—a sacred haven where I could shed the armor I had worn to shield my vulnerabilities from the probing eyes of the world for an eternity. With her, I experienced a sensation previously unfathomed; I felt heard, seen, and comprehended in ways that transcended mere mortal understanding.

She conveyed her emotions, not through the customary language of prosaic affection, but through the artistry of metaphors, wherein each word bore a cryptic, underlying significance. In those moments, it was as though she possessed the extraordinary ability to read me between the lines, deciphering the intricate poetry of my very existence.

[phlebaswrites]

Food and Fights

Summary:

Hikaku knows the man he loves.

(He doesn't know Hashirama.)

Rating: Teen And Up Fandom: Naruto Relationship: Uchiha Hikaku/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara Word Count: 626 (Complete)

Entry for @asian-drama-tropes

July Tavern (fight scene optional but likely) | Lovers fighting back to back | Prosaic objects as weapons | Sweeper monk | "2 jin (1.2kg) of cooked beef and a pot of alcohol"

Part 7 of Secrets of the Heart

Hikaku sits down at the table, shuffling a little on the bench, and tilts his chin down to better hide his face.

The whole point of hiding themselves under these straw hats is for this meeting to pass unremarked upon, and he doesn't intend to be the reason for the daimyo to take official notice of it. Peace between the two strongest clans in Hi no Kunai has upset the balance of power enough already, and Madara-sama's plan to build a village to house all the shinobi in the country is the kind of thing that's better discovered after the fact than before.

"Two jin of cooked beef and a pot of alcohol," Madara-sama holds up three fingers as he orders their food. "Please."

The owner nods, bringing over cups and chopsticks, but scuttles away as a long shadow is cast over them.

"Drinks for three, eh? I'll take a share of that!" A big man abruptly sits down on the bench next to him, and Hikaku flicks his eyes over the intruder. Muscular certainly but, without the tell tale of weapons calluses on his hand and the chakra of a trained shinobi, he seems to be nothing more than a bully.

And Hikaku knows how his clan head responds to bullying.

Read the rest on AO3.

[r2b2grady]

To anyone who is interested in writing fantasy, a bit of unsolicited advice: don't worry about a place or character name seeming "plain" or "prosaic". Heck, make it as prosaic or plain as you like, and if it feels weird, just translate it into one of the tongues of the setting.

I've been rereading The Lord of the Rings—properly rereading (mostly), instead of just skipping to the battles the way I used to, and one thing that's struck me is how all of the names that we find so moving and so compelling, all those great names—like Gondor, or the river Anduin, or Mordor, or any of those names—all of their names are simply translated forms of very simple, descriptive names. Literally translated from Sindarin, Gondor and Mordor are "stone-kingdom" and "shadow-kingdom", from the roots gond "stone", mor "black, dark, shadow", and -dor, "kingdom". And the name Anduin is literally just "long river", from and- "long" and duin "great river".

And if at all possible, don't let the idea take root that "well, I need to have my characters' names sound like they're from a fantasy setting." There is a power and a fire in the names that seem most prosaic to modern sensibilities. As G. K. put it in Heretics:

The sense that everything is poetical is a thing solid and absolute; it is not a mere matter of phraseology or persuasion. It is not merely true, it is ascertainable. … I remember a long time ago a sensible sub-editor coming up to me with a book in his hand, called "Mr. Smith," or "The Smith Family," or some such thing. He said, "Well, you won't get any of your damned mysticism out of this," or words to that effect. I am happy to say that I undeceived him; but the victory was too obvious and easy. In most cases the name is unpoetical, although the fact is poetical. In the case of Smith, the name is so poetical that it must be an arduous and heroic matter for the man to live up to it. The name of Smith is the name of the one trade that even kings respected, it could claim half the glory of that arma virumque which all epics acclaimed. The spirit of the smithy is so close to the spirit of song that it has mixed in a million poems, and every blacksmith is a harmonious blacksmith. … The brute repose of Nature, the passionate cunning of man, the strongest of earthly metals, the wierdest of earthly elements, the unconquerable iron subdued by its only conqueror, the wheel and the ploughshare, the sword and the steam-hammer, the arraying of armies and the whole legend of arms, all these things are written, briefly indeed, but quite legibly, on the visiting-card of Mr. Smith. Yet our novelists call their hero "Aylmer Valence," which means nothing, or "Vernon Raymond," which means nothing, when it is in their power to give him this sacred name of Smith--this name made of iron and flame.

~ Heretics, Chapter 3, G. K. Chesterton [sic]

And if you need inspiration, I highly recommend Behind the Name. It has a bunch of names in the database, though it is limited to mostly Western names (as far as I can tell, it's a one-person show, so I assume there's only so much they can do). You can find the meanings of different names and see how that might kick free ideas. Like how the name "Alfred" derives from the Old English Ælfræd, meaning "elf-counsel". Or how "Henry" derives from the Germanic Heimirich for "home ruler".

All this to say: who cares if the fantasy hero is named Bill, or Mary, or Bubba, or Laura? Does the name make the hero heroic? Or does the hero make the name heroic?

And there's nothing to say that if you like a more outlandish name, you can't use it, either. If you prefer to name someone Garrenthos the Livid instead of Todd Williams, that's fine. But you shouldn't feel like you have to name the characters outlandishly "because it's a fantasy". If Tolkien, the father of modern fantasy, has shown us anything, I think it's that the most humble of names can be attached to the most heroic of hearts.

[gangshuffle]

[GANGSHUFFLE]

The Mutinous Cabal

Marvel Capital's crew of self-proclaimed watchdogs. They keep an eye out on whatever's brewing on the city's notorious criminal underbelly- with a little cut of the pie, of course. Gotta keep their heads above water, after all.

Posing as their figurehead is the ever charming and mysterious DEBONAIR DESPOT, an ex-soldier turned vigilante. He's a quiet, dedicated man with the energy of a restless cat. Of course, when you have the ability to see the future, wouldn't that make you restless as well?

The real boss hiding behind the curtain is SCRUTINOUS SCOURGE, the visionary behind Marvel Capital's creation. He's madly in love with his city, and rumor has it he's made a deal with a Terror to secure her flourishing in exchange for his sight. God complex? Seems pretty simple to him!

With their intel guy, COGENT DEALER- a former Dersite agent- and medic turned heavy muscle, HARMONIC BASTION, the Cabal keep the shadows in line and out of the light of day. It's their city.

Team Ace

A gang of dishonorably discharged ex-coppers, teamed up with the goal of cleaning up Marvel Capital's dirty laundry. Little do they know, they've already passed their hero arc. Everyone else starts looking like a villain when you think you're the protagonist, after all.

Leading their rather suspicious charge from the shadows is the obstinate POLEMIC IMAGINEER. They say that cute face hides the wrath of God.

Functioning as the 'man in charge' is ACEPHALOUS DICTUM. But his friends, and his co-workers, and.. Well. Everyone calls him ACE DICK. Tired father of one girl and two grown-ass men.

And every ragtag group needs a poster boy, and for Team Ace that boy is the grown-ass man, PROSAIC STEWARD. He's. Uh. Been in a rough spot since a.. Particular even that happened before he was kicked from the Marvel Capital Police Department.

They seem at odds amongst themselves often with their goals- but when they pose as a threat? Shit just gets REAL.

The Flux

The top yakuza syndicate in the Marvel Capital. Having taken over during a vulnerable time for the city, they've had their claws dug deep into the corner of every block in every district. No gang seems stand a chance against them and their wide array of magical abilities- utlizing Shadow and Temporal magic alike.

The Flux use number based aliases, with their real names mainly unbeknownst to the public. But two in particular send shudders down the spine of even the most notorious oyabun in the city's underworld.

Number Six, DEOR. The big boss himself. A reclusive man who stands firm in his ideals, hellbent on sucking Marvel Capital dry before running it into the ground. Some say he's got a powerful Terror pact- other's claim he's a naturally gifted Green Sun mage. No one's lived long enough to determine for sure which one's true.

Number Seven, YUSHA. Deor's personal lapdog. He's never seen without a smile, nor without his Crowbar. People who know him say he's got an odd air to him, as if he doesn't even know what's going on around him. Regardless, that doesn't stop him from swiftly fulfilling his orders with great efficiency.

This rainbow of thugs will stop at nothing to claim Marvel Capital as their own. It's their land.

City Officials

Every city is only ever as good as the people in charge of it. Luckily for the Marvel Capital, capable hands work hard behind the scenes to keep the place livable for the average citizen- determined to keep the peace. Even if it means occasionally having to play by the Cabal's rules.

The former Mayor, WINDSWEPT VILLAGER, keeps a well trained eye on the city's archives. After an attempt on his life during that left him disabled, he's stepped down from his position. Nevertheless, he continues to work behind the scenes- playing as an informant and confidant for the current Mayor. PEACEKEEPING MAYOR is the current head honcho serving in office. Having been an ex-archagent like Villager, positions of great responsibility (and stress) are nothing new to her. She's a stubborn woman with a who will do anything for the city- going so far as to work with the Cabal to keep as eye on what goes on in the shadows. If the Mayor watches over the city, who watches the Mayor? That duty of course goes to ASSIDUOUS REGIMENT, the head of the City Council's security department. Having failed to protect Villager before, he's sworn to himself to not allow that to happen ever again. He's a stiff, stern figure, but below that tough exterior, he's got a good heart.

The three of them work day and night trying to maintain the balance of the city- but everyday it grows clearer it was made to be less of a home and more of a playground.

[thederangedsolicitor]

🎖️👑🃏🔥🐍🪞 and 🎩, go

I am getting barraged! Still, thank you for sending in~

🎖️ — Proudest non-Ambition accomplishment?

The first thing that jumps to mind is the Flower from Hell - they're very fascinated by devils, just as the Fingerkings of old were, and thus have been working towards uniting the Little Kings and the Wandering Roses once more; being accepted as one of Hell's own is a very important/exciting achievement for Amets, and having roses blooming from their skin is exactly up their alley on the metamorphosis front.

(You'd think having turned a version of themselves into a city would be higher up, but the enormity of that is overshadowed by the complicated feelings they have about their shadow-self and the whole situation.)

👑 — Opinions on the Queen? What about other royalty?

They don't particularly care about the Queen, but they are quite invested in her children - they cultivate a positive relationship with the Captivating Princess (with whose hedonistic loneliness they sympathize) and the Recalcitrant Sculptress (whose eccentric taste they admire), and they serve as a personal tutor for the Generous Princess, gathering scraps of humanity and virtue for the young lady to learn and grow from.

🃏 — What would be/will be their name and domain as a Master?

Mr Masks, who deals in costumes, uniforms, shapes and identities. Probably eats up a lot of Mr Veils' textile trade, start producing subtly transformative garbs - a depersonalized mode of the Shapeling Arts.

They already have a strong focus on offering transformation as the Pontifex of Metamorphoses, so it's really just a question of distilling that into buyable Wares.

🔥 — Least favourite Master of the Bazaar?

Mr Stones, or Mr Mirrors, maybe? Frankly, all of the Masters blend together to them (the accumulation of wealth is such a prosaic goal), but they had a few bad encounters with those two.

For the record, Mr Veils is their favourite, because they also appreciate violence and beautiful clothing, even though Mr Spices is the one they're ostensibly closest to.

🐍 — Snakes or cats?

Snakes, obviously.

In recent news, Amets would be very excited for what the Seventh Coil is offering - tigers are not at the center of the Moulting Eidolon's attention, but they too are working on freeing their kind of old enmities, and closing the distance between the Is and Is-Not is something they've dreamt of for a long time. (They don't particularly care about the hypocrisy of the stars, but the end goal is very favourable to them.)

🪞 — Do they enjoy being in Parabola? Why or why not?

They do! Once, the thing that would become them chose to make its home here, and they do not regret the choice.

Still, they get bored so very easily, and one's home always seems the least interesting place in the world while you're there - and that is why they endeavour to belong everywhere, become anything, so that all of existence - from the depths of Hell to the lights of the Surface - can be a step away from their doorstep.

🎩 — What would an Exceptional Story featuring this character be about?

Most likely a story about the ES Perspective NPC Companion, having sought out a pact with them & now hesitating at the final juncture, and the first half focuses on learning about their life up to this point (and how a normal bohemian type goes about seeking out a spirit of change), and the second half happening in Amets' own demesne in Parabola, letting the Eidolon explain their reasons for doing this (and offering dramatic twists by being candid about their client's goals and desires).

The culmination is obviously you, the helpful FL PC, helping the companion choose whether to go through with it or not... but Amets would also offer to change you while you're here, trading a little of your life for a little of this place, leaving you in your bed with a unique quality and/or equipment (not sure what the change itself should be).

[writing-whump]

hello again ^^ Your latest fic and conversations between Zaya and Arnie reminded me about one thing, I was wondering some time ago - where are all of them taking money from? Scholarships? Grants? I believe it may be the case with Isaiah/Seline, but, Hector? There is some kind, i dont know, pack - fund? But what about Matthew, then? 🤔 Vienna, as capital, isn't a very cheap place. 😅

I know it's a very prosaic question, but I'm curious. :P

Hello hello! :)

The big influential and old wolf packs have historical reasons for being wealthy.

Wolves were always territorial, so even in the past they accumulated land either as payment or just by laying claim to them. Most big packs therefore have lot of property that turned into urban areas now and get lots of money from leasing and redevelopment. Smart leaders often invest in money and metals, which increases in value over their long lifetimes. They can afford big investments, have lots of gold and money saved up and keep generating income through their properties and real estate.

Wolfson pack is definitely one of those packs. That's what allows the packs to feed and accommodate so many members to achieve an influential size as well. Those are the big old packs with lots of money.

Other packs evolve to have some kind of human business going on in the cities, like buying whole quarters and streets of their own in Vienna for hotels and shops or restaurants. Some invest in certain professions for their human members that then become lawyers and doctors or economists, assuming important positions to help the pack and to generate new sources of income.

All pack members get their own bank accounts to assure their needs, and the bigger the pack the more luxury that means.

This is necessary as wolves usually can't do normal human jobs, because of their shadow's aggression and low tolerance for stress.

So Isaiah, Hector and Arnie are very rich, secured by the Wolfson pack and the accounts they got as birth as the children from the leader's line. Isaiah works on the side, he has around two student jobs.

Matthew and Seline live mostly from scholarships, side jobs and student support money that young adults get until they study and fulfill the conditions. Matthew theoretically has a claim of the fortune of the Blackwell pack, except his mother cut him off and he never had the means to fight that. Seline also still gets partially supported by her parents.

Vienna is actually relatively student friendly when it comes to reduced prices for transport, housing, health insurance and many jobs (including from the university itself) that make it doable to study beside them.

The state keeps the inflation prices down (that's why their prices are actually lower these days than way poorer neighbouring countries).

Hope that makes sense! ✨️

[raytm]

🔫 alright out with it. we wanna hear ( or see / read if you got a drabble or scene idea/ you get the point ) about what Kisaki would do if he got jealous. Does it change when younger vs older or is it about the same regardless of the time?

to live in concord with the meek duplicity of his mother’s son was nauseating. the soft demurring of where she went wrong, of how this vindictive boy who had out-grown his brittle, asphyxiated nurturing, was not the child she recalled. it was a farce, to accommodate the gullible neighbors who were too invested as to not be prying, to pretend this astuteness wasn’t keen and lethal. It became most prominent when he was with hanma; an imposing, distending shadow that threatened to corrode their delicate sanctuary if not swallow it whole. kisaki tetta was an invasive species, a weed jutting out of fractured pavement; mandated for rectification. his mother hovers in doorways, a tepid reminder that when he came home late, well after a defied curfew, reeking of cigarettes, alcohol and danger, that he had a loving, altruistic family. this kisaki was young, had yet to acclimatize to the heft of a loaded gun and the arbitrary spray of blood as the bullet carved through the skull of an inferior, inconsequential delinquent whose mouth was both too loose with disgorging intel and viced closed when it was actually important.

he cast a scathing glance at hanma, dallying with a cluster of women, their fascination with him was also sickening. his clothes, his bike - his. envy festers in the pits of kisaki’s hollow chest and he cannot devote it to the attention hanma derives from them or the fact that his grin; an omen of agony, is given so freely. kisaki would abandon him there, amongst the white, stark picket fences and their sedulous morals, if that’s what he wanted. neither of them were suitable for this stifling, insipid atmosphere and those girls, with their lithesome arms and long, long legs, would pitch gracelessly off of hanma’s motorbike as the engine’s roar reverberated through them. they were just seeking a reprieve from their own dull, prosaic lives and he was not so inclined as to distribute them part of his. he took a moment to revel, quietly, in the grotesque way their arms bent, bone jutting through tanned skin, gracile fingers angled all wrong, manicured nails ripped from the beds. he is satisfied with that and the lidded, amusement in hanma’s eyes as they meet is in assent, they would leave - together.

An older kisaki is less satiated by conceptualization alone. there’s no reluctance when he thrusts the barrel of his gun into her mouth, luscious pink lacquer smearing along it. her delicate mouth cannot accommodate its width and her skin tears, pinpricks of red rising as it’s forced further and further apart. she had pleaded with him, dulcet, seductive murmurs withering into desperate whimpers and he had enjoyed it although not enough to indulge her. for those lips and their cheap, roseate stain had crossed a threshold into his territory, sashaying fatuously over to hanma after one of their meetings and insouciantly perching beside him at the bar. her dress revealed enough skin to leave little to the imagination and left her incentives obvious. he had little patience for women and their infernal fawning, nullified by age or power. Hanma no doubt found it entertaining, the way their gorgeous features turned sullen when he didn’t buy them a drink, didn’t inch his hand along their exposed expanse of thigh. he doesn’t consider himself possessive but what falls beneath his reign is evident and the reaper has been an indispensable asset for years now. he cannot be blamed if they’re as ignorant as they are repugnant.

this may go on for a while, her knees raw and bleeding on the concrete, her eyes brimming with mascara tinted tears, her garbled nonsense a palliating sort of brutality. only when he’s satisfied, or when hanma’s boredom incites him to kill, the drone of his cadence muted beneath the dissonant thrum of the bass, does he pull the trigger. kisaki is intimate with it now, the arch of blood, the way her pretty features cave at the point of impact, the twisted, macabre terror of her before she collapses, blood seeping from the gaping wound. even now, there’s adrenaline that thrums in euphony with his pulse, the sort that is ushered in only with the most gratifying kills. it’s amusing, how such a nugatory existence could still find purpose under the artificial hum of street lights, as she heaves her last, shuddering breath and dies at his feet.

[wardenred]

Whumptember: "We can't all win"

Oh, hello another plot bunny that now wants to grow into something big. On the shelf you go.

In the line by one of the food relief stalls, Adiar keeps his head low. Most people do. There's nothing to look at, anyway; the city around them lies in ruins, clouds of dust are obscuring the sky, and no matter where you turn, there's nothing but dirt or desolation. You might as well study your shoes all day long and miss out on nothing.

Adiar has an extra reason, though. A far more prosaic one. His face happens to be on every "Wanted" poster, and sometimes, people do look up. No one's going to care that he's missing that scar by the left corner of his mouth, or that mole under his right eye. That the face on the posters doesn't truly belong to him.

His twin is the one who started this mess, and then led it to ending this way. Adiar's damned if he's going to pay for Matto's crime.

As far as he's concerned, he's paying enough as it is, along with the whole damn city.

Ever since the Crown's military secured what remained of Steelspire and started plastering the intact walls with those posters, he's been committed to lying low. He took shelter in the basement of a moderately ruined Lilac Quarter house with his best friend. She was the one who made the daily trips for some food, and together, they've been plotting ways to get out of the perimeter. Each new plan looked more and more like wishful thinking, but they didn't want to give up. They deserved better than the aftermath of Matto's madness.

Then, two days ago, his friend went out and didn't come back, and now here he is. Out to look for her.

Food first, though. It's dreadfully hard to keep your wits about you when you're dizzy.

"I'm sorry to say you're a little late," the young soldier on the other side of the makeshift counter says when it's finally Adiar's turn. "Only some broth and crackers left. We can't all win."

Adiar doesn't remember when was the last time he achieved anything that could be reasonably described as winning. He forces a smile, even though the soldier can't see his lips, buried as they are in his collar. Hopefully, he can't see much of his face in general.

"Better luck for me next time, then," he croaks. There's something wrong with his vocal chords. That's how you can tell apart all the people who were downtown when Matto's ritual went wrong. By the half-lost voices and bloodshot rheumy eyes.

The soldiers keep looking for something else, he knows that. It's one of the reasons why they always man those stalls themselves even though there's no shortage of civilian volunteers ready to lend a hand. Everyone expects the people of Steelspire to turn out wrong somehow.

Rumor has it that some already have.

He keeps his chin pressed to his chest while the soldier pretends not to inspect his hands. Finally, he's given a bowl and a spoon, and he steps aside with a muffled thanks, clutching the meal to his chest. There's barely enough heat to seep through the two measly layers of clothing he's wearing.

This is his first time getting food on his own, but his friend has taught him the rules, just in case. They're clear enough: you can go as far as the officers can see you, and once you're done eating or transfering the food into your own container to bring home, come back to return the dishes and get a sealed jug of water to bring with you. For some reason, they never want the jugs back and suggest destroying them once the water's through. They never explain why. They never explain anything, really.

For a few seconds, he watches the other people disperse around the dusty sidewalk, then goes to lean against the nearest tree. It used to be a chestnut, he thinks, thick-trunked and sprawling. This early in the fall, it should still be covered in leaves, ready to start spitting nuts in their spiky green shells. Now, it's a black husk that looks more like a vaguely tree-shaped sculpture made of coal. Adiar squats in its shadow and peers down into the clear broth. If it smells of anything, the ever-present scent of metal in the air crowds it all out. That scent hasn't gone away once since the ritual. Some days, Adiar thinks it's growing weaker; then he realizes it's just his nose adjusting.

The broth tastes like water that has maybe made contact with a tiny piece of boiled chicken once. Adiar puts the crackers into the bowl and pretends it is soup. He gobs it down as fast as he can without gagging, then straightens up. 

Two steps away from the tree, and someone punches his shoulder. Reflectively, he looks up.

The next thing he knows, the empty bowl clutters to the roots of the burned chestnut, and he's lying on the sidewalk with a buzzing in his ears and a boot on his throat. 

Adiar goes very still. Whatever voice he still had is all gone now. He struggles to breathe. He struggles not to breathe. The pressure on his trachea is too much as it is.

He doesn't want to die. Not after all he's already endured. Not when he hasn't yet found his friend.

But there are all those figures in uniforms towering around him, and the mouth of a rifle nudging his temple, and fuck, they all think he is Matto, don't they?

"Don't worry," a surprisingly cheerful voice says from his left. Adiar's eyes dart in the direction of the sound. There's an officer squatting in the dust next to him: blinding red uniform, piercing blue eyes. "I know who you are," he says.

"I'm..." There's not enough air. "I'm not..." Like anyone's going to believe him.

The officer smiles. "Oh, but you are. Either Matto Kreshti or his wayward twin brother—I happen to be searching for both. Now, I suggest you cooperate. The more I can get out of you, the less time you're going to spend with the Church's Sorcerers."

He just wanted to find his friend.