#those are far more rare than him being a watcher

[erigold13261]

I’m glad that Ilia is the one who’s the center of the universe/pos since if that role was taken on by someone like Mahito… uh oh. (I can also see many others simply not being able to handle the pressure)

Oh yea, absolutely.

At the end of the day, Ilia is a lazy and content person who is just so much happier being a wallflower and watching things go down rather than get involved.

Though there are absolutely times where he just self inserts himself into a world and plays around. Mainly it's him just trying to hang out with people he finds interesting, but sometimes it is to try and change the outcome of things (usually to make peace, but he's definitely had versions of himself that were trying to help the curses full force get their way).

Overall though, mainly any Ilia you look at is just an onlooker. If Mahito had this power, or most other people, it would be the opposite where more often than not they would be do-ers and almost never there to just watch (like Miles and Mahito are absolutely people who would never just sit and watch, but are both on the complete opposite sides of the morality scale).

Makes me think of Flowey from Undertale in a sense. Where Flowey tried helping everyone at first, then watching, then went to killing everyone until he was so numb that nothing really happened that was new to him (until Frisk and the Player came to the underground).

Ilia is just watching at the moment. With some versions helping humans and others helping curses. There will be a day/version where he is trying to just cause chaos (TADC Ilia is in this state a bit, but also more just following TADC Mahito's orders), but for now he is mainly just an onlooker.

[katyspersonal]

Abyss Watchers headcanons

> Them all having white hair and red eyes are the signs of a lot of exposure to the Abyss, like how Four Kings got white hair, people in contact with any darkness commonly show red eyes etc. + Artorias ended up with these features too, and black hair on his helmet was his own hair cut to decorate it, not unlike Ciaran's braid. This never caused the panic though, it is no more than like getting tan under too much sun exposure. The corruption carries different effects than just a bit of a recolor!

> Wolf blood gave them minor feral features, like fangs and tufts of grey fur in the spots where humans normally have the most hair. no tails though

> @val-of-the-north actually counted the corpses using colorful stones drops to not get lost! So, the amount of Abyss Watchers is only barely above 100! This is very little for a legion, but they were pretty strong at their prime so the number never shifted too far from this number

> The ~100 consisted of mostly the first of them and those who joined in early. They were mostly a pack of these people, very rarely losing members and very rarely gaining those who would grow into "true wolves". Even out of those who were accepted as Abyss Watchers rather than Farron Followers, most didn't fully assimilate. They remained visibly 'distinguished' ones, like Hawkwood who never grew to their common 10'00''+ height and so

> These rare new members were referred to as 'cubs'. The 'distinguished' people like Hawkwood were continued to be called so even after they fully trained, although it then had more affectionate connotation than referring to their lack of experience

> They offer people who have shown bravery and are deemed to have true warrior spirit within to come with them, however, it is quite hard to refuse them. It is very easy to get roped into madness by them by simply allowing them to surround the person and speak of the importance of combating the horrors, how Artorias tooooootally once succeeded etc. They do not even understand the nearly-hypnotic effect they possess, but it is explained by the gravity of the Abyss itself surrounding them due to their job. It horrifies, however humans naturally possess the darkness that finds kinship in it, the wish to fight it endlessly IS just one of the ways it entices and corrupts. Those who managed to avoid getting seduced recruited by them after confrontation do recall that something felt very wrong and otherwordly for a short time.

> 'Semi-hivemind' is the best way I can describe them tbh. There is usually a member who is unmistakeably singled out and seemingly 'leading the pack', and if this particular person was lost, the next strongest guy would get singled out instinctively.

> "True" Abyss Watchers hardly, if ever, need to verbally communicate with each other, instead understanding instinctively. When they do need to talk with anyone it is this 'pack leader' doing the talking, usually with some others accompanying him and performing actions if needed without any signals to do so. The 'leader', also, mostly speaks for them all as they share their thoughts and feelings ("Don't try to lie to us, we could always smell it in your blood", "We all remember your bravery", "We could almost feel you wagging your tail, if you had one" etc).

> And they can, in fact, sense more than average person due to the wolf blood! Blood pressure, heartrate, whether someone started sweating and so on. It is very useful when someone is trying to hide having gotten touched by the Abyss (reasonably so, because it is instant death). Or if someone pretends they totally didn't encourage less-infected people to evacuate the corrupted land before Abyss Watchers came to obliterate it.

> The best way to stay alive after being targeted for "mercy-killing" by them is to run into the Church of the Deep. Abyss Watchers are sceptical about 'purifying' ones with minor corruption, but they cannot cross into this territory without permission for several reasons. And so far those whom Deacons "treated" really seemed to be alright. Abyss Watchers didn't believe in efficiency of this method though and had a feeling that sacred body of water could not fit in everyone's even natural darkness, let alone Abyssal one. They absolutely loathe and pity the place though, but all they really could do was to wait to obliterate it when it'd inevitably drown in filth. (the big "told you so" day that never became their to claim lol)

> Anyone who feels attracted to them is under no pressure to kiss and cuddle all of them they're welcomed to try though if they dare lol . They share their feelings, so getting close even with one makes others happy by effect. Though if such things occur, usually it is the 'pack's leader' who claims this experience, let alone the fact he is the only one who will actually talk. But even then, at least several others will linger around

> If one of the "true" Abyss Watchers, the 'identical' ones, gets somehow separated from the rest for significant time, they might slowly reclaim sense of identity and even remember their name. Addiction to fighting the Abyss can't be helped though, so they will yearn to forget the brief moments of peace and rejoin the group

[lilacartsmadsion]

Dark Choco Cookie observed the dawn from one of the castle's balconies, the day looking oddly free of snowstorms, as the Dark Cacao Kingdom was a sugar snow filled land

But what called his attention was not actually the dawn itself, but rather the cookie observing the dawn before him

"Father?"

"Hmm? Dark Choco, what are you doing up at this hour? I supposed you'll still be asleep"

"I would say the same to you father, I understand that you're ussually awake and about early, but I didn't knew it would be this early"

"You're right to say I don't ussually stay up at this hour, but I am sure you are awake due to the same reason as I"

"You mean, that feeling? It's feels... ominous... as if something is comming, but I can't tell if it is a bad omen"

"Me neither, that's the reason I decided to go out and observe earlier-"

A sound cut off both cookies chat, it sounded... like fire, like the sound of a wildfire like those that were rarely seen in the kingdom in extreme circumstances, but where more comming in other kingdoms, it was loud, and it felt like hitting both cookies present as well as every other cookie up at that time-

Dark Choco's eyes widened as he looked at the dawn behind his father

"Father! Look!"

Dark Cacao turned around to what could only be described as something massive, a fireball as bright as the dawning sun, approaching at a high speed and the origin of the firey sound

Both cookies could only stare, frozen in place as the bright object grew smaller but not dimmer, flying over their head and landing with a thunderous roar not far from the main gates of the kingdom, scaring a few of the watcher's that were nearby

The father and son duo looked at eachother, their heartbeats ringing on their ears as they took off running

It felt like hours, despite being just minutes, before they arrived at full speed to the landing of the foreign object

As the protector of the kingdom and as the prince, they were the first to approach, ready to assess and dispatch any posible threats

But as they walked carefully and approached the charred place where the object landed, they lost their breath

A child, with burns in a few places of his body and clear dough, was right in the place were the object was supposed to be

And he was breathing

Dark Cacao and his son ran over to the unconscious child, Dark Cacao taking the small child, who looked not older than 10, into his arms and running back to the kingdom, Dark Choco yelling for the medics to make act of presence asap and tend to the child

Questions can wait, they had a child to care for

Oooh niiice!!! ^^

I liked the way Gingerbrave comes in a ball of fire. It’s neat! ^^

[life-winners-liveblog]

Have some random idiot’s interpretation of life series lore:

Mortals were never ment to roam the voids, yet for some reason they still do.

Few of those who dare enough will we rewarded to. By one of four with extra sense of which to use.

Some watch the voids and the kaleidoscopes with in, the bright stars sparkle yet few shall ever see this. These few robed in purple are very down to earth they fly and watch as mortals play yet still they sit and stay.

Some dare to listen to what’s not heard and find they hear the whispers of wind. Bathed in yellow fire light these people fight the first, helping mortals as they can but some are quite adverse.

Some rare few represented by blue will speak and the voids speak back to them. Their words carry through the air and soon comeback to them.

Finally there are stars of green who feel all that is around them, every tremor and emotion they feel it all outside and within. The vibrations carry through the water and they feel it with a grin.

As for the mortals who they choose they’re really quite diverse. 

First there was a bird like man whom the watchers did approve, so he left his home but felt alone and soon he fled their eyes. Second there was a human who enlisted the listeners help, to free his home from tyranny so he was offered a place in their ranks. Third there was an elf who journeyed far from home the observers hated him so he took refuge in the speakers trickery. Fourth there was a fae who got lost in space and fell into the arms of a wondering feeler, this feel granted her life but turned her into  one too.

Still to this day the most people know is that they tends to share some traits. The watchers seem to be like birds with a connection to the earth, meanwhile however the listeners are compared to bats and the crackling of flames. In the darkest voids the speakers talk and whisper through the air, and in the brightest seas the feelers are mistook for fae.

For now that’s all I have to say on the beings that roam the voids. But take heed for despite your beliefs they have more power than you know.

———/—-

Did I go through the effort of writing free verse poetry? Yes, Yes I did.

That must have been a lot of effort

Wow

[pocket-luv101]

Red Wine

Fandom: Genshin Impact Ship: CynoNari

Summary: Tighnari doesn’t understand why Cyno never defends himself when scholars attack him for merely being the General Mahamatra. When he overhears someone insulting Cyno, he can’t contain his anger anymore.

“Those arrogant scholars boast that they’re rational and infallible merely because they couldn’t dream. If that’s true, tell me why they’re always the ones I have to save from feral leopards. They approach dangerous animals as if they’re in a fairy tale and they’re able to befriend them. That’s very illogical to me.” Tighnari complained and drowned his cup of wine. “I don’t know how you’re able to deal with them every day. They must be a headache for you too.”

“I’m the General Mahamatra and it’s my job.” Cyno shrugged. He didn’t add that his work had been more taxing after they rescued the Dendro Archon. Ranting about his job would be a burden to Tighnari when he was already busy with his own work with the Forest Watchers and reforming the sages. To be able to share a drink with him at the end of the day was enough for Cyno. They sat at the bar on the second floor of Lambad’s Tavern.

“You always say that, Cyno. You don’t need to act as the General Mahamatra when it’s just us. Even people who love their work will complain when it becomes stressful. It’s why I invited you out for drinks.” Tighnari flicked his fingers against the cup and the glass rang softly. He felt a little tipsy and his body naturally leaned towards Cyno. He grinned at him and whispered: “I promise I won’t report you to the Matra for any rude comments you make about the Akademiya.”

Cyno chuckled and a subtle smile softened his face. The sight made a flame flicker in Tighnari’s heart. He loved Cyno’s smile but then he thought of how he rarely showed it to others. Tighnari wished that people would be less guarded against Cyno. If they could see Cyno’s virtues and trust him, his work as the General Mahamatra would be easier.

While Tighnari was a student, he would overhear people complain about the Matra and the General Mahamatra. He never understood why. Cyno only acted in the best interest of scholars and protected them from their own folly. Those feelings only grew after he met Cyno and they became friends. He learned how much he cared and that he wasn’t the type to blindly follow the sages. Tighnari fell in love with the man behind the title of General Mahamatra.

“The Yae Publishing House sent me a copy of the latest Genius Invokation novel. They used you as a model for the cover.” Tighnari glanced at Cyno in the corner of his eyes. He was attractive and easily embodied a regal hero. “It must be exciting to be a part of your favourite game. Though, I’m surprised you like the novel when it deviates from the rules and some of the ways he wins are absurd.”

“That’s what makes it interesting. It’s difficult for me to explain. I don’t think anyone should rely on luck or miracles but I believe they can happen. They don’t occur in real life as often as they do in the novel.” Cyno saw how corrupt the world could be—even outside of the Akademiya. His life could never be like a novel but he cherished the peaceful nights he could share with Tighnari.

“It was luck that you were assigned to my case instead of another Matra. Because of that, we were able to meet. This is to luck.” Tighnari lifted his glass and taped it against Cyno’s. “Fukumoto wrote me a letter and requested I be a model for one of his characters. He didn’t tell me the details. Which one do you think I will be?”

They began to discuss the novel and drank wine. Since both of them had the day off tomorrow, they allowed themselves to indulge more than usual. The warmth rising within Tighnari wasn’t from the alcohol or the atmosphere of the tavern. Cyno’s voice had an allure that was far more intoxicating than the wine. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell Cyno that without risking their friendship.

Tighnari was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard plates clatter against wood. He turned towards the noise and saw a group of students sitting in the corner of the room. From their uniform, they were from the Amurta Darshan. Life in the Akademiya could be overwhelming and students would go to Port Ormos or local pubs to escape the pressure.

Then, one of the students slammed his hand on the table. “The Matra confiscated my modified ruin guard and now I won’t be able to complete my graduation thesis in time. I’ll have to repeat the course. Why would the Akademiya give the Matra so much power over researchers when they only know how to shred paper? I bet they haven’t written a single paper before.”

Tighnari’s frown deepened with each word they said and he started to stand. He didn’t expect Cyno to wrap his arm around his waist and pull him back onto his stool. The alcohol made it difficult for Tighnari to regain his balance immediately and he leaned against Cyno. He pushed his bangs out of his eyes before he looked up at him. “Why are you stopping me?”

“Because I don’t want to arrest you for starting a fight with them, Nari. I don’t care what people say about me.” Cyno held him closer when Tighnari glared back at the group. He admired Tighnari’s outspoken personality and his conviction but he didn’t want him to get in trouble for his sake. “You’re drunk. I’ll walk you back to Avidya Forest.”

“I only had two drinks. I’m not a lightweight like Kaveh.” He pouted. A part of him knew that Cyno was right and arguing with the students could escalate. That did nothing to quell the anger boiling in Tighnari though. His hand tightened around his cup until Cyno placed a hand on his shoulder. Cyno ignored the insults scholars threw at him and the Matra for the sake of his work. He had to admit he felt happy that Tighnari would defend him.

He stood and held out his hand to Tighnari. “Let’s head back home before Collei starts to worry.”

“The General Mahamatra is a dumb humanoid fungi.”

Tighnari slammed down his cup and the force shook the plates on the bar. Everyone in the bar turned towards them but Tighnari didn’t shrink away from the confused stares. When Cyno tried to stop him again, he shook off his hand. He marched to the table of students and crossed his arms.

“You have no right to be wearing an Amurta uniform when you clearly have no grasp on the fundamentals in both biology and the Akademiya. The General Mahamatra graduated with better grades than most scholars I know. He has a better understanding in botany than you because he would never use such an insult. Fungi are very intelligent creatures—unlike you. If they’re so smart, you would’ve been able to write a thesis that doesn’t require the General Mahamatra’s corrections.”

Tension filled the air as Tighnari continued to lecture the students. Cyno noticed one reach for a cup and quickly placed himself in front of Tighnari. Even if it was from a simple splash, Cyno instinctively moved to protect him. The students stiffened when they saw the General Mahamatra. He could read the fear in their expression.

“Have you heard of the tavern on the moon? It had good wine but no atmosphere. The moon is out and responsible students shouldn’t be drinking this late. Use this time to write a better thesis paper.” Cyno told a joke to diffuse the situation. Then, he wrapped his arm around Tighnari’s waist and led him towards the stairs. He was grateful that Tighnari followed him without arguing with the students further.

“This is why arrogant scholars irritate me. They act like they know everything and make judgement on people and things they don’t know.” Tighnari grumbled. Cyno took him to a bench outside of the Akademiya where they could be alone. He was more drunk than he thought and the cool air felt refreshing against his flushed skin. He closed his eyes and rested his head on Cyno’s strong shoulder.

His ear brushed against Cyno’s cheek as he tilted his head to look down at him. He studied his face and the moonlight highlighted his soft features. He stopped himself from threading his fingers through his black hair. Cyno told himself that Tighnari was leaning on him more than usual because of the wine. Then, Tighnari opened his eyes and their gaze met. They were close enough for him to count the different shades of green and brown in his eyes.

“I hate when they say those things about you.” Tighnari’s words were slightly slurred. However, his eyes never left Cyno’s. Between the alcohol and how he was on the edge of sleep, his words became more honest. “It’s strange. I want people to see how strong, loyal and moral you are. There’s no one I trust more than you, Cyno. On the other hand, I get jealous at the thought of someone trying to win your heart. Who wouldn’t want to be with someone like you?”

“I won’t leave you.” Cyno whispered into his hair. Then, he added as a joke: “Considering my reputation, I doubt someone will fall in love with me.”

“It could happen. I love you.”

[enigmatist17]

The world came back in bits, flashes of color breaking through the white haze that had overwhelmed his senses when the bloody chip in his head fired off. He can't really remember what set it off in the first place, but can feel pain blossoming from several points all over his body, so it was clear he'd been attacked.

Oh, wait.

A bar, some men harassing a woman, and Spike stepping in with good intentions. He'd failed to notice two other men until they'd attacked, the chip preventing the vampire from fighting back or defending himself as he was beaten into submission. At least the bint who'd caused it all got away, so there was at least one mark in the white hat column for him.

The alley he had been in felt kind of soft under his shattered bones, and it took a long minute for the vampire to realize he was inside somewhere and on a bed. Oh, Spike doesn't remember getting up and going somewhere, but he'll take what little he can get these days, and gladly surrenders to oblivion.

He wakes once again to find himself feeding, the blood soothing the hunger he'd had constantly ever since the Initiative had used him for a sodding lab rat. While it's not the blood of a sire, something Spike hadn't tasted in several lifetimes, whoever was taking the time to feed Spike was clearly part of the Aurelian line and a fair bit older than himself. He lets out a soft snarl when he's pulled away from the source of the blood, annoyed when he can hear a chuckle somewhere to his left.

"You'll have more soon, don't worry."

What the?

Spike doesn't have the energy to open his eyes or speak, drifting back into sleep to the feeling of bone and tissue knitting back together. The next time he wakes, he's able to open his eyes and sit up, but he growls at the memory of being bested by bloody humans as he looks around the room he is in, sitting up slowly as he tests his limbs.

"Finally, he wakes."

"Penn?" The elder gave a short nod from his seat across the room, closing the book he'd been reading and setting it on the table beside him. "'Eard you were dead."

"Nearly died, survived." Penn shrugged, getting to his feet with a slight wobble. "Luckily for you, I am not, Angelus could not come."

"The poof wanted to come 'ere?" Spike was pleased to find his legs moved without pain, slinging them over the edge of the bed to face Penn proper.

"Yes, we found some...information on this Initiative group that is operating in town, but one of his pe-humans had a vision." The elder looked annoyed for a moment but shrugged it off. "Color me shocked to find you a bloody pulp in some alley, you don't seem the type to fall to humans." Spike cursed internally as he and Penn held each other's gaze, the other more curious than eager to find some sort of weakness Spike may or may not have.

"You'll want the Watcher, Slayer is never far from 'im." Spike finally scoffed, able to stand with minimum pain, Penn rising with him.

"Not coming with?" Those eyes narrowed as Spike growled.

"No, I'm not. He's not far from here, 'ave fun Penn." With that he swept out of the rather nice hotel room and into the night, heading for his crypt for some decent rest away from the prying eyes of family. He thanks his past self for ensuring proper sleeping quarters below the crypt he'd chosen, too exhausted to even kick off his shoes and he sinks onto his bed and back into sleep. It spared him from thinking about how humiliating it had been for Penn, of all people, to find him, and he knew that the Slayer and the others would most likely let slip his "condition" out of pure spite, leading to even more mockery. Maybe he'll just dust in his sleep; the Slayer of Slayers is gone as a footnote in demon history because of some bloody scientists.

Man his unlife just sucked, why the hells had he come back to Sunnydale?!

It's a pleasant surprise when he slowly starts to awaken to someone running a gentle hand through his hair, and Spike wonders if he's dreaming. Dru had been gentle in her rare lucid moments, whispering his poetry with a tender voice as she would hold him, both soaking up these peaceful moments before Miss Edith would inevitably return. Perhaps his brain was giving him a small mercy, so Spike decided to play along, chest rumbling with a purr as the hand continued its gentle pace.

Should we wake him?

No, he'll be asleep again soon, he's still weakened.

I still wish to hunt them sire, the ones who hurt him.

I know, but right now, my childer needs us.

Will we take him with us to L.A.?

If he wishes.

Spike isn't surprised to find the hand touching him is real, but is familiar with hiding his surprise to find that Angel is the one to touch him. He was sure Angel would have killed him; the hot pokers and torture were more than justification enough for his death, right? Instead, he's just...touching him, and speaking with Penn, who almost sounded like he gave a shite about Spike's health. Spike isn't sure what to make of this, so he just focuses on the gentle touch, lying to himself that it was just like old times until his brain decides to fall back asleep.

He can worry about everything later.

[here-comes-the-snow]

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL THE DISTORTION.

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

I know what this is from!!!

[blackrocks-greatest]

STATEMENT OF MICHEAL THE DISTORTION.

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

// ooc- whar....

[bunbeeplays]

The Lemon Legacy: Generation 1, Chapter 34 - A Wedding With Pizzazz, Part 2

Miko: We’re not supposed to see each other until we walk down the aisle!

Penny: When have I ever cared about tradition? You’re more important to me than some lame superstition. You look absolutely stunning.

Miko: I mean, you do too, of course.

Miko: You’re wearing white. Why?

Penny: I know for a fact you’re not a virgin either, hon.

Miko: No no, I just mean… you hate wearing white.

Penny: Did you expect me to wear a dress made of peacock feathers on our wedding day? … Actually, don’t answer that.

Penny: I know I dress a little wild on the daily, but today is about celebrating us, Mimi. I wanted to match my beautiful wife.

Miko: Oh, sweetie.

Penny: We’re a team. A united front. We both get to shine today, and for the rest of our lives.

Penny: I don’t ever want to hear you doubt how much I love you ever again, do you understand me?

Miko: I-I…

Penny: I have lived a blessed, amazing, fabulous life, and the best damn thing that ever happened in it was meeting you. You’re the most kind, selfless, and positive person I have ever met. You’ve celebrated my highs and picked me up during my lows. You were there for me when all my fake ass Simstagram friends never were. If I kept listing what I see in you we’ll miss the whole damn wedding.

Penny: I love you, Miko. And you know when I love something, I love it to the max. I’m the one who asked you to marry me, y’know. You’re never getting rid of me. Deal with it.

Miko: I love you too, baby.

Miko: Oh Watcher, I feel like a mess

Penny: A beautiful mess.

Miko: I’ll go see if the makeup artist can help me freshen up.

Penny: I'll be right behind you in a second, Mimi.

Ophelia: How much did you hear?

Penny: Enough. Thank you for being there for Miko. She struggles with her self-esteem a lot, and that PlumBright piece didn't help. Despite everything that’s happened, it’s nice to know there are still decent Sims out there. Needless to say, the band will be getting a big tip tonight.

Ophelia: I didn’t come find Miko or say that stuff because I was worried I wouldn't get paid or tipped.

Penny: I know. That’s why you’re getting it.

Penny: Let’s keep in touch. You have my personal number, but I'll send you my business contact info later. I like you, and that’s a rare thing to actually mean in my line of work. I don’t have a ton of music connections but you’ll be the first person I call when someone asks.

Ophelia: That's so sweet, thank you!

Penny: You got dragged because of me, I owe you something.

Ophelia: Hey, friends stick by each other through thick and thin. And like the article said, I'm your talentless friend!

Penny: What more could a tacky, self-obsessed girl ask for?

It's not so lovey-dovey up in the Laurents' office.

Tiff: You can’t blame me for Ty’s work!

Hilary: There’s no way he would have known most of that without you telling him.

Tiff: Anyone could tell that those women are total disasters!

Hilary: Enough! Your disrespect has been tolerated for far too long, but you will not disrespect my clients and their privacy. Penny and Miko no longer feel comfortable having you participate in the wedding, and I don’t feel comfortable having you as an employee. You’re fired.

Tiff: You can’t be serious!

Hilary: You have been given several chances to curb your attitude. You failed every single time. Security will escort you off site.

Tiff: Forget it. I’m out of here. You’ll regret this, Hilary.

Hilary: Goodbye, Tiffany.

As Ophelia walks back inside to ready herself before her performance at the reception, she's unfortunate enough to run into Tiff, who can't even be escorted away by security with any humility.

Tiff: I hope you’re happy. You and your friends may have won the battle, but this war is far from over.

Ophelia: This wasn’t a battle. You’ve been the only one fighting and you fought so hard you gave yourself a black eye!

Tiff: You’ll see! YOU'LL ALL SEE!

Hilary: I apologize for my former employee’s behavior. I hate to ask this of you, but would you be willing to fill in on the violin? Anaya will cover Tiff’s portion, you would just accompany with Alice.

Ophelia: I know the song. I’ve got this.

The violin trio starts the processional song, along with Moses on the piano. It's go-time.

Penny: Last chance to bail.

Miko: And give up having the last name Pizzazz? You're dreaming, sweetie.

Penny: That's my girl.

It's now or never. Let's do this!

You may now kiss the bride!

Penny and Miko Pizzazz walk back up the aisle, feeling more in love than ever before. The hate, the panic, the chaos of the past 24 hours didn't matter.

This feeling is what they'll remember in their elder years.

[simslegacy5083]

NSB (Straud Legacy) Gen 8 Ep. 180: A Bittersweet Birthday

With boxed up cake in tow, the family arrived at the party venue in Newcrest and found their guests already playing inside.

The adults joined a cooperative alien invader defense game while Luigi was excited to battle his cousin with the newest voidcritter he’d been training.

The dads made sure to come over near the end of the match, and under Jack’s expectant gaze Luigi overcame his frustration at the narrow defeat enough to unclench his angry fists and congratulate Hunter on a battle well fought. For such mature sportsmanship a proud Peachy delivered a thank you kiss to both Papa Jack and the birthday boy before the jokesmith headed over to the bar where he had a microphone waiting for him.

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

Luigi was still far from his dad’s biggest fan when it came to his comedy, but when Peachy had promised to produce a “super fun, video game themed” skit especially for the event Luigi had eventually agreed to let him perform at the party.

The comedian had researched and worked hard to craft good jokes about his son’s favorite hobby, given that he’d rarely done much gaming himself, and in the end the kids seemed to enjoy it. Even Luigi cracked a smile, which made his dad feel more like a superstar than any paying gig ever could.

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

When the show was over it was finally time for the main birthday event.

Peachy and Jack’s cake took pride of place and the assembled family and friends cheered as Luigi blew out his candles and spun his way into teendom.

The young sim suddenly shot up in height and, although he hadn’t ditched his eczema flareup, showed every sign of his Papa’s good looks.

Luigi was quickly almost bowled over as Papa Jack delivered a big bear hug for his newly big boy. He and Peachy smiled indulgently as Jack babbled happily about the amazing things Luigi’s future held in store, everyone doing their best not to think about Jack soon not being there to see them.

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

When he was finally released Luigi made a beeline for the bar, which had been taken over by Great Grandpa Don after the bartenders’ shift ended.

He’d learned a lot about fizzy and sweet drinks in the abstract from his relatives in Henford and Chestnut Ridge. The science of brewing drinks sounded like too much work, but Grandpa Don made the practice of pouring those drinks seem glamorous and fun. Now that he was old enough, the expert mixologist was happy to show his great grandson everything about the craft, starting with how to craft Papa Jack’s favorite drink.

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

Luigi further indulged his Papa that evening at bedtime. He was “clearly” much too old to need tucked in, but when Jack asked to see him off to bed that night, he didn’t even consider saying no to the old ritual that had often helped soothe him to sleep as a child.

As Jack smiled down at his little boy, suddenly looking so big in his tiny single bed, he silently asked the Watcher to go easy on him and help him find success but, even more importantly, happiness. There was no response, but he’d never gotten one before, either.

Finally, Jack walked the short distance across the hall to his own room and drifted off to sleep one final time in his best friends’ arms.

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

Want To See More? View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[royalblades-cosmicfates]

Your Muse's greeting methods; insp.

[[context-in general

Hostile: While not confrontational, he is not going to stand idle by if push comes to shove. If someone is outright hostile towards him he may try to get away from the one in question, if not able to get away he isn't hesitant to throw a good punch at their more vulnerable areas, including item(s) being thrown if a viable first option. Most of the time he's searching for a way out and to blend into whatever is around him, escape is preferable.

Neutral: He's pretty friendly and tends to try and get on the best terms with whoever he is greeting or meeting with. He is pleased to be meeting with anyone who returns this as well. Still aware of his surroundings and what the other is doing, without being obvious about it. {{Very rarely is he going to be obvious}} He's respectful of the other's personal space and tone of voice, he either goes on with his day or ends up sticking around.

Friendly: He's more open to speaking on slightly closer terms, his guard is down a bit more, and his trust is increased. He is more open to hugging from the other party (He hardly will do so unless they are very close)) Close friends he usually is more touchy with but still respectful of their space or preferences. Friends matter to him and he usually tends to let them know that.

Romanced: His guard is almost non-existent at this point and he tends to be more showy with his feelings and actions, depending on where they are of course. In public he tends to lean on them or hold an arm. He usually does small gestures towards them; baking some small items, finding items they are interested in, or taking them to secret areas he knows of.

Hostile: Being outright hostile towards the blade's leader can get you an onslaught of bad luck, word travels fast and so do the shadows of undercover blades among the populous or ranks. Though actions are far more apparent for their leader. Neutralizing the threat is preferable due to the threat of being exposed. However, there is usually just a dot on the one's head for this and an eye on them. There is no going back if hostile action is acted against him.

[[[NOTE: Civilians or those who were oppressed by the gala he tends to be standoffish towards or attempts to deescalate the situation. usually by removing himself from the area.

Neutral: More professional and non-personal. He tends to keep his guard up and is very blunt with what he has to say, rarely will he open up about anything beyond the work being done or messages to relay. Once the conversation is over, it's over. usually, he treats everyone by rank, especially if higher than his own. Though he is a bit offstandish towards civilians. ((Especially if they have bad view of the Galra))

Friendly: He tends to be a bit more personal, but only with the closer members. He addresses one by name rather than title ((PRivate or with others that know of them)) and he tends to refer them to nicknames that they prefer or are generally used. on the conversation level, he will bend out of that realm and ask about some safer lower-level items of a person's wellness or daily on goings.

Romanced: More personal and a bit touchy with them, such as placing a hand on their arm shoulder or back, standing closer to them, speaking more to them, and frequently visiting them. He is more relaxed and very conversational with them. He tended to be a bit more smiley and loud, even letting himself lean against them and shut his eyes. He may even wear a little piece of item or tag from them on his uniform.

Tagged by: @belost-the-watcher tagging: @cyberghost-scout @haus-der-mysterionmusen @starlight-empire-child @bots-basket

[bonkedbees]

Why is your only post michael

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have alwaysbeen? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.

Poor Michael. He had been on trips for the Institute before. Conferences, investigations, Gertrude had made sure that all her assistants were ready. That none of them would be suspicious if they were told they were going abroad for work. So there was no doubt in his mind, no concern, when she told him that they were travelling to Russia. Perhaps if he’d have stopped to look up their destination, he might have discovered there was no such place as Zemlya Sannikova, but he did not. He trusted her.

Even when they arrived in Dikson, at the edge of the Kara Sea, and they were picked up by a quiet sea captain called Peter Lukas… Even then he trusted her. They travelled north, through cold far more bitter than any Michael had even conceived possible. And do you know what he worried about? [Giggles] He… worried about Gertrude Robinson. About how this poor old woman might cope with the chill. But now she was like iron, and walked with a purpose that Michael had never before seen in her. The water turned to ice as the Arctic approached, and Gertrude’s eyes turned cold.

Then, at last, he began to be afraid. He asked her where they were going and was told again: Zemlya Sannikova. Sannikov Land. There was a great evil, she said, and Michael was going to help her fight it. Am I evil, Archivist? Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature? When it embodies its nature? When that nature is created by those which revile it? Perhaps Gertrude believed so. Michael certainly did. He believed everything she told him.

And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.

But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.

Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

[parasitic-dreams-au]

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL THE DISTORTION

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

*confused briefcase noises*

[snake-eyed-truth]

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL THE DISTORTION

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.Poor Michael. He had been on trips for the Institute before. Conferences, investigations, Gertrude had made sure that all her assistants were ready. That none of them would be suspicious if they were told they were going abroad for work. So there was no doubt in his mind, no concern, when she told him that they were travelling to Russia. Perhaps if he’d have stopped to look up their destination, he might have discovered there was no such place as Zemlya Sannikova, but he did not. He trusted her.

Even when they arrived in Dikson, at the edge of the Kara Sea, and they were picked up by a quiet sea captain called Peter Lukas… Even then he trusted her. They travelled north, through cold far more bitter than any Michael had even conceived possible. And do you know what he worried about? [Giggles] He… worried about Gertrude Robinson. About how this poor old woman might cope with the chill. But now she was like iron, and walked with a purpose that Michael had never before seen in her. The water turned to ice as the Arctic approached, and Gertrude’s eyes turned cold.

Then, at last, he began to be afraid. He asked her where they were going and was told again: Zemlya Sannikova. Sannikov Land. There was a great evil, she said, and Michael was going to help her fight it. Am I evil, Archivist? Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature? When it embodies its nature? When that nature is created by those which revile it? Perhaps Gertrude believed so. Michael certainly did. He believed everything she told him.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

is this the magnus archives??? Idk, I haven't dove too deep into that yet.

Ooc // @therealsubspace Y O U-

[ask-order-flipside]

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL THE DISTORTION.

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me.Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

??????????

[crossroadsnumber1doctor]

STATEMENT OF MICHAEL THE DISTORTION. CONDENSED TO FIT

How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of. He was born. He was pointless. And he should have died. But before that could happen, he went to work for the Magnus Institute – that ivory tower, keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge. [Giggles] A dungeon full of idiot watchers. And Michael Shelley was no exception.

When he was in school, he lost a friend to something like me. His friend was named Ryan, but those in power simply called him schizophrenic. I don’t know if he was, but it doesn’t matter. He was so dreadfully afraid his world wasn’t real that to make it so was almost nothing. Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist.

Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.Poor Michael. He had been on trips for the Institute before. Conferences, investigations, Gertrude had made sure that all her assistants were ready. That none of them would be suspicious if they were told they were going abroad for work. So there was no doubt in his mind, no concern, when she told him that they were travelling to Russia. Perhaps if he’d have stopped to look up their destination, he might have discovered there was no such place as Zemlya Sannikova, but he did not. He trusted her.

Even when they arrived in Dikson, at the edge of the Kara Sea, and they were picked up by a quiet sea captain called Peter Lukas… Even then he trusted her. They travelled north, through cold far more bitter than any Michael had even conceived possible. And do you know what he worried about? [Giggles] He… worried about Gertrude Robinson. About how this poor old woman might cope with the chill. But now she was like iron, and walked with a purpose that Michael had never before seen in her. The water turned to ice as the Arctic approached, and Gertrude’s eyes turned cold.

Then, at last, he began to be afraid. He asked her where they were going and was told again: Zemlya Sannikova. Sannikov Land. There was a great evil, she said, and Michael was going to help her fight it. Am I evil, Archivist? Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature? When it embodies its nature? When that nature is created by those which revile it? Perhaps Gertrude believed so. Michael certainly did. He believed everything she told him.And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me. I use the word ‘apotheosis’ not because it is correct, but because I can only show you its truth when we are within the passages themselves.

And this is what Michael and Gertrude found when they set foot on Sannikov Land, which does not exist and never has. It was warm, and feeling its reassurance beneath his feet was the last time poor, doomed Michael knew comfort. They walked through the green jungle of that forever-elusive polar island, and up the gentle mountains that can never have a name. And at the top, they found us through our spiralling laughter. And they saw us in all of our glory.

Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. The mind does not shatter, Archivist. It is soft and malleable. It bends and twists and returns to what it was, though what you see and feel may leave their mark upon it. If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real.But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open. Because Gertrude had told Michael how he could stop us. She told him to walk through a door. And even then, with so much of his mind shut down in panic and terror, he trusted her. And he went inside, closing the door behind him.

But Gertrude Robinson had given poor, disposable Michael one more thing before sending him to me. She had given him a map. I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map. A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me. Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again. And somehow, Gertrude Robinson was back on that boat before Sannikov Land once again never existed.

And all that was left was me. Michael. [Giggles] My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.

He seems.. Really confused.