#tournaments are fun to write

[bluerosefox]

Our Well Deserved Break

Its

Shenanigans (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Time again!~

-x-x-

Danny, our boy the Ghost King, looking over a small team going over relic's given or 'offered' to Pariah Dark over the years both before and after he was sealed away. As they're taking inventory of the chaotic offering room, they stumble across a certain artifact.

This artifact is able to summon a set number of people (it does have its limits) of the users wishes to them and it sets up a barrier around the surrounding place so no one summoned gets out. You know, those kinds of artifact's certain people use to summon heroes and or villains into a room and have them fight to see whose the strongest or for a tournament, Yeah that kind of artifact!

Danny, who found the item, takes a look at after being told what it does. Then out of the corner of his eye he spots himself in a mirror in the room and see's his crown floating above his head and feels the full weight of his responsibility since before and after his crowning. Yes he had help with his advisor, despite how cryptid he can be at times, and of his council but still the weight was a bit too much for a teenager like him.

An idea struck his mind when he hears the ticking of a clock behind him. Without saying a word Danny looks back and raises an eyebrow at Clockwork whose staring at him in silence as well. He glances at the item, tilts his head a bit before...

Smiles in only the way CW knows would both be good for Danny and amusing for him. He nods and says "One weekend should be fine. All timelines will be paused for them. I suggest telling your friends to help prepare for your guests. Enjoy and have fun my King."

"YES!" Danny's voice echoing in the offering room made many ghosts in the room jump for a bit.

This was totally going to be fun!

-x-x-

When the following weekend arrived, young and very stressed teen heroes from across the multiverse are suddenly pulled from their worlds and are summoned into the Infinite Realms. Before any of them can panic or start fights a voice rang out above them and when they looked they could see a young teen, with a crown floating above his head, white hair, and glowing green eyes sitting on a throne.

He smiled and said

"Welcome fellow stressed out Heroes and Heroines to Phantom's Keep! I'm King Phantom, recently crowned fifteen year old, and this is the Infinite Realms! The birth and ending of the multiverse afterlife! Now don't worry none of you are dead or anything like that. I summoned you all here for one reason and one reason only..."

Here Danny paused, just to troll a tiny bit, and could see some of the more tense heroes readying up for a fight or at least argue to let them go. He grinned though and then said.

"And thats.... TO HAVE FUN!"

After that he floated out of his throne and with a flourish in the air he waved his hands and his throne room changed with party decor all around. Tables off to the side appeared with food and drinks from well everywhere and anywhere the multiverse, balloons rose from the ground and floated upwards, streamers flew across above to attach themselves to the other sides, the castle lights shifted to a dim and music began playing from somewhere.

Danny grinned brightly down at them and their shocked faces. oh that's funny, thank goodness Tucker is recording this and Jazz is gonna scrapbook this party for him (she plans on making them for all the guests as a party gift later, you know to remember how fun the party was)

"Now all of you are stressed out teen heroes with a lot of responsibilities on their shoulders! Believe me, I know that feeling, been there done that still doing it even now! But! My advisor says this will be both fun for me and good for you guys to spend one whole weekend here to de-stress and have fun! I do have some ground rules though. One your timelines are in fact PAUSED, you don't have to worry about calling your parents or if you got mentors to let them know where you are at. Two you are all heroes here, many of you are from different worlds and if you are from the same world they already know or CAN be trusted with your real identities but you are NOT required to remove any masks or de-transform or anything like that, if you wish there are masks on that green table over there you can stick on if you want to keep your identities hidden and are spelled to stay on and fuzz the minds of anyone trying to remember your looks once its on, even if they catch a good look at you right now it'll fuzz their memories of you once the mask is on and even after the party don't worry we thought of the time. Three, boys and girls rooms will be at different wings within the Keep! Just ask any of the maid or butler ghosts that will be joining us shortly and they will guide you to the rooms! Fourthly! There are sparing rooms if you wanna test your strengths with others, I only ask please don't get too carried away. We are here to have fun not make enemies! and lastly PLEASE DO NOT try to leave the castle, we are in the very afterlife of the multiverse people, its like the ocean and even I find it hard to navigate it sometimes. Portals can open up to any and all worlds, different timelines, etc etc. I have key items here in the castle that can pinpoint YOUR timeline and world so when the party is over I can send you home no problem, so again please do not attempt to leave."

Danny paused to take a breath, okay ground rules set up and warnings given. He could see the absolute bewildered looks on all the heroes faces and held back a laugh. He smiled however when one of the teens, mask on his face already and dressed in green, yellow, and red asked 'Why?'

"Why? Well... I think its time us teens get to have some fun without worrying about the next big bad or world ending event. Even if just for a weekend, we do deserve a break. So... Lets have some fun for once!" Danny responded.

[xmagicalpotatox]

genuinely unable to choose which one I’m gonna be SICK!! /silly

Noir @desultory-novice

Rope MF @mint-termsandconditions

The Poll

@kirbyoctournament

Timelapse Under Read More (FLASHING LIGHTS!)

(Song: Virtual Insanity by Jamiroquai)

… (if it plays)

[desultory-novice]

"Hypothermia" Characters: Noir Words: 100 Genre: Angst

-

Hypothermia was a killer.

Just not always in the way you might suspect. Shiver Star's most notorious murderer battered the body and brutalized the limbs, but often, the most lethal poison was injected into the heart. Even if you found a victim in time and got them to the rare helpful medical facility, they could still suffer a heart attack in the reheating process.

Noir was not that victim.

Yet the thrashing, howling beast of his caged heart felt moments from succumbing to watch, helpless, as his little sister, pale and still on the hospital bed, faced that horrendous trial.

--

--

AN: Something I wrote when I was experimenting with different forms of creative output while my arm was still healing. Based on a scene in the "A Cold Hell" plot-line. Adeleine lives, but the circumstances around this nightmare are one of the things that made Noir into the overprotective guardian we know him as.

(Omigosh, I forgot this was sitting in my drafts?! It's like a month old now ^^;;)

[deadpanwalking]

That writing advice makes me wanna kms 💀

I don't know what to tell you, man. None of that should feel like pulling teeth. If you truly dislike reading books, do yourself a favor and find another outlet for creativity that doesn't require it. Ask yourself if you want to be a writer or if you just want to be perceived as the kind of person who writes—if it's the latter, thrift a tweed coat with leather elbow patches and keep vaguely alluding to an unfinished novel.

[odessa-castle]

I'm bouncing around a larger post about Nishiki and the mortifying ordeal of being known, but in the meantime I'm thinking about Nishiki and Kiryu and how the clothes make (or don't make) the man. Like, beyond my visceral horror that Kiryu begged Nishiki to pick out a safe and boring suit for him in Y0 and then said he was envisioning something purple with gold stripes.

I'm thinking about Nishiki's incredible sensitivity to image and his need to control how he's perceived. I'm thinking about Kiryu's inability to let go of the past. I'm thinking about how KIryu dresses like who he thinks he is, and Nishiki dresses like who he thinks he wants to be.

There's some interesting incidental dialogue between Nishiki and Kiryu in Y0 while they're en route to the men's suit store. I wish it wasn't so easy to miss, because there's a lot to unpack here. (I'm just transcribing the English in-game subtitles here; I don't speak Japanese so I have no idea how loose vs. direct the localization is in this part.)

NISHIKI: …now that I think about it, you've been dressing like an old man since we were kids. KIRYU: Have I? NISHIKI: Yeah. The few times we got to pick our clothes, it was always like, "you're choosing THAT?" NISHIKI: I wouldn't say you're a plain guy…You'd pick shirts with weird prints though. KIRYU: Guess I forgot all that. It's weirder to me that you haven't. NISHIKI: Well, confession time. You're why I started caring about fashion. I swore I'd never go out dressed like you. KIRYU: Come on, I'm not THAT bad. [we have already discussed why kiryu is, in fact, that bad.] NISHIKI: [laughing] Aww, did I hurt your feelings? NISHIKI: Well, this time you've got me with you. I'll see my bro gets taken care of. KIRYU: Heh. What an honor. NISHIKI: Leave it to me.

Nishiki doesn't bring up Sunflower Orphanage much; when he does share memories of his childhood, those memories are kind of painful (see: "do orphans not get to dream?"). Kiryu's surprised that Nishiki remembers how they dressed as kids, but it makes sense that wearing a limited selection of hand-me-downs stuck with Nishiki so strongly. His clothes announced his poverty, and they weren't even his -- he had to share them with the other orphans, so what he wore showed he belonged to yet another stigmatized group. And I'm sure people picked up on those visual signals, especially other kids. Kids can be vicious, and appearance is an easy and immediate target! We don't know for sure how young Nishiki interacted with his peers and teachers, but given what the Morning Glory kids go through in Y3 (and given, like, everything about Nishiki), he probably didn't have a great time.

Kiryu frames his childhood as poor but loving, and places much more emphasis on the latter. There might be some rose-colored glasses at work there -- let's look at the flashback where Kazama tries (and fails) to violently dissuade Kiryu and Nishiki from joining the yakuza.

KIRYU: I owe you everything, but this isn’t about that. [...] We’ve looked up to you for all this time. Your car. Your confidence… The way everybody bows to you. We idolized you. I want that life, too. Is that so wrong!?

Nishiki doesn't really speak in this flashback, but like, Kiryu uses "we" enough for us to draw some obvious conclusions about Nishiki's own motivations. That being said, I don't think Kiryu's being dishonest or disingenuous when he describes his childhood as happy, and himself as well-loved. He's not ashamed of his upbringing, and he doesn't hide where he came from. Nishiki seems to have the inverse view. It's not that he doesn't love (at least some of) the people he grew up with, but what comes up first for him is what he didn't have. He didn't have money. He didn't have respect. He didn't have a cure for his little sister. He didn't have a lot of choice, right down to the clothes he wore.

(There's a whole other essay here about why Kiryu's and Nishiki's perspectives diverge on this, but I'm trying to limit the scope of this post. Suffice to say that, while I don't think game canon gives a timeline, I do think Nishiki was a little older when his parents were killed -- old enough that he actually remembers them, at least.)

The same mindset fuels Nishiki's interest in fashion. Yeah, part of it is that he's ribbing Kiryu, but I think it goes deeper than Kiryu wearing ugly shirts. Nishiki doesn't want people to look at him and see what's missing. Fashion isn't a means of personal expression for him, really. It's a message. It's the interplay of knowledge and resources and presentation: knowing what clothes read as successful and trendy and expensive, being able to afford those things, and convincing people that your successful important outfit makes you a successful important person. And he's not wrong about the social dimensions of fashion.

NISHIKI: Try sporting a suit that runs 500 grand for once. Trust me, you’ll see the world in a whole new light. KIRYU: Fashion’s not my thing. Besides, Kazama-san never wore flashy clothes. NISHIKI: You do realize he’s the family captain, right? Number two in the whole Dojima operation? You get to that level, you can wear whatever you damn well please. But for the rest of us, “flashy” is part of the business. KIRYU: So that fancy new car you bought was just “business”. NISHIKI: Yeah, and that fancy lighter of mine, too. Which you still haven’t given back. KIRYU: You want to play the rich guy, quit being so stingy. NISHIKI: But you get what I’m saying, right? People see the expensive car, the designer jacket, and the gleam of that little Dojima pin, they pay attention. A yakuza’s only as good as his image. [...] Take your buddy today. These squeaky-clean idiots, borrowing money just to blow on tits and booze… Nobody in this town gives a crap about substance. What you see is what you get.

That's our first take on one of the major themes of the game: what does it mean to be yakuza? Again, there is truth to what Nishiki's saying here, particularly in terms of the ethos of the eighties. I'm not an expert on the bubble era, but the worldbuilding in the game speaks for itself. People hail taxis with 10,000-yen bills. You punch money out of punks during random street battles. Nishiki keeps a personal bottle of high-end booze at a bar he's visited twice, mostly because he "can’t stand being taken for a bum." The act of spending is important, not what you're spending it on.

Nishiki's outfit in Y0 is perfectly suited (heh) to that outlook. And look, I might be inviting controversy here, but in context, I think it's a werq. Yes, it's loud. But the silhouette -- squared shoulders, single breasted, thinner peaked lapel -- is right on trend for the time period, and it fits him well. The colors look good on him. The bold pattern (no, it's not animal print) under the solid maroon is a risk, but he pulls it off. And excess aside, he knows when to pull back on the accessories. It's bright and confident and memorable, and boy would Nishiki like to be all of those things.

Also -- and importantly -- Kiryu would never go out dressed like that. Because we can't talk about Nishiki and Kiryu without talking about Nishiki's Mt. Fuji-sized inferiority complex. Mastering image doesn't just make Nishiki stand out; it makes him stand out from Kiryu. Let's go back to the beginning of the game.

NISHIKI: I’ll admit, though, you’re finally starting to look the part. You make a pretty convincing yakuza. You’re done with collections today, right? KIRYU: Yeah. NISHIKI: Good. That should put Kazama-san’s mind at ease a bit. KIRYU: Heh, dunno about that. But he always knew all I could do is fight. You’re the one who’s good at the dance.

Nishiki then calls attention to the "rags" that Kiryu's wearing, which...is not an unfair assessment. (TUCK IN YOUR SHIRT, KIRYU. HEM YOUR PANTS.) As the two of them walk around Kamurocho, Nishiki offers Kiryu plenty of hot tips, from meeting girls to making big bucks to cozying up to the brass. But even when Nishiki's opining on his area of expertise, there's a competitive edge to it. "You asking me to pick out clothes for you means you admit you have terrible taste," he tells Kiryu on the way to the suit shop. Kiryu tells him to shut up, but there's no actual hurt behind it. Kiryu doesn't really care that his taste in clothes sucks. Fashion isn't important to him. Most of the things Nishiki knows so much about don't really matter to Kiryu. And that makes Nishiki feel more insecure! Because if Kiryu rolls out of bed looking like a yakuza, if Nishiki's image counseling sessions aren't helpful or meaningful, if Kiryu can skip the dance and get to the top on the strength of his fists and convictions, then who cares about Nishiki's 500 grand suit or his hourlong hair care routine? If image isn't what makes a yakuza, what does that make Nishiki?

At the end of Chapter 6, Nishiki tries to look out for Kiryu again -- this time, by granting him a merciful death before the Dojima Family drags him to the Hole. It's one of my favorite scenes in the game. Nishiki's crying too hard to aim the gun properly; Kiryu tells him to man up and shoot. Finally, Nishiki collapses.

NISHIKI: Can’t do it… How could I shoot you!? Without you, I’ll always be nothing. Can’t make it as a yakuza… No. I wouldn’t even still be alive now if I didn’t have you beside me! I’m just… If you’re not with me, I’m useless! Nothing means anything!

Mastering image hasn't granted Nishiki anything of substance. At the end of the day, Nishiki's playing dress-up, and he knows it.

And I'm almost certainly getting into overthinking-this territory now (if I haven't gotten there already), but I kind of like the spin this puts on Nishiki ripping his expensive suit off in Chapter 14 when he decides to fight the Dojima Family at Kiryu's side. Like yes, ripping off your outer layers to get at the naked (so to speak) truth -- your irezumi, and what it represents -- is just Yakuza Storytelling 101. It's decisive, it's kind of dumb, it's great, it gets me hyped every time. But I like that Nishiki's honest answer to "what does it mean to be a yakuza?" isn't about looking the part. I am genuinely trying not to end this paragraph by saying that Nishiki must become like a dragon, but like...you get where I'm going with this.

Of course, Nishiki's back to playing dress-up in Y1/Kiwami. I'm not the first to call the Patriarch Nishikiyama look a glow-down (though I like the patterned white tie). Like, fashion-conscious Nishiki would look good in a Hedi Slimane/Tom Ford-esque skinny black suit. But he picks a silhouette you'd expect to see on a much older man, torso-swallowing pants and all. The slicked-back hair doesn't help. He's just so transparently trying to look bigger and broader and older, and he doesn't pull it off. Big Bad Patriarch isn't a good look for him, in any sense of the phrase.

A final thought: Kiryu's clothes, and Nishiki's commentary on them, are the subject of their first conversation in Y0 -- and of their last. Kiryu's costume progression in Y0 is a pretty obvious commentary on his journey, to the point where Kiryu and Nishiki explicitly call attention to the color connotations in their final exchange. As a Dojima grunt, he wears black, and it doesn't look good on him because "brutish thug who keeps his head down and does what he's told" isn't a role he's comfortable with. He wears white when he works in real estate, but the change in color isn't enough to sell anyone on his transformation into a civilian. Although it's a little rich for Oda "Red Clown Shoes" Jun to chide someone for not wearing a proper suit. At the end of the game, Kiryu's in his classic grey suit, and well, the game spells it out:

KIRYU: I’m not feeling black or white these days. This is where I’m at right now. I chose it myself. I’m making it a fresh start. NISHIKI: Fine, fine. See if I care! Wear it the rest of your life!

Nishiki, dismayed, tells Kiryu that the grey suit already looks dated, but for Kiryu, "fresh start" doesn't mean "on trend". His image might be out of step with how other yakuza view themselves, or want to be seen, but if he's always going to look like a yakuza, he might as well stake his claim on what being a yakuza means. Still, it's telling that, even as a young man, Kiryu looks like a throwback to an earlier era. As the series progresses, the games hammer this home more and more. How many antagonists tell Kiryu that he's out of touch with the modern world, that he represents a version of the yakuza that no longer exists, that it's time for him to make way for the next generation?

"Wear it the rest of your life!" is a funny little in-joke, yeah, but...it's a little sad when you think about it, isn't it? Kiryu gets new outfits from Y3 on -- and in every game, he ultimately puts the suit back on and heads to Kamurocho. It's exactly of a piece with how Kiryu views being yakuza. We, and he, can debate the exact extent of his retirement from the Tojo Clan's affairs, but the yakuza isn't a career for Kiryu, it's a set of beliefs he carries with him. He wears the suit the same way he wears the dragon on his back: as an indelible part of his self-image.

[howdaretrashships]

Feihua Most Unhinged Moment Tournament: Semi Finals, Bracket 1

Tournament Masterpost

Propaganda:

Option 1: "You're still so clingy."

They, until very recently, each thought the other was dead. (Not a wild conclusion to come to. Di Feisheng was told Li Xiangyi died, and he was in seclusion healing from his injuries. The world assumed he was dead when he wasn't heard from for ten years.)

When Li Lianhua (Li Xiangyi) last saw Di Feisheng, he was planning to kill him. And then the poison took effect. The poison that allowed Di Feisheng to get the upper hand. (The poison that would have killed him sooner if not for a certain monk.)

With the clues he put together over the years, Li Lianhua couldn't be blamed for thinking Di Feisheng poisoned him. Or, perhaps, that he knowingly let his subordinates poison him.

(If Di Feisheng would kill is shixiong, and steal the body after they negotiated a truce, what wouldn't he do?)

But Li Lianhua reveals himself as Li Xiangyi and meets his supposed enemy.

Why then, if they are supposed to be enemies, does Di Feisheng greet him with "How have you been?"? (If he knowingly poisoned him, or let it happen, shouldn't he know? Shouldn't the question be a little more pointed; a little more winkwinknudgenudge smirksandgloating?)

And why, if they are supposed to be enemies, does Li Lianhua respond with "You're still so clingy after not seeing each other for ten years."? (And not: "Shouldn't you know? Considering you poisoned me?")

(And what does it say about their relationship before Donghai that he says still so clingy? That Di Feisheng... is Still. So. Clingy.)

"You're still so clingy..." said to a supposed enemy that smiles after finding out Li Lianhua (Li Xiangyi) isn't dead. Said in response to the supposed enemy genuinely asking how he's been the last ten years.

(And then Di Feisheng is surprised and angry on his behalf when he finds out Li Xiangyi [Li Lianhua] is Not Okay.)

Option 2: Di Feisheng writing 'If Found Return to Li Lianhua' on his hand

You've been investigating how everything went so wrong ten years ago. You've determined that someone has been working behind the scenes to drive a wedge between you and your... husband rival ex... rival for their own benefit. The lead you have is the crazy lady that's obsessed with you, but she couldn't have done it herself.

You're this close to finding out who she's working with and being rid of her for good when the guy shows up to save her, stabs you in the side, and poisons you with something you can feel will ruin your lifelong progress in martial arts.

Do you go to your personal bodyguard? No. (Well, maybe you couldn't find him, but still.)

No. You take the time to wrap your dao in rags to disguise it and then you go to the Sigu Sect waterfall and write "Find Li Lianhua' on your hand. It's a note for yourself. Y'know, since you've isolated the poison in such a way that you'll have amnesia.

Ok, note for yourself - check. Then what?

Well then you walk into the river just before you pass out and let it take you downstream.

What's downstream? Well who knows really. Your rival, Li Lianhua, the man previously known as Li Xiangyi? Maybe a blind guy collecting corpses to sell into ghost marriages?

What if someone else finds you first, what then, huh? Better hope they don't recognize you when you don't even know yourself anymore.

But don't worry.

The note on your hand says you belong to Li Lianhua.

[starrycassi]

Hate, love, guilt, mothers. Aren't they all synonyms?

You can find part one of this au here, and two here. Also a quick explanation on who's Gloria here. Mild nsfw mention at the end. Like, super mild.

The grounds of the Goldenloin mansion are always breathtaking, it doesn't matter how many times Ballister's been here as a guest, as an intruder, as a knight, as a lover. The gardens are fantastic, and the structure makes him feel so, so tiny.

Standing here, looking at the dining table made for dozens and dozens of people, Ballister can't help but feel out of place. The maid that guided them here is mimicking their pose, right next to them, and Ballister signals to Ambrosius, tugging on his sleeve. There's no need for her to be here, too. She should be free to leave.

Ambrosius gets the memo and dismisses the poor girl, who leaves quietly and quickly. Ballister's skin itches.

In front of them rests a wonderful feast, colorful and appealing, even if some plates are covered with golden silverware, to protect the food from loosing it's flavor, or whatever. He can't help but wonder how many street kids are hungry right now — can't help but remember what it's like, to be alone and lost and begging for a crumb of bread, a sip of water, a simple plate of food and be denied and-

The echo of someone's steps brings him back to the present, and he stares at the woman as she walks in. Captain Gloria limps as she arrives, her golden hair down in a braid that reaches her lower back. She gleams at them, despite the clear pain that every step delivers to her system. Her eyes aren't quite focused.

Ambrosius suddenly goes still, fixing his posture.

The two of them just accept the silence, live in it, for the next couple of seconds. Gloria finally gets to the table and sits down slowly, hissing when she finally does so, reeking of alcohol and a splendid perfume. She's at the head of the chairs, and Ambrosius rounds up the table to sit right next to her. Ballister tries to follow him.

“Don't” orders the woman, her hand suddenly reaching out to grip Ballister's wrist. She tugs on him, making take a seat, too, at her left. Ambrosius stares at him with a questioning look, and he stares back with an even more questioning look. It's his mom that's acting weird, he should know what's going on.

They don't have to figure it out, though, because she explains it soon enough.

“You are not here as Ambrosius's guest, today. You're a suitor. Act accordingly or get out”

Her voice, cold and demanding, takes both of the boys by surprise. Gloria's and Ballister's relationship has never been a specially warm one, but all in all, he's always seen her as a stressed out woman who doesn't really care about anything but her work and her son. Everytime they've been together she's drunk, hurt, on duty, or in a weird combination of those options. She's never been openly hostile or mean to him, so he's left in unexplored grounds when her blue eyes are suddenly fixed on his face, pinning him to his seat and making his head spin with with dread and doubts.

“Mom, there's no need to-”

Ambrosius tries, he really tries, to reason with her. Gloria, who's whole body moves weirdly and limply, suddenly hits the table with her fist closed, and Ambrosius straightens up in his seat, body reacting before his mind does so, instincts ingrained on him urging him to obey and comply to orders, even the unspoken ones.

Ballister knows the look on Gloria's eyes — he's seen it before, only, not on her face — she's not only intoxicated, not merely wounded. She's full of regret, of fury, of pure and unfiltered anger. As soon as that knowledge hits him, he's filled with a strange sense of security, of comfort. She's mad and she's irrational, but he knows the reason of those feelings. She's merely a mother defending her child, a knight defending her loved ones.

Ballister is trying to do the same, and it's refreshing to see his own feelings of confusion and hatred mirrored into Gloria's face. He knows what her anger means, because his blood burns with the same heat, the same intensity.

“I'm sorry, Captain Gloria” he says, slowly and clearly. The nerves he felt all the way here disappear, leaving only his determination, his devotion. Gloria isn't against him. She's against anything that might hurt jer son, and that's a feeling Ballister not only understands, but shares, “It was awfully inadequate of me to act that way. I beg your forgiveness”

She smiles, woobly and unsteadily, at him. She's pleased with his words, clearly. He tries to remember the hours and hours of ranting that Ambrosius blessed his ears with every so often, complaining about stupid protocol lessons that his mother made him take.

“Very well” she nods at him, and he imitates the gesture. He quickly nods at Ambrosius, too, to try and reassure him. This will be okay. It has to.

Ambrosius's shoulders relax just the slightest bit at that, but he smiles, and talks again,

“I'm incredibly hungry, Mum. Why don't we eat before we discuss this, yeah?”

It's always surprising to Ballister, really, how adaptable Ambrosius is. One minute, he's a big dramatic performer for the Queen. The next, he's merely a child with a pleading voice, asking— no, begging, for some peaceful seconds with his mom.

“Yes, the food. Let's eat and talk business, shall we? That's not really an appropriate thing to do, I suppose, but I can make an exception, seeing as how you've had the guts to ask for my son's hand in marriage, cadet”

She claps, and servants lift the coverings. Some of their faces are recognizable to Ballister. Did they live in the same orphanage? Were they friends, and his mind has forgotten?

This is whst he hates about the Goldenloin mansion. This is what he hates about every single noble event ever. He simply resings himself to his fate, a rejected freak to the nobles and a traitor to the commoners. He tries to keep his eyes on the table, tries not to to think about how some of the people working for Ambrosius, serving him, probably have never even tried the kind of feast he's about to have.

Ballister's never been a religious person, but he prays for forgiveness, even if it's merely for a second. He prays for forgiveness, even if it's undeserved.

The steak in front of him suddenly loses its appeal. The nerves are back, just like that. He hates himself for that, for being so brave a second and then a complete coward in the other.

They simply eat, for some moments. Gloria sips her glass of red wine every so often, and both of the boys chew methodically on their steaks. Food is fuel, Ballister tries to remind himself, tasting guilt and shame in every bite, feeling as if he's chewing his own heart; food is fuel, and he needs fuel for this conversation.

That doesn't make the bitterness of the whole situation go away.

“You said you have a plan” accuses Gloria, after washing down a bit of her salad with wine, “but I'm yet to hear anything about it”

Ballister's first instinct is to roll his eyes, tell her that it's her who's been acting all weird and cranky, but he knows better than to go against an older knight, even if she's drunk and injured. She's also his mother-in-law, and he refuses to feed into the stereotype of in laws not getting along.

“The food just distracted us, mom, that's all. It's really good”

Gloria's face softens a bit, and she offers her son a quick sound of agreement.

“Still. I need to know what you two rascals are up to, don't I?”

As if she didn't just violently smash the table, she laughs a bit at her joke, muttering something about teenagers under her breath.

They do their best to explain themselves without setting her off again, Ambrosius providing Ballister with facial expressions that let him know when to shut up and when to keep going. At the end of it, their food is almost gone, Ballister's guilt is almost forgotten, and Gloria looks almost convinced.

"And what do you win, cadet?"

She looks feral, like a lion ready to chew down on it's prey. Ballister refuses to lose against her, not today.

"I get to see my boyfriend be happy. What else could I possibly want?"

Some of the servants seem too moved by his answer to hide their coos, but he doesn't dare look their way, too scared to find out that perhaps that truly are the kids that grew up on his same street, with his same dreams. He keeps his eyes fixed on Gloria's, blue and brown crashing and figthing.

"Sounds like bullshit to me. No one would do all that just for someone else's happiness or whatever"

She shakes her head in disagreement, and Ballister wants to scream at her, tell her that she doesn't know shit about them, that he would walk barefoot into a burning building if it meant saving Ambrosius. He doesn't.

"I don't need anything else" he says, instead, "I only want to make sure that my boyfriend has a choice and-"

"Okay, say you win" interrupts Gloria, looking bemused with him. He hates the way she stares him down like a mere child, "and the interviewer; because this will be televised, that's a no brainer, asks what do you want. What are you going to tell the kingdom?"

He doesn't even hesitate, before answering:

"I would ask for just enough money to pay back my debth with the house of Elpis and the Goldenloin house. Then, for Ambrosius's political allies to be a matter only he can have the final say on. Not you, or me, or anyone else"

She looks at him some more, as if trying to be intimidating. He doesn't budge.

"That is an honest answer" she finally says, nodding, "That's more believable. That, I can accept. I think"

She makes a show of considering things, tapping her index finger to her chin. They keep quiet, waiting for her verdict.

“It's a decent attempt” she concedes, after some seconds of humming to herself. "It's even a good idea"

They both sigh, relieved. She clicks her tongue, and shakes her head, again, like some sort of wet dog, and they feel not so relieved, now.

“But you two are openly... close to one another, right? Everyone knows. Can't do anything if you win and people question us, can we? About your little, well, romance, and all that”

Gloria never really acknowledges the fact that her son is dating Ballister, even if he did come out and confess the secret to her half a year ago, cracking under the pressure of a specially though new years party. It gives Ambrosius some sort of dumb hope, that perhaps his mom might actually start taking his own free will into account and validating his love for Ballister. Even if she always says that that's something she already does.

“We're still trying to figure out what to do with that, Mum”

She laughs some more, making him feel stupid. Ballister looks as confused as he feels when she merely giggles at their faces, gulping down the rest of her drink. A servant refills it immediately.

“You kids are so slow, nowadays” she flaps her hand, rolling her eyes, “a mere fight will be enough. In a public space, obviously. Be nasty about it. My friends and I used to do it when we wanted to get a rise out of our parents. Neat trick”

And, with that piece of advice, she keeps on drinking.

.

Ambrosius excuses them both out of the table when they're done, leaving Captain Gloria to drunkenly mumble nonsense to herself.

The halls of the mansion are spacious and lonely, so they're able to walk together, holding hands, without a care in the world. Ambrosius has grown up here, was raised here. He knows and trusts the staff to keep a couple of secrets.

“She seems… a bit agitated” Ballister says, softly. Gloria has been a sore spot for their conversations ever since the start of their friendship, and they mostly try to avoid talking about her. But if feels wrong, to be in her house and pretend she doesn't exist.

“She's got a dislocated hip” Ambrosius answers, voice impregnated with pity, “Must hurt a lot. She was distracted with this whole thing and a thief managed to hit her real hard…”

He stares at the floor, but they keep on walking to Ambrosius's bedroom. After lunch, Gloria has practically demanded for them to stay until dinner, arguing that they have already lost most of the day, anyways. Neither one of them dared go against her word.

“I'm happy she's mad. At least I'm not the only one worried about your ass”

“I can assure you, Ballister, your thoughts about my ass are really, really different from her thoughts about it. At least I hope so”

Hip bumping his boyfriend for being an idiot, Ballister blushes a bit. Ambrosius does have a nice body.

“Don't be weird about this, Amber. We're literally talking about you mom”

“No, you are talking about her. I'm talking about people's thoughts on my ass. That's a whole different conversation”

“Not a specially interesting one, I'm sure. Much like your very flat ass”

Ambrosius gasps, offended, just as they reach the doors of his bedroom. He makes a show of dramatically slamming the door, just to open it back again mere seconds later, sticking out his tongue at Ballister before allowing him to come in.

“Keep this treatment up, and I'm actually marrying Todd” he threatens, and Ballister half heartedly pushes him.

“Okay, your ass is not flat. Just… sort of concave. Happy?”

“Not so much. But, alas, I'm not really dating a poet, am I? My heart has chosen you, even with your horrible mistreatments towards my figure”

They laugh at the stupidity of the situation, as if guilt isn't eating Ballister alive, as if Ambrosius isn't worried to death for his mom, as if the world isn't collapsing and burning around them.

They take of their shoes, and get into bed, cuddling with each other almost immediately, used to it after years and years of practice. Ballister rests his cheek on Ambrosius's chest, and they hold hands, tangling their legs. This is incredibly inappropriate to do on Ambrosius's house, with his mom meter away, but everything around them feels so wrong right now that this is the closest they can get to normal.

The events of the last few hours settle in. Panic comes back, alongside with every other emotion that they have been trying to run away from. It's scary, to admit that perhaps they could fail. They could be wrong. Ambrosius understands why his mom seems to be in denial all of the time; it's easier to pretend that something is not happening than to deal with the fact that it is.

The room is quiet. They're just teens.

“I'm nervous”

“Me, too. I'm terrified”

“Yeah. Me, too”

And it's just them, their fears and their breaths, for a second. There's nothing else but them. But reality is always there, waiting, and it comes with paperwork and legalities and many, many other things. It's them against the world, even if they would really, really like to just make peace with everyone and sleep until winter.

To avoid silence — because it comes with too many questions, too many memories, too many reminders — Ballister decides to keep on with their plan, furthering it, and asks, “So, now, we fake fight?”

“I think it's the best choice we have, right? Mom said so”

Ambrosius, always eager to follow Gloria's word, seems to perk up. Ballister feels slightly annoyed, but at least his boyfriend looks a little less like a kicked kitten.

“And what are we figthing about, uh?”

This is scary, too. Yeah, a fake figth. That's something they should be able to manage. But there's some issues, here and there, and perhaps they're just waiting for a chance to come out. This could be that chance. And there's no way they're going to actually live apart from each other, but they have to, right? So it's believable.

“What about something stupid? Like, I don't know, jazz?”

“Ambrosius, you know very well how I feel about-”

To stop his boyfriend from going on yet another campaign of hate against freestyle jazz, Ambrosius gives him a quick kiss on the hair, successfully making him shut up.

“Kay, not jazz. What, then?”

“Let's fight about this. I'll be jealous, you'll scream at me for being jealous, and we'll break up. Call me a selfish insecure asshole, or something”

Ambrosius immediately pants like a wounded animal, frowning. He makes Ballister get up slightly, to make sure he can see his eyes. They're full of love. Pure, solid, love.

“I don't ever want to hurt you, Bal”

Ballister chokes on air, because this isn't fair. Ambrosius is so pretty, resting on the mattress, looking up at him. No one else but him should ever get to see him like this. Specially not some imbecile who thinks figthing for him is enough to get married.

“It's just going to be a play-pretend situation, Amber. I don't wanna hurt you, either, but it's going to be just a couple of days. Then, we're back to normal”

Ambrosius ponders on it, pouting. But he finally nods, agreeing.

“Fine. We're hating each other from now on”

.

The next time Ballister wakes up, they're back at the Institute, half naked, fused together like a pretzel. Perhaps they got a bit too sentimental when they came back, and perhaps they stole a couple of sips from Gloria's wine reserve. A make out session had been the start of their so called hate, and Gloreth, did they suck at this.

“Ambrosius. Ambrosius, wake up. Ambrosius, fucking move”

With a bit more of force than needed, he shakes his boyfriend, trying to get him to open up his eyes. Ambrosius attempts to do so and also get up, miscalculating, and falling face first to the floor.

Shit.

Hurrying up to help him, Ballister trips, too. The wine is still in their systems, apparently, and it makes them laugh like idiots as soon as their gazes cross.

“Shit. We're supposed to be figthing, Amber”

“I'm pretty sure last night counts as a form of combat. Sword figths, one may call it”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly. Just, for once, shut up”

“Only if you kiss me, babe"

Okay, maybe they aren't suited for a divorce yet. Ballister got up, grunting, and Ambrosius followed suit, if only because the floor is way too cold to be laying on it with nothing but a boxer and shorts on. He smiled at the wall when he managed to stand up on his own two feet, still dizzy.

“What now, Bal?”

Ballister struggled to put his shirt back on, trying to remember where the fuck his shoes where. It was early, still. If he hurried up, he could sneak out without anyone seeing him.

“Dont ask me. This whole thing was your plan. Think, Ambrosius; for the first time in your life, think”

Ambrosius threw the nearest object at his ungrateful boyfriend, and rolled his eyes when the comb impacted against the desk. Turns out his aim gets affected by alcohol. Who could've thought?

“What was that for?!” Hisses Ballister, barely managing to get done with his clothes. Ambrosius's loopy smile only grew bigger at the sight, and he looked so much like his mom, for a second. Just a second.

“We're figthing, love. I think this is how figths are supposed to go, right?”

And he threw a hair cream bottle, that impacted on the wall.

Ballister opened up the door, just in time for the notebook Ambrosius threw to go flying through it. Some cadets were already out, curious about the noise. Ambrosius, drunk and ad impulsive as his mother, grinned with pleasure. Yes, a public fight, indeed.

“And get out!” he screamed, remembering the way his mother looked at him yesterday, feeling the tears burning on the very corners of his eyes, hating her stare and wishing she looked at him more often “I don't want to talk to you ever again, you hear me?!”

A pillow was thrown. Ballister fought down the urge to burst out laughing. This felt so much like a cheap soap opera.

“It's not my fault you're a coward!” He screamed back, wine helping him come up with the words, “Go and die for all I care, Golden Boy! Hang yourself from a fucking tower, I don't give a shit!”

More and more people came in to witness the situation. Had he been sober, Ballister probably would've stopped. He wasn't, though.

“You're so jealous!” Screeched Ambrosius, like he meant it, “You're just jealous of my suitors being way better than you, you prick!”

Ballister kneeled down, picked up the fallen pillow, and threw it right back at it's owner. Ambrosius barely contained his cackles.

“I'll enter the fucking tournament just so I can disown you, Ambrosius! You don't deserve all that money!”

They were losing the plot a bit, but it didn't really matter. A figth is a figth, no matter the reasons.

“Do whatever you want, Ballister! You're never winning, never !”

Next, a sweater came in, balled up, flying. This one actually hit Ballister on the eye, and he had to take a step back, surprised. Ouch.

“We'll see about that, you idiot!”

With a final heated stare, Ballister turned around, bitting down his tongue to dissimulate the giggles.

.

As soon as he got into his room and locked his door, Ballister opened up his cellphone, already missing his boyfriend's arms. He found a couple of drunken voicemails Ambrosius had already sent his way, and a couple of pictures that matched the vibe of their last night.

Smiling, he got into his own bed, hiding under the sheets. Perhaps intense figths weren't such a bad idea for their relationship, after all.

[best-non-english-word-torunament]

What even is a language?

All tournament words will hava a short text about the language, but since I don't want to simplify until it's misinformation I need to open the can of worms on what a language really is. Join me, I promise the worms are interesting!

So, what makes two languages different from each other?

Think about it for a while. The first thing that comes to mind is probably that people who speak the same language can understand each other, while people who speak different languages can't. This criterion is called mutual intelligibility by linguists. This sounds easy enough, why is there so much post left?

Well, imagine two villages along a river, A and B. They speak slightly different from each other, but can understand each other. Same language, different dialects. Easy.

Now imagine there's a third village called C further up the river, closer to B than A where they speaking a third slightly different variant. The people in B and C understand each other, but speakers in A and C have a harder time and some can hardly understand each other at all. Do the people in A, B and C speak the same language? It would probably still count as one language since all of them mostly understand each other.

Let's make this more complicated! Imagine a village called D even further up the river. The same situation applies here, C and D speakers understand each other without problem, B and D speakers have a harder time and A and D speakers can't understand each other at all. How many languages are there now? Now imagine we add villages E, F, G etc and apply the same logic. Not so easy anymore

This situation is called a dialect continuum, where different dialects form a continuum so that people understand their neighbours but not all parts of the continuum. This is a common situation where linguists have to try and group languages together out of dialects based on which ones are the most similar.

Fun fact! This does not only happen on a village to village basis, but over larger regions. There is one hiding in plain sight right in the middle of Europe called the Continental West Germanic dialect continuum. There's more about it in the posts with German words, but in short: German is/was a few generation back two (or three) separate languages, the continuum also includes Dutch and "dialects" from Switzerland and Austria. Yet there is a Standard German based on one dialect. Anyway, on with the show.

Language exposure is another interesting worm in this can. Do people understand each other because their languages are similar enough or because they've learned another language? Imagine town X, where a language is spoken, and village Y outside the town. People from Y trade with X and often visit X, since it's a lot bigger. They understand people in X. People from X however, have no clue what people from Y are saying. This isn't mutual intelligibility since it only goes one way, but it will be relevant later on.

Using only mutual intelligibility gives us 6500 spoken languages in the world, as well as 200 signed ones.

This way of defining languages seems too complicated. Can't we just ask people what they speak instead?

Well, you can. This is another way of defining a language: What the people speaking it say is a language is a language. Easy.

On first look this seems reasonable. People know what their language is and will tell us where to draw the lines in the dialect continuum mess. This is the sociopolitical approach to language.

No. This approach intersects interestingly with the mutual intelligibility approach in that the number of languages suddenly skyrockets! There is no estimation, but people tend to call their own community a separate language from the neighbouring communities, even though they all understand each other.

Sometimes these peoples agree that they speak the same language if presented with the mutual intelligibility approach, there just aren't any words for the shared language. Then we can easily go ahead and call them dialects of a shared language.

But what if they just don't like each other and don't want to call what they're speaking the same language, even when they absolutely do? Or when there are political reasons for wanting to differentiate what their dialects, like connecting dialects to separare nation-states? Maybe these political divisions cause dialects to grow further apart, or different writing norms are implemented. Maybe it just happens as land is divided into countries with different policies and influences and a language community is split.

So if mutual intelligibility and people's own classifications don't match, should we just ignore the socio-political part? Often people agree that they speak the same language and let themselves be classified as such, but at other times it would work worse. The line between language and dialect is blurry and confusing.

Take the case of Swedish and Norwegian: I am Swedish and I can understand some Norwegian. It is also my understanding that people living along the border, particularly further north speak similarly and understand each other even better. Considering mutual intelligibility they could be considered the same language, especially some dialects. There is no animosity between Swedish and Norwegian (unlike Swedish and Danish, which might be considered in the same group except the differences are larger?). There are different spelling norms and probably different loan words/influences from countries that have been in contact with Sweden and Norway. Most important of all, it would still feel weird to call them the same language because of the nation-state connection and national identity.

Sometimes, this goes the other way around. Remember town X and village Y? What if the people in Y consider themselves speakers of X, while the people in X still can't understand them? Would it be the same language or not?

Another situation is the national state that really wants everyone to speak the same language. I have another example from Swedish, which is the former dialect Älvdalska (possibly anglisised as Övdalian?) which isn't mutually intelligible with Swedish. Still, for a long time it was considered a dialect anyway, but not anymore. It's its own language.

So what do we do?

Neither approach works on its own since things will get weird if we just pick one. The two big databases over language, ethnologue and glottolog, use a mix: It is mostly based on mutual intelligibility because that's more important for linguistics, but with some sociopolitics where it's reasonable. This leaves between 7100 (ethnologue) and 7700 languages (glottolog), both numbers including sign languages. See how the databases have vastly different numbers? Yeah.

Another fun fact: There are still languages previously unknown to linguists discovered every year. Some are dialects reclassified as languages and some are dying languages spoken only by older generations that were previously missed, as they aren't often spoken.

Anyways, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed discovering that everything is more complicated than you think. There will be more posts like this to come. Also, to have it in the post: this knowledge comes from me studying linguistics and being very excited about it

[miniiinebulaee]

throwing my gal fashionably late into the @kirbyoctournament since she’s been rotating in my head for quite some time ajsj

Name: Nebula Knight (she/her)

Notes on personality: an outgoing puffball who has a lot of passion into anything that is related to stars. She always has a smile on her face and whenever a challenge presents itself she doesn't hesitate to go for it and give it her all (read: “finally, a worthy opponent! our battle will be legendary!”).

(ref + more info under the cut)

Backstory and Lore: after teaming up with Galacta Knight to fight a threat on her native planet, she was inspired to train more and fight alongside him. She then became one of the Heroes of Yore and due to still not knowing everything about her powers, during one of their hardest fights, she completely lost control and turned into a corrupted version of herself that destroyed everything in its path.

The ancients planned on sealing her away since she was now in an irreversible state, and so they did. She had been trapped in the stars as a constellation ever since.

As time went by, her story as a warrior inspired a comic book series called "Benny's Intergalactic Adventures"

Eventually she does get freed, landing on Popstar. It's thanks to a wish made to a Galactic Nova from a Poppy Bros Jr. And their friend, who wished to meet the hero from their favorite stories, not knowing who the story was actually about.

[hehe-hoho-ohno]

Emmet, no. It's rude to write about someone who's reading over your shoulder.

For context: @ultimate-submas-tournament just put my toy Emmet (Misfits) against @fandom-soda-writings mudkip Emmet (Emmet's pmd adventure)

You can vote here if want to.

[ssspringroll]

sure why not. i dont have enough things going on

watch this space 👀

[galavant-song-tournament]

I will avoid saying anything biased but I'd just like to post this because I think the fanon version of Gwynne is not very accurate to her canonical characterization and that may be affecting how people vote. Ofc if you want to vote according to fanon or your own interpretations of characters you have every right to do that.

But anyway it seems to be a popular idea that Gwynne is power-hungry and would take the opportunity to rule a/all kingdoms if given the chance. And absolutely she's not sitting passively by (except in s2 :/ ) and is taking an active role in politics and making the world more to her liking, but that only manifests in her wanting to kill all the aristocracy to create a more equal society without the poor being taken constant advantage of, and then going off to live her cottagecore dream away from politics and power and all that. I think she's willing to go live on a farm in s2 because she has nothing better to do and isn't being actively oppressed by the class system like in s1 (and she's not living under such horrible rulers as Richard and Madalena, so probably feels less of a need to correct the system since it's working OK), so if she were still in that same position probably things would be different. So it's not like there are no circumstances under which she's be persuaded to do political things but it's certainly not a main goal for her in life.

[gayest-classiclit]

ROUND 4

propaganda: mina | javert

[reiverreturns]

"you've looked better" + eivor/vili or whoever your heart desires from AC ✨

As the Ostara festival dies and early morning sun breaks a powdery blue streak across the treeline, Eivor heads for Ravensthorpe's hills.

It’s not a retreat, exactly. There is love and laughter and joy still to be found on the streets of the settlement; drunken confessions of lovers, a farmer sound asleep with his arms wrapped around a goat, the faint jingle of coins and boxes being moved from one place to another as the early-rising townsfolk prepare for another day. But Eivor has always found comfort on the periphery, in the whisper of wind and the ruffle of grass, long ago in the snows of Norway and now in the lush green of Mercia. Alone, the worlds within her feel aligned. At peace.

The solitude doesn’t last. 

She hears Vili before she can see him, his long steps crunching the gravel underfoot, sloping shoulders clear in the silvery outline of her mind’s eye. He is never far nowadays, though there has always been truth to that, even with an ocean between them. 

“You found me,” Eivor remarks as he approaches. There is part of her that is still surprised by that, by how easily it comes to him. The knowing of where she’ll go before she does, how she might react to an unfamiliar face before her. 

“I always find you,” he huffs, as though he can read the thought plain across her forehead. He sits beside her, and their movements are fluid and instinctive; her hand twisting around his thigh, his arm wrapping across her shoulders. They’re both caked in the same layer of mud and bruises, scraped and slightly bloodied. 

(For a moment, Eivor allows herself to wonder how many echoes of this moment exist. Her and him, sitting alone where the wind gusts and the animals scurry, looking over a home that is theirs and has never quite fit at the same time. The heat of him beside her like a beacon, a second skin. How many of these echoes live in Norway that are lost to her now? She never wants to forget another for as long as she lives.)

“You’ve looked better, Wolf-Kissed,” Vili murmurs beside her, turning his face - and a blooming black eye - towards her. “You’ve smelled better, too.”

Eivor tuts and shakes her head, resisting the urge to reach up and trace the line of the bruise. “You rolled in the same pig shit as I, Arse-Stick. And you are only jealous I won the brawl.”

Vili laughs at that, his great booming crow’s cackle, and does not deny it. 

Eventually they fall into a comfortable quiet, listening to Ravensthorpe come alive beneath them, watching the sky push its watery colours from east to west. Eivor knots a frayed string on Vili’s boot, dusts the worst of the muck off his knees. He tidies her braids and strokes his thumb along her scarred neck whilst gingerly prodding along his own jawline.

“Are your teeth all still there?” Eivor asks him when she notices. Vili only grins at her.

“I believe so,” he says, learning forwards. “Will you check?”

When Eivor reaches out and kisses him, pressing hard into Vili’s mouth and swallowing a hiss, she doesn’t feel conflict. There are no warring sides to her here. For so long she has sought her peace by pushing at the edges of her home, of her mind, never once thinking that peace might choose her. Follow her. How strange the concept is, and yet she can no longer imagine her life without it. 

She pushes him off, wipes a little blood from her lip that could be his or hers.

“You have one loose on the right,” she says, and turns back towards the sun.

send me a prompt and a pairing