#unheard of and uncalled for

[joniemagnum]

people really just walk into horror movies and expect them not to deal with uncomfortable things despite the genre being dedicated to discomfort.

i saw so many people complain that lisa frankenstein, a movie where one of the leads is famously a rotting corpse, was too gross for them. when i walked out of nosferatu, i heard people say that the nudity was uncalled for... in a vampire film. nudity? in MY gothic horror?! unheard of!

a LOT of people really need to accept that maybe some genres just aren't to their taste, idk. not every movie needs to be cookie-cutter clean. sexuality is a staple of gothic horror, if not the wider genre horror in General. you don't need to enjoy it, but it doesn't make these things uncalled for.

[toournextadventure]

everyone but her pt.45

Summary: Wednesday has no idea where you ran off to after your little argument. What she finds is nothing short of horrific.

Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: swearing, delusions, fairly graphic violence, murder, consequences of dismemberment Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (Masterlist)

It had been an entire night since you had left the apartment, and Wednesday still hadn’t heard from you.

Not that she was entirely surprised considering you had forgotten your phone on the kitchen counter. But you had always come back. There were nights you had vanished for hours, but you always came back. She couldn’t recall a night you had left the apartment and not come back, or at least warned her of your prolonged disappearance.

The nature of your disappearance was also a concerning factor. Wednesday was never really one to put the blame onto someone else, nor to deny her own fault when necessary. In all fairness, your reaction to discovering her visions wasn’t entirely uncalled for, aside from one simple fact.

She had genuinely believed you were aware of her ability.

You were correct; after so long, how had you not known? Yet everyone else had known of her visions. They hadn’t necessarily confronted her about it, but they had known. Was it truly so wrong for her to have assumed you had known as well? Would it have been so far-fetched for her to believe you had known of her visions and simply hadn’t felt the need to bring it up?

No, she didn’t fault you for your reaction, but she couldn’t ignore the hurt you had caused. It was no comparison to your own, considering you were under the impression everyone had lied to you. But she didn’t find it enjoyable to be accused of such a thing when it had never been her intention. She had never wanted to lie to you, not even from the beginning. There was no chance she ever would have told you, of course, but it didn’t change the fact.

And now you were, for all intents and purposes, missing.

Wednesday tried to be patient once morning came around. An entire night of silence was unusual, but she supposed you had had an argument. While she certainly hadn’t used the time to reflect and grow angry (instead moping around and feeling sorry for herself, which was a foreign feeling), you most likely had. It was forgiven, of course, and all you needed to do was come back home so you could both move on.

When midday rolled around, her patience was waning. What could you be doing that would have you gone for so long? Surely there was nothing more important than coming back home, correct? So why were you still absent? She knew she had upset you, she was well aware, but that didn’t mean you needed to run away like a petulant child.

As the sun started to set, and the main room of the apartment dimmed with the light, Wednesday fell victim to the worry she had shoved down after your vanishing act. You were nearing 24 hours of being gone; something entirely unheard of. Preposterous even. And you had proven time and time again that you were capable of keeping yourself alive (by questionable means on occasion), but she wouldn’t deny the reality of the world.

Something was out to get you.

It had been very much in character for Wednesday to hide things from the friend group in the past. Since you had come around, any and all secrets had been laid bare and, as disgusting as the truth was, she had been open with everyone. But it never occurred to her to inform someone that you were still gone, or that you had even left at all. Eugene was still in hospital, Enid was mostly recovered but still terrified, and Ash was most likely being fussed over by Bianca for having shot something. How could she burden them with something that in all actuality was an overactive imagination.

Oh no. She was openly considerate. How very well dare you.

Consideration for her friends aside (she could hear your teasing now; “Friends? I knew you liked them”), she wasn’t sure what to do. Should she wait for you? After the current amount of waiting, the thought of continuing that course left her feeling empty and hopeless. Her brain ran through countless options, none of which helped her current predicament.

Not that any plans would have mattered too much considering she was still missing a vital piece of information.

She mentally rattled off the list of locations you could have frequented. The floor was worn in the place you normally paced, and Wednesday was doing her best to leave her own wear and tear. Pacing always seemed to help you think, so perhaps it actually worked. Her boots were loud against the wooden floor; so very different from the haunting silence of your own steps.

The longer she paced, the more frustrated she became. Nothing was coming to light and she didn’t know what else to do. The pacing was useless. Sitting and waiting was worse than a waste of time. A roil of emotion bubbled up in her stomach as she stormed off and grabbed your phone-

-the forest was gone, instead replaced by a house that she could recognise even from her single visit. Wednesday had never been downstairs in your parents house, instead only exploring a few rooms upstairs when she came with you, but she recognised the tile.

The image flew from her mind as quickly as it appeared, but it was all she needed. Without warning or hesitation, Wednesday all but ran out of the apartment (just as she had the night before). It had never occurred to her to tell anyone; to let anyone know that she was leaving. Or that you had disappeared after the woods fiasco the previous night. Or even that she had been so inadequate that she had forgotten to tell you such an important aspect of her life.

It was a decently lengthy trip to get down to DC. Thanks to you, however, Wednesday was incredibly well versed in using the bus to get to her destination. A talent that she was surprisingly proud of. If anyone had told young Wednesday Addams that she would be proficient in using public transportation, she never would have believed them.

It was as if she had simply blinked and ended up in front of the door to your parents’ house. The startlingly white wood was a sharp contrast to the overly large and intricate brass knockers hung high in the middle. In another time, she would have possibly taken the time to admire the decoration. After all, the craftsmanship of the piece was worthy of the Addams family name (almost).

The metal was cool against her palm as she swung the heavy knocker against the solid doors. The sounds they created resonated both inside the house and outside, leaving an increasingly satisfying hum through the air. Behind the door, underneath the deep bass of the knockers, footsteps slowly stomped their way closer. The door opened, and the blinding light grew from the now-open doorway.

Wednesday felt her heart stutter.

“Hey, Willa,” you said in a raspy voice.

A stunning array of blood trailed across your face. Strands of hair were loose, hanging limp and heavy with the dried sticky mess. The Addams ring faded into the thick coating on your hands, ending around the middle of your forearms. She couldn’t remember the exact clothes you had been wearing when you had left, but this? It was nothing more than a mangled, somehow both stiff and wet mess of cloth.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you said. Your smile was a stark contrast to the blood splattered across your skin. A few splashes dotted your teeth.

“I-” the words caught in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say. She settled on, “You vanished.” The words clawed their way past the lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry, mi amore,” you answered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Blood smeared across the startling white wood. “I forgot my phone.”

She nodded. Your body was lax; exponentially more than… well, than almost the entire time she had known of your very existence. Wet and sticky hands were tucked carelessly into pockets. If your eyes had been any more hooded, she would have assumed you were asleep where you stood. Each and every laugh line on your face was gone.

Your eyes didn’t glow.

“I came to bring you home,” Wednesday said softly. Always soft; only for you.

The corner of your mouth ticked upward. “Stay for dinner,” you said as you reached out for her hand. Your fingers were slick. “We can go home after.”

Inside the house was silent; Wednesday didn’t need to step foot past the entryway to notice. Your parents were rather selective in their words and actions, but it was nonsensical that they would be so incredibly quiet. The abnormal fact of your presence should have exacerbated the reaction, not enforced it. You remained in the doorway.

“Please?” You asked in a voice so soft, Wednesday wasn’t sure the word had come from your mouth. And how could she possibly say no?

She took your hand; it was cold, and she felt dirty. You squeezed once, and the ring you placed on her finger lightly pressed into her skin. Behind her, your leg stretched backwards, pushing the door closed with an eerie click of the lock. The only thing she could hear was the rumble of the aircon hidden in the elevated ceilings.

Wednesday felt a light tug on her hand, and she veered sideways until she was all but leaning into you. Seemingly on instinct, your wing moved to cover her. Motes of dust sifted down and fell on her nose. She did her best not to sneeze.

“I need a little help with dinner,” you said, “but then we can eat.”

You pulled her past what she assumed was the dining room. Her eyes were drawn to a small patch of discoloured wood outlining the doorway. A barely noticeable spot, but when caught in just the right light, it was obvious. As if someone had grabbed a paint brush, dipped it in the colour closest to the doorway but not quite exactly, wrung most of the paint out, and dragged the brush across the fine grain of the wood.

You didn’t let her dwell on it.

She didn’t believe she had ever been to the kitchen in your parents’ house, which wasn’t saying much considering she had hardly been to your parents’ house. It looked vintage (not the real vintage, simply a cheap imitation), but was, unsurprisingly, as blindingly white as the rest of the house. Each and every appliance, from the things brought out of the drawers to the range hood over the stove, was an obnoxiously shiny silver. It was as if it had never been used, aside from the dishes currently cooking.

“Give me just a minute,” you said, leaning down and placing a sticky kiss on her cheek before walking over to the pan on the stove.

She wondered if her skin now sported a dark red lip stain.

“They’re behaving tonight,” you said. You didn’t turn around, and Wednesday slowly moved from where you had left her.

She walked toward the island in the middle of the room; a stunning marble that was surprisingly the only good thing in the entirety of the house. It was a mess; littered with cutting boards and various remnants of whatever ingredients you had been using. On the corner closest to her, she noticed a few drops of red that appeared to have been hastily cleaned.

“Obviously dad and I aren’t good,” you continued to talk, “but he didn’t call the cops on me, so.” A shrug. “That’s a win.”

You continued to stir, and Wednesday continued to move so slowly you would never notice. Or you shouldn’t have. On her third step closer to the fridge, you turned your head. Your gaze alone was enough to nail her to the spot, cementing her bones together until she was stiff; far too reminiscent of death itself.

“Can you grab the salad?” You asked with a polite smile. “I’m almost done.”

Say something, Wednesday thought. Even a single word is better than this silence. But she couldn’t. No word, no noise, not even a breath left her mouth. You didn’t seem to notice. You turned back to the stove and kept stirring, and talking, and Wednesday didn’t hear a word of it. She simply continued to the fridge.

Her own hand covered the bloody print on the handle as she pulled it open. It was cold and dry, she had no fear of it sticking to the palms of her hands. Not like what had remained on your own skin. Inside the fridge was entirely unremarkable. The salad - which looked rather delicious, she would admit - was front and center on the middle shelf. The glass bowl was cold as she grabbed it, and the door shut with a satisfying hiss before she placed the bowl on the island.

“It’s just nice to be together again, you know?” You said, and Wednesday remembered she hadn’t heard a single word you had said. “Like a family.”

Wednesday’s finger tapped on the glass. “What of Momma and Pop?” She asked. Your stirring slowed. “What of the ones who raised you?”

The stirring came to a horrifying stop. Her eyes were glued to the back of your head, then your cheek, then your eyes. Those eyes which she would know so deeply within her soul, she could pick them out in all of heaven or hell. Eyes that had been dull and unassuming to the occasional passerby, but that had sent a chill down her spine. Eyes that were glowing once again like they should have been.

“Of course they’re family,” you said in a tone much more like yourself. A tone Wednesday had fallen for. “They’ve always been my family.” Your eerily cheery faux disposition had all but vanished as you looked at her. She saw you.

And just like that, you blinked and the glow faded back into a dull imitation of yourself. You didn’t smile, not exactly, but the worry that had momentarily etched itself into your forehead had been erased. You looked calm. Far too calm for the amount of blood covering your skin.

“We should go see them later,” you said. Your shoulders lifted dramatically before falling with a silent exhale. “I think this is done.” You glanced at her over your shoulder briefly. “Give me one sec and we’ll go to the dining room.”

The dining table was huge, accentuated by the measly five plates that sat around the perimeter of the stunning wood. Only five. Two seats were empty, and two more were filled with sights that Wednesday didn’t think she could have imagined even in her most demented nightmares. In the fifth seat, Wednesday saw the near-perfect reflection of herself.

Dread crept through her veins. She had told you the night before that her visions weren’t fact; that was true. There had been numerous times she had been outright wrong in her visions. After all, one of those visions had seen you remaining little more than an acquaintance. It had been horrifically, wonderfully wrong.

But some of them were accurate.

“Alright, let’s go,” you said. You were already holding the sides in separate dishes, one in each hand. “And don’t forget the salad.”

You walked before her without looking back to ensure she was following. That was wrong. Nonetheless, Wednesday grabbed the faintly condensation-covered bowl and followed your eerily silent footsteps. Her eyes remained glued to your feet; they were bare.

“Our first family dinner,” you said softly as you disappeared into the dining room. “This is gonna be great.”

Wednesday turned the corner.

Instinct should have relaxed her grip on the glass, allowing it to slip through her fingers to crash to the floor. Her pulse skyrocketed. A single bead of sweat tickled her neck as it rolled down her skin. The glass warmed under her touch, but it didn’t drop.

“You can set the salad by mom,” you said with a soft smile.

That was the last place she wanted to set the bowl. The sight itself was worse than her vision could have ever created. You stepped in a puddle on the way to the other side of the table, leaving sticky footprints in your wake. Horror crept up her throat when you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the gaunt, hollowed-out cheek of your mother. It hadn’t been long since Wednesday had seen your mother last; warm, professionally animated, cautiously talkative.

Alive.

Wednesday was a cold person. It was how she had been born and how she lived. If she had to put it into words, she would say it was an Addams family gift. The ability to face the weather head-on without the slightest fear of having to wear something other than the usual Addams gothic fashion. She was very well aware of the fact that the rest of the population was nowhere near as blessed as they were.

Your mother looked as cold as an Addams.

“I remember your last words to her were,” Wednesday exhaled shakily as she struggled to turn away, “unkind.”

“Well yeah,” you said with a nervous laugh, “they were.” You readjusted your jaw. “But we actually talked it over, so.” A simple shrug and smile. “We’re good now.”

The smell reached her senses when she was close enough to set the glass on the table with a subtle *clink*. Not quite nauseating, but well on its way. Cold, dark, empty eyes stared at her. That horror clawed its way higher again. Her stomach twisted into knots as realisation dawned on what they looked like. Or who they looked like.

“You can sit by mom,” you said with a far-too-cheery disposition. “You haven’t really met dad yet so I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Your father was… arguably in worse shape than your mother. Or, she supposed she should say: she’d rather face your mother if given the chance. His new fleshy wings were a grotesque imitation of yours. As if they could hear her, your wings twitched before you situated yourself in the seat directly opposite her.

Wednesday lowered herself into the chair. It was sticky.

“Where’s Mabel?” Wednesday asked. The kind-faced maid had been on her mind from the moment she had entered the dining room. Accompanied by inhumane levels of dread.

“I sent her home,” you said with a shrug. “She should get to see her son too.” Your eyes glowed for a second; one blink and it was gone. She almost missed it.

Something creaked. You didn’t move, but Wednesday’s eyes flew to the side. She could still see your mother (and attempted to keep the nausea at bay at the sight), but she was drawn to the picture frame at the end of the table. A picture of Nicky, young and happy with a smile that was an exact copy of yours. His picture frame, at the very head of the table, was all she needed to see to know your mental state.

You sighed, and slowly she turned to look at you once again. There was a serenity on your face as you looked around the table, stopping on every person before settling on her. There, surrounded by the unsettling corpses of your birth family, you looked at peace. The faintest glow was behind your dull eyes and almost, just almost, you were what Wednesday would consider happy.

The realisation crashed upon her like a burning house.

“Would you like some wine?” You asked, pulling Wednesday back from the cliff of her thoughts. “Dad got some of the good bottles from the cellar.”

The blood on your hands had long since dried. Each movement as you reached across the table to grab an unopened bottle (a good vintage indeed) resulted in the dried mess flaking off piece by piece. The smallest piece lodged itself into the ring on your finger.

Wednesday shook her head in the negative.

“Expensive wine is kind of gross,” you said as you finished pouring the liquid into your father’s glass and set it back on the table. “I guess I never developed the taste for it.”

You kept talking. To your father, your mother, Nicky’s picture. Pausing for appropriate amounts of time before continuing the conversation. That little worry line between your brows that was so prominent on weekends or evenings after not talking with your family was erased as if it had never been there in the first place. Looking at you alone, she could see the vision.

“Wednesday?”

She blinked once. You were looking at her with the slightest tilt of your head and the dullest eyes she had ever seen. They stared into her soul, searching for something she couldn’t comprehend. The usual abrupt flow of warmth she got from looking at you was terrifyingly absent.

The nausea grew with the smell wafting in her direction. 

“Nicky asked you a question,” you said.

She had heard no question. Of course she hadn’t, it was simply a picture in a frame. His hospital gown was almost entirely out of frame, but if you knew what to look for it was obvious. His eyes were closed; they hadn’t been open in a decade. You were looking at the frame as if he was sitting in that very chair, enjoying the meal that you had painstakingly made and yet hadn’t even bothered to touch.

“What was the question?” She asked. It wasn’t the first time she had talked with a corpse. Or perhaps it was a ghost? A spirit, maybe?

You smiled the way you normally did. “He asked if you’re enjoying your first family dinner.”

Oh. Of course he had asked that, how preposterous for her to have believed any differently. She should have known what your dead, ghostly brother had asked her. Your eyes stayed on her, and your body gave nothing away. Not even the smallest indication that anything was amiss.

She wished she had gotten to talk with your mother before… her demise.

“It’s-” Wednesday looked at your parents’ mutilated corpses and the delicately plated meals in front of them “-acceptable.”

You nodded and took a sip of wine - from the glass in front of your father - before looking back at the picture. Wednesday could only imagine what was going on in your head at that moment. Perhaps all the trauma had finally broken you. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, you had been saying you had heard things, seen things, that you yourself felt like you were going insane.

“Told you,” you mumbled.

Your fork pushed things around on the plate in front of you, but not once did you eat it. The black polish on your nails, which Wednesday had graciously (eagerly) painted, was chipped around the tips. From the elbow down, your arms looked like they would be better suited to some sort of demon.

Or perhaps an Addams.

As you continued to talk to no one but yourself, Wednesday tapped her foot. Every time she picked it up, she could hear the sticky sound it created before she placed it back down gently. You didn’t turn to inquire about her actions. Why didn’t you inquire?

“Oh shit,” you said, pulling Wednesday once again out of her thoughts. “Nicky’s right.” Your eyes rolled. “I forgot Casey and Devan.”

“I’ll get them,” Wednesday said immediately. So quickly, in fact, that she didn’t initially recognise the outburst as her own.

You looked at her with nearly-glowing eyes. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your dinner,” you said.

“I insist,” she continued, standing up from her chair.

If she inhaled the rising stench one more time, she truly felt she would lose her nerve. Who would have thought? She didn’t easily forget the autopsy date you had set up for her back in Nevermore; one of the most romantic things you could have ever done. This, however… something about this wasn’t right.

You stood up far slower than she had. Patient, deliberate movements. You expertly maneuvered away from the fleshy monstrosity beside you. Nothing else dripped onto your clothes, and if it hadn’t already been stained, she would have been amazed by the impeccably white shirt that she hadn’t remembered you wearing. Each step was precise until you were standing in front of her.

Your eyes were glowing.

“I can get them,” you said softly. “I want you to have a nice night.”

She should have flinched when your dried, itchy, blood covered hand rested on her face. More flakes came off as your thumb rubbed lightly against her cheek. It wasn’t preposterous to assume you had been either witness or perpetrator to the scene she was standing in the middle of. Fear would (and should) have been the most prominent emotion pounding inside her chest.

It wasn’t. All she felt was the warmth of your palm. The spreading warmth in her chest as your eyes roamed her face the way they had back in Nevermore. You were both back in the Addams mausoleum, dancing around your feelings until, for the first (and certainly not the last) time, she felt your lips upon hers. Your wings, ever dusty and protective, wrapped around you until you were both alone in the little cocoon she had come to love.

“You look beautiful tonight,” you said.

Wednesday exhaled harshly through her nose when you leaned down and she finally felt your kiss. Your lips were chapped as usual, and you tasted metallic. She should have been hesitant. But with your wings around her, blocking out the rest of the world, she put it to the back of her mind. Your nails lightly scratched against her cheek, grounding her in the most Addams form of love. She-

-a sharp prick in her abdomen was quickly followed by an inferno.

Her breath caught in her throat. Hands instinctively went to the source of the pain. They were met with a small handle. Your hand never left her cheek. Your wings didn’t part. She looked up and saw the dullness in your eyes once again.

“Stay here,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll get Casey and Devan and be right back.”

You leaned in for another kiss that she couldn’t focus on.

“I love you,” you said before finally pulling back away. Your wings parted, and the blinding lights did nothing to distract her from the pain.

Wednesday staggered backwards. She reached out for a chair and felt the back, but when she attempted to sit, it moved. The floor rushed up to meet her, and she let herself fall to her back in the sticky puddle of blood that she was now contributing to.

Her hands gripped the knife handle tighter as the front door clicked shut behind you.

[drmowww]

Hallo, it's me again for another week of the 300 lim(ated) challenge :D. This week for some reason I just REALLY wanted to write about young Hanzo as a vampire, so here it is!! Enjoy!! ✨

»»——⍟——««

Hanzo, for the longest of times, hasn’t been a normal man. Different shades of grey now covet his body, from the pearlescent sheen of his skin - hit right by moonlight, to the jet black stream of hair cascading down his back. His eyes have gone dim with centuries that have passed him by, but his skin still remains youthful. Filled nails attach to uncalloused hands, yet his front teeth stay perfectly sharp, almost blindingly white despite the blood that coats them. But if any man were to capture the count in the nude, they’d all claim the most uncanny section of his body lies painted on his left arm. Fluorescent blues dance around sickly beasts, clawing their way across imaginary dull skies. Bared teeth and snarling lips stretch across elongated mussels, attached to a skull which house violent eyes towards those looking back. Atop, a crown of horns lays, and below where the serpent's body attaches, rests scaly long appendages with few too many claws.

Luckily for all, the vampire’s torso prefers to be clothed by a cream ruffle shirt, tied together with a sapphire brooch of his family crest. His pants are typical, long and black, but are covered by knee high, heeled boots - glossy with rivets in pure silver. Finally, his shoulders are draped with a woolen cloak, fastened together with dainty chains across his chest. It drags across his hall, pooling down his staircase as he gently taps his champagne glass with his siliget fork.

His face is alight with wicked joy, at the coven that crowds around for his speech. Long gone are the days of mortality, but with the wake of death, brings power unheard of by the living. Some grin back, some shy away, but all know the cost, of aligning themselves with the count of Shimada castle.

»»——⍟——««

Would you believe me if I said this took me an hour and a half, god i love writing but DAMN is it time consuming. Thank you to everyone that leaves comments and likes on my posts, every notification makes me grin like crazy <3 See you all next week :D

[ten-summoners-fails]

The wisdom of my grandsire only runs so deep within me," said Turukáno sharply. "All fear the wrath of Nelyafinwë, for it is mighty and destructive; and all fear the wrath of my brother as well, for it is brilliant, and scathing, and suddenly it strikes like thunder. Yet Moringotto should now learn to fear my wrath as well: contained as long and deep as my spirit is able, but cold and final in its might. For I am patient! I can wait for yéni uncounted to deal a blow if I believe it is warranted; and when I do, my enemies will cower. (...) Let the Enemy think that I wish to keep hiding, that he need not fear the threat of my power! Unseen and unheard I shall strike; uncalled for and unlooked for I shall come, and turn his own trap against him."

– The Seven Gates, Chapter 40

[cocogum]

My honest reactions of episodes 5 and 6 (part 1)

PART 2 : HERE

(‼️SEASON 4 SPOILERS‼️)

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We obviously start with the ✨sadidas✨ Armand and Amalia (as we should 💕) coming back from the assembly meeting with the Eliatrope goddess.

Okay so were starting off pretty strong lol

I LOVE how Armand thinks about the Eliatrope goddess cuz yeah we were pretty much thinking the same thing (about how she’ll pretty much stalk them and will put her children in their world) and I just absolutely LOVE how he’s keeping his guard because of her and has become even more doubtful of Yugo. (Just look at his eyes as he stares at Amalia!!)

Because yeah, even though he wasn’t as wary of Yugo before, some hints were still shown in the OVAs when he called him “a king without his people is unheard of” but Yugo shrugged his comment off.

BUT NOW WE GET TO SEE MORE OF ARMAND SLANDERING YUGO and basically exposing Amalia acting “not rational” when she talks about Yugo.

Armand, my man, your sister’s clearly in love with Yugo OF COURSE SHE WOULDN’T BE RATIONAL WITH HIM (you should’ve seen how she kissed Oropo tho you would’ve lost your shit lo)

BUT DAMN ARMAND CHILL WTF ARE U RACIST AGAINST ELIATROPES NOW???!!? Same ngl 🥰🥰 I want more drama 💖💖

I just ADORE Az and his family playing on their tree Tofu tower they look so adorable ☺️✨💖 I already made a headcanon that Yugo and Alibert built it (while Chibi and Grougal just watched).

OMG EVERYONE STFU MY SONS ARE HERE ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️😍😍😍😍😍🥰😍😍🥰😍😍🥰🥰 ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I’VE SEEN U TWO 😭😭😭💖💖

Look at these two not doing anything and just being lazy bums 😭😭🥰💕💕

Also I need a gif of Yugo and Alibert hugging with Az and his kids in the background asap ✨

But all cuteness aside, in all my years of being a Wakfu fan, I literally never saw Yugo make that face before. Like it was so uncalled for that my heart literally dropped when I saw him like that. I never thought that the face of terror and shock (combined with the booming sound in the background) could go so well on him and now I wanna see it more!! I HOPE YOU TORTURE HIM ANKAMA!!

Btw the Eliatrope goddess is such a fraud and can’t think for herself even though she said she wants to rule a freaking planet but okay (u fucked up the first time by default when ur kids had one planet for themselves but ur already messing up ur second time cuz ur running away from ur problems when U AND NORA WERE THE REASON WHY THE NECROMES GOT OUT ARE U KIDDING ME- YOU DIDN’T CHECK?!!!???!)

Armand’s really trying hard not to say something racist right now.

Dude can’t even look him in the eyes while saying hi lol

Also can we talk about what Armand told Yugo??? :

Like………

IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE SOME KIND OF FORESHADOWING ?!?!? I DONT GET IT AND IM SCARED NOW ⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️

ANKAMA STOP PLAYING WITH ME, DON’T TOUCH MY AMALIA ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

No because im legitimately scared that something bad will happen to her, why else would Armand say these kinds of things to YUGO of all people????

I swear I will actually cry if this ended up being foreshadowing cuz honestly wtf…why did Amalia ever do to you people….My fear for Amalia was already there even before Season 4 so why do you gotta make my paranoia resurface like that??? Why do u gotta do me like that???? 😭😭😭

This is the guy who started a genocide against his own people and has more common sense than the GODDESS right in front of him. I get that she’s traumatized cuz of what happened to her but you gotta realize that they’ll always run after you if you just keep running, so the least you can do is throw your kids to fight for you. I just love how the only reason why Qilby is saying any of this is because for once, he’s not the one in control of the fate of the world and can’t redirect the signal or stop it himself lol

[ifyougoillfollow]

trick or treat!!!!!! 🎃 🎃

Woe!

Tricks…. Be upon ye……

here’s a snippet from a fic that i’ll probably never finish because i made myself too sad trying to write it

sorry in advance, homie 🙏

-

Nemuri is in the kitchen.

"Morning, hot stuff," she says.

"Morinin', Nem."

Hizashi is tired, he thinks. His body a distant ache, caught between the hazy here-and-now and the hazier drift of half-convincing dreams.

He'd been happy in them, he thinks.

"There's coffee in the pot," says Nemuri, "grab some before the rest of the vultures wake up."

Nemuri died three weeks ago.

Hizashi drifts into the kitchen, pours himself a cup. He dumps the rest down the drain. Nobody can biff a brew as thoroughly as Nemuri can. The only other one who can stomach it is Shouta, and Shouta's in the hospital.

Nemuri scoffs. "That's uncalled for."

"What's uncalled for is you having your unholy way with this premium blend."

"If it's so premium then why's it taste like ass?"

"We've had this conversation before," Hizashi says, watching the last dregs trickle down the drain, "and you're dead."

"Am I? I don't feel dead."

Hizashi’s own hands haven’t stopped shaking in what feels like days; he sets his mug down. "If this is some kind of trick –” he swallows – “or a Quirk, or some sort of heretofore unheard of hoodoo bullshit, then just... don't. Don't bother. You've already won. I can't –” breathe – he can’t breathe – “I can't do this anymore."

"Now what kinda fuckass talk is that?"

"Nem, I'm tired."

"You think I'm not?"

"Don't –"

"The last thing I remember –"

"Please –"

"The last thing I remember is fighting for my fucking life – and losing. Losing, Hizashi. Not quitting. And here you stand, still nice and tight and perky enough to give me shit about my coffee, and you're telling me you're tired? Grow a fucking pair, why don't you?"

[cerenemuxse]

Bittersweet

May 1925

CW/TW: Engine fighting

The story can be found at @eosr-by-muxse for easier access.

Since his arrival, James has been facing an internal battle between being like everyone else versus being unique. While he’s not sure where he wants to be, he’s certainly sure of two things. His eyes are those of freaks, and when he started to work in the yards, something didn't feel right. Why was he assigned to do shunting first before pulling goods trains? Was there something that they weren't telling him? If so, what else were they hiding?

~

It's been a week since Glynn disappeared, along with the numbers across James' face. No official word had been made about the coffee pot. The other engines quickly found out about the old red coffeepot's sudden disappearance the day it happened. The realization hit them hard, whether they showed it or not.

Yet Sir Topham Hatt II didn't say anything. None of the other engines asked. James was afraid to ask. Afraid to hear the possibility that Glynn was scrapped.

His red paintwork was dull and there were many chips missings and scratches on it, recalled James. Those must've been signs that he was going to be scrapped.

"James!"

It was a nice color he had. I've never seen a red engine before! Well, not as red as Glynn. Those other red engines were much duller-

"James!" hollered Clarabel once again.

James snapped out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

"The station!" exclaimed Annie.

"Stop!" the sister auburn coaches exclaimed.

James looked ahead and gasped. He snapped his brakes on and screeched to a stop. Annie and Clarabel bumped into each other harshly, buffers banging into one another and against James when he stopped at the station. He overshot the platform by a few centimeters, but that was the least of his worries.

Complaints were muttered and exclaimed as the passengers got off the train.

"What is this nonsense?" exclaimed a small woman. James winced. She was so small yet extremely frightening.

"That other engine was much more responsible!" yelled a tall woman. "Bring that one back!"

James down at his buffer beams, holding back any noise. But he can't be.

"This is such a simple job," said a gentleman sternly. "Does this thing not pay attention?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," replied the small woman. "Look at its eyes."

James froze. His eyes went wide open. He quickly looked away, trying to hide them.

"With eyes like that, it's probably blind," muttered the small woman bluntly. She gave James a quick look down before leaving.

Annie and Clarabel were cross. Sure James should've been paying attention but that was uncalled for. The small woman had crossed the line.

"Don't listen to them, James," said Annie in a comforting tone as passengers left and boarded.

"It was an accident," reassured Clarabel. "You're getting better at it! Right, Annie?"

"He is, Clarabel!" replied Annie.

But they didn't get a response.

"James?" they asked worriedly.

"Hm?" James replied. "Oh, sorry. You were saying?"

"Did you not hear what we said?" asked Clarabel.

"Is something the matter?" asked Annie.

"No! Nothing's wrong!" he exclaimed a bit too quickly.

The sister auburn coaches hummed, unconvinced.

"Alright then," said Annie.

"Let's continue now!" said Clarabel enthusiastically.

Right as Clarabel finished, the guard blew his whistle and James was off, down the Ffarquhar Branch Line. The branch that once belonged to Glynn.

James had been ecstatic when he was first told he would work on the line. It was only for trial but it was still something to be excited about. He was able to pull passenger trains, something so unheard of for a goods engine.

Now, he wasn't so sure. He was still trying to time his stops correctly, almost getting them right quickly. James would either overshoot or undershoot the station. Thankfully, the station masters had been kind and understanding.

He wished the passengers were as well.

"The passengers," he mumbled.

"What about the passengers?" piped up his driver, Fred Quill, nonchalantly.

"Nothing, Mr. Quill!" exclaimed James. "I didn't say anything!"

Fred hummed. "If you say so, chap," he said, patting James' cab. "If you want to talk, just let us know."

James didn't reply.

…

"What's gotten into you, chap?" asked Fred. "You've been quieter than usual."

James and his crew had arrived at Tidmouth Yards just a few minutes ago for a rest. The morning rush hour was over, much to their relief. Fred had climbed out of James' cab with George and walked to James' front buffer beam to confront the engine. They were concerned for their engine.

"Than usual?" asked James. He became tense, feeling the metal pipes heat up but stiffen. His boiler felt dry as the moisture vaporized quickly. "I-I just don't know Annie and Clarabel that well, that's all."

"You can't hide it, James," said Fred. "Is this about what they said?"

James' frame was slightly shaking. He popped his smokebox door open and away from his crew. "About what?"

"You know what I'm referring to."

George approached James and patted the engine's black running board, slightly flinching at its searing hot heat from the sun. It was only the near end of spring. "Don't mind those passengers, James. They'll say anything to get under your skin." He paused looking at James quizzically. "Well, paint but you get the idea."

"I know, I know," mumbled James with a pout. "But what if that lady was right? What if there is something wrong with my eyesight? What if-?"

"Calm down, James! Calm down!" exclaimed George, patting James' running board once again.

Fred rushed forward, climbed onto their engine's running board from the steps on James' left side, between the first and second set of driving wheels, and carefully walked towards James' smokebox. He petted James' smokebox. "Easy there, chap. There's nothing wrong with you."

"How do you know?" he exclaimed. His voice croaked and broke. He was ready to burst right then and there.

But then a high-pitched whistle rang nearby. It startled James, making him nearly shake off his driver. Fred held onto James' handrails for dear life.

"Oh, hey, it's Edward!" exclaimed George. He pointed in the direction of where the whistle and sounds of steam being chuffed were coming from. "Why don't you hang out with him?"

James suddenly puffed up. "I'm not a child! I'm an engine!"

"There he is," joked his driver. "But no, seriously, go talk to him. You know him the most, don't you?"

"I do," replied James. He hummed. "I haven't been able to talk to him in a while either."

"It's settled, then." Fred patted James' smokebox before carefully trudging off the black medium-sized tender engine. "We'll be on our break. See you later!"

"See you later!" exclaimed James as his crew walked away and towards the workroom. Right as they left, Edward was there, in front of him on the next track over.

"Hello, James!" greeted Edward. "How ur ye doin?"

James' mood dropped. "Decent," he muttered and looked down at his running board.

Edward peered at the black medium-sized tender engine. "Whit's the matter?" he asked. "Did somethin' happen?"

James gave a long hum in response. He wanted to tell Edward but he wasn't sure. Can I really trust him? he thought. I know him the most though. He looked up to meet Edward's concerned face and straight into his eyes.

Maybe I can trust him.

"James?" asked the blue medium-sized tender engine. James had stayed quiet and was only looking around. It concerned him even more.

With a heavy sigh, James began. "I've been having trouble stopping at stations properly. I keep overshooting or undershooting them."

Edward only hummed. A sign telling James to continue.

Thankfully, James picked up on it. "The passengers have been complaining about it which I don't blame them but…" He took a deep breath to calm down and soothe the tension in his pipes. "One of them said something," he continued, only for his voice to croak and crack. Not again. His frame felt tense so suddenly as his eyes burned from the boiling water and hot steam.

The other engine was about to interfere when James spoke up, with a bit of sniffling here and there.

"Something about my eyes," said James. But then he froze, staring at his black running board in a confused realization. "None of you have said anything about them."

"Whit dae ye mean?" asked Edward.

"The color! How mismatched they are!" James suddenly exclaimed, catching the attention of the yardmen in the area. "They're so… weird! Don't they bother you?"

The blue medium-sized tender engine was stunned. He was speechless at the sudden burst of his friend.

"Well?" James exclaimed again, raising his voice in desperation. "They're horrible, aren't they? I probably overshot those platforms because of poor eyesight!"

"Poor eyesicht?" Edward hummed before flipping his smokebox door open to his right. He squinted, spotting a labeled truck far away. "Ye see thon truck over there? The brown ane wit’ white letterin' near thon building?"

Though he was confused, and slightly offended by the sudden shift of the conversation, James flipped his smokebox door open to his left and quickly found the truck.

"Whit does it say?" asked Edward once James saw what he was looking at.

"South Sodor Grain Mill," James read at his normal pace. He looked quizzically at his friend as he closed his smokebox door. "Why did you want me to read it?"

"I cannae read thon," Edward said bluntly. He shut his smokebox door. "Yer eyesicht is perfectly fine," he noted with a small warm smile.

"But my eyes-!"

"There's nothin' wrong wit’ yer eyes," Edward interrupted.

Confused, James shook. "But they're ugly! It makes me a freak-!"

"I think they're very pretty," said Edward rather bluntly, still smiling.

James froze.

A compliment…?

That was new.

"R-Really?" stammered James as his face burned.

"Mhm," hummed Edward. "Ane is rich brown and the other is lush green. Like a tree! Ye remember the woods we first passit by oan the day ye got here?"

He definitely remembered them. To Edward's credit, the plants in those woods were pretty lush and rich. He hadn't seen an area so green before. A very quiet place with peaceful scenery, in his own opinion.

But are his eyes really as pretty as the woods?

"Ye should be proud o' ‘em," continued Edward. "I have never seen an engine wit’ heterochromatic eyes before. I've seen very few people wit’ ‘em but never an engine. Until ye, that is." Soft laughter took over Edward's voice.

Hold on. "People have eyes like mine?"

"Aye, some people dae, but it's very rare. I've only seen…" Edward hummed, thinking. "Two or three people wit’ ‘em, and they dinnae come here often."

"So it's… unique?"

"Mhm," he hummed again. Seemed like something Edward did often. "It's okay tae be the same like everyane else, and it's okay tae be different frae everyane else."

The phrase struck him. "Is it?"

"Of course!" Edward replied. "Gordon and Henry ur prototypes o' the same class but they're quite different frae ane another. Henry wis basit oan rejectit plans thon were stolen from Sir Gresley, and Gordon wis basit oan the final plans o' the same man, built under his supervision, o' course."

The black medium-sized tender was shocked. He gasped and exclaimed, "Like those big Pacifics in the LNER?"

"Aye! And then there's Emily. She comes frae the Great Northern Railway, and she's the only engine wit' two drivers oan this railway."

"I've heard of the preserved…" He knew the wheel configuration had a name but he didn't know what the name was.

Thankfully, Edward caught on. "GNR Stirling Single."

"Right. Thanks. I've only heard of her, but I didn't know another one had survived." James squinted his eyes as he looked down at his running board. "Emily doesn't look like that preserved engine, though."

"Thon's because she's an A3 Stirling Single, no' an A1 Stirling Single. She wis part o' the eighteen-ninety-four series, built in eighteen-ninety-five." Edward hummed. "I think March wis her build month. No' too sure, though."

"Eighteen-ninety-five?" exclaimed James. "Oh, wow, she's old!"

"Sh!" Edward shushed James hastily. "Dinnae let her hear ye say thon. She'll tell ye thon her sister is much older."

"And when was she built?"

"Eighteen-seventy."

"That class has seen some things…" was all James could say. Eighteen-seventy? he thought. That engine is half a century old at this point!

The blue medium-sized tender engine chuckled. "They certainly have. No', where wis I?" He hummed for a bit, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "Richt! There's Emily, and then there's Glynn. He's an ane o' a kind design and the only ane left frae one o' the North Westerns predecessors." Edward glanced at James. "I have a feelin' he's told ye whit railway he came frae, richt?"

James didn't reply. His face of curiosity was shadowed by one of sorrow and bitterness.

"James?"

The engine in question was pondering at the mention of Glynn. Maybe Edward knows what happened to the coffee pot, he figured.

"James?" asked Edward again, concerned.

"Edward," began James in a bland tone. Or what would've been if his voice wasn't naturally brash. His heterochromatic eyes looked up at Edward. "What happened to Glynn?"

"Glynn?" replied Edward, noting the confusion in James' eyes.

"Yes, him."

"I…" Edward frowned, and his gray face crumpled. "I dinnae ken whit happenit tae him."

"You don't?"

"Naw, I'm…" Edward suddenly cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I wish I ken. If I did, I wid tell ye."

"Has the Fat Director even said anything?"

"Nawthin."

"...Do you think he's hiding something?"

"Pardon?"

"You think the Fat Director's hiding something?"

"Ah, I dinnae ken."

"But he's the director! He has to know what happened to Glynn!" James grew restless.

"Well-"

"Get a move on, Edward!" someone suddenly hollered.

Both engines flung their smokebox doors open to see Henry.

"You're blocking my way! I need to get to that goods train over there."

"Sorry, Henry!" Edward replied hastily. With a swift jerk of his smokebox door, he closed it and quickly moved forward. "Talk tae ye later, James!" he said hastily as he rushed away with a double whistle.

Henry huffed, shot a glare at James, and went on his way.

The black medium-sized tender engine watched the grand green tender engine, still wary of him. Once Henry was gone, James was left by himself to ponder on Glynn's whereabouts once again.

…

"Do you think he's hiding something?"

James felt his driver shuffle his feet on the wooden flooring of his cab. "What?"

"Do you think the Fat Director is hiding something?"

His pistons were pumping loudly, spewing out clouds of steam. Yet, the black medium-sized tender engine managed to catch his driver's hums.

"Maybe," he finally replied after some time.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe, because I don't know what you mean. Why are you asking this?"

"Glynn. Do you think he's hiding Glynn?"

"It's…" Fred paused for a few seconds. "...entirely possible, chap."

"But why?"

"He might be hiding Glynn from the board."

"O-Oh." His fire felt like it had gone out for a split second. "You think…?"

"Well, Glynn could have very well been… scrapped, James."

The silence joined the conversation, uninvited. It was so quiet that the sound of the couplings clanking against one another as he cruised down the Main Line was louder than his pistons.

"...How much is the Fat Director hiding?" asked James bitterly. 

"I don't know, James," replied Fred. "I really don't know."

"Does the Fat Director think I'm not capable l?" he asked, raising his voice.

"What are you on about-?"

"How come I was put to work in the yards first when I arrived?"

The silence interfered.

Fred stood still for a moment before shifting around and bringing his attention back to James' gauges. His engine had a point.

"Maybe…" He tried to muster up a logical response. "Maybe it's how they run things here. Edward's a four-leader, four-driver tender engine. Those specific engines were the most powerful express passenger engines for a while until bigger and better engines came along. Now look at him. He's a station pilot."

"I know that!" exclaimed James. "Most of the express passenger engines on the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway were engines like him!"

"Alright, alright!" Fred chuckled. "But you get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Don't think too much about it, chap," he soothed, patting James' cab. "Maybe it's not what you think it is."

James hummed a pout, which only received a light chuckle from his driver.

"But is it?"

…

"It could be."

"Really?"

Purple eyes looked over at him. "I asked him earlier but he didn't say anything. He just left," replied Emily.

A couple of days had passed since the conversation with his crew. The question had racked around his matte black smokebox, pestering him on a day-to-day basis, and went as far as going into the night within his dreams. His dreams were unwelcoming recently, leaving an odd aura within him every time he woke up.

James' lips creased in a straight frown. "Could Glynn have been scrapped?"

"I hope not," she remarked harshly towards the question itself. "Right now is the worst time to have engines being disposed of, and I doubt the Fat Director would allow it to happen. He's been fighting with the board about Glynn's disposition since he became the director."

"Which was…?"

"Nineteen-twenty-three. He's twenty-two years old if you're curious."

The black medium-sized tender engine was gobsmacked. "Twenty-two?" He glanced around before whispering, "No wonder he looks young and old at the same time."

"You saw those gray hairs, didn't you?" Emily chuckled playfully, but James picked up a tone of sadness. "It's what being the director of a railway does to you. Especially when it's so sudden." Before James could say anything, she continued, "The previous director, Sir Louis Topham Hatt the First, Sir Bertram's father, was voted off and Sir Bertram was voted in. He was already working as Glynn's fireman before becoming part of the management team the year before."

"So it didn't get passed down to him?"

"Oh no, not in this family. They pride themselves in earning from hard work."

James paused. His eyes wandered around in thought. Finally, he asked, "How do you know all of this?"

"The Fat Director tended to confide with us engines way before he started working here. He would usually talk to me because I'm, well, the oldest." She paused and peered at James, eyeing him suspiciously. "Unless you're hiding something."

"I'm way younger than you," he replied.

"Really?" She eyed him suspiciously again. Before she could say anything else, James continued.

"October of Nineteen-twelve," he bluntly replied.

"Ah, a Nineteen-tens engine! Not older than me but certainly not younger than the big guys. I thought you'd be around their age by a year or two. Gordon's the youngest of-" Emily paused. Her face went blank with eyes wide open.

"What is it?" asked James, beginning to panic.

Her cheeks burned. "...I went off the rails, didn't I? Oh my…" she muttered, feeling embarrassed. "Where was I?"

"How the Fat Director confided in you."

"Right!" Her expression lightened up. "He used to confide in me but that changed when he began to work here. I don't know what made it happen, but he started to confide in Edward more often. I'm assuming it's because he knows him more. He still confides in me every so often. Just not as much as he does with Edward."

James pondered for a moment. "Do you think Edward knows where Glynn is?" he asked, purposely avoiding the mention that he had asked Edward.

"I've already asked. He has no idea about his whereabouts."

"Oh." He looked away with a solemn frown. Where could he have gone?

"We can only hope that he's just in the works and not withdrawn." Her expression changed to a cheeky one. "You might as well get ready to give back those coaches, James."

"Huh!" James huffed, playing right along. "He'll have to beat me to them!"

Emily let out a laugh. "Go easy on him."

Both engines burst out laughing before Emily bid her temporary farewells and both engines went back to work.

…

James knew that Emily was joking around but her words stayed ingrained in his mind. With every day that passed to the near end of May, he grew anxious and tensions began to rise. Just the other day, he heard what he assumed were Gordon and Edward getting into an argument. Thankfully, Emily intervened, though in a not-so-nice manner. She'd threatened both engines to throw them under the truck and even send a truck at one of them if it continued. It was enough to keep them at bay.

Or at least he thought.

The black medium-sized tender engine was going about his late morning business, having come back from pulling a goods train to Vicarstown. He was idling for a few minutes when he heard a loud ruckus on the other side of Tidmouth Yard. The sounds of buffers bashing against something. The Troublesome Trucks are probably giving Edward a hard time, he thought, so he went to investigate. Maybe I can help.

But when he arrived in the area, he began to wish he hadn't checked.

A scream tore from Gordon's smokebox. "Watch it, little Edward!"

Edward was noticeably irritated. James had never seen him like that before. It frightened him, and he wanted to leave.

"My apologies, but I am watching," Edward retorted slowly, throwing emphasis on his wording. "I cannae see ye behind this line o' trucks, Gordon."

It seemed like they hadn't noticed him. Maybe if he reversed very slowly-

"Oh, what absolute nonsense! We know you can't bloody see anything, Edward."

"Knock it aff wit' the language. I'm no' blind." Edward huffed. "Whit ur ye doin' in this part o' the yard, anyways? The Express coaches aren't here."

"I came looking for my goods train. It's not there."

"Which ane? Ye mean thon stone train frae the Ffarquhar Quarry?"

"Yes, that one," Gordon replied sternly. "Where is it?"

"I dinnae ken. Go ask James. He wis the ane who brought it here, and I told him where tae put it."

"And where did you tell him to put it?"

"Near the big station."

"It's not there."

"Did ye check?"

Gordon froze before he fumed furiously and wheeshed at Edward, startling the blue medium-sized tender engine. James was still there, shocked as Edward's face scrunched up in anger and annoyance.

The grand blue tender engine hated what Edward was implying. "Are you implying that I didn't check? Like a fool?"

"Naw, I'm simply askin'." He dropped his voice to a whisper, muttering something as he continued working.

As Edward pulled the trucks out of Gordon's way, Gordon moved forward and blocked the points. "What did you say?"

"..."

"I heard you-"

"I wid'nae be surprisit if ye were a fool!" Edward hollered, spewing each word with anger. "Listen, please git oot o' my way sae I can go lookin' for it, or ye're goin' tae run late."

Gordon wheeshed again. "I don't take orders from museum displays."

"And I dinnae take orders from a git."

"...What?"

"I'm no' repeatin' maself, or are ye sae much o' a fool?"

The grand blue tender engine fumed, wheeshing heavily.

As James continued to watch, he heard a whistling sound, as if something was about to pop open.

As if a safety valve was about to burst.

He froze when he realized what was about to happen.

And it did.

The black medium-sized tender engine just didn't expect to see Edward be the one who reacted. The blue medium-sized tender engine violently sent the line of trucks flying towards Gordon, nearly knocking the larger blue engine off the rails. The trucks closer to Gordon derailed, and their contents flew out, crates crashing onto the ground.

Thankfully and surprisingly, no one was hurt, but everyone present was shocked.

Gordon was startled and wore a face of fear that glared at the shocked blue medium-sized tender engine. The latter could only stare with shock at the trucks, having realized what he had done. While both engines were in shock, their crews managed to get a hold of themselves. Edward's crew had failed to pull the brakes on time and were busy checking the engine's steam pressure, while Gordon's crew had climbed off to inspect what damage had been done to the engine's running board and frame.

That's when they became aware of James' presence. Quickly, Gordon's crew signaled James' crew to just leave before either of the engines noticed but it was too late.

Two other whistles were heard. Emily and Henry frantically approached the scene, coming from the direction James was in. It caught Edward and Gordon's attention. Once their eyes landed on the black medium-sized tender engine, they realized James watched the whole thing, having frightened him.

Emily dragged James away as quickly and carefully as she could, startling the engine, as Henry pulled Gordon away and Edward pulled the trucks back on the rails. Once James was uncoupled from Emily after being moved far away from the accident, he rushed away and went back to work.

…

Later that evening, James moved into the center berth of Knapford Sheds. Edward and Emily took the first two berths to the left and were in the very back of the shed while Henry and Gordon took the last two berths and right outside, leaving James with some decent space from the two blue engines. Henry was scolding Gordon but it was nothing compared to the earful Emily was giving Edward. Not even Sir Topham Hatt II's scolding could compete with it.

"What were you thinking?" James heard Emily huff hastily. "You frightened the poor thing."

"I ken whit I did wis wrong, okay?" He heard Edward reply. "How's Gordon?"

"He's fine." The bluntness was heavy.

Edward stayed silent.

"If you're hiding something, you know you can tell me." Emily's tone changed to a comforting one. "This isn't like you. What happened?"

"I jist miss Glynn. Thon's all."

Emily hummed. James couldn't see her but he had a strong feeling she was giving Edward a suspicious look. "Okay. Good night then."

"Guid nicht."

And then he heard nothing from the two. The quiet never came as he could only hear what Gordon and Henry were saying.

And that's with him being the closest to them. He was right behind the doors of his berth.

"He's so obsessed over Glynn," he heard Gordon say.

"Don't act like you're not either. You're not yourself either," he heard Henry reply.

Guess they overheard.

"Be glad Emily didn't come right for you."

"Well, she didn't need to. I don't need to be told what to do."

"Gordon, we are big metal machines that were made to do as we are told."

"You know what I meant-"

"Yes. Yes, I know." Henry huffed. "I don't like Edward either but he had a point. You should've gotten out of his way he told you."

"You're such a hypocrite, Henry," Gordon sneered.

"Fine, sod off then. I'm only trying to help." With that, Henry released his brakes and backed into his berth. James quickly squeezed his eyes shut. His relationship with Henry was rocky ever since the grand green tender engine lashed out on him. It wasn't his fault the Fat Director chose to buy him over fixing Henry.

Unfortunately, Henry noticed James being right behind the door.

"So, you were eavesdropping."

"Uh-"

"Huh, I thought you didn't like drama," Henry interrupted. "But then again, you did go and let your curiosity get the best of you earlier."

"I was worried," James replied defensively and hastily. "I heard something really loud so I went to check if something was wrong."

"Well, you got your answer so why didn't you leave?"

"I got scared."

"Figures." Henry stayed quiet for a few seconds before asking. "How did it happen?"

"The argument?"

"Yeah. What else could I be talking about?"

"I don't know."

"That was a rhetorical question."

"Oh. Gordon went to ask Edward where the trucks I left for him were because he couldn't find them. He said they weren't there."

"So it's your fault the argument broke out!"

"No, it's not!" James whispered harshly. "I left them where I was told to leave them, and Gordon said that he looked there but he couldn't find them."

"How do I know that you didn't just forget?"

"I didn't!" he exclaimed, unaware of Gordon backing into the shed, Edward waking up from the noise, and Emily shifting in her sleep.

"I know your memory is bad but I didn't think it'd be this bad. The Fat Director made the right call in making you work in the yards first before pulling actual goods trains."

James froze. "What?"

"Don't tell me you didn't know. You had to have known, right?"

The black medium-sized tender engine stared back at him. The look was ominous, and it bothered Henry.

"Right?"

"No. I didn't," James replied. "Who told you? I was never told about this?"

"You mean Edward never told you?"

There it was, and speaking of the devil.

"Whit's goin' oan?" Edward asked, slowly approaching the front of the shed and yawning. "Is everythin' alricht?"

"Is everything alright?" James mocked, swiftly flinging his smokebox door open. "Of course, everything is alright! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Whit-?"

"Why didn't you tell me the reason why the Fat Director put me to work in the yards first before actually doing my jobs?"

"I-"

"You didn't tell him?" scolded Emily, who was awakened by Edward seconds priors. "Edward!"

"It wis an order frae the Fat Director."

"But you went ahead and told everyone else but me!" exclaimed James. "You know, the engine it was about!"

"James-"

"Is that what you meant by ‘naive’? Is that what you meant?"

"No! I didnae-!"

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"I didnae want tae upset ye!"

"So you went behind my back and told everyone like it was some sort of-" His safety valve felt like it was going to burst. "-gossip?" he shrieked. Emily, Henry, and Gordon were startled by the fuming engine. They started going to the back of the shed.

"That's no' whit I wantit tae happen!"

"You lied to me!"

"I-I didnae! I jist didnae tell ye!" To James, it just sounded like Edward was coming up with excuses. The desperate tone was giving it away. "T-There's a difference!"

"I don't want to hear your excuse!"

"James, please-!"

With a loud BAM! BAM! BAM!, one of the yardmen banged on the open wooden doors of Gordon's berth. "What is going on? Do I really need to call in the director?"

All the engines swiftly looked at the yardman with panic.

After a while of a silent response, the yardman sighed. "All of you better get to sleep. This is your only warning."

Quickly, both Edward and James backed toward the end of their berths while the others shut their eyes. Once they did, the yardman was satisfied and shut all the doors to the sheds. The yardman hadn't felt it but the hot air within the sheds was overwhelming and uncomfortable. It would remain so for the rest of the evening.

So much for a good rest.

…

The following day wasn't any better for James. It wasn't any better for anyone.

Unfortunately for Edward and James, Sir Topham Hatt II found out about the argument as the yardman reported it once his shift ended the following morning. Edward was already placed on restricted shunting duty in Tidmouth Yards, so placing James with the blue engine would only allow the chance for a fight to break out. Instead, he sent James to work in Vicarstown for the week and gave temporary berth assignments to the engines.

In the evening, all the engines had gathered in Tidmouth Yards as asked by Sir Topham Hatt II. He was furious with his engine's recent behavior, though he had a sneaking suspicion about what was causing it, and it could very well be his fault.

"I am extremely disappointed with everyone's behavior lately. Picking fights like children in a schoolyard," the Fat Director scolded. His voice boomed around the yard to which the engines flinched at. "What has gotten into all of you?"

No one responded.

"Well?"

James spoke up. "...What happened to Glynn, sir?"

The Fat Director and the other engines looked at James. "Pardon?"

"Sir, w-with all due respect, we haven't seen Glynn in days," replied James, frightened. "What happened to him?"

"Is this why everyone has been acting out recently?"

Four "Yes, sir"s and an "Aye, sir" was the answer he got.

With a sigh, the Fat Director came forward. "I'm sorry to have not told any of you sooner but Glynn has been withdrawn from service."

The engines gasped in shock and, some, in horror, despite knowing that this was the possibility of Glynn's fate.

"So he's been scrapped?" asked Emily softly.

"I…," he paused. "I'm afraid so." But then his voice became stern. "I know that all of you miss Glynn and will continue to do so but the way everyone has been acting is unacceptable. Engines who act out lead to a financial struggle for the railway. And without a financially successful railway, we can't continue to operate this place. This includes every single one of you. Does everyone understand?"

"Yes, sir" and "Aye, sir" were uttered again.

"Good. Good night, everyone"

"Good night, sir!" the engines exclaimed without the usual enthusiasm and unity. Whistles were blown at different times and the sounds rang throughout the yards before they left for Knapford Sheds at their own pace.

James was the last to leave, not wanting to be near the others for as long as he could. How could they hide things from me? he thought.

Out of everyone he'd expected to lie to him, James didn’t think that Edward would be the one to do so. Edward was nice and welcoming to him from the moment he arrived, despite the problems that had happened. The Fat Director had said that Edward was reliable and one of the most hardworking engines on the railway.

And that was the problem.

He had taken the Fat Director’s word for it and trusted Edward so quickly when right behind his tender, Edward had been hiding the Fat Director's doubts about him and told the others instead.

So much for trusting him.

Frustrated, he let his mind wander for a bit to something, anything other than what happened recently. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't as his mind landed on one engine.

Glynn.

The red coffee pot had been very welcoming when James arrived at the sheds for the first time. He checked in on him when he noticed something was wrong. Sure he hadn't known Glynn for long but it was upsetting that a new friend of his was now long gone.

Friends.

I miss my friends, he thought as he trod down the tracks and into Knapford Yards.

James dearly missed 10138, 17646, and 17647. He missed his sister, 12555. He missed them all. Hell, he even missed 10138's rather annoying twin sisters, 10141 and 10142. He wanted that last part to be a lie, but he couldn't because it was true.

But did he really want to go back? After that fight with his oldest sibling? The one who had screamed at him for defending himself just that one time? The one who had been the biggest pain in the chassis since his trials after his rebuilds?

No, he didn't. Especially since every other one of his siblings did the same damn thing to him, every single day. Their words haunted his mind every single day. Fifty-Five was the only one who stood by him, and with Fifty-Five was he consistently paired up with, much to his relief.

Fifty-Five had reassured him that there would be a day when he would deliver a goods train to Barrow-in-Furness, just like some of the other North Western engines have.

James could hardly wait for that day to come. To stroll into Barrow-in-Furness and meet with one of his friends, away from the tension happening on the Island of Sodor.

When James settled down in the center berth of the shed, he chuckled to himself. His crew, having decided earlier not to bother the engine and let him be, became concerned by the sound so George promptly asked him, "What's so funny?"

"You remember how I said I would never, ever set foot into Barrow-in-Furness because I want to?"

"I do," George replied. "Very much so. Why?"

"How ironic," he softly sneered, unintentionally giving his crew attitude. "Right now, I want to be there more than ever."

~

Hey. :3 Have +6k more words of Jimmy in his early days on the North Western Railway.

Thanks Jay for beta-reading it for me once again! :D

[golbrocklovely]

i was apart of a group chat full of fans of sam and colby, and as the more days went by, the more these fans were expressing their hatred for k and m (they're the same accounts that are attempting to "expose" the girls) and it just got really vile. lots of lies were being told. i got kicked from the group chat this morning because they know i like the girls and have been defending them lately. what's weird is i'm pretty sure the person who created that group chat in the first place loves colby and m, but lets all these people talk crap (especially about colby). i could be wrong, but if i'm not, the account has like- thousands of followers..

idk where this gc was, but i'm gonna take a wild guess and say twitter. or at the very least, ppl in there also have twitter accounts.

i'm telling you, that side of the fandom is beyond toxic, and i don't use that term lightly. the vitriol they have for katelyn and malia is gross and uncalled for.

but this also goes for any of their haters, not just the ones on twitter.

what gets me is how genuinely EASY it is to ignore those girls if you truly hate them. like i follow them and even have their tiktok notifs on, and i still don't pay attention to them lol

so i cannot imagine hating someone so much and then paying this much mind to them, and thinking somehow you're in the right and totally not obsessed with them. at least be honest with yourself.

and the misinformation… dear god don't get me started. it's not just straight up lies either, it's half truths mixed with twisting things around to make it appear worse than it is. the energy these ppl waste on these girls…. they could have cured cancer by now lol

and a big account being an asshole secretly (but probably also not)???? ….unheard of. i'm shocked. 😑

fans love to have their cake and eat it too. they want to be able to shit on snc, but then also pray secretly that they get noticed by them too with their fake kiss ass tweets/posts to them. at the very least be a bitch with your whole chest lol

and sorry you got kicked for defending the girls. but in the long run it's better that way. they wouldn't listen to you regardless. that's how deep their hate runs, for some reason.

[akajustmerry]

fact that i sat in a meeting yesterday crying in front of my bosses for an hour about how frustrated and angry i was at feeling unheard and unappreciated and left out of the loop and that not once did they acknowledge my emotional distress, didn't let me have a support person with me, and in fact told me i was being adversarial for not doing my job........ like that is fucked up right? that's not cool, right? like that doesn't sound like something that's legal or ethical, right??? like the fact i am shaking with rage today is not uncalled for, right?

[oasis-latibule]

the first time i've heard about human design, i was a bit uncertain. the first result that appeared for me on google was saying that human design was a guide to make you successful and to take the best decisions. it sounded too easy, almost like a scam. but when i did the test, discovered i am a projector and read about it, i started to believe i was meant to search about it.

i've been struggling for months with feeling rejected, not appreciated, unseen. my anxiety took the best of me most times and i thought i had to live in the shadows. everytime i talked to someone authentically i felt like that was uncalled for and i was being too intense, too passionate. i was ashamed of myself.

my first realization related to that was about consent. when i felt i was too intense and then understood i had a piercing aura that can penetrate someone's core, i realized that maybe suggesting a topic of conversation instead of diving right in could make me feel less rejected. i started to look for invitations.

it started to work, i saw people wanting to hear more about what i had to say, asking for advice and wanting to see me. naturally, with my self healing journey, i felt at ease more and more frequently.

with homework and lots of tasks i couldn't search more about it and forgot for a while. now this past week i started to feel unseen. unheard, bothered and disconnected with everyone. this frustrating feeling came again.

today, the day that i'm resting and remembered to study about things i care about i realized... this is bitterness. this feeling of frustation is my non self theme.

i just haven't been living authentically. it's important to wait for the invitation, yes, but i was forgetting to look into what i want and what invitations i will accept. i have the right to accept only what resonates with me.

it is so little time, but this is my third week on human design. i've been learning so much even with so little time to study and i'm happy i'm reconnecting to myself.

i have been thinking how could i be more authentic, and i think it is by sharing my journey. so here is the story of why i decided to create this blog :)

[coloradohq]

Hey all. We wanted to take this time to thank everyone for their patience and support as we’re going through this soft reboot; you all are the best members we could’ve asked for, and you’ve supported us for nearly 8 months now, which is almost unheard of in the RPG world. That being said, we wanted to take the time to address a concern. We’ve recently been receiving very rude anonymous messages. Whether or not that was the intention of the sender is a moot point as the tone of these messages have been very uncalled for. As an admin team, we are happy to hear everyone’s opinions, but ultimately make decisions that we feel benefit the group as a whole. The decision to have a soft reboot came after a few weeks of decreased activity coupled with the departure of a few long term members due to real life obligations. We thought that it would be helpful to give everyone the space to reconsider their muses in light of lost connections. Very little else has changed for the group itself; the rules and intent of the group remains the same. As always if you have specific questions or concerns, please message us off anonymous so that we can address them. Thank you.

[mlfns]

How dare you be human and reply to what you have a muse for. It's so rude and uncalled for. Doing what is suitable for you is so unheard of. Wow. Self-care? How dare you. #sarcasm

{   i  am  indeed  -  just  the  worst   }

[anna-dreamer]

Сон Амариэ: a breakdown. Part 2

Who the hell burned the ships?

...В час, когда сжигали мы корабли домой? This one is fascinating on so many levels. Let's start with a phrase that had me feral for several days now, корабли домой. It is a phrase where an adverb домой (home(ward)) serves as a modifier for a noun корабли (ships). Such cases are not unheard of in Russian, and this very adverb домой does actually form such phrases. It is common to say дорога домой, по дороге домой (a way home, on one's way home). But the curious thing is that it seems to be relatively marginal to use this structure with nouns that mean some kind of transport (as in автобус домой, поезд домой, respectively a bus and a train (that brings one) home). I've managed to find several such cases, but they don't seem to be frequent enough to be forming any kind of fixed norm. And personally, my gut tells me that in phrases like корабли домой the meaning of bringing one somewhere is missing. Дорога домой already has it in the very noun, there is already a meaning of motion, of traveling in there, while means of transport have no such thing. They are means to travel, but they are not the action of traveling. So if i were to edit a text with a phrase корабли домой, i'd probably propose to change it into something more regular. And whoever made decisions about how to change Сон Амариэ's lyrics for the stage in 2023 clearly was of the same mind, because both times Рипсимэ Гюлезян sang ты должен был вернуться there instead of ты должен был остаться, which sounds way more like ...В час, когда сжигали мы корабли? Домой ты должен был вернуться! (It is not so in 2014 YouTube version, but here is a separate concert performance uploaded in 2014 that already does вернуться). Now let us address the elephant in the room. First of all, who are these мы (we) that were burning the ships? Amarië did not partake in it nor did any of her people, the Vanyar. Moreover, neither did Finrod. Where he was, well, he was on thither shore, possibly lamenting his poor choices. It was Fëanor and his host who burned the ships, and none of people who concern Amarië here were present for it. So this мы is really uncalled for. I have several thoughts here. Maybe it is a bit of fanfiction on the author's part and in their mind Amarië did somehow partake in the Flight of the Noldor. It doesn't explain how she managed to associate herself with those who burned the ships though, as she clearly never left Aman. It makes it sound as if the author mixed up the first kinslaying and the ship-burning. Still, it doesn't make sense. Surely, she can't feel responsible for the ship-burning in some weird 'we are all sinners, we all did it' way? Maybe Amarië uses the ship-burning as a metaphor akin to bridge-burning, as in cutting all the ties to the past. Then мы would mean her and Finrod, him deciding to go and her deciding to obey the Valar and stay. What an odd metaphor that would make though. Those ships were wrongly taken from their owners in a bloodbath, they were supposed to carry uneasy allies towards their common enemy, but then one party decided to strand the other and took the ships for themselves. How can it describe a break-up between two lovers - i fail to see. Second of all, lest we forget, Amarië specifically calls these ships корабли домой! Except they are NOT ships that would bring anyone home! They are the swanships of Teleri, the stolen works of heart, and their home port is sacked. They are a means to an end that Noldor seize, a way to leave, to get to Endorë, and to never look back. What a curious way to characterize Amarië if she indeed hears about the swanships and regrets only one thing, that they were burned and could not bring Finrod home. Then again, there is another important point - this song is supposed to narrate a dream. It could be Amarië's conflicting emotions that manifest through these nonsensical lamentations that do not actually coincide with reality. Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

[bleue-flora]

Update: I read some of stello’s analysis and would like to add a fourth reason that I have also seen other places too - lore inaccuracy. If people use things as support of their claim that either didn’t happen, didn’t happen as they said, or is missing context, of course it would be convincing. And if you can’t remember the facts or didn’t watch the lore then that can lead to believing the narrative the characters’ tell you instead of the actual canon. And I say that not to call stello or anyone else out. I’m genuinely not trying to bash or accuse anyone of anything. I’m just saying that no wonder people might think Dream is obsessed with Tommy if they are not basing it off the actual canonical truth.

Some examples (I’ve seen from stello’s analysis and many others) of lore inaccuracy include, but are not limited to, the following:

Believing that Sapnap heard the Spirit speech and that is why he leaves when in actuality Tommy and Quackity specifically tell him about it and he believes them. - And as always I would like to add that Dream made that speech to his enemies, directly after they burned down his friend’s house and used Spirit to blackmail him. Seems like a pretty reasonable time to scream about how you don’t have any attachments for them to hurt in order to hurt you…

Believing that Dream in anyway framed Tommy for Exile and that Exile was an unreasonable and unheard of thing to do, as punishing people for griefing and stealing never happened before, as if it was seen as okay, when this is not true. People have always been upset about griefing and it has always been seen as a no no, just because people did it doesn’t make it okay or mean there weren’t repercussions. The difference however, is whether - a) it was uncalled for and b) they made amends/made efforts to stop, something Tommy did not do. Killing people and taking their items when they have wronged another player had been common place [clip]- look no further than Tubbo demanding to have Tommy’s discs after he burned down his house and killed his bee [post] and Tubbo also suggests getting Dream to ban him [clip]. So losing items and dying isn’t new the only difference is they can’t really just kill like the olden days. Even exile wasn’t a new punishment as in Tommy’s first stream he did just that [post]. Only this time Dream came to make sure he didn’t just disobey and return. Plus, politically speaking the vice president of a nation committed arson against the king, and like wars have started over less so for him to take things to more extremes isn’t the most unreasonable, especially since the original agreement was just like don’t steal, don’t grief, don’t cuss people out and call people names…etc - basically don’t be a dick for two weeks, which Tommy refused and turned to blackmail instead.

Believing that Dream actually came back during the finale because Tommy said he’d kill himself when - a) Dream has the revive book and can just bring him back and b) he literally comes back before Tommy makes that threat [post].

Believing that he was interested and begging Tommy to visit him in prison because he’s obsessed with Tommy, not because he had been in prison for already 32 days (more than the 11 days of Exile btw), in which time we know he was so lonely as he was throwing his clocks into the lava just to get Sam to stop by. In that month, he only has 4 visits from people, meaning a lot of time spent in isolation and he even asks Badboyhalo when he comes to get George and Sapnap to come visit. He gives them notes of - thanks for visiting - because he’s grateful to have visitors and human contact whether from a pissed off Sam or his enemy Tommy who just berates him the whole time. He’s scared in that stream when Tommy says it’s his last time because Tommy is one of the only 4 people to come in a month and he’s saying he’s Never coming back, making Dream’s likely visitors, likely human contact that much lower.

Believing that Dream was specifically targeting Tommy right after the prison break, when it was Tommy who came to exile seeking him out. The reason he went from Punz’s meetup to exile was to get the Axe of Peace (the weapon he was killed with btw) isn’t about being obsessed with Tommy or that’s it’s more priority than his armor at Snowchester, it is just simply closer. Like a pit stop on his way to get the armor. There isn’t really any reason to think he went there knowing Tommy would come. And yea after Tommy started rallying forces together to take down Dream and fortify Tubbo’s house and stuff, of course Dream would want to keep him off his back by scaring him with a creepy disc in his basement.

Believing that Tommy didn’t start the Disc Saga when he and Sapnap jumped Dream when he logged on [post] when he wasn’t even involved in the war, and Tommy specifically chases after him when he has nothing and just respawned to kill him [clip]. Then they refuse to give back his stuff afterward and continue killing people like Ponk and Alyssa despite being asked to stop. After Punz kills Tommy to get Dream’s stuff back, and they reclaim all their stuff, Dream even gives back Tommy’s and Sapnap’s stuff. But it doesn’t stop there because Tommy keeps killing people and doesn’t stop when asked, so Dream takes his discs to force him to stop. Sapnap ends up recovering one of the discs which Tommy hides in a cave, and as Dream tries to find it, Tubbo, Sapnap and Tommy team up to kill him again and get back the other disc which Tommy proceeds to hide it in his yard. Sooo killing someone multiple times and rubbing it in their face and refusing to give back their stuff, pushing him to the point of taking the discs to make it stop, pretty sure constitutes as starting the Disc Saga… and if nothing else he is fairly responsible for how it escalated. And the reason Dream focused on Tommy is because Tommy showed no signs of stopping versus the others who did, so he had to take further action against Tommy and get the discs.

And if that war alone doesn’t highlight Tommy’s provoking, aggressive and unwelcome behavior towards Dream enough then I don’t know what will, but that isn’t the only time something like that happens either. In a different incident involving a trap with Fundy, Purpled, Tommy and Dream, Tommy refuses to give Dream’s stuff back and Dream retaliates [clip]. Tommy also takes his stuff after hitting him with the mine cart… etc etc So I’m pretty sure it isn’t Dream who starts the wars and conflict between him and clingyduo.

And the fact that Wilbur and Techno also blow up L’manberg for reasons not involving Tommy, Las Nevadas doesn’t involve Tommy, Kinoko doesn’t involve Tommy, Mexican L’manberg doesn’t and all theses other characters and stuff happens that don’t involve just clingyduo and Dream shows that the story isn’t about “Tommy and Tubbo versus Dream” and has never been, even if Tommy thinks it is.

And like if we’re believing Dream in the disc confrontation and his nonsensical monologue when he says he needs Tommy because Tommy is the key to attachments and yada yada, then we should also believe him when he says he didn’t even build the prison for Tommy originally [clip]. And I’m pretty sure if he was obsessed - if Tommy was enemy number 1, always on his mind, representing the threat to his “happy family” then I think he’d build that prison specifically to lock Tommy up so he can’t be a threat anyone. But instead in the same monologue he talks about how important Tommy is, he says to Tommy’s face that the prison wasn’t meant originally for him. And if we are going to take the other things he says in that confrontation as true then that should to be taken too…

So what if he destroyed the yard for the discs, So what if he lived in his walls and followed him around - I mean if Tommy is a child who’s too young to know the difference between right and wrong and face the consequences, then doesn’t that just make Dream a baby monitor…

why do people think cdream was obsessed with ctommy like i read stellos analysis on it and its well written and nice but they fail to take into account that cdream has a persona and 90 percent of the time is not telling the truth

Ummm well many reasons actually. Ones I’ve talked about a bit before, but basically I think it actually comes down to Tommy himself for a few reasons.

a) Firstly, I think because Tommy believes it, it’s hard for us not to believe it. In other words, by watching his stream, being in his head, that perception is ingrained into the lore itself so we are more inclined to believe it, simply because the character we are watching through does. This is true not just for Tommy but other characters as well and it makes sense, we are seeing things for the first time through their eyes - how could it not taint our view? This is also not helped by the fact that Dream leans into Tommy’s expectations. In multiple scenes we see him bring to life Tommy’s world view, giving him and us more inclination to take it at face value. Like Dream becomes who Tommy thinks he is so it makes it really convincing from Tommy’s head to not believe it.

b) Secondly, in many ways Dream is obsessed with Tommy. Sure not in the way Tommy thinks - like him constantly trying to kill him and take his discs and yada yada… but he tears up Tommy’s whole yard for Tommy’s discs, he fights wars for the discs against Tommy, and in some ways that is Tommy obsessing over Dream forcing Dream to engage. The problem I think is not so much that Dream is really obsessed with Tommy but that he’s obsessed with keeping his “big happy family” and Tommy continues to threaten that and be the center of chaos and conflict, there by making him a priority for Dream. And it doesn’t help that Tommy is also the very center of Dream’s hurt, and beginning and end of his downfall.

c) Lastly, and I think probably most notably, I kinda touched upon this already, but because Tommy is obsessed with Dream, he forces Dream to constantly be involved with him, making it look like a focus/obsession/priority when Dream really may be just trying to defend himself, defend his friends, get back his stuff… etc. Dream can’t not be involved with Tommy because just like the finale Tommy inserts himself right at Dream’s throat again.

So is Dream obsessed with Tommy? Or is he obsessed with getting to live his life, something Tommy continues to make impossible?

And yea the fact alone that Spirit, Mars, and Bekerson existed before Tommy and that Dream built a prison but plans on putting Skeppy in a little cage, should be enough to highlight that Dream is talking nonsense in the disc confrontation about Tommy being the key and him needing Tommy alive and yada yada… like it should be enough to showcase that maybe he isn’t really obsessed with Tommy like he depicts. But perhaps it’s much easier to believe that narrative than the one that Dream is actually a relatively sane person who’s just lying (like he’s accused to be lol - “All you do is lie, Dream…”). It’s a less messy reality then the what ifs and considerations and dissecting needed to find the actual truth. And who doesn’t want to just do the things that are easier?…

[missinghan]

「 light your sword ↠ lee minho 」

◦ warnings : mentions of blood & violence

The city of Kalmburg has it that no one has ever surpassed Lee Minho when it comes to the art of swordsmanship. 

“If you’re going to take on a guy who can parry a crossbow bolt with his sword as he’s contending against five other men, it’s time to re-evaluate the direction of your life—preferably while running away as fast as you can.”

The man walks up to the center of the town square every single day at the crack of dawn, his figure fully covered in a big black cloak, the hood thrown lazily over his head. All you can see is the strides he takes with his black combat boots. He almost belongs, but not quite. Kalmburg is known for its dashingly ornamental architecture — a white granite surface with serene spires can be seen from the castle at the top of the hill, soothing atmosphere and generically nice residents. Some say no beauty can be compared to its sunrise due to the dashing sight of a lake situated before the town square’s gate. 

Whereas, Lee Minho gives people a stark contrast with his dark aura and the black sword hung firmly on his back. He easily takes in everyone’s attention with a single sweep, his midnight orbs setting on nothing before he leaves as expressionless as he’s entered. His purposes and motives always remain hidden; hence the allure. Though it’s not hard to see how he’s making a good living on a daily basis. 

For one, he slays monsters; and for another, he deals with people. Outsiders might be surprised at how many units the Nobles are more than willing to pay him as long as he comes back alive, with the beast’s head limb in his hands. There were times when he’d come back covered in a sea monster’s gastric juice, other times he could barely walk back to the town because his spleens got severely damaged. But most of the time, he’d return as though he just got back from a stroll, outstretching his palm to collect the payment. 

Dealing with people is far more troublesome than those deadly creatures, Minho constantly tells himself so. It’s true, after all. Because when careless juveniles aren’t able to snatch their parents’ spare change on the dining table, they decide it’s a brilliant idea to challenge him for a duel. If they win, he’ll have to follow their request without receiving a single penny. But if things go the other way around, they will most likely come home crying for their mother. Such a nuisance. 

Today is no different. 

Moving into the morning light is a shadow wolf. His paws kiss the earth not gracefully, but rather with evident difficulties and there’s a ray of exhaustion in that pair of bronzed eyes. The wolf has seen better days. His silver-white fur is thin and it clings to his frame like an old cloak in a gale. Even from several yards away, Minho can count each rib as they’re sticking out, he sees dejection in his movements as if he’s gonna let himself tumble to the ground any moment. 

Minho carefully inhales, pulling out a silver dart from the back of his belt. He raises his hand and aims precisely for the pine tree, just a strand of hair away from the wolf’s ear. When he exhales, the thin needle comes flying past the creature before embedding itself to the wooden surface. 

The wolf whips his head towards the swordsman, locking eyes as he lets out a mere cry of pain, crimson dripping down on the side of his head. As Minho pulls his hood off of his face, slightly dubious that the creature of darkness will turn into a wisp of black smoke to take flight deeper into the forest, the wolf shakes his head before lying down on the soil, unable to coordinate his limbs. Then with his great grey head on his bloodied paws, he closes his eyes. He’s giving up on his life. 

“Something’s wrong. Shadow wolves’ blood isn’t supposed to be red,” Minho holds his breath in utter disbelief, taking a step backward. He’s got the wrong target. No, that client scammed him. 

A branch snaps. 

Minho reaches for his sword when the sound of thin air being ripped apart rings inside his eardrums, two blades coming in contact with each other and he has to squint slightly when tiny sparks of flame come to life between the weapons. Instead of looking at the raider, he quickly deflects their slash again. Hypothetically speaking, there are two possibilities: the first is that both swords are too weak to withstand the pressure of the blow, so they’ll simply break - in the exact same fashion. The second is in which case both blades are durable enough to field the contact, they will bounce right back. But his unwanted guest seems to detest him so much to the point they keep their sword grinding against his until their weapons slip against each other, creating a wave of grating shriek resonating through the woods, dust being thrown in the air. 

He stumbles backward, the sole of his shoes tearing the leaves below into bits. His vision shakes a little from the sudden attack before trying to focus on the figure before him. The first thing that he sees is the white wolf on the button of your silver-accent cloak. That’s the royal guards’ emblem.

“You,” the female voice catches him by surprise. “Lay another finger on that wolf now, I dare you.” You know all too well who this man is, and like hell you’re going to let him do what he wants just because of some cheap units.

Minho’s fully aware that his beating heart is thundering inside his chest, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the adrenaline flowing in his veins or those round eyes glaring at him from under the sunlight. He sees the grip on the hilt of your rapier being tightened and that’s when he regains his composure, taking in a deep breath. If he gave up now because of a pretty face with a deadly blade, he’d damn his reputation as a swordsman.

“Oh that wolf is all yours,” he smiles at you fakely, wiping the beads of sweat on his cheekbones away. “But you’re going to have to do better than snooping around on people.”

Minho steadies his grip on his sword, trying to keep himself together in the deafening silence, “So, who’s making the first move now?” The tonal mockery in his voice irks you and he seems to notice that too by the slight smirk tugging at his lips when the muscles on your face twitch. 

One. Breathe in.

You’re getting into your stance sideways, your blade eye level. This man doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. 

Two. Breathe out. 

Minho isn’t letting his guard down this time despite being slightly impressed with your skills. Usually, there aren’t many girls who take up sword fighting, at least not in his hometown so he thought you’d be sort of a novice. But your dexterity is beyond incredible, he can hardly see the tip of your sword. 

Three. “I am.”

You charge first by swinging your rapier at him from above, Minho receiving the clash with the flat of his blade. He circles away from you, keeping his sword in motion while constantly changing his stances and attacks. Rapiers aren’t very suitable for slashing or slicing since the blade is so long and thin, it can only allow its owner more speed, more precise stabs and thrusts but greatly lowers their defense. So if he can just catch you off guard…

When the tip of your sword grazes just above his clothed ribs, Minho’s reflexes kick in and his blade knocks yours away almost immediately. With the bewildered look on your face as a signal, he dodges as you attempt another stab at his left ear. This causes you to trip on your heels, your balance quivering the moment his sword slashes at the button of your cloak rather than your neck. To prevent yourself from falling, you jump and do a backflip safely, breath’s fraying as the piece of clothing is completely ditched by a tree. 

“You are strong, just like the rumors,” you breathe out a stoic comment, chest heaving up and down rapidly. 

“You aren’t too bad yourself either,” Minho grins; he hasn’t felt this much eagerness to fight someone other than monsters before. In other words, he’s never faced someone who knows what they’re doing with a sword as skilled as you are. 

You cock a brow at him, confused, “Why are you smiling?” 

“I don’t know, actually,” he shakes his head and hearty waves of laughter bubble up inside his stomach. The brunet sheaths his sword with a loud ‘clunk’, walking towards you to place a warm hand on your shoulder. “But good fight, you really know how to hold a sword.”

“Wait...aren’t we going to finish this?”

Minho picks up your cloak from the ground, outstretching his palm, “You seem like a person who knows what it takes so I don’t think that’d be necessary anymore. But I’d be glad to take you on again?”

This man is baffling you, and not in a good way either. Nonetheless, you still slide your sword back into its sheath and accept his handshake. “So you’re going to leave that wolf alone right?”

“Only if you tell me what happened to it,” Minho replies firmly, receiving a nod of approval from you. He actually seems like a solid person. Perhaps you can trust him. 

“That’s my brother, Chan.”

[yamayuandadu]

Funny or interesting Epic of Gilgamesh tidbits

Nobody actually says Enkidu’s name before Shamhat shows up. His creation is essentially impersonal, and this is something that is brought up by Humbaba during the fight. There’s a pretty sound theory that Enkidu urges Gilgamesh to ignore his pleas specifically because Humbaba mocked his lack of biological parents. Note that at this point in the narrative Enkidu does not lack parents altogether, though, since Ninsun outright calls him a member of her family and de facto her foster child before he embarks on the journey to the cedar forest with Gilgamesh.

When Enkidu curses Shamhat on his deathbed for setting off the chain of events which lead to his incoming death, Shamash appears to him to inform him this was rude and uncalled for and urges him to bless her instead because he wouldn’t met Gilgamesh without her. Enkidu actually does listen and promptly does so... expressing the wish for her to supplant the wife of someone affluent. While the passage also has Enkidu curse the anonymous hunter, Shamash is not concerned about him, so he does not get an apology.

Speaking of the hunter - his name is only preserved in the Hittite adaptation of the epic, though it is Akkadian nonetheless. He is named Shangashu, which means “murderer”. His parents must have hated him.

Utnapishtim actually curses the ferryman who brought Gilgamesh to his realm, Urshanabi, presumably specifically because he did that. Urshanabi due to being out of job then tags along with Gilgamesh for the rest of the story, and the final words are addressed to him. He’s probably the most major character in the epic with virtually no presence in adaptations.

In the Hittite adaptation of the epic, Gilgamesh visits the personified sea, something virtually unheard of in Mesopotamia for the most part, and not exactly common in Hittite religion either, presumably a reflection of the popularity of the sea among Hurrians (his Hurrian sidekick Impaluri is there too). The sea promptly curses him, as far as the surviving fragments go just because.

The Hurrian version, which is too fragmentary for a proper translation, in addition to replacing Ishtar and Shamash with their Hurrian counterparts, Shaushka and Shimige, apparently inserts the de facto main character of most surviving Hurrian myths, Teshub, into the narrative.

It is also possible that there was a Hurrian rewrite of the epic focused on Humbaba, in which he either survived or was portrayed as a tragic figure. Granted, the latter is not really unusual, since the gods’ anger at Humbaba’s death does appear to reflect the opinion of the epic’s compilers, and Humbaba is well attested as a protective apotropaic figure.

For sources on all of the above and more, see my recently finished rewrite of the article on EoG characters on wikipedia. Most are open access!