#ts decay

[ruchamponiatowskiego]

DecayClown's default contact lenses

Okay soooo... i had honest no idea if their default eyes shit was broken or no,so i decided to fix it.... just to be sure...just because they left... The Infants update really messed up most of default eyes thingies, so yeah.

~~~~~~~~ No more talking,heres the link to downloading march 14th version! -> MediaFire,No AdFly. <-

NOTE!!!!!!: THEY ARE INFANTS COMPATIBLE,BUT THEYRE NOT MADE FOR INFANTS. (it means theyre compatible with march 14th build,BUT you C A N ' T use them on infants,sorry!) (if ill figure it out how then maybe ill make infants version.....) Yes,You need Decay Clown's cc for that. Because its lost cc i included it. (sorry.)

[wyn0rrific]

inch resting

here's the loyalist version btw: https://www.idrlabs.com/space-marine-chapter/test.php

“I can’t decide what to paint my Chaos Space Marines as. Oh hey, a CSM Personality Test, that may help.”

Shit.

[webanglikethat]

⋆⁺₊❅. Lonely winter, cradle my heart.

Pairing: Vyxaria x Walter. Words: 4004. Tags: for @agattthaa’s birthday, @eeriedreamer, @malbontesmrs and @liykaii — thank you for always believing in me. & shoutout to tswift for writing peace, give it a listen!

🎼 “could it be enough, if I could never give you peace?, ts.

Raindrops fell down the window, as if chasing trails they were afraid to lose, slithering down like snakes on a fresh slippery bruise. The wind whispered against the walls, similar to how waves crash into the shore with more strength each time, as if seeking something, demanding it. The room was dimly lit and warm, but the heart of the succubus felt anything but.

It was truly pathetic; and the worst part was … she knew that.

A creature like her had no use for pain or sadness, let alone grief, but her heart felt consumed by it.

Vyxaria laid on the bed, eyes closed, replaying over and over the scene that would haunt her till her bones decayed, and her spirit vanished — …. Xantheia stabbing her.

Surely that couldn’t have been her Xantheia right? Not the Xantheia she spent all of her valuable moments with – not that succubi were supposed to have valuable moments, not with mortals, and certainly not with each other. But Xantheia had always been her exception. The Xantheia who laughed with her under moons swollen with silver light. The one who would trace her fingers along Vyxaria’s cheek, murmuring words too sweet to belong to their world. The Xantheia that would sit on the thrones of kings they’d manipulate, pretending that the kingdom now belonged to them. The Xantheia that – as human said – took her under her wings, as if some kind of protecting angel – and oh, how cruelly heaven turned out to be another fake.

It couldn’t be her Xantheia.

Maybe she imagined it. Maybe the chill of the air perforated her stomach. She had read somewhere that the mesosphere of this world was becoming weaker – whatever it meant. She hadn’t understood it then – for what did she care for human science? It made no sense to her nor brought her any kind of advantages — but now it cruelly reminded her of her own figure. Wasn’t she just the same? Once impenetrable, now fractured. Once strong, now laying on a bed of a house she couldn’t call her own, in a world that didn’t listen to her, eyes that closed which betrayed her with the same image under her lashes and in the depth of her iris. She could almost feel it, that weakening, spreading through her veins like frost, breaking apart everything she thought she was.

She pressed her hand against her chest, fingers trembling as though searching for a heartbeat. Of course, it wasn’t there; there was no pulse to find. There never had been. But now, the absence felt louder, deafening.

How could someone miss what they had never needed before?

What good was power, when she couldn’t even protect herself from a mere memory?

She closed her eyes, damning her own figure. Centuries of hunting, scheming, attacking, and yet all it took was one betrayal to crumble her down. Her chest heaved, and before she could stop herself, a sob clawed its way out of her throat, as if begging to finally be let free – something she could never be. It was raw, jagged, unfamiliar – a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. Her grief had welled up, transporting itself from her organs to her mouth, climbing the soundbox of her lips, and it finally bled. 

The flood was open.

Dark blue drops bruised her bedding, as if to shame her, drown her into her incompetence. Tears spilled over her lashes, unbidden, and the sky itself seemed to react, for the wind got stronger, smearing the windows of her room, the jalousies of her face.

No, no, no. 

This wasn’t her. This couldn’t be her.

The storm outside screamed as though mocking her, ridiculing her for behaving like a weak mortal whose heart had been broken, but her own grief was louder, more strident, intrusive, pushy as if to say - yes, I know, and I’m already punishing myself.

She tried to stifle the sound, dissect it with her fingers clamped over her mouth, but the battle had been lost long before it began. It couldn’t be buried, it was implanted. And so, the roots of pain grew over her figure, reaching her neck, and in a twisted way, it reminded her of the touch she so desperately wanted to forget.

Vyxaria wished she could turn it all off. She wasn’t supposed to feel in the first place, perhaps a curse disguised as a blessing. She was a soulless creature, mistress of the night, conquistador of men and women alike. So why, why did she now feel like a spider in the corner of someone’s room? Weaving, weaving, weaving till her fingers bled.

Feelings weren’t for her.

She was not for this world.

She wasn’t for her “home world”, either.

A Soulless creature who felt too much. Foreigner on earth, stranger at home. Everywhere she went, it wasn’t enough. She was rejected, as if her mere presence was a toxin nobody could withstand – too eager to be purged, buried, forgotten.

She wished she could reach into her stomach, cradle her bones and caress the spot where her body’s warmth had been cascaded with blood, warm blood, blood that had begun at her hips and ended at her head, where it ultimately stayed, festering the remains of the cavity of her ruin.

It was pathetic because all the times she had been hunted, she had assumed that one misstep would lead her into a trap. One day she’d be too slow, maybe she’d slip, perhaps she’d accidentally turn around and be hit right in the chest. It would be a scheme, a well thought plan, a step-by-step approach for her downfall. 

But alas, the world sneered at her, for it wasn’t strength, desire, fury or confusion that brought her down, but affection. 

Pure, unbridled affection.

She should have never let it into her chest, but she didn’t notice the way her guarded bridge opened itself for the closest thing she had to family. Her castle had crumbled overnight, both by the admission and the betrayal. It was nauseating, the kind of disease you cannot name. Maybe in fifty years humans would look at her, dichotomize her bones and blood, and classify it after her. ‘The plague of trusting’ – and so, she’d be immortalized as a weak, fragile creature whose sin had not been existing, but trusting.

Vyxaria pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the presence of the phantom wound. It lingered, and lingered, and lingered, braiding itself in the marrow of her being.

Pathetic. Truly fucking pathetic.

The name burned on her lips, seared through her arms and dissipated in her legs — for yes, the blade might have only plunged into her stomach, but it spread like a wildfire through the rivers and valleys of her body.

Perhaps this was the hell humans so ardently feared.

Fires of hell, daughter of seduction.

Maybe this was her home call.

Caught in the place that she had sneered for others.

A spider, suffocated by its own construction.

A knock broke through the storm’s howling, pulling her away from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, the sound reverberating in the small room, against the mournful rhythm of the rain. Even with tears on her face, she could feel annoyance. Of course, of course she wasn’t graced with silence when she needed it!

Another knock, this one softer, almost hesitant, tentative.

There was only one, who could treat even her door so softly.

Only one who had ever treated her so tenderly.

“Vyxaria?”

The voice was unmistakable — she could’ve written down the notes of his talking if she were to go deaf. It was accompanied by a warmth that didn’t belong in the cold chaos of her night, or the tempest of her mind.

Walter.

She didn’t answer. Her throat felt dry, and the thought of facing him — of being seen like this — was unbearable. But Walter was nothing if not persistent. The entrance door creaked open slowly, just enough for him to step inside.

“Vyx? The door was open. Are…are you here?” If the demon felt anything at the nickname, she didn’t show it. She quickly stood up, annoyance replacing her hurt. How dare he intrude? How dare he be here? But as she thought that, something else intruded her heart too. Blue warmth, the colour of his eyes.

She wouldn’t let that drown her too.

“Don’t come inside!” she yelled at him, now standing up in her room. She couldn’t risk him seeing her like that. She was a mess, both inside and outside. He couldn’t view the unravelling. It wasn’t meant for her body, nor his eyes.

“Vyxaria… I’m not going to leave unless I know you’re alright”, he whispered, as if trying to not intrude with his voice. Even then, he respected her space, as if it was some kind of human being. He was too nice for his own good, she thought with a slight grin. Maybe he had been right, maybe they should’ve just stayed out of each other’s orbits – she brought nothing but upheaval.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, as she left her bedroom. She was going to regret it, she could feel it in her bones. Her voice was shaky despite her attempt to sound biting. “Always needing to be the hero.” 

She finally reached the living room, where he stood. As soon as their gazes met, his softened, while hers hardened. She knew her eyes were probably red, she knew her hair was probably a mess, she knew but yet… she let him witness that. Her hair was falling like a curtain to shield her expression, but even in disguise, Walter knew her too well.

“Maybe,” he replied softly, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and slow. “But heroes don’t walk away when someone they care about is hurting.”

Her breath hitched, the word care ringing in her ears, unwanted but impossible to ignore. She clenched her fists tighter, her nails digging into her palms. What was she thinking? She couldn’t. She couldn’t let him in. What was care in the face of death? 

‘Care? Is that what this is? Your way to look better?’, she answered, trying her best to sound enraged. But she wasn't. She wanted him to feel it, to reject it, to reject her. But she never could do the opposite.

“You don’t get it,” she added sharply, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to sound composed. “You think you can just — what? Walk in here, say the right things, and fix this?” She laughed bitterly, her fists clenching. “This isn’t something you can fix, Walter. I’m not a cloth for you to iron and smooth over. I’m not a crease you can undo. I’m not a toy whose batteries have been drained. And you’d be foolish to think otherwise”

Walter flinched at her words, but he didn’t back away. Let the waves of her anger overtake him, he thought –  as long as she reached the shore of understanding. He clenched his hands, to stop himself from reaching for her. The action didn’t go unnoticed, making the demon’s hurt bleed even faster. Even then, he respected her choice, even if it tore him apart. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer despite her glare. “Whatever you think you’ve done—whatever’s tearing you up inside—”

“Stop!” she snapped, her voice rising as she took a step back, putting distance between them. Her legs hit the couch, but she didn’t care. She needed space, needed air, not whatever this was. “Don’t act like you know what this feels like. You don’t know what it’s like to be … betrayed by an embrace that turns into the gates of death. To be—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing the rest of the words out. “To lose the one thing you held onto. This world isn’t for me, Walter, and now I lost my only bridge to home. Or whatever that world was. I can barely call it home now, can I?”

His gaze softened, his iris moving in confusion, understanding, and fear all in one. He could see the same reflected into her own face. ‘This isn’t your f–’

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my fault. I let her in, Walter. I trusted her. I wanted to trust her. I let myself believe—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going. She might as well unlock the vault and let the contents spill. “I should have seen it coming. I should have known. Affection isn’t for creatures like me. I should have known better. That thing? That thing you clutch so desperately? It’s not in my chest. But for a moment it felt like it. And I liked it. I liked that feeling..”

“For a moment, I let myself forget I was a succubus. And now I feel anything but. Look at me!”, she almost screamed. His eyes had never left hers, but he knew what she meant. “I’m a mess. But I don’t break. I shouldn’t break. I’m the one who conquers, who breaks, who disturbs, who crumbles and separates — and now … now I’m this”, she spat out the last word, as if it was choking her.

Walter moved closer, step for step, till the distance between them was of arm reach. It wasn’t hesitation, far from it. He wanted nothing more than to extend his hand, let her face be caressed by his affection, to unravel the strings of the pain that chocked her and transform it into jewelry to be adored. He wasn’t here to challenge her or further rattle her — when, and if, she wanted to, she’d be the one to close the gravity between them.

He spoke again, "You think being unbreakable is strength, that it is something to admire and parade – and I can understand why! We were taught that, you and I. But even those stones that you admire in passing in the streets? They crack under pressure, Vyxaria. That doesn’t make them useless or futile, does it? And you — God, you're more than that. You are so much greater than the parts you’ve lost or feel like you’ve abandoned. So let yourself break if you must — because even in pieces, you'd be more whole than anyone I've ever known. You're not a simple  'this.' You're so much more."

The words hung, like roots on a wall, battling her, confusing her… comforting her, all at once. Vyxaria hated how they made her chest tighten. Hated the way his presence, calm and steady, made her want to crumble. She wanted him to leave, but she needed him to stay. To stay, stay as he was — stay with his ocean filled irises, his sweet smile that always reached his eyes around her with his shoulders that would slump when laughing, guards falling down as if to welcome the mistress of the fortress home.

“What do you think this is?”, she whispered, brows furrowing. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I want to be here for you” his arms were shaking as he raised them, as if to touch her face. And she let him. She finally let him. His touch met her skin, and waves of pain met the shore of tenderness, the moon’s somber light mingled with the gleam of elliptical celestial bodies. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for”, she muttered, leaning into his touch, even when her mind asked her not to. She felt his fingers move tentatively, as if not daring to break the moment, as if afraid of breaking her. 

“Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know how to undo it, I don’t know how to come up with words that can alleviate it. But I know you. And that’s enough for me”

Her breath hitched at the sincerity of his voice. They weren’t words that could be faked, no, not when his voice sounded like he had been hit himself by the dagger. And for once, she didn’t know what to say, how to retort, how to push him away, to change the situation in her favour.

And it terrified her.

Not because his touch hurt her, but because it didn’t.

The clouds lifted from the sky, and she finally crashed into him, shores welcomed home, at last. It felt like a magnetic pull, a thread pulling her closer and closer, and she followed it, she trusted it, she let it happen. Because it was him, it was Walter. Her arms found the back of his neck, his hands the dips of her waist, and they held each other as if lost in the sea, as if their gazes were the only lifeline available.

“I hate you”, she whispered, “No you don’t”, he replied with a smile that finally bloomed again. Winter unfurled, spring brought its suitcases and sat down. It felt like a promise, one she didn’t dare accept, but at the same time couldn’t fathom refusing. She traced the lines of his smile with her fingers, and he let her. He’d let her do anything, even destroy him, if she needed to. He’d drown in her sadness if it meant saving her from it. Not that she needed saving, that part was clear. Not a bayonet, not a spear — perhaps a shield, a crossbow. He could be that for her, if only she let him.

Her nails dug into his shirt, as if holding onto him could keep the flood contained, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and she was drowning in it, spilling the parts of herself she swore no one would ever see. Tears unraveled again, this time quicker, as if they knew they now had a vessel, something that would catch them. 

Walter simply held her closer. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t push her away, he didn’t grab her and scream at her for how pathetic it was. He simply stood there, held her as if the mere proximity could heal her panic, his hands circling the back of her neck, as if to soothe her. She hated how easy it was to fall, if he was there. She hated how easy she let herself crumble because in his eyes, she wasn’t a wrinkle. She hated how he was her truest undoing, and at the same time, the only shore she wanted. Her rusting armour fell, and instead of glaring at her scars, he held her. And she knew, deep down, that she didn’t hate it.

He pulled away only to be able to look at her, and before she could react, his lips pressed to her tears, as if they were bandages keeping the flood at rest. The world was in pieces, draining on the floor, bodies circling in the bleeding rain. But here, here she was at rest. In the final storm, what is there to do if not stay? Everything else drowned in the wreckage, but it was her whom he held onto. She was the only real thing. He simply caressed her face with his lips, as if to absorb the pain she couldn’t name. 

She didn’t push him away, instead she let him kiss away her pain. It was new, unfamiliar, and she didn’t know how to react. She was used to pushy hands, tore clothes, messy lips and selfish demands. She didn’t know what the procedure was for affection — perhaps he would have to teach her. But it didn’t matter, nothing did when he looked at her and wasn’t afraid of what he saw. The inundation slowly stopped, and he smiled at her — something crashed, clung, ached in her chest. His fingers softly wiped the remains of her pain, and with him, she could pretend it was never there — but for once, she didn’t want to. She wanted him to view her, not the artificial figure she put up. The rawness, the anger, the ugly and the messy — for his eyes only.

She searched her mind for things she could say, sentences that would explain what this meant for her, but instead she rushed out “… Well, were you that thirsty? I didn’t take you for a guy who liked salty things”. As soon as she did, she cringed at her attempt to let a joke break the tension she had created, but he looked at her and pure unbridled laughter broke from his throat. It wasn’t a polite, perhaps nervous chuckle or the forced sympathy filled grin she expected. It was the kind of laughter that rattled your body, that made you shake your head in disbelief, and your eyes light up. And she liked that, being the reason of his reaction. She liked being the cause of his eyes closing in joy, his hands rising to cover his face as he laughed and laughed. 

“Oh, Vyx…”, he replied, still laughing as he now held her even closer, “You’re lucky you’re not allergic to demons”, she added with a shrug, her hands reaching again for the back of his neck. She liked the position, she never wanted to be untangled again. 

“Vyxaria, not even an allergy could stop me from reaching out for you”, he continued with a smile that began on his face and ended in her eyes, as if the very essence of his joy ended in the vast depth of the affection on the stage of her face. It travelled from his hands to her legs, and there it reached for her chest. She didn’t know how to respond, not with words, so she simply leaned into him again, breathed in his scent, and smiled to herself. A pure, gentle smile. 

“You’re impossible”, she whispered against his shoulders with a grin she couldn’t veil.

“For you, I want to believe the opposite”, he admitted, holding her by the waist, as the sun finally turned to greet the two lovers. A little too late, she thought to herself, but she didn’t care, not when he held her Ike this. 

And perhaps, Vyxaria could never give him the kind of peace he desired — she didn’t even know how to, but perhaps, they could still be enough.

Maybe the sky would bleed again, and the sun would hide to worlds they couldn’t reach — but they could be more. Fire to warm, protect, guide. So fierce it could create a new dawn, just for them. So soft it would erect sanctuaries.

“Does it always feel this …empty?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She let the words find place on her tongue, and freedom in the space between them.

He didn’t answer at first, afraid his words might break the fragile stillness between them, so he simply held her tighter, lulled her. One day, he decided, he’d sing for her – the way his chest did when she touched him like this. He gently cupped her hand in his. His thumb traced the delicate curve of her knuckles, a silent promise he didn’t know how to voice. 

“No,” he murmured finally, his voice low and steady. “…not when you let someone stay.”

It wasn’t the grand confessions or fervent kisses she thought she would experience — it was more. The warmth of a hand that didn’t let go, the quiet strength of someone willing to hold her loneliness until it was no longer just hers. To be a vessel, a repository. To pull the strings of sadness of their chests, and make a sweater out of it to share.

Vyxaria and Walter both knew they weren’t perfect, and they might never be, but this was enough. It was enough to just exist, to be in each other’s orbit and let their hands find home in the dips, curves and heights of their bodies.

The rain outside stopped, windows finally shining again, and spring bloomed, fragile yet relentless. In the chest of the azul eyed merman and the succubus’s stirred soul, something new began to grow.

It wasn’t peace, but it was something more.

And it was enough.

It finally was enough.

[thequeerwizardcouncil]

We encourage acespec members to submit posts, whether they're PSAs, personal experience, advice, or whatever for Ace day

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[westbifire]

Theories!

Ok so my theories are based on the trailer were it calls the TS world a "decaying world". The game talks about human society dying, But hear me out! what if its referring to the world actually dying.

What if whatever Kuras did to mess up our world, never ended, and is slowly making the planet die (omg kinda like our world!).

Also maybe the Senobium closed their doors to research a solution for the world and/or keep it a secret if the world ending is not common knowledge. Which still makes them jerks.

I can't remember who made a post about this but i do think a big disaster will happen in Eridia. (Its literally called "The Last Bastion Of Humanity" the city's doomed).

Last thought but I have a suspicion Kuras had some play in the "reality split" from the beginning of the demo.

[seventeenlovesthree]

Digimon Writing Challenge - Mix and Match: Takeru + Gabumon + Light

[Yamato] [Takeru] [Hikari] [Sora] [Taichi] [Koushirou] [Mimi] [Jyou]

Summary: Takeru has committed himself to the task of getting his brother's lost Digimon partner back. But the course of events doesn't go as planned and the growing despair within him causes him to end up at an all too familiar place... [1st part to: Hikari]

Word count: 675

TW: Declining mental health, spoilers for "The Beginning", read at own risk!

„Not fair…“

The sound of waves breaking at the shore was quiet, weirdly distanced.

“It’s not fair…”

It was as if a tin wall was standing between him and the outside world, blocking him, muffling all noise.

“Not fair, not fair, not fair…!”

The outside world… Waves…

Takeru had never been here on his own account before. He dreaded it, despised it with every fiber of his being. Always had, always would.

And yet…

“Why did this have to happen…?!”

He tightly gripped the phone in his hand. He wasn’t even sure if it had been the reason that the gate had opened. Or if he had opened it himself. By sheer will. Or rather – sheer despair.

He had been looking for a clue, anything. Together with Koushirou, Miyako, Ken… There had to have been a reason, a cure, a sign.

They had promised each other to meet again. To always stay together.

He still saw their eyes. Taichi’s gloomy expression. Patamon’s teary glance.

Separated, always separated, never meant to be together…

‘It will be okay, Takeru! We will bring them back!’, Patamon had chimed through the tears.

Months had passed.

His brother still mourned quietly. By himself. All alone.

Like it had been before, years ago, all these years…

“Why does it have to repeat itself again and again…?!”, Takeru screamed towards the Dark Ocean as the foam of the wave licked at his feet.

He had been happy, hadn’t he? He still had his friends. His own partner. Whereas Yamato had nothing left.

Why couldn’t he make his brother smile? Why couldn’t they grow closer again? Why did he have to suffer, lose Gabumon, every possible link…?

“I couldn’t even call him before it happened…”

He still saw the golden particles whenever he closed his eyes. He saw it vanishing again and again and again.

They only glimpse of hope he had left, all in vain…

“Is this my punishment…?”, he pressed through gritted teeth, grinning bitterly, glaring at the darkness around him. “For trying so hard to find Gabumon for my brother…? For wanting my family to get back together…?!”

They had theorized about it. Maybe the Digimon had just ended up in a different world. Maybe if they had found a way to hop through the gates…

Now they didn’t have any digivice to reconnect anymore.

That was when the darkness, the frustration, the fear had swallowed him whole. Leaving Patamon, everyone behind. With no way of turning back. Sinking deeper and deeper, swallowed by the sand, the water, forcing his eyes to shut, drowning in his own thoughts…

If only he hadn’t let it overwhelm him, if only he had remained as positive as Daisuke; he had known how to encourage Rui to renew his partnership after all…

“Taichi-san… I’m so sorry…”

If only he had maintained his own childlike wonder, never fearing the threat of death and decay…

“Patamon… Please don’t leave me too…”

If only he knew how to turn the guilt and anger into something greater, something… Lighter.

“Nii-san… This cannot be the end… I won’t let it happen again…”

He couldn’t see anything as he sank even deeper, he just felt something swell inside of his chest – and something else poking into his side.

“Ts-… Tsunomon…?!”

His eyes snapped back open – was this a miracle? In the middle of hopelessness? How was this possible, was he dreaming, hallucinating? Had his wishes actually manifested as he had crossed a forbidden border, not ready to give in, unwilling to sacrifice everything they had worked for?

Without really feeling his limbs, Takeru tried to pull the small Digimon in closer, cradling its unconscious body against his own as much as he could.

He wouldn’t let go again, he wouldn’t lose, even if the tears were stinging in his eyes, even if the rest of his body – despite his heart hammering against his ribcage – felt completely numb…

“Hi-… Hikari-chan…”

There was a light and he would hold onto it, no matter at what cost. A warm, familiar light…

“… Takeru-kun!!!”

tbc...

[saiintvalentiine]

watos 100 days is so ts eliot's the waste land V what the thunder said. trust me on this

we who were living are now dying / with a little patience

who is the third that walks always beside you? / when i count, there are only you and i together / but when i look ahead up the white road / there is always another one walking beside you

in this decayed hole among the mountains / in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing / over the tumbled graves, about the chapel / there is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

i sat upon the shore / fishing, with the arid plain behind me / shall i at least set my lands in order? (god. this is just. wato as their towers and ken's outlook collapse and the landscape decays,)

OH ANON I COULD KISS YOU FOR BRINGING TS ELIOT TO MY INBOX................. YOU ARE SO RIGHT TOO.....................

may i sprinkle in a bit of Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley as well............ specifically the last five lines:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Wato does call themselves a king at some point if I remember right (though I cannot for the life of me tell you the timestamp rn) and their towers, along with Ken's, get decimated bit by bit by the endermen. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! but spawn is torn apart by the end, even the quarry gets covered up, and if left long enough, the towers and all their glory would be gone.

Also this ask reminded me of the third man syndrome!!!! straight from the wikipedia page:

Wato literally third man syndrome'd Wifies into existence........... I can't BELIEVE I forgot about this phenomenon b/c it is a perfect description of what happens in that video !!!

[kuliak]

Bass/chords are tELHARMONIC H output through Ikarie, then Data Bender (micro mode. DB is clocked, so changing repeats and time creates rhythmic changes throughout the piece. LFO into break CV further keeps the texture evolving. Flux and Centroid both have looping smooth random from Marbles.

Ping sounds are both Ts-L (sequenced by Bloom) with envelopes from Pam on euclidian rhythms. The PWM (receiving the same LFO as break CV) has a longer logarithmic hit, while the sub/square has an exponential decay. The piece starts with the latter at sub-2, but it's switched throughout to define parts of the piece. These switches are very exciting to me - they take the sound from percussive to a second "lead voice." Both of these are mixed into Yester Versio for further rhythmic emphasis.

[shitty-mechs-headcannons]

At one point, the crew got ahold of 20th century gangster movies, and there were multiple attempts to make each other sleep with the fishes, to varying success. Even with the concrete shoes the TS floated, and whatever brian is made out of messes with concrete setting. In an unrelated incident, Ashes got mistaken for a police chief on a planet that was like their home world, and some gangsters encased them in a spconcrete block that was used to make a building.

That's incredibly irresponsible, having a dead body decaying in a concrete block can lead to some serious structural issues!

-mod andy

[the-path-to-forever]

P.A.R.A-SITE DUMPING!!!

Another one of my silly OC stories!

P.A.R.A-SITE is where I put all of my Decaying Winter OCs! Just like how DW goes, these lil' goons are in a barren winter apocalypse and they're kinda just forced to survive. There's a lot of stuff going on though like the big megacorp Hivemind trying to take over or the fight going on with AXIS and The Sovereigns and stuff is always going to shit for them somehow-

The P.A.R.A in P.A.R.A-SITE stands for Pulverisation of All Reikgons uhhh......... I'LL THINK OF THE OTHER A ONE DAY-

This tale specifically follows a group of 19 people from all different factions! Some may be genuinely working together, maybe forced to be there due to circumstance, or maybe they have some ulterior motives but who knows!

These are all drawings composed from uhhhhhh grabs papers 2022 - now

Holy crap that's actually shorter than I thought...

OC CREDITS!!

Ann (Hive from picture 2!)

Sandy (my sister!) (TS from picture 2!!!)

[ghost-proofbaby]

I'm gonna cheat because I don't listen to TS but you know how much I love our pair from Maroon. can you tell us which of her newest songs you most associate with them right now. any tidbits you feel like sharing

^ it's me pleading for special treatment because I love you

abi babe i will always give you infinite special treatment always. however i apologize for how long this is because, uh, this is the couple who i specifically think dominates my brain while listening to TTPD.

i've already covered "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart", so that one 100%.

besides that, though...

Down Bad. the entire premise of the song being compared to being abducted by aliens and when you're returned to earth being like "actually i liked it better up there take me back" as a metaphor for love feels very much like when you had a good relationship, something you expected to last forever, and it just gets taken from you. however, to spice things up - i think it works better applied to how eddie feels. the whole 'fuck it if i can't have him' is exactly how he feels as he's completely destroying himself in the aftermath. and just for fun, so you don't necessarily have to listen to the songs if you don't feel like it my love, i'm adding the specific lines from each song that i feel apply the most.

"how dare you think it's romantic, to leave me safe and stranded? 'cause fuck it, i was in love. so fuck you, if i can't have us."

^ it applies to both reader/sugar and eddie. first half feels very her, because he left her behind to not risk exposing her to a life that had begun to decay him. but second half feels very him cause... fuck it, ya know?

So Long, London. this one is about just being sad and mad about the end of a relationship, and that's where both eddie and sugar still are mentally. to build something so sacred up only to watch it be burned down by the other person. sugar is far angrier than eddie, though, since she's not really taken the time to work through how she feels with the end of it all.

"i didn't opt in to be your odd man out. i founded the club she's heard great things about. i left all i knew, you left me at the house by the heath. i stopped cpr - after all, it's no use."

also.... honorable mentions to the entire goddamn bridge, but specifically "you swore that you loved me, but where were the clues?" and "i'm just mad as hell 'cause i loved this place for so long"

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can). it's a bit of a spoiler, and a bit of a reach, but i think it's a good perspective from the others looking in. the media, but also specifically corroded coffin. this really only applies to post break-up them story-wise, too. he's wrecked himself, destroyed all that he was, and sugar is the only one seeming capable of bringing him back to what he once was.

"i can fix him - no, really, i can. and only i can."

loml. i guess what i'm saying is basically every single song where taylor got very vulnerable and terribly sad about the end of an important/long relationship. this one speaks for itself quite a bit because of the theme of the guy saying "you're the love of my life" repeatedly, only to leave. which is exactly what eddie did, in the grand scheme of things. and taking it a step further? the small implications of a breakup and attempt at rekindling? yeah, yeah that's them alright, your honor.

"who's gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames, if we know the steps anyway?"

^ literally what they are doing as we speak ^

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived. this one i would mostly apply to all of sugar/reader's anger pre-reunion. that anger of a man who simply ghosts you. she didn't let herself feel the 'breakup' much, but she did go through some of the stages of grief - and she got stuck at anger.

"you kicked out stage lights, but you're still performing. and in plain sight, you hid. but you are what you did."

^ all his self-destruction when she sees it at surface level :) just seeing him as doing nothing more than throwing a tantrum :)

this is getting a bit out of hand now, but when it comes to the double album bit, there's even more. i don't want to bore you to death so i'm just going to list those songs but. yeah. this album felt very maroon coded to me. the losing and the anger and the sadness and the clinging to what once was. should've expected it, in all fairness.

from THE ANTHOLOGY, i'd say that 'the black dog', 'chloe or sam or sophia or marcus', 'how did it end?', 'i look in people's windows', 'the prophecy', 'peter', and 'the manuscript' are the ones that fit best for maroon. some are a stretch, some it's solely based off of one line that i couldn't get over, and some i just simply think it's the vibes. a true matter of the illness that is "they're my blurbos so i'll apply whatever song i want to them".

i'm sure we'll see a few of these as chapter titles going forward, including the anthology ones, so that'll probably be when i dig in a little deeper about specific lyrics. or when i post ominous music posts.

anyways if you made it to the end (especially you abi) i love you so fucking much and thank you for enjoying my absolutely insane ted talk i just basically did on how TTPD is very very sugar x eddie coded <3

[brooklynbutterflyarts]

Blade runner poster framed Molding:Professional 1" Flat Top Black (solid-wood) Matte: 100% acid free board, Print: Full Color dry mounted glossy print Glass is included, Comes Fully Assembled Ready For Your Wall The double mat adds depth giving the display a unique "looking through a window'' appearance. The calendar print is bonded to foam core on a hot vacuum press. This bonding gives the print a perfect flat and smooth texture. This process also insures the print will never fold or fade with age or moisture. This wonderful display makes a thoughtful and original gift containing a classic vintage touch yet modern design, allowing it to fit alongside both modern and classic decor. BUY WITH CONFIDENCE. ALL OF MY DELICATE ITEMS ARE SHIPPED WITH A SPECIAL 3 LAYER PROTECTION SYSTEM. Blade Runner is a 1982 science fiction film directed by Ridley Scott from a screenplay by Hampton Fancher and David Peoples.[7][8] Starring Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer, Sean Young, and Edward James Olmos, it is an adaptation of Philip K. Dick's 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? The film is set in a dystopian future Los Angeles of 2019, in which synthetic humans known as replicants are bio-engineered by the powerful Tyrell Corporation to work on space colonies. When a fugitive group of advanced replicants led by Roy Batty (Hauer) escapes back to Earth, burnt-out cop Rick Deckard (Ford) reluctantly agrees to hunt them down. Blade Runner initially underperformed in North American theaters and polarized critics; some praised its thematic complexity and visuals, while others critiqued its slow pacing and lack of action. The film's soundtrack, composed by Vangelis, was nominated in 1982 for a BAFTA and a Golden Globe as best original score. Blade Runner later became a cult film, and has since come to be regarded as one of the greatest science fiction films. Hailed for its production design depicting a high-tech but decaying future, the film is often regarded as both a leading example of neo-noir cinema and a foundational work of the cyberpunk[9] genre. It has influenced many science fiction films, video games, anime, and television series. It also brought the work of Dick to Hollywood's attention and led to several film adaptations of his works. In 1993, it was selected for preservation in the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress.

[semidailyshittyjohnkat]

Okay, first time doing a mod intro LETS GOO!!!

Hello, I'm bugs (2020 core ik) or Emilio! But I'll go as Mod terminallyScatterbrained (Or TS for short, so Mod TS.) I go by they/he prns and a few xenos! (Star/doll/rot/decay/zomb)

Im litwrally mituna captor IRL (actual serious drawings below!!!)

[thequeerwizardcouncil]

Attention Council Members!

We have a letter from wizard island's Blue Moon Ball, we urge you to hark the invitation. We've given you a duplicate to read here.

Let us enjoy the honour of the invitation, and remember to follow the rules as your actions are a representation of the Q.W.C.

Also we do know there are many council plans on delay, but don't worry they will be finished in due time

@skyethebisexualwolfwizard

@im-a-wizard-who-dont-crime

@thebutterflyoficeandwisteria

@bisexualchemistry

@sassy-piece-of-parsley

@flirtyambiguouswizard

@ballisticallytestedwensleydale

@the-moth-wizard-of-mayhem

@mayhem-moth

@aroace-wizard

@serious-tabaxi

@agentldiddy

@parkyrtheelvishbard

@autistic-dinos-and-dragons-lover

@a-goose-in-a-trenchcoat

@sapphicdragons-3

@transgender-wizard

@jhomikle

@cynical-artificer

@anne-androgynous-android

@asheslab

@luminethefoxincabin13-ts

@incrediwizard

@amethyst-aster

@ash-the-tiefling

@shittest-wizard-ever

@bi-gender-sorcerer

@somecallmekay

@be-gentle-with-littluns-2

@ladyofspoons

@slymewitchrp

@alchemical-overreaction

@frogpantsthebloodgod

@yourlocalbreadenthusiast

@mango-lord-of-poision

@detectivewizzard

@the-necrobotanist

@lixorloveslicorice

@hyper-lynx

@chaos-wizard-nyehehe

@song-de-lune

@lord-devere

@waluigis-elbow

@so-um-brasileiro

@distinctlyrevived

@dread-is-decaying

@wizard-ghost

@the-reluctant-princess

@ye-olde-ace

@wizardthesai

[cursedbluebird]

✧ harmonoia: an itchy sense of dread when life feels just a hint too peaceful, with an eerie stillness that makes you want to brace for the inevitable collapse, or burn it down yourself.

Post TS

Since returning to Garreg Mach, it would seem that there wasn't a moment for rest. She arrived with Hilda, to find bandits raiding the monastery and Claude and their mysteriously reappeared professor fighting them. There was a whirlwind of preparations after that, the monastery needed to be rebuilt and a war for the soul of Fodlan was raging.

But for the moment, there is quiet as she looks up into the stars over the cathedral. Perhaps the decay of the monastery wasn't all horrible, there was a beauty in the night sky that was now able to grace the sacred ground of the cathedral.

She feels selfish, sitting on the pews and staring up at the stars instead of helping. She should be preparing bandages or helping in the stables or writing letters to coordinate and ask for support from the nobles that had held out on picking a side.

She stays rooted to her spot.

She could be helping in the kitchen, gathering firewood, taking stock of what was left of their weapons, writing to Margrave Edmund for advice to convince what was left of the Kingdom to join with the Alliance against the Empire.

She stays rooted to her spot.

She tries to imagine if she could do what Edelgard did... Crests had never done her any favors after all... She wonders about what Dimitri must have felt in the moments before his execution. She thinks about what Claude could possibly be planning for the second, bloodier, Battle of the Eagle and the Lion. Though perhaps this time, without the Kingdom, it was the Battle of the Eagle and the Deer.

She should be helping prepare.

The dreaded voice of the crest scholar who had been harassing her at home makes the decision for her. "Excuse me, you are Marianne von Edmund?"

[mareastrorum]

WIP Wednesday: TF&TS (Bounties)

Here are two related scenes from early chapters of a longfic I am working on.

Fanfic Summary: Mollymauk Tealeaf survived the encounter with the Iron Shepherds, but a short time later, a spirit had begun hunting him, claiming that he stole his body. This Campaign 2 AU begins with Episode 26 and continues on from there.

This fanfic will be posted on AO3 starting hopefully by Friday 7/28.

3 FESSURAN 835 PD

“I have encountered some ‘inspiration’ to improve on my work. Acquire some specimens for me.”

The man picked up a slip of paper with scribbled notes. “How many?”

“An initial set of twenty will do for now. Ten thousand gold for living subjects. One thousand for remains. I anticipate that obtaining survivors will be implausible, considering their abilities. However, I will take any live ones you can find.”

“Is there a deadline?”

“Preferably as quickly as possible, though there is no particular end date. To encourage expediency, hint that the bounty will be reduced as more subjects are obtained.”

“Any other conditions?”

“Unspoiled. Deduct from the pay for lost limbs, severe damage, et cetera. Use your discretion.”

“Very well. I will get word out to the appropriate channels immediately.”

“Be sure to keep this anonymous. They are all dissidents, but with this new war, there is no need to risk further social upset. A quiet purge of the more heretical Julous remnants is best.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Find more on that one from today. He had a team as well—look into them, especially the Xhorhasian.”

“Yes, Archmage.”

* * *

17 CUERSAAR 835 PD

Bull wasps were such an interesting species. Other than the usual diet of pollen and fruit, the aggressive insects also hunted. In addition to spiders and insects, they used mandibles to cut into corpses and harvest flesh from within, feeding the next generation on the fallen. They had an uncanny memory for faces, recognizing their foes and attacking without hesitation.

However, bull wasps preferred live prey. An apt symbol for the Archmage of Dysology.

Master Doolan Tversky had lived nearly two-hundred years by now, and the clever gnome had never quite grown out of her enjoyment of pulling things apart. Tversky was responsible for researching arcane biological threats to the Empire. Biological weapons were rampant in the prior age, and her research into the monstrosities of Molaesmyr, Shattengrod, and Xhorhas ensured the safety of Western Wynandir.

At least, that was the explanation provided to the Crown so that its representatives would stop asking annoying questions when the Cerberus Assembly took steps to understand such magics.

And now, the Assembly had provided a project far more intriguing than mutated and extraplanar monsters. A domestic threat, long tolerated because of their usefulness in eradicating fiends, undead, and fey without cost to those in power. Simple, non-magical mortals capable of using their blood to evoke enchantments. How intriguing such a weapon would be in the Assembly’s hands. How dangerous it would be in the Crown’s. How profitable it would be in the Myriad’s.

How fortuitous it would be in Tversky’s.

The operating room was too crowded, but there was no helping it. They had to work quickly in light of the unnaturally rapid onset of postmortem decay. Dozens of assistants, dressed head to toe in medical gowns, face masks, and hair nets shifted about five tables busily, like wasps tending to their queen’s commands as they prepared the dead for processing.

Tversky stood atop a floating disk and looked down at the corpse before her. She began dictating while an enchanted quill rapidly took down notes. “The date is the 17th of Cuersaar, 835 post-divergence. Subject number 21 is an adolescent human, estimated fifteen years of age, approximately five-foot-four-inches tall, weight one-hundred-fifty-one pounds, no remarkable identifying features other than numerous inch-long scars on the right palm.”

The other teams called out their confirmation of the same scars on their subjects. One of the assistants was sketching the hand and scars in case the arrangement was relevant. Another inspecting the skin raised their hand.

“Master Tversky, there are small scars on the outside of each upper leg,” the woman noted. “They resemble hyper-pigmentation spots. Same position, each approximately equidistant from the hip and knee.”

“Subjects 5, 13, 20, 29: confirm,” Tversky droned as she moved to inspect the scars herself. It would have been easy to miss if they had not matched. Within seconds, four more voices replied to confirm their subjects shared the same marks.

“Subject 20 has similar marks on upper arms, also equidistant from shoulder and elbow,” a man called from another table in the operating theater. Without instruction, another voice confirmed the same for subject 29. Tversky checked the human before her; indeed, there were two matching scars on his arms. She made a verbal note, her quill dutifully recording.

“Subject 29 also has matching marks on hips,” a woman added. No one else confirmed. This human did not have that set either. Odd. The larger subjects had more marks.

Interesting.

“Gather records of control subjects of the same race and sex for comparison,” Tversky instructed. An aid standing by made a note and disappeared out of the operating theater. “The rest of you, I expect careful dissection of each section bearing those matching scars. Continue.”

The others droned in the background as the teams shifted around their subjects and dictated their own reports. Buzzing insects hovering as they collected information.

“Subject 21 was deceased upon arrival, reportedly due to resisting arrest…” Tversky continued narrating as she inspected the wounds. Severe contusions on a right broken arm—the blow of a blunt weapon. Burns on the face, likely from some magical attack. But the lethal strike had been a large laceration across the neck, severing major arteries, destroying the windpipe, and damaging the spine in a single strike. Bounty hunters were so indelicate with her subjects. Her assistants were much more adept at pulling the subject apart to understand them.

The pungent smell of rotten meat and sharp sweetness filled the air as they began to cut. The face masks hardly blocked anything, but there was no avoiding it. The work continued rapidly, a well-choreographed dance while voices hummed, flat and on numerous registers.

Limb by limb. Organ by organ. Piece by piece.

“Master Tversky, there appears to be no alterations to the blood,” a man called from behind.

Tversky frowned and shifted her hovering platform over to the machines behind the operating table. The assistant stepped back from an apparatus with a small monoscope aimed at a blood sample held before it. She looked through the lens and was disappointed to find normal cells magnified in her view. Nothing strange about the blood. No altered structure. No unexpected developments. No arcane glow. No hint of magical taint.

That couldn’t be right. How could these cultists use blood as a component for magical enchantments if the blood itself did not carry any power? Perhaps the blood itself was not the source of the magic, but merely a conduit. Or perhaps the effect only lingered while the subjects lived. Could the act of sacrifice have meaning? There was only one school of magic that operated on such rules.

Necromancy.

To think the Assembly had allowed the Claret Orders to operate within the Empire for so long, and this was what they had been up to. The Martinet would want to hear of this. Such power could not be trusted outside the Assembly’s control.

Tversky looked back at the dissected corpses, each attended by several assistants who were carefully cataloguing their findings. A dragonborn, two humans, a gnome, and a dwarf, so it was not specific to race. These particular subjects were seen casting spells, but others were not. So far, she had categorized them into four potential groups, and they all could invoke those weapon enchantments, so that had nothing to do with their other magical capabilities.

Even more confounding: most had been carrying marks or talismans of the Raven Queen. That goddess abhorred necromancy—rather, so the clergy claimed. Could it be that perhaps these cultists were intentionally offending her? Or was it that the common understanding of her followers was subterfuge?

Perhaps those ties should be confirmed before informing the Martinet. After all, he had a habit of disproportionately weighing theories of the gods’ machinations. Tversky preferred to follow clues to their logical conclusions. At least, at first.

Tversky waved her quill over and used it to begin scribbling notes by hand. Even if the blood itself was not magically imbued, there was some significance to the spellcasting. The Orders called themselves “blood hunters” after all. She would need to test it properly to establish what sort of component it was. Perhaps infusing test subjects with the blood would yield something interesting. She rapidly wrote a note for her subordinates, which folded into a wasp and flew out the door.

What else? Those short-sighted Cobalt Soul idiots could be sitting on something useful. They were close-minded morons, but they were still adept at hoarding niche information. Tversky’s subordinates would not be able to access any of it because of the organization’s ridiculous ban. She scribbled another note to Baroness Iresor, the paper rapidly transforming and on its way. That young woman was lazy and distractable, but she had a knack for getting information that was otherwise off limits.

“We are ready to proceed, Master Tversky,” one of the aids called.

Tversky sighed. Right. Next were the bones. She returned to her position by the subject, now carved open with several assistants recording their own notes by dictation as they readied their instruments.

“Proceed, then,” Tversky instructed. The sound of snaps and cracks soon filled the air as needles and blades carved into the remains.

Those cretins had better find a live subject soon. Tversky was bored already.