#tw: macabre Jim

[kingofthewebxxx]

Jim couldn’t help but laugh yet again, if this was indeed what the universe had in mind then it was a lot more twisted than he even thought. He had seen the darkest of human behaviour and some supernatural too, and yet it had not scared him, nor had he lost any sleep over it. Quite the opposite, in fact, it was one of the only things that held some spark of interest for the criminal consultant. He lived for the darkness, perhaps serving it to some extent, yet he was more content using it for his own ends and bringing others into its service than anything else. His favourite ones to corrupt were those who originally thought they had the purest of hearts and ignored the truth, that deep down just like everyone else, they had a dark side. “What can I say? Even the cosmos loves a piece of me, they all do, I’m so shocked I wouldn’t make a good servant, oh what ever shall I do, should I get down on my knees and beg? That’s what some of them do when I say they aren’t the bill.”

Change? How interesting, yet that did leave a few mysteries and several unanswered questions that he wanted to receive answers to in a more fun and creative way, for him at least, he wasn’t quite sure how the other would react but it didn’t particularly bother him, the unpredictability made him put more effort into the conversation. “Inevitable? I do wonder if your influence is truly inevitable or if it’s one of those words people use to justify their actions, not that I’m one to judge or anything. You seem to know me so well already! Did you do a little bit of research before you decided to pay me a visit? I do hope whoever your source was at least got some of the details right, people these days, some of the things they believe are hilarious” he said with a chuckle and a small glint in his playful but cold eyes. Watching the little show with the waitress he thought it was too lenient almost, it had a spark of creativity but it wasn’t macabre enough to satisfy him. Well perhaps he could change that, deciding to play a little game of his own he turned in his seat ever so slightly to be able to look at the man opposite him easier.

Focusing intensely, looking directly into his eyes he imagined a rather unsettling image. The waitress that had just served Tristan, now left outside of the vampires home completely drained, except all of it wasn’t gone, instead stored in several bottles in a rather lavish-looking case next to the poor corpse. Sending it from his mind into the general direction of the other with a few darker thoughts attached he then decided to act as if nothing had happened, challenging the other not just to see if he would pick up on it, but also to see what he would say if anything. His reaction could tell him many things that most others would never think of seeking the answers to. Relaxing his gaze and slumping his shoulders ever so slightly and took the vampire’s hand in a firm grip. “Vous semblez avoir perdu votre accent, ou n'est-ce pas le cas ? S'il vous plaît appelez-moi Jim, je suis plus relatable avec un nom plus commun et en plus, nous ne nous connaissons pas encore assez pour être plus personnels. Est-ce que je vous appelle Tristan ou Monsieur De Martel ?” he said in a rather fluent French accent, before switching back to his usual with seemingly no effort on his part. “If you don’t tell me I’ll have to find a nickname for you, and I’m sure neither of us wants that.”

@lordofthestrix

"I see. The cosmos was showing a poisonous sense of humor when it included the dubious gift of submerging yourself into the secluded lakes of other minds within your repertoire." Not that Tristan couldn't appreciate a tragedy in exorbitance and excess. He seemed pleasantly intrigued by his sagacious performance without that skill. "More or less adequately surmised. Although your hubris might be tainting your assumptions regarding my intentions. Remarkable as your wits and guile may be, it is my heartbreaking burden to inform you that you don't appear to show the qualities I seek in a servant." Tristan returned the implicit appearance of a dark smirk. "As for more crystalline introductions. Let's say that if you are Crime, a shrouded web of thrilling trespassing and horrors, then that would make me...Change." His hand beckoned away from the other with the ease of someone who would look at the universe as his personal orchestra. "I'm the invisible, inevitable pressure that alters the way history’s blood flows. Not entirely unlike your lurking silhouette insinuated amid daring crime scenes, my shadow looms over rousing chapters that saw this world bathed in flame in order to make room for new excitements in the endless dance. Mind you, I also oversee the majesty of eras starring peace and contentment but one must know his audience and my own deductions guide me to believe you would find those slightly more tedious." He addressed the waitress his arm summoned with illegible diversion. "An espresso, if you are so kind." Tristan gave a casual glance at the employee in a manner reminiscent to the examination of a carte. The drawling voice remained just as unperturbed when he captured her gaze. "You are going to have a small; confidential mishap with my order and a knife. Make a shallow cut to your palm and let a splash bleed in my coffee for flavor. Oh and don't be too bothered, my dear. The day will have its moments as well. I can be an exceedingly generous tipper." He dismissed with cordial gallantly. The hand that called for the waitress was now offered to him. Waiting in obscure and unreadable invitation. "My name is Tristan de Martel. My pleasure."

[callofthemacabre]

Nov. 18, 1978: 

Whether it was willingly or by force, the Jonestown followers drank the flavor-aid laced with cyanide. In total -- 918 people died.

Nov. 23, 1978:

As the U.S. military was the only organization that had the means to transfer the bodies back to their loved ones in the States, the military went, loaded with body bags and transport containers to the site.  

Due to the Guyana heat and humidity, the bodies had already begun decomposing by the time they arrived five days later.  The bodies were bloated, so no attempt was made to identify them at the time of the gathering. There were many times that the Task Force would lift the bodies, only to have an arm or leg separate from the corpse, making the process much more difficult. 

Many had to be scooped up with snow shovels as well because they had begun melting into the ground. Then, to make matters even more distressing, many bodies would leak through the body bags, as the skin of many corpses had begun falling off -- this would cover the bodies of those on the Task Force who were lifting them onto helicopters.

The smell, which was deemed medically unsafe, was so pungent that the Task Force personnel had to burn their clothing on the runway at the end of the mission -- a mission that left much of the Force with severe PTSD of what they witnessed in the Guyanese jungle those few days. 

[emachinescat]

Evil Things in Robes of Sorrow

A Tales of Arcadia: Trollhunters Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 1 - mind control

Summary: It’s funny - being a troll, the son of Kanjigar, Draal has hurt many people throughout his long, long life. But there is a big difference in hurting someone of your own free will and being forced to hurt your friends.

Characters: Draal, Jim Lake, Jr.

Words: 929

TW: Canonical Character Death

Keep reading here or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging!

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch’s high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn! - or never morrow

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

- From “The Haunted Palace” by Edgar Allan Poe

As a troll, Draal has seen his fair share of violence throughout the centuries - much of it done by his own hands. He’s no stranger to bloodshed; in fact, it has fueled him through some of his darker days. And yet - there’s something very different about choosing to attack someone, regardless of your reasons for doing so, and being forced to hurt someone you care about against your will.

Normally Draal isn’t one for contemplation or reflection - he is a troll of action, just like his father was. But now, all he can do is reflect, as a tiny corner of his mind is all he has left. It’s dark and cramped with this malevolent, oppressive force bearing down upon his will from all sides, and as much as he tries to fight it, Gunmar’s hold is too strong.

And now he is forced to watch, through eyes that once were his, as the entity controlling his body attacks the human boy who somehow has became his friend. It isn’t the first time he has tried to kill the human Trollhunter, but the last time he’d been grieving his father and angry at the injustice of the amulet going to another, a human. In retrospect, Draal has never been so glad to have lost a fight. James Lake, Jr. has become one of his closest friends and allies against the forces that threaten troll-kind.

He can feel everything; that is the worst of it. He can feel his hand curl around the human’s armor-clad, but still feeble, body, can feel the muscles hefting the struggling form off of the ground and the impact of Jim smashing into a set of lockers. Jim bounces off and slides across the floor, his armor scraping against the tile shrilly. His sword skids away from him, down the hall, and for a terrible moment, he doesn’t move. The demon inside of Draal smiles.

From inside his prison, Draal calls out desperately, but the words won’t touch his lips. They only echo back, unheard by the one person who needs them most: Get up, fleshbag! WAKE UP!

As Draal’s body advances, the Trollhunter stirs. Relief fills Draal, but so does apprehension. The fight is far from over, and Jim is outmatched - if only he’d fight back, he would have a decent chance!

That is another thing that makes this so agonizing for Draal to watch - while his body goes berserk, attacking the Trollhunter - a betrayal, unwitting or not, of the highest order - James Lake, Jr. refuses to fight back.

His voice, so puny and human, pinched in pain, might as well be coming from the mouth of a giant when he shouts, “I will not hurt my friend!”

He dodges the attacks that he can, and blocks those he can’t, and when there are ones he cannot block, he grunts in pain, soaring into walls and lockers and doorways, crashing into the floor. Draal feels the power of every connected hit and it kills him.

“Please, Draal!” Jim cries, dodging another attack. “It’s me - Jim! Your friend! You’re stronger than this - please, remember!”

Draal longs to scream back at him that he does remember, that he never forgot what he and Claire and the orange one and even Blinky and Aaarrrgghh have come to mean to him, and that he’s trying to fight it - by Deya, he is trying! But remembering means nothing in the dark hole he’s in, because remembering can’t get Gunmar out, can’t give him back control of his body.

Fight back, Trollhunter! he urges, and his pleas resound uselessly. You have to end this - save yourself and your friends. FIGHT BACK!

Deep inside, he knows the Trollhunter will not fight to kill, or even injure, no matter what. Even if he somehow survives to not-fight another day, his loyalty to Draal will surely kill him eventually.

As hard as it is to watch himself hurt his friend, to feel every crushing grip and pounding blow, Draal fears that the worst is yet to come. Self-hatred courses through what is left of him as he realizes that he is going to, sooner or later, feel the Trollhunter’s small human form break in his hands, see him dead at his feet, and hear celebratory laughter from his own mouth at the grotesque spectacle.

It is then that Draal retreats into himself, turning away from the macabre scene that is sure to come, giving that last inch of space to the darkness and allowing himself to be swallowed by the pain and self-loathing.

When he does finally resurface, he’s surprised to find himself free of Gunmar’s hold and the Trollhunter miraculously alive, and when the time comes to give his life to save that of his friend, he finds he isn’t doing it out of guilt or anger at himself for his failure - it is because of the happiness he felt upon seeing Jim somehow still alive. Even if it means losing his own life, it’s worth it to keep his Trollhunter alive for even a little bit longer.

Darkness isn’t always a bad thing, he reflects as the stone creeps across his body. Sometimes it is like a welcoming embrace, the peace of a job well done.

He smiles.

[academla]

So I have to dash to my PTK social but I also gotta start on my Jonestown social psych assignment (which I didn’t know about til yesterday) and I could still use your help if you are familiar with it/feel like watching the video!

Here are the questions:

What was Jim Jones’ target audience?

What were the key techniques he employed?

How can we use social psychology more generally to explain the tragedy of Jonestown and the People’s Temple?

Here’s the 1:24 long video with TW for suicide (it’s rather macabre, if you’re familiar with it, but otherwise interesting).

That’s it! Feel free to IM me on here or email me at ecb327@gmail.com if you’d like to help. Basically, I don’t have time to rewatch the video, and this has been hell week (hanging in there, but running constantly behind and I was up til 2 am and today’s test was a nightmare and I have a paper due tomorrow and had a test on Tuesday and paperwork due), so I appreciate anyone who can help guide me in the right direction and explain. I have a pretty good grasp but I want to double check that I’m on the right track.