#very obscure reference yet again

[lactosefreevanillayoghurt]

>:(

[keepingitformyself]

there’s been no way for me to say (that i felt a certain way)

Synopsis: natasha romanoff has loved you for ages and she could never seem to get it right.

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: college AU, fluff and angst.

warnings: angst?

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

natasha met you in a very peculiar way.

it started at a friends of a friends party, in some internet starlet’s brooklyn loft.

drinks were going around, the music was loud, the smell of marijuana was very strong. she doesn’t quite remember it— after having been to a bunch of parties they all seem to blur into one— but she knows it was enough to leave a lasting impression on her.

she’d heard your piercing laugh from across the room. you, in a tight tank top and some black slacks. she could see the shine of sweat against your skin, the colorful lighting of the room making you seem so beautifully human.

everything sort of froze in the coming moments. she watched as you took your top off without a second thought. you were about to shotgun a beer and you stood tall as you did it atop the kitchen island. you didn’t need the attention, nor did you want it, but you had it.

it was a simple behavior. but it stayed with natasha long after you had crushed the beer can and tossed it on the floor somewhere.

natasha thinks you never notice her staring for the rest of the night but you do.

weeks later she sees you again at another party.

clint, wanda, tony and everyone else joins her this time. she isn’t surprised when she sees you. it was the same crowd, similar friend groups. but this time you made it easy for her to approach you.

somehow you end standing next to eachother near where all the drinks had been laid out.

"hey," you said, voice casual but warm. "didn’t expect to see you here again."

natasha smiled, though she hadn’t expected to talk to you at all. nor did she think you noticed her. "i guess we have similar taste in parties."

you laughed lightly. “guess so."

there was a beat of silence before you added, “you know, you were kinda staring at me last time.”

natasha froze for a second, unsure how to respond. she hadn’t thought you’d noticed. but before she could stammer out an excuse, you were already grinning.

“i’m just messing with you. it was funny. i didn’t think anyone would care enough to notice me.”

natasha was relieved, yet still unsure if you were actually joking. either way she felt this was going better than she planned.

the night wore on and you guys carried easy conversation. natasha was still unsure how to even approach talking to you. she felt kind of shy. so she improvised by making references to things she didn’t think you’d get, but you almost always did.

you dropped a reference to something obscure, a movie natasha had once obsessed over, and natasha stared at you for a moment longer than was socially acceptable. she couldn’t stop herself.

“you’re really into that, huh?” she said, and just like that, the bond started to form. it wasn’t immediate or instant, not the kind of connection that screams “best friends forever.” no, it was something stranger, something subtler, like two different puzzle pieces that had almost fit, only to get pushed back together by sheer happenstance.

“your references are spot on.” you laughed. natasha smiled at how easy you made it for her to be around you.

you and natasha started seeing each other more, slowly building this weird, unspoken routine. she’d text you at random, making some kind of sarcastic comment or joke only you would get, and you’d shoot back a meme that only someone with your specific sense of humor would understand. over time, you both ended up in the same circles, passing each other in the hallways of the university, at class, at parties—always just a little bit more than acquaintances, but never quite crossing into the territory of “best friends.”

there was something comfortable about it. easy, even. but for natasha, it was also strange. the more she saw you, the more she felt like there was something else there, something neither of you wanted to acknowledge. maybe it was a crush. maybe it was more than that.

it wasn’t as though either of you had been completely oblivious to the passing of time, to the fact that you were both growing older, moving through college with the same bittersweetness that everyone else felt. and yet, there was still this distance between you, an unspoken barrier that neither of you had broken down.

natasha thought about you a lot more than she’d like to admit. how she so badly wanted to cross the line between friendship and something more.

by senior year, natasha couldn’t ignore it anymore. her feelings for you weren’t just fleeting glances or passing thoughts. they were there, constant, sitting beneath her skin, running through her mind like a song she couldn’t shake. but it wasn’t just a crush. it was more. she could feel it. she knew it.

the desperation kept getting worse.

it was a slow burn.

you were months set from graduating, natasha felt it was time she’d try to test her luck.

it was late into the evening at yet another party—music blaring, laughter echoing through the crowded living room, and cups of cheap beer littering the tables. one last semester before graduation, before the "real world" set in. natasha was sitting on the couch, leaning against the back with her legs stretched out in front of her. her eyes roamed the room, scanning for someone to talk to. and then she saw you.

you were in the middle of a conversation with clint and wanda, your hands animatedly gesturing as you told some wild story about a disastrous trip to the beach, the kind of tale that had everyone in stitches. natasha couldn’t help but smile from across the room. there was something magnetic about you—how you lived so fully, how you pulled everyone into your orbit without even trying. natasha had been watching you for months now, always on the edge of your space, always wishing she could be more than just a silent observer.

she didn’t know when it started—when the simple admiration had turned into something else. but now, as she watched you laugh with your friends, something in her chest tightened. this wasn’t a crush she could just ignore.

it wasn’t the first time natasha had thought about asking you out. but tonight felt different. maybe it was the proximity of graduation, the sudden realization that this was it—that you both were on the brink of leaving behind this chaotic, unmoored time in your lives. she could either stay on the sidelines or take the chance.

she stood up, smoothing out her jacket and walking across the room. her friends—clint, wanda, and sam—noticed her approaching and exchanged knowing glances, all but daring her to make a move. natasha could feel the weight of their stares, but she ignored them. she focused only on you.

"hey," she said, stepping into the conversation, a little breathless from the nerves she’d kept hidden.

you turned, giving her that warm smile you always did. "hey, nat! what’s up?"

"not much, just wanted to, uh, ask you something," natasha began, her usual confidence faltering just a little.

“i was thinking about heading to this bar later, just to get away from all… this,” she gestured vaguely to the party around them, “and i was wondering if you wanted to join me? for drinks. just us. you know, before we all get caught up in the whole graduation mess.”

it was casual, maybe too casual. but natasha didn’t want to make it seem like a big deal. not with everyone watching.

there was a pause, just a beat too long, before you looked at her, a faint frown pulling at your brow. you were processing. “uh,” you hesitated, glancing at your friends.

clint, wanda, and sam all turned their heads at the same time, giving you the slightest raise of their brows. you bit your lip, clearly unsure, and natasha’s heart sank a little at the hesitation.

"i mean," you said slowly, looking back at natasha. "we’re friends, nat. i just… i’m not sure."

it was a gentle rejection, but it stung all the same. natasha swallowed, masking her disappointment with a shrug. "no, yeah, of course. no pressure." she let out a quiet laugh, her hand rubbing the back of her neck, trying to laugh it off. "i was just messing with you. don't worry about it."

you nodded, a small, apologetic smile on your lips. "i mean, i’d love to hang out more, just—"

"totally fine," natasha interrupted, her voice light but edged with something that made her own heart ache. she smiled, keeping it neutral. "maybe some other time."

she turned away quickly, but she felt your eyes on her as she walked back to the couch, her friends watching the entire scene unfold. clint raised his brows, and natasha just shook her head, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing how deeply that small exchange had affected her.

but inside, it stung. it stung more than she cared to admit. it wasn’t just a small rejection. it was the fear that maybe you had noticed her feelings all along and were just too scared to say anything about it.

that night, natasha tried to sleep, but her thoughts wouldn’t stop racing. you were everything she had wanted, but in this strange, liminal space, neither of you had been brave enough to admit it.

weeks passed, the semester came to an end, and graduation day loomed on the horizon. natasha and you both moved on in your own ways, starting to make plans for life after college. but something lingered. something unsaid. life became a little more faster, and faces got a little older.

you reached out to her a few times. it was never the same as before. it was different now, with this strange tension lingering between you both. but you kept in touch, as if you both were afraid of letting go of something that might have been, something that might have still been.

and maybe it was ridiculous, natasha thought, but she was okay with it. she had loved you for years, and maybe that was the most honest thing she could admit to herself.

because even if you two had never been the closest of people, you’d always been there. always in the background, always in between. and somehow, that was enough for natasha. enough for her to hold on to the hope that maybe, one day, you’d both be able to finally figure it out.

it had been two years since you both left the university. two years where natasha had started a career in marketing, constantly moving up, climbing the corporate ladder while trying (and failing) to suppress the things she didn’t want to feel about you. she had dated, of course. a couple of short-term relationships, nothing serious. but nothing had ever lasted, and she had never quite understood why until now. the answer had always been there, hovering just out of reach, in the form of a text, a call, a passing thought about you.

as for you, you’d moved across the country for a job in graphic design. you didn’t think much about natasha at first. life had been busy—new city, new friends, new routine—but every now and then, you'd wonder if she'd thought of you. if she remembered how everything had felt when you were both on the brink of something, but never quite dared to cross the line.

and then it happened.

it wasn’t planned. it wasn’t expected. but one saturday evening, natasha found herself sitting at a bar in brooklyn after a long week at work. she’d had a rough day. one of those days where everything felt like too much. and then, as she nursed her gin and tonic, she heard someone call her name.

it was a voice she hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

“natasha?”

she turned, already recognizing the voice before she even saw your face. and there you were, standing in the doorway of the bar like a memory coming to life. your hair had grown a little longer, and you looked different, older in a way that made Natasha’s heart skip a beat. but you were still you—the same you who had been in those parties, those late-night study sessions, the one who had always made her laugh with a look or a passing reference.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. just stood there, eyes locking, as if trying to figure out whether this was real.

“i didn’t know you were in new york,” natasha said, her voice betraying the sudden weight in her chest. she couldn’t keep the smile from forming, even though she tried.

“i wasn’t planning on being,” you said, grinning. “work sent me here for a few weeks. i was meeting some friends, but it’s been a while, so i thought i’d just see if you were around.”

it wasn’t exactly casual. but you both knew it wasn’t entirely random, either. it felt like fate had decided that you two were finally going to do this.

you sat down, and the conversation flowed as naturally as it always had. the awkwardness of the past melted away. you didn’t need to pretend anymore. there were no more games, no more hesitations.

just you and natasha, picking up where you left off, though this time, the space between you felt a little different. there was an understanding now, a quiet knowing in the way you both spoke, a recognition that time had done its job.

“so…how’s life?” natasha asked, pushing her drink aside and leaning in a little closer.

you shrugged, but there was something different about you too, something less guarded. “it’s been alright. busy. but you know how that goes. i’ve been thinking about home, though. about—” you paused, then looked directly at natasha. “about people i should have kept in touch with.”

natasha’s heart was thudding in her chest, but she kept it together. she was a master of hiding emotions, after all. “yeah?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“yeah,” you said, with a smile that made natasha’s stomach flutter. “it’s funny how things work out. you don’t realize what you miss until you’re standing in front of it again.”

time had always been a strange thing between natasha and you—something both distant and close at the same time, like a thread that wound its way through your lives, never quite snapping, always lingering. you’d known each other for years, seen each other at parties, shared quiet moments, and laughed at the same jokes. but all that time, there had always been a hesitation. a space between the two of you, filled with something—something both of you had been aware of but had never dared to name.

it was the kind of thing that was easier to ignore in college, easier to pretend it wasn’t there while you were both busy with classes, with your lives, with the thrill of being young and not yet knowing what you wanted out of the world.

but that something between you had always been there, pulling at both of you, quiet but undeniable. the way you caught each other’s eyes a little too long. the way your conversations turned into something more meaningful without either of you intending it. the way natasha would see you at parties and catch her breath for just a moment. the way you’d smile, as if you both knew, but neither of you was brave enough to act on it.

you’d both dated people. tried relationships. but it had never lasted, had it? there was always that nagging feeling in the back of your mind—something missing, something not quite right. as if your lives couldn’t fit together because they weren’t ready to yet. you didn’t have the words for it, and neither did natasha. but you both knew. you always knew.

the things that had once seemed complicated—life, timing, fear—suddenly didn’t feel as big as they once had. there was a quiet honesty between you now, as if you both had grown enough to stop pretending you didn’t feel it. the awkwardness, the hesitation, the “maybe” that had been there before was gone.

it was you. it had always been you. and you knew it too.

“so,” natasha said after a beat, her voice softer now, quieter than before. “what are we doing here, really? we’re not strangers. we’ve known each other for, what, almost four years now?”

you looked at her, your lips curling into a smile that didn’t hide the tension in your gaze. “we’ve known each other longer than that,” you said. “we’ve always known.”

“i think i’ve always been afraid of this,” natasha admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “afraid that i’d say the wrong thing, or that it would mess things up between us. that maybe the timing was never going to be right.”

you nodded slowly. “i’ve been afraid of that too.” you paused, then added with a wry smile, “i was never good with timing.”

“maybe we don’t need perfect timing,” natasha said softly, her gaze meeting yours with something she hadn’t let herself feel before—a quiet certainty. “maybe it’s just the right time now. after all this time.”

you didn’t answer right away. you didn’t have to. instead, you reached across the bar, your hand brushing gently against hers, and just like that, it all clicked. there was no more hesitation. no more waiting. you both knew what this was, what it always had been.

“yeah,” you said, your voice low and certain. “i think you’re right.”

and that was it.

[messiahzzz]

it is a conscious choice of mystra to initially present herself as this benevolent, courteous, and merciful being. a practiced and perfected approach she knows will compel gale to follow her demands with the least amount of resistance on his part. he already refused to follow her instructions when she sent elminster to request his death — his effective father figure, gale’s self-proclaimed hero, mentor, and the one who plucked him from obscurity in the first place — so another appeal is in order.

narrator: "elminster's visit weighs heavy on your mind. his face you did not expect to see again." narrator: "when you last saw him, you were in your prime. no orb, no tadpole. a mage of growing renown, all power, pride, and potential - beloved by the goddess of magic herself. narrator: "it's one thing to have fallen from such heights, but to have elminster himself now witness your humiliation is almost unbearable." gale: [his disappointment cuts deeper even than mystra's. he was your hero.] narrator: "while most know of elminster the legend, few know him as you have. he plucked you from obscurity. offered you his guidance. his faith. and most recently, his pity."

yet it is curious how quickly she changes her tune once gale doesn’t readily agree to her demand to return the crown of karsus to her, no questions asked. or even dares to impugn, or criticize her reasoning for leaving him to die.

gale: "a great ask indeed. you've given me much to think on - as you always did." mystra: "so be it. follow the needles of your own wisdom. we shall see how truly it leads you."

gale: "because i disobeyed you. you punished me for it." mystra: "how so? you think i should have cured you? erased the consequences of your actions?"

gale: "you break up with me, cut me off from the weave, leave me to die, and that's all you have to say? 'you look well'?" mystra: "i did not come here to suffer a mortal's admonitions. certainly not yours."

gale: "you were threatened. you realised you couldn't control me." mystra: "you were many things to me, but never a threat. and never a saviour." nodecontext: sharper, almost a warning - don't entertain such thoughts, gale. you won't like where they lead.

gale: "i don't know. i need time to think." mystra: "so be it. follow the needle of your own wisdom. we shall see how truly it leads you."

particularly interesting to note is how she uses his surname as a tool to chastise and taunt him. only referring to him as "gale dekarios" in the context of him displeasing her, when he doesn't readily obey, whether he simply wavers (needing time to think) or outright declines her instructions. she uses the very name he had actively discarded and refuses to be referred to at this point in time. a deliberate reminder of his fallible humanity, of the flaws he tried to distance himself from. she knows this.

gale: "i won't let you down again. when the absolute is vanquished, i will surrender karsus' powers to you. you have my word." mystra: "thank you. may the weave's light guide your purpose, and it's wisdom guide your hand." mystra: "the future of magic rests on your shoulders, gale of waterdeep". mystra: "i promise you - it is a burden you are strong enough to bear."

gale: "i don't need your forgiveness. the crown of karsus will be mine, and the karsite weave will obey me." mystra: "crown yourself, gale dekarios, and you will learn what it is to carry such weight upon your shoulders." mystra: "if it does not crush you, i will." nodecontext: an icy edge entering her voice - a hint of a challenge gale will face if he pursues this course. nodecontext: here we glimpse the true, unimaginable power of mystra. she's still in control of herself, but her anger should be palpable.

i have already addressed the overall topic of mystra & gale's relationship in several posts i wrote some time ago [x] [x] [x]. however, since then we have received new snippets of information with patch 5 that shed more light on the progression of their relationship as a whole. this post is intended to be an update of sorts, containing a more comprehensive list, as well as lore excerpts for added context and proof. i will split this essay into several sections for coherency — buckle in, cause this is going to be a long one!

✧ mystra's history of manipulation ✧

one of the epilogue letters revealed that elminster first sought gale out when he was about 8 years old. which according to gale's canon age being 35 (as listed on his idle champions character sheet) means that their first meeting occurred around 1465 DR. although elminster's wording suggests that this may merely be an estimate on his side.

furthermore - in the ending where gale dies in the attempt at ascension, raphael has the following to say:

raphael: "you were the spark of ambition that rekindled gale's ambitions, after mystra had so cleverly put them to rest."

insinuating that mystra did make an active effort to keep gale in line, to temper his ambition, lest his thirst for more knowledge would eventually prove bothersome for her. keeping an eye on him at all times, keeping him close, placating him, and urging him to be patient.

what distinctly stood out to me is how this also aligns with some of azuth's quotes in the temptation of elminster, while he gives advice to a then-young sage of shadowdale.

we are her treasures, lad—we are what she holds most dear, the rocks she can cling to in the storms of wild art. she needs us to be strong, far stronger than most mortals ... tempered tools for her use. being bound to us by love and linked to us to preserve her very humanity, she finds it hard to be harsh to us—to do the tempering that must be done. she began the tempering of you long ago; you are her 'pet project', if you will. [...]

"you serve mystra differently. she watches you and learns the human side of magic in all it's hues from your experiences and the doings of those you meet—foes and friends alike. yet the time has come for you to change, and grow, to serve as she'll need you to, in the centuries ahead."

and yet again, there is a reoccurring pattern in her relationship with sammaster, another of her chosen, as well:

sammaster fell to his knees and wept upon mystra's feet. they ended up spending ten days together. this made him the first chosen of mystra since the seven sisters. when he asked for the reason that mystra had chosen him, she replied that she had foreseen that one of her chosen would be killed in battle, and he would be the replacement. he left this encounter feeling as though he and mystra were in love.

mystra is no stranger to fostering feelings of boundless devotion that weren't present before. observing her potential chosen, appearing before them, promising them power. luring them into service without the knowledge of what this may entail. where other gods may instill fear, mystra instills the notion of love. practicing seduction while mirroring her chosen's humanity. intentionally portraying herself as someone sympathetic and approachable. syncing their language, highlighting mutuality, making them feel favored and seen. mystra sees no need in the act of divine separation, a display of godlike grandeur — inimitable, menacing, larger than life, towering above her chosen. instead, her manifestation is purposefully unassuming. she meets them in the form of a woman in her early 30s, conventionally attractive, palpable, and appealing to the masses — a human figure. the very embodiment, the very ideal of traditional beauty an impressionable, young wizard may have.

gale: "i can't quite describe it, the need i sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence." gale: "no sculpture or painting could ever do her justice, only the fabric that she herself is and embodies."

gale: "in her likeness, i used to read a thousand stories. she was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes."

player: “what did mystra’s attention feel like?” gale: “love. [...] perhaps it was not quite love, but you see, the wizard was but a very young man. it was most certainly love to him. [...]"

how we see her in the game is very likely the same form she chose to present to a young gale. beauty, wisdom, elegance. perceived perfection, yet humble in her divinity.

the mystra of now (1490s DR) retains some of the memories of all of her earlier selves, and the relatively young and inexperienced midnight is “in there,” but wholly subsumed. mystra could generate an avatar or seeming that might fool some mortals into thinking they were meeting midnight, but it would be an act. [x]

generating an avatar in the form of a mortal she subsumed. purporting mutuality. midnight was just another mortal added to mystra's long list of "human stock" — vessels intended to preserve her power. favored, chosen, and ultimately suppressed by the very essence of mystra herself. midnight is no equal piece of mystra, the deity, there is no conscious part of the mortal that remains. [x] the mystra that currently exists is a union of the original mystryl, as well as all the other reincarnations of her that melded into her being. fragments of their minds that linger in the weave, scraps of humanity that could perhaps aid in her knowledge and understanding to prevent further betrayals in the future.

mystra's approach has always been indirect, instead of being outright menacing and portentous. the fact that mystra isn't written like the other gods in the game doesn't mean she's more sympathetic to gale's struggles or more inclined to understand human nature. her concern will always be the preservation of her domain and her hold over the weave — to do as the gods do.

gale: "you're one to talk. how many innocents were you prepared to sacrifice if i detonated the orb?" mystra: "such eddies are unexceptional. souls arrive and depart your plane with every tide, in circumstances just and unjust." nodecontext: matter of fact, not interested in these kinds of specifics

ketheric thorm: "who decides what is right? the gods did not care for right and wrong when they dismantled my life piece by piece." ketheric thorm: "and when i tried to buy it back, it cost me everything - everything." ketheric thorm: "we are copper pieces in their belts. tokens to be traded for scraps."

it is often mentioned that mystra makes her attention known by brushing against her potential chosen. whispering to them, touching their skin, eliciting a tingling sensation. which is also how mystra chose to reveal herself to ariel manx (midnight) in 1353 DR, while she was 21 years of age.

gale mentions feeling a similar sensation if he chooses to destroy the summoning circle in balthazar's office at moonrise and thereby receives her blessing.

gale: "did you feel that?" gale: "if i wasn't surrounded on all sides by the darkness of the shadow-cursed lands, i'd think it was mystra herself brushing against my skin."

mystra isn't above using manipulations to get her way. once again evident in her instigating dornal and elué silverhand's union in the first place, as well as intentionally withholding information from dornal that she actively took possession of his wife, elué. to ensure that they would indeed produce her offspring — the seven sisters — her chosen and the vessels to house her power.

where elué had previously been reluctant to acknowledge dornal's advances, he found them suddenly returned with great fervor once mystra took possession of her body. [x]

"by the time elué was carrying her final child, she was in effect a lich - a crumbling shell kept alive only through mystra's power. dornal was shocked at her deterioration. he sought magical aid to cure his wife, and when he learned from the most powerful priest he could find that his wife was possessed by an intelligent force of great power, a sickened dornal tried to slay her. he struck off her head one moonlight night as they walked together in a wooded glade. mystra was forced to reveal herself. dornal was shattered by what he had done, and aghast at how he - and especially elué - had been used." [x]

dornal, who had been kept in the dark throughout, abandoned his lands and children after slaying his wife, traveling to the north, with the plan to seek his own death. he repeatedly tried to poison himself, yet mystra wouldn't allow him suicide and magically neutralized the lethal doses to keep him alive against his will. after his death in 797 DR, mystra turned him into another servant of hers: the watcher — one who wanders the realms, seeking out new potential chosen to this day.

which brings us to...

✧ mystra's foresight and her "death" ✧

mystra possesses a degree of foresight - she foresaw the time of troubles and her own passing at the hands of helm in 1358 DR for defying him and her attempt to converse with the overgod ao without the tablets of fate. the very reason why she sought out mortal vessels to house her power (the seven sisters) — to avoid disaster should another entity win control over her in the chaotic period of wildly fluctuating power struggles that was the time of troubles. this divine power slumbers within these individuals, which she can call upon.

in 1385 DR mystra (midnight) was struck down by cyric and shar, which brought upon the spellplague.

in 1479 DR mystra was located by elminster inside a cave in cormyr, guarding her mortal body. she survived cyric's assassination by inhabiting the body of a bear, while still able to contact her chosen. she returned to her full power in 1487 DR.

the important part, that i've often seen outright ignored or misinterpreted by fandom altogether, is that mystra wasn’t actually “dead” for over a hundred years. at least not in the way we perceive it. we can’t equate her death with our mortal understanding of it. her powers were diminished to an extreme and she was weakened, yet she was still able to communicate. it was in her power to contact her chosen and to guide them. evident by her calling for elminster through her telepathic link and directing him to recruit other chosen for her to restore her power.

the plot of baldur’s gate 3 takes place in 1492 DR. meaning gale's actual year of birth would be 1457 DR. while elminster likely sought him out around 1465 DR, when he was only 8 years old. however, i once again want to emphasize that “couldn’t have been more than 8 summers old” indicates that this may merely be an estimate on elminster's side. he could’ve possibly reached out to him even earlier than that, or perhaps later. gale was 22 year old at the time when mystra was found in her diminished state by elminster in 1479 DR.

✧ mystra's awareness✧

gale: “so, all it took to get mystra’s attention was to learn how to reforge an artifact that once destroyed her." gale: "it's obvious, when you stop to think about it."

even if you may personally be skeptical of elminster’s insertion into gale’s life at age 8 (as well as mystra's ability to contact her chosen during her death) to be enough evidence of mystra’s attention — she had to be aware of him for his talents alone since he was a mere child. there is no way around this.

player: "how could she possibly know we read a book? hasn't she got more important things to worry about?" gale: "the weave is a highly sensitive magical network threaded through all life on this plane. any shift in magical energy, no matter how small, is akin to a beacon, alerting mystra to its cause." gale: "opening a book like the annals of karsus was akin to us shooting a firework spelling 'look at us, mystra!' directly into the skies of elysium. she knows."

mystra IS the weave, as gale himself has stated several times. it is an extension of her being, threaded through all life. by touching the weave one is directly touching the goddess of magic herself. mystra is aware of any magic user, able to deepen this contact at her choosing.

shadowheart: "isn't it so, that every time you speak as you cast a spell, you're endeavouring to call upon mystra?" shadowheart: "i'm surprised she still listens to you." gale: "she has no choice - she's sworn to hear all magic users. even me." gale: "i'm sure she at least stuffs her fingers in her ears to muffle my invocations."

gale described himself as a child prodigy. a virtuoso that was able to manipulate and compose the weave at will from an early age.

gale: "magic is... my life. i've been in touch with the weave for as long as i can remember. there's nothing like it."

gale: "i'm what one might call a wizard prodigy, who from an early age could not only control the weave, but compose it, much like a musician or a poet."

gale: "such was my skill that it earned me the attention of the mother of magic herself. the lady of mysteries. the goddess mystra." gale: "she revealed herself to me and she became my teacher. in time, she became my muse, and later, even my lover."

someone who was able to perform feats way beyond the skillset of his peers. he managed to wield the blackstaff itself, accidentally facing an irritated death slaad, and lived to tell the tale. he summoned and befriended tara, as well as the magma mephit, k'ha'ssji'trach'ash. we also know from elminster that he was able to cast fireball — a 3rd level spell — at age 8.

it is indisputable that mystra must’ve taken notice of the precocious young wizard during this time, even in her diminished state. much like she had once observed midnight. she began to whisper to him, drawing back the veils, revealing herself bit by bit, urging him that he was special — chosen.

gale: "he fancied himself much more than that. he fancied himself favoured above all others. [...] mystra showed him the secrets behind the veils. the gossamer veils first, draped across the weave. the delicate veils next, draped across her body. ‘chosen one’ she whispered, as she slipped them off completely."

✧ final part: power imbalance & exerting control ✧

gale: "the weave is still here, all around us - inside of us too. as long as the goddess lives, magic is a tangible thing for those who know how to touch." gale: "i've studied magic for many years, and in as many ways i am still a more than capable wizard." gale: "it's just that i'm no longer able to perform those feats even arch wizards would marvel at." gale: " to have one hand on the pulse of divinity." gale: "you have to remember that the weave is a living thing, both the embodiment and the extension of mystra herself." gale: "she can give and she can take away. i'm afraid i'm still very much on her naughty list."

gale: "mystra commands all magic. salvation, if such a thing exists, is hers to bestow or withhold." gale: "and yet, even now, more than i fear losing my own self and soul, i fear losing my command of her art."

player: "he sounds like a very talented individual." gale: "he was. even though it was in mystra’s affections that his true power lay."

even apart from their innate different forms of existence as a mere mortal and the literal goddess of magic, mystra is in full control of gale's power at all times, able to grant and withdraw her favors at will. claiming that such a power imbalance doesn’t exist, that it doesn’t apply to their respective relationship, that it might’ve been “healthy” at one point if gale was indeed of age at the time their relationship transitioned into a sexual nature is —pardon my french— fucking insane.

this stance disregards everything we know about the gods, about mystra’s involvement with other mortals and her chosen. it disregards the level of authority she wields over any magic user. it carelessly and naively disregards the implicit difference in power. mystra is the goddess of magic, his goddess. the very object of his worship and adoration since childhood. the goddess he devoted his life, his work, and his unyielding loyalty to. it is ultimately irrelevant at what exact point their relationship underwent its final transition from muse to lover. this discussion is redundant. mystra has been a constant presence since his early childhood. his worship of her began with the practice of his first spells, even if it wasn't conscious at the time. every practitioner of magic inevitably honors mystra, regardless of their faith in her. magic is his life, in the same way that mystra is pure magic. she is in total control of the tools he wields.

✧ summary ✧

mystra possesses a degree of foresight, already knowing about the time of troubles & her subsequent passing. this being her reason to seek out mortal vessels to secure her power.

mystra feels any shift in magical energy no matter how small, immediately alerting her. gale was able to cast a third-level spell at age 8.

mystra has a history of instilling feelings of love that weren't present before and using her chosen/other mortals for her own means. (elminster, khelben, sammaster, the seven daughters, ariel manx etc.)

mystra's manifestation is a conscious choice. midnight has been wholly subsumed by her.

mystra wasn’t actually “dead” in 1479 DR, but merely diminished. she was inhabiting the body of a bear and was still able to communicate with her chosen. she directed elminster to recruit other chosen to restore her power.

elminster sought gale out around 1465 DR when he was about 8 years old, as stated in the epilogue letter.

mystra first functioned as gale’s mentor, then his muse, and later his lover.

gale’s relationship with her was indeed of a sexual nature, he has explicitly stated so several times. their intimacy wasn't restricted to incorporeal interactions either, even though they were preferred.

during the ending where gale fails to ascend raphael states during the credits that tav has “rekindled gale’s ambitions after mystra had so cleverly put them to rest”.

azuth describes mystra's chosen as "tempered tools for her use". being bound to them by love and linked to them to preserve her very humanity.

mystra's intention to shape gale into yet another loyal, devoted asset to her portfolio has been there from the very moment she chose to reveal herself, to instruct elminster to seek him out. it was a conscious decision to directly insert herself into gale’s life, sowing his conviction that he was favored above all others. singling him out among his peers, isolating him with subtle promises of his greatness, his uniqueness, and all he could yet accomplish to be under her guidance. offering him her teachings, her inspiration, and eventually her love. yet all the while tempering his perceived greed and thirst to reach for even greater heights, unless it acted in her favor. keeping him close — lest his growing ambitions should ever prove to be an outright challenge to her rule.

the groundwork has been carefully laid from the very beginning.

gale: “goodnight. and thank you for your patient understanding. [...] try not to think too poorly of me. a cat can look at a king. a wizard can look at a goddess.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM ask: if my Kenpachi Count is correct, Gosuke Kiganjo might have been the previous captain of the 11th that Zaraki killed to get his job. Is that the case? How many problems did losing that co-conspirator cause for Aizen? And how much of a grudge did he hold for the big unkillable brute?

(With Reference to This Post and This One) It started with a pair of oranges.

---

It was Monday, November 11th, and like every November 11th, there was a ruckus coming from the 11th division. It was a faint noise largely obscured by distance and the windows that had been closed against the early winter cold, but it was still present as Now-Captain Sosuke Aizen reorganized Former Captain Hirako's office into his own.

He was luxuriating in the task. It was something he'd looked forward to for a long time- getting rid of the complex musical speakers that droned the worst assemblage of noises that apparently qualified as music, and finally installing a proper filing system in it's place was filling Aizen with a profound satisfaction that he assumed was an overture to his inevitable victory.

The way everyone was pointedly referring to him as Captain Aizen because they were trying to memorize the title tickled him a bit too. Perhaps it was vain of him to enjoy it so much but... well, the little theatrical dance of pretending to pretend he wasn't grimacing and playing up the act of Putting On A Brave Face, only for whoever was speaking to try to reassure him that everything would work out, that he was being so brave, and you don't have to do this yourself-

"Oh no, I don't think I could stand leaving it to anyone else!" He'd respond, and the whispers of how Brave and Dutiful and Humble he was slithered through the division...

...An actor can hardly be faulted for enjoying the adulation of the crowd.

"Hey Bos- uh, Captain!" A boy's voice called behind him.

Of course, it helped that Aizen had been blessed with such a stellar supporting actor.

"Can you help me?" now-Lieutenant Gin Ichimaru asked, tugging on Aizen's Haori for his attention like a normal child, something the boy had learned was enormously charming of him. "-I can't get this thing to stay on my arm." he explained, holding up Aizen's old Lieutenant's badge, the slightly oversized sleeves of his Kosode falling back to reveal his toothpick-thin arms.

"Oh dear. That' won't fit you for a few years yet, will it Gin?" Aizen smiled, patting the boys head and kneeling down, tying it one way, failing, trying another, failing again, giving an enormously defeated sigh, going over to Hira- No, HIS desk now! his desk and rifling through the drawers, and came back with a Safety Pin to hold the badge in place.

"...There!" he beamed, patting Gin's shoulder when the badge didn't slide off his scrawny arm. "-Just don't tell Yamamoto-sama!"

Aizen then turned to look over his shoulder down the hall, where no fewer than a dozen faces peeking out of doors and around corners to watch the scene, and held a finger up to his lips with a small wink. The heads vanished with small gasps, charmed chuckles and a few high-pitched teakettle-like outbursts Gin had once aptly described as "Squeeing".

Scene over and Audience satisfied, Aizen closed the figurative curtains and literal door. Suigetsu pinged softly, Illusion activating- anyone listening in wouldn't quite be able to make out the words, but walk away confident that they were only discussing Division Business.

"You're in a good mood!" Gin grinned up at him, noting Suigetsu's call and the invitation to speak freely. "Though I guess it's not a surprise. It's been a very successful week for you!"

Aizen shrugged, just a little bit smug. "I am allowed to enjoy my laurels once in a while, I think."

Gin laughed, and hopped up to sit on the desk, kicking his feet over the footwell as he fished some oranges he'd taken from the commisary out of his pockets. "Speaking of people who have had very... intense weeks, where's old blind bones?"

"Captain Tousen actually insisted on attending the 11th Division Tryouts, even though both Ukitake and Kyorako offered to go in his place so he could rest!" Aizen said, taking one orange for now and another for later- he'd like to have to work through lunch, he was now so burdened with responsibility, a fun little scene he was workshopping in the back of his head. "...I suppose the poor bastard still regards Kiganjo as his responsibility."

"Hm." Gin nodded, mouth full of orange, spiral peel on the desk beside him. Aizen nodded at the peel and pointed at the trash can behind the boy.

"Sorry, Lord Aizen. That might be-' he swallowed, and tossed the peel over his shoulder and into the bin. '-but it could also be tactical. Unohana-taicho attends every year and within arm's reach of her might be the safest place for him right now. Be a shame if he had a turn, you know?"

"It's a damn shame that Kiganjo hasn't had one." Aizen grumbled.

"Yeah I was sure the Menos invasion would be enough to do him and the Loud Idiot from the tenth in." Gin sulked. "Oh well, I suppose it's good we had a trial run- now we know we gotta really ramp up production of Menos."

"Fortune was on our side in that respect." Aizen agreed, examining his first orange for the best place to begin peeling. There was an art to it, and the practice helped maintain his skills. "Maybe fortune will smile upon us again and Kiganjo will fall to some idiot at the tryouts."

He had just found the perfect place to begin when the ambient reiatsu of the Seireitei suddenly shuddered and bowed, like he was standing inside a rubber balloon and could make out the silhouette of someone approaching with a hatpin. Aizen reflexively jammed the orange in his pocket with it's companion as his head swiveled north like an owl. The incoming sharp point of reiatsu approached at an alarming speed-

BANG!

Whatever it was met the outer wall of the Seireitei. To Aizen's Horror, did not slow down. It was however now accompanied by successive crashes that seemed to be getting closer-

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

THUNK!

Aizen ran out the door, and slid a bit on the wood floors as whatever it was suddenly flew over the 5th division and made impact deep into the relatively soft earth of the training grounds.

"What the-?" He asked glasses askew not with practiced effort but genuine bewilderment. It took a moment to recognize the massive object now embedded upside-down in the middle of the courtyard, because Aizen had only ever seen it rightside up, and firmly bolted in place. "-Is. Is that the North Gate?" he sputtered, the feeling of surprise now turning into something bordering on Genuine alarm.

"I think that's Fortune's idea of a smile." Gin winced. "We uh... We should probably hoof it to the 11th."

"What?" Aizen repeated, genuinely surprised. "Why?"

Gin pointed in the direction of the 11th, and Aizen sluggishly followed his gesture-

CRACK!!

The outburst of reiatsu was so explosive it generated it's own superbolt of lightning- though whether it was the result of ionization down from the clouds, or worse- came up from the ground, he wasn't sure.

"...Oh." He paled, then steeled himself, clenching fists and inhaling. "LISTEN UP!" he barked to be heard over the growing din of alarm. "Our first priority is to keep the city from falling to chaos until we're told otherwise! Seated officers! Each of you take a dozen men and head to the Emergency rally points! Keep civilians calm, and direct them away from the 11th! Gin, you're with me!"

"SIR! YES SIR!" the assembled Shinigami shouted, and quickly fell in as he and Gin took off with Shun-po towards the scene of the catastrophe.

"You've got speed on me Gin, go scout ahead!" He called and the boy vanished in a silver flash of light ahead of him. He could make out other approaching officers- Kuchiki, his lieutenant with the fancy sunglasses and his grandson from the sixth and Lieutenant Yamada and an emergency troop from the fourth.

Another flash- bright red-orange for the instant it was visible- and he realized Yamamoto himself had deployed to the scene.

"Why does every woman turn into a huge bitch when you ask her to smile?" Aizen groaned.

Even with Shun-po it still took him a few minutes to actually arrive, just ahead of the Kuchiki detachment, and landed beside Gin where he was standing on the roof of the 11th. "How is it?" he panted.

"You want the good news or the bad news first?" Gin grimaced as more people arrived behind them-

"Holy FUCK!" Yelped Captain Ukitake, a man who was so careful with his language he kept a division swear jar.

"What the hell made that?" Echoed Captain Kyoraku, voice trembling.

Below them, the Dueling arena in the courtyard of the 11th had been cleft in twain. As had the rest of the Courtyard. And the ground below. And the Sewers below that- even from up here he couldn't see how deep the cut went- it had to be at least a hundred feet deep, which made it... deeper than it was wide, a terrifying thought.

"Just give me the news, Gin." He said, trying to sound like a Captain in control of the situation, but his voice cracked for the first time since puberty. Aizen shuddered as he realized that all was left of Kiganjo were the splashes of red on either side of The Hole's median.

"Well uh, the good news is that the thing that made that hole was only mad at Kiganjo specifically, and has peacefully accepted the commission as Captain of the 11th." Gin explained.

"Oh thank god!" Ukitake exhaled with relief.

"...What's the Bad news?" Kyoraku asked.

"...The bad news is the The Thing That Made That Hole is now captain of the 11th." Gin winced, pointing him out in the surprisingly calm crowd. "...Also, I think he already knows Captain Unohana because he was awful polite without her threatening him at all, and unless I'm mistaken, I think he knows Tousen too."

Aizen followed Gin's lead with great alarm for the second time in under ten minutes, and barely managed to pick out Tousen's garish orange scarf in the crowd. Mostly because of the Giant man in about half of a ratty Yukata and mostly bandages was standing next to Tousen, hand on the captain's shoulder and grin so broad it was visible even from up here. The man had long, unkempt black hair that came down to the middle of his back and some kind of bundle on his shoulder.

"...I guess we go make our introductions?" Ukitake mumbled, and the other two captains shrugged, then jumped down.

Tousen's expressions were hard to read on a good day, and right now he looked so stunned he might have been hit by that lighting bolt.

"-See, I never forget a face!" The giant was saying cheerfully. "Even if it's in a pho- whatsit. The paintings that come out of a box." The giant was an ugly beast of a man, at least seven feet tall, standing barefoot, and had a strangely long and angular face, with dark, sunken eyes.

"A Photograph Ken-Chan?" the bundle asked, and Aizen realized that the thing draped over his shoulder was the little pink-haired girl Tousen had smuggled in and out of the Captain's meeting yesterday.

Uh-oh.

"Thems." The giant nodded. "You alright Kaname? You look like yer about to keel over."

"I- I'm-" he started to speak and Aizen snapped Suigetsu open to flash the assembled crowd and hopefully catch the giant in the illusion before Kaname could speak and blow the whole operation-

"-PUT THAT THING AWAY!" The Giant roared, glaring at Aizen over his shoulder ...Through an eyepatch? Aizen paused, startled.

"You look like sheep when you run up on 'em at the road at night." The Giant chuckled at him. "Keep yer panties on, it's all done and dusted."

"Really Sosuke!" Ukitake huffed, chopping him on the shoulder to make him sheathe Suigetsu again.

"My apologies for my friend, it's literally his first day on the job." Kyoraku waved apologetically. "I'm 8th Division Captain Shunsui Kyoraku, the silver fox is 13th Division Captain Jushiro Ukitake, and that's appointed-yesterday 5th Division Captain Sosuke Aizen."

"You certainly know how to make an entrance, Captain-?" Ukitake asked brightly, attempting to distract the giant from Aizen.

"Kenpachi Zaraki." The Giant leered down at them. The other eye was sunken and gaunt and an unpleasant shade of yellow as Zaraki studied them in a way that made Aizen's skin crawl, like without suigetsu's Illusion, Zaraki could somehow see him naked. Yep. That's an eyepatch... But why do I have the feeling he can see right through it? Right through me?

"My apologies, Captain Zaraki-" Aizen sputtered, closing the distance and putting his hand on Kaname's other shoulder. "-Kaname is a very dear friend of mine and it's alarming to see a stranger touching him." he explained, digging the heel of his palm into the Silence character carved into Tousen's shoulder.

Tousen made a faint clicking noise in his throat as he involuntarily swallowed the shriek of pain under the Curse's command, and nodded in agreement. There- if I can't conceal Tousen from this brute, I can at least force him to remain silent. The illusion is safe.

"...That so?" Zaraki asked, the yellow eye fixed on Aizen's hand, and Aizen let go before he realized what he was doing. What? Why am I flinching? Who is this guy?

"You've taken to your title quickly!" Aizen smiled up at him, feigning cheerful interest.

"Title Schmitle, it's been my Name since before you were a wiggle in yer Da's nutsack." Zaraki grunted.

Aizen felt his glasses slipping off his face without his permission again. I didn't think there was an expression worse than Hirako's 'since you were kickin' in your momma'...

"Ah, here's trouble- WHAT TOOK YOU ASSHOLES SO LONG?" Zaraki roared cheerfully at two men who appeared on the 11th's roof, panting and enraged.

"HI YUYU! HI BALDY!" Yachiru waved cheerfully!

"Yachiru darling! I'm so glad you're safe!" the lithe, effeminate one waved back before jumping down to meet them.

"FUCK YOU!" howled the bald, muscular one.

"FUCK ME YOURSELF YOU COWARD!" Zaraki called back, grinning as they approached. "Come look who I found-!

Fuck! Aizen suddenly realized that when he'd let go of Tousen, Zaraki had not, and was now herding him away from Aizen, his huge and terrible body between them.

"OH MY GOD! IS THAT KAKIYO'S BROTHER?" the fop shrieked with excitement, sprinting over and grabbing Kaname's hand. "Yumichika Aseyagawa- oh this is DELIGHTFUL! I've heard so much about you!"

"Holy shit! You're the guy that burned down that shitass Daimyo's compound down, right?" the bald, clownish one grinned, shaking Kaname's whole arm. "Ikkaku Maderame, it's such an honor to meet you!"

THEY KNEW KAKIYO!? FUCK!! Aizen paled.

"-Burned what down?" Kyoraku asked.

"Shut up cueball, they acquitted him." Zaraki grunted, flicking Madarame's forehead. "Speaking of- I haven't heard form Kakiyo in Donkey's years, how is she? Running one of these divisions, right?"

"Gin!" Aizen hissed, searching the crowd for his Lieutenant. "Do something!"

"...She's dead." Kaname said flatly, still dazed with the... the everything probably.

Zaraki's shock rippled through the ambient reiatsu like being dunked in cold water. There's no sign of Gin, and no way to silence Tousen-

"What? How?" Aseyagawa demanded, the other two equally horrified.

"She was murdered." Kaname's voice was small, weak and he was starting to sway- the effort of resisting the curse was about to make him collapse.

Zaraki slowly crouched down, perched on his toes so he could pull Kaname close, face to face

"Who." It wasn't a request.

With a shaking arm, Tousen pointed to the remains of the Arena.

SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK!! Aizen felt his heart racing.

"I- I'm sorry. I tried to, but- I can't- I can't I'm not strong enough-" Tousen stammered, trying to speak through the pain.

"It's alright. I am." Zaraki said, voice suddenly strangely gentle, touching his forehead to Kaname's. He sat down, pulling Kaname down with him, half in Zaraki's lap so he couldn't be easily pulled away. "Tell me the details later, ya look like yer about to drop dead. Y'all got anything he can eat?" He glared at the other captains.

Ukitake immediately produced a large bag of candy and Kyoraku a flask that smelled like you could use it's contents for eye surgery. Aizen made a show of patting his coat, and suddenly remembered the two oranges Gin had handed him earlier.

"Uh, I have these..?" Aizen offered the fruits, mentally preparing to skin Gin.

"Good to see one of you is an adult." Zaraki chuffed, taking one of the oranges and handing it to Kaname, who pointed his face at it blankly. "You don't mind if I take the other? I sprinted here from North 69 on an empty stomach."

Tousen shook his head, still silent.

"Good man, you'll be alright. Ta." Zaraki said, taking the second orange from Aizen with a nod of gratitude.

... and then casually bit halfway into it like an apple and chewed, rind and all.

Aizen stood there, dial tone echoing between his ears. Gradually he became aware his left eye was twitching.

"Did. Did you just bite straight into that orange?" Kaname frowned.

Zaraki, to Aizen's horror, swallowed. "Yeh, what's wrong with that?"

"...Nothing at all." Aizen smiled, checking out of this scene. "Excuse me, I seem to have misplaced my lieutenant..." he mumbled, turning on his heel and wandering away from them.

---

Kaname felt Zaraki arch his back slightly, watching Aizen go.

"...Uh-huh." he said, smirk audible. "Alright lads, you got marchin' orders."

The other two men snapped to attention.

"Yumichika- There's a woman, beautiful and terrible as the dawn, with a coat like this 'cept it's got a four on the back. Go tell her Kaname's had a turn and whatever she says you say 'Yes Sir' and do it." he said, tugging on Kaname's haori.

"Sure, that's definitely a description I can follo- oh. Nevermind, I see what you mean!" Yumichika said, catching sight of Unohana. "On it, Boss."

"Er, It might help if I'm there to make Introductions..." Kyoraku offered, jogging after Yumichika.

"Ikkaku." he spoke as soon as Yumichika was out of earshot. "There's a man who's older than dirt who looks like he could set you on fire just lookin' at you, 'cos he can. He's got the Employee Handbook, can you go grab that?"

"...What Employee Handbook?" Ikkaku frowned. "Don't tell me you're quittin' the house? Madame won't like that."

"Madame sent me here today on purpose." Zaraki waved. "-But seein' as I just did a homicide right in front of everybody, the old man offered me a choice. Take Kiganjo's old job runnin' the 11th, or get burnt to ash right there, and I can't take care'a Yachiru if I'm charcoal."

"So... you're a shinigami Captain now?" Ikkaku asked, sounding more intrigued than anything.

"Seems so." Zaraki shrugged. "Funny thing- the Lieutenant and Third-in-command's seats are up for grabs too."

Ikkaku cackled. "Be right back, Captain!" he grinned and took off towards the center of the city.

"Oh, shit-!" Ukitake muttered, looking up from where he had been transfixed by the sight of Yachiru devouring the bag of candy. "Er- Yama-Ji can be a bit tetchy with strangers, I should probably go with him..." he winced, sprinting after apparently-Lieutenant Madarame.

Zaraki chuckled, weight shifting and turning his attention back to Kaname. "...You want some help with that, Little bat?"

Kaname nodded, too dazed to protest as Zaraki took the orange from him.

"That Aizen's a creep, ain't he?" he asked.

"Yeah! Kaname-kun told me to stay away from him, even more than I needed to stay away from Kiganjo!" Yachiru nodded, mouth still full of candy.

"Thought so." Zaraki hummed, fiddling with the orange. "You know what's great about first Impressions?"

Kaname shook his head, just relieved Zaraki was here to keep him from collapsing straight onto the pavement.

"They Stick." Zaraki said voice low and conspiratorial. "-No matter what Aizen sees me do from now on, no matter what anyone tells him, he will believe, at his core, that I'm an idiot."

-And with that, he pressed a perfectly peeled and clean segment of orange into Kaname's hand.

Kaname blinked a few times, turning the fruit over in his hands as he sluggishly connected the dots and, despite everything, slowly broke into a genuine smile.

"Kakiyo always said you were a clever bastard." Zaraki grinned, "Eat yer orange."

---

Aizen finally located Gin, hiding under the narrow gap under one of the stone storehouses in the less-used section of the 11th.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Aizen hissed at him.

"That thing ain't human." Gin whimpered. "I dunno what it is, but it ain't right."

"I agree he looks like a carcass that's too stupid to know it's dead but that's because he's a MORON." Aizen groaned, reaching under the porch and pulling the boy out by the scruff of his neck. "You should see how he eats oranges."

"I'm not kidding!" Gin pleaded, grabbing Aizen's sleeve. "He's got- I don't know, but when he looked at us? It was like he could see right through me!"

"Yes, yes-" Aizen waved. "-but even if he could, I promise, he hasn't got the brains to understand what he's seeing."

"He's gonna eat me." Gin muttered, hiding behind Aizen, peering out behind him in the general direction of courtyard.

"What's gotten into you?" Aizen huffed. "You've never been spooked before-?"

"I'm telling you!" Gin pleaded up at him, eyes very nearly open with alarm. "There's something deeply fucked up about that guy! He's dangerous! He's gonna find me and grab me and eat me!"

Aizen sighed, put his hand on Gin's shoulder, glanced around for witnesses, and finding them alone, backhanded Gin as hard as he could.

"Get ahold of yourself!" he snarled, and Gin flinched. He softened his voice, fingertips under Gin's chin, tipping his head up. "I'm sorry- it's easy to forget you're just a boy sometimes- but we can't lose our heads now, not when we've come so far. I'll deal with Zaraki, alright? I need you to keep Tousen in line- I've gotten him to shut up for now, but it's VITAL that he not speak to that brute until I've gotten him and his two clowns under The Illusion, got it?"

Gin nodded, sniffling, cheekbone turning slightly pink.

"Good boy." Aizen smirked. "I'll leave it to you then."

Gin vanished with a flash to carry out his orders, and Aizen sighed, taking off his glasses to clean them.

"-How do these things constantly get filthy?" he muttered.

"Most of the filth on glasses is the grease from the skin of the wearer. If they're constantly filthy, it may be that you're just slime." someone spoke up behind him and Aizen yelped, nearly dropping his glasses as he fumbled them onto his face.

"-Good heavens! How DO you do that?" He laughed nervously to suddenly be in close proximity to the massive frame of Yamamoto's pet third seat that he'd just assigned to the Seventh Division. No saftey pins needed to keep the Lieutenant's badge on the tree-trunk arms of Sajin Komamura.

The narrow gap in the helmet stared impassively down at him, and for the second time that morning, Aizen was struck by the feeling he was nearly being seen through.

"I didn't quite catch all that, but I did hear the sound of someone being slapped before I see you, holding your lieutenant like that, and he sprints away with a fresh bruise on his face." Komamura rumbled ominously.

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean." Aizen glared back.

"I'm glad to hear that. I should hope that I merely misunderstood what I saw, and that there's no cause for alarm." Komamura leaned forward, and Aizen thought there was the briefest flash of the same yellow as Zaraki's working eye in there. "-There are very few deviances the captain-general won't tolerate, but the lines in the sand do very much exist."

"Sajin-" Aizen scoffed, turning away from the menacing hulk of a shinigami. "You may be Yamamoto's Golden Boy, but you ought to mind what you go sticking your nose into, lest somebody cut it off."

There was no reply.

"Glad you underst- really?" Aizen groaned at the empty corner of the 11th Division. "How the HELL does he do that? It's like being stalked by an animal... Whatever, it's fine- Sajin still has his uses, and he'll forget it by tomorrow morning, won't he?" Aizen smirked, affectionately rubbing Suigetsu's hilt, the Zanpakuto purring at the attention.

"Now, let's go deal with that orange-mangling moron." he smiled as he stalked back into the remains of the 11th's courtyard.

[mylonelylittlestar]

My little star

Characters: Xavier Summary: random relationship headcanons with Xavier Warnings: None A/N: I've completely fallen in love with Love and Deepspace, especially with Xavier. It's truly hopeless

the type of boyfriend to get you matching pyjamas

he gets you so many that they slowly start to replace all of your own

likes to match with you even if you don't live together, so sometimes he just texts you to ask which pyjamas you're wearing so he can change into the matching one after he showered

if you ever gift him slippers, blankets, or pillows, he will keep them forever (even if it's something goofy like those big fluffy bunny slippers)

the best person to ask for good midnight snacks. He can recommend fantastic instant noodles, chips, crackers, or other snacks that are light and won't give you stomach aches late at night or negatively impact your sleep in any other way

very interested in your skincare routine (if you have one) and will try out any mask or cream that you give him

if you come up with a routine for him (a simple one, maybe, like the basic cleanser > toner > moisturizer), he will follow it diligently, dragging himself out of bed before he sleeps every day to do it because you were the one to pick those products for him and he doesn't want to waste that

he feels like it connects you to him, even if your routine is completely different and a bit more complicated

never cries during movies, no matter how sad they might be, but he does (on very rare occasions) get a bit teary-eyed

he will hold you if you cry during a movie, and he would never even think about making fun of you for it

he does secretly think that it's cute that you get so worked up about a movie

can sleep through anything. a bomb could go off in his house and he wouldn't know that it happened until he woke up

has seen every single episode of any shitty sitcom you can think of at least three times because he occasionally watches them while he sleeps

sometimes he quotes them but because he knows each of these shows so well now he always quotes the lesser known scenes and no one gets what he's talking about

you start to understand his references after a while, so sometimes he will quote some obscure scene from a super unpopular sitcom that got cancelled after one season and you're the only one laughing

secretly sneaks to the arcade sometimes to practice the claw machine game because he wants to get you the plushies you don't have yet (and to impress you)

he ends up getting dozens of repeats of plushies that you already own. he collects in a small storage room in his apartment that used to be empty

he ends up giving them away when the collection gets out of control, donating them to a children's hospital nearby

gets all shy when you find out about it, blushing bright red like a tomato (or a wasabi octopus)

knows about every single 24 hour store in the city because of his odd sleeping habits and always knows what to do no matter what time it is

you can't sleep and want to go on a date at 3:27 am? he knows a place

if someone is mean to you he will try his hardest to deescalate the situation, but he's also fully willing to fight the person if that doesn't work

I mean have you read his Anecdotes 2? He doesn't give a fuck. He'd prefer not to fight, sure, but if it's unavoidable? What is he gonna do? Not fight and defend you? Ridiculous.

The fandom has already started turning him into this soft uwu stereotype, but the thing is that that's... just not him? He's sweet and kind, yes, but that's not all he is. He's complicated! He has layers!

if he ever falls asleep during a date he would feel awful about it for days, even if you reassure him that it's fine and that you're glad that he feels safe enough around you to fall asleep

he tries to make it up to you with a different date and he falls asleep again, which starts a vicious, endless cycle

when he finally does get over his guilt it's only because you fall asleep during a date after you had a long day at work

knows when you cheat in kitty cards, but sometimes he just lets you get away with it, especially if he knows you had a stressful day at work. He hopes that the win will cheer you up

his good night kisses are forehead kisses while his good morning kisses are on top of your head if you didn't sleep over or on the cheek if you did

[anantaru]

cw. yandere blade, toxic, suggestve, fem! reader

blade doesn‘t fall in love easily.

beyond everything, he never envisioned himself to be faced with such vigorous sentiments by origin— from first principles and a closer look at his perceptions, you can refer to his views as ignorance or blindness, something he gazed down on in an almost smug way.

but when he does, he doesn't think it was fun nor comfortable, but entirely has he decided that he‘d burn entire worlds down if it meant for you to remain close to his side, so you wouldn't be able to leave him behind.

then again, maybe he should burn them down regardless, not only for you, but to demonstrate the love he felt, or the very emotion he confused as love...

"it is a necessary hardness." a remembrance of his first sentence towards his cruel directions in life, you reminisce about it vividly. but you hold his eye contact, only distantly, yet refuse to give him any further satisfaction.

it really doesn’t need a genius to figure out what was displayed before one, it being the heart of a passionate, driven person— the emotions intense and wild, allied with a roaring storm, the bolds of lightning signalizing his darkened perceptions and blanketing any good, as if there was any good to begin with.

so he stood calm where he was standing before slumping down next to you, mattress shifting at his added weight. "you didn't have to do this." you silently speak again, just from below him, your breath hitching ever so slightly as his entire body leans into your figure.

you have to remain careful, you realize, but his eyes would be an intoxicating weapon, flickering up before you watch him place his hand on top of your lower stomach.

"do you love me?" his expression stood still, passive for the most time, but awaiting a quick response, he wasn't even sure you would answer his question, because his trust in you had graven limits.

you remark back, "i wouldn't be here if i didn't." and force your body to relax under his freezing handle before allowing him to slide his large hand into your garments, your entire skin slowly beginning to feel the untwist under his heedful but possessive ministrations.

"good." blade was simultaneously fascinated and petrified by your outwardly real devotion, "but do you love me?"

silence, blade again, doesn't think it was funny for you to ask such insolent question and demand an answer from him in the first place, so he leaves it unchallenged to obscure through the dark room and carried on to smoother a painfully slow motion on your cunt.

you found yourself longing the intimacy and pull your hips upwards, cradling your arms around the man and holding him close by his shoulders, but the lack of response flooded your mind with deeply broken thoughts. "you're mine." yet at last, there it was, a subtle meaning, with a hidden truth.

his fingertips were warm and dampened by your slick, working in sharp angles on your soft skin. it burned your body with a sort of desperate fever to be able to call yourself his. he could tell that you weren't entirely satisfied though, but blade, could he really answer your question how you so desired it?

your heart grew louder, pounding hard against his strong chest and a 'o' of bare lust formed on your glistening lips, pushing against him further, letting him get to know your scent— the one that set his loins on fire, made him lick his lips with a devil-like grin crossing the outsides of his mouth.

blade could feel you constrict around his first finger and wanted to push himself aside, he wanted to feel you for real now, feverishly dragging his skin against your own as he coos sweet ministrations into your ear.

did his words hold any graven significance? they might, he recalls becoming vulnerable whenever he had gotten intimate with you and it scared him, the thought in particular was frightening— of letting his cruel mask fall flat in front of another person.

but the man wanted to sink into every secret part of your body, experience each bend and curve, and be held. blade watches your back arch into his body as he adds a second finger into your tight hole, flawlessly pulling in and out of your entrance, in and out in and out, scraping his finger pads along your slicked walls.

he wonders how far he could go, or if he should ever tell you about the things you do not know, about commodities he did in order for you to remain devoted and obedient, unknowing and naive.

at the inside, he prefers the idea that came inwardly, occupying his mind— about the secrecy of it all, that he doesn't want your pretty head to worry about anything or everything, why else would you love him if he were to expose you to his blood stained intrigues?

he shrugs himself into your neck before locking a bundle of flesh in between his sharp teeth, sucking on your sensitive parts and keeping an almost calculative pace on your pussy, well, the one that belonged to him of course.

you should feel honored that he always feels the painful need to touch you the moment he sees you fly over his mesmerizing pair of eyes.

with a higher pitched whine, you writhe under his now warmer body, your thighs clamping desperately around his arm as blade adds a third and final finger to lengthen your orgasm filling you whole, laughing lightly as you came on his palm, hard and catching an unimpeded view of his erected length brushing against his pants.

he feels that impulse again and begins to unconsciously rub his hips into your thigh— right after feeling your little hole tense up and down, he hears you whisper a soft "please", only watching a few seconds longer before pushing his long fingers back into your cunt and catching you off guard, your lack of breathing control making itself visible in your aching throat.

to touch you more, to rip your clothes off your skin, to kiss every inch of your body, worship, it's feral, that's what it was, but was it love? there is much about him that you do not know, can never know because it would scare you even more, blade fears.

but presently, even just by doing this, by pleasing your needs, blade knows it's the only way for him to convey his love ...

... or the frightening emotion he mistook for love.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[simplymarr]

Chapter one.

summary: vincent renzi x fem!reader.

A young law student is navigating her last year in university, where she meets a misteryous french professor that is going to help her getting her thesis done. A strong chemistry and a love for books and hard work it's what gets them to work so well with each other. But how much are they going to resist when temptation arrives?

warnings: age gap (legal ofc) he's 43 and she's 26. Other that that, none (yet).

London. 8 am and a room full of people on a rainy day. Cold fingers on the desk, waiting for something to happen.

I looked over and the clock was still; maybe it was broken or maybe the time was way too slow in the morning. Even for me.

Today it was the last-first day i was going to have on that university. Five long years studying law, yet it felt like i was still a stranger in that big, cold classroom.

I was, finally, going to get my thesis done. No more wasting time, no more fear. I had to be strong.

How difficult could it be?

The world with its unique, hidden irony seemed to have answered my question when, all of a sudden, he walked through that old, wooden door.

Mature, maybe in his early forties. Tall but not too much; quite skinny. Long neck and serious countenance. Silver hair, some strands fell on his forehead as he walked across the room until he reached his desk. His polished clothes didn't look wet even though it was raining, and even for me to be so far away from him i could, somehow, sense that he smelled like cigarrettes and old fashioned, classic cologne.

Professor Vincent Renzi was his name.

He came from France. He said that he had recently won a case in the city, and that a colleague of his needed him to replace him for a few months at the university. A two-hour weekly class and, most importantly,

he was in charge of correcting some of the theses.

I hesitated the rest of the class, unsure of what was going to happen. Would he be easy on me? or would he be an idiot? After all, all male professors in law school seemed to treat women like they were not smart enough to be there. Or worse, like they fucked their way to the top.

Suddenly my feet stepped on earth again when i felt a deep voice making, in a strong french accent, a question that no one dared to answer.

"So, has anyone already started working on their thesis?"

Silence.

Then, for inertia or maybe an obscure, unconscious desire to be seen by his blue eyes i raised my hand.

He smiled at me; perhaps relieved that he hadn't been ignored. Little wrinkles formed on each side of his mouth as he spoke:

"Great, at least someone is doing their job. Now, enlighten me, please".

........................................

I tried to leave as soon as the class ended.

Maybe it was the shame, the blushed cheeks as i explained to him the central themes of the thesis. For the first time, i felt like my tongue wasn't mine as the words kept coming out of my mouth, but i felt grateful for that.

However, due to how far away i was from the exit, i was the last one to leave. I slid between each seat until i reached the door where, luckily for me, he was standing, waiting.

"That was good. Very good actually". He said as he reached out for a pack of cigarettes between his pockets.

I stuttered.

"Well, thank you. There's still some issues i need to fix, you know. References and stuff". I tried, without luck, to sound as calm as possible.

"That's why im here". He said, staid but in a soft tone.

As he left the building and got into his car, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and lighting a cigarette, i couldn't help but wonder

what the hell was i getting into.

next chapter soon

[ihaveforgortoomany]

Discussing Isolde's new garment "And all that Jazz" as an evolution of her original and insight 2 Outfits

Consider this a continuation of an earlier post with greater focus on the similarities of Isolde's new garment to her previous two and how they tie to her character development in Ch. 6 (this is global friendly)

(spoilers for just Chapter Six )

In short her new garment in 2.1 can be considered the development of her character post the events of Ch.6.

The outfit we met Isolde in, the white one, signifies Isolde's previous repression of herself, her outfit similar to Trista in the Small Room story. While this sprite was used to depict young Isolde primarily, we can say that this more resembles Trista and how Isolde especially in her younger years was haunted and tormented by Trista. Isolde's boss the Mezzo takes a similar appearance to her original outfit than the insight 2 Tosca one, here again Isolde is repressed and allows Trista to possess her during the fight.

(Side note: Trista probably is the most powerful Dittasdorf in terms of the family's arcane powers, plus the fact that she died during a seance at a young age, became this relentless spirit that even years beyond her death continues to torment Isolde and as seen with her boss fight possess her)

Moving onto her insight 2 outfit this signifies the release of the repression, the inner self as Isolde peforms Tosca, kills Mr Karl, jumpstarts WW1 months earlier and proceeds to kill both Heinrich and Hoffman. Unlike the outfit she no longer has a veil obscuring half her face, a much smaller one signifying that loss of repression of desires.

Ignoring the green highlights and feathers clearly alluding to Kakania, the upper "jacket of the outfits does appear to mimic Kakania's jacket/ blazer or the ruffle on Isolde's first outfit, the overall sliver colour of the "And all that Jazz" garment calls back to her original outfit in being a darker shade, no longer is Isolde tied down by societal expectation of Vienna and acts freely (within the limitations of the Foundation ofc).

Both the low cut in her dress and the headpiece both reference to her insight 2 outfit, alongside her new voicelines signifies further this freedom from previous repression that Kakania (regardless of how much it did backfire) gave her. Yet despite this freedom was remains alone.

Additional note: in this new garment the knife is replaced with a cane that features very prominently. The cane has been historically seen as a overt status symbol of wealth and power, in comparison to a knife that would be easily concealed. We can speculate how Isolde in her younger years in the Small Room was thought to be meek and not stand out by Mr Karl, who eventually dies by Isolde's hand by a knife, no longer repressing any part of herself. What is noticable is that both Mr Karl and Isolde in her new garment dominantly hold the cane in their left (looks on the right to us and Mr Karl's is largely covered below) . We can speculate Isolde now possessing a cane reflects her increased power no longer under the repression of others (noteable ones being Mr Karl and Trista) instead able to act on their own, yet still cling to Kakania at the same time.

(Idk if it is the same cane Isolde is using as Mr Karl as I can't find a full spite of him but it would be interesting if it was, signifying her own triumph over the man who tormented her over the years to take his symbol of power)

Even her posture/ default stance is different: the previous outfits have a more reserved posture aiming to make herself the smallest in the room (does this count as a pun) whereas her new garment has her in a more confident and powerful pose, more open and empathises the cane again.

Summary - it is fascinating how her new garment doesn't seem like just an Opera Singer turned Jazz singer, instead a progression of her character following the events of Vienna as someone who while has escaped the torment and societal pressure is not truly free of that pain and trauma, but nevertheless no longer represses herself in the same way as before.

[aziraphales-library]

hey!! first of all, this is such a great blog and i am so freakin grateful for you who run it! i’ve never been in a fandom with a virtual library like this and it’s genuinely so helpful. thank you so much!! :D

secondly, do you have any recommendations for fics with aziraphale female presenting and crowley male presenting? i feel like it’s not as portrayed as much as the other way around.

thanks again! :))

much love, bean💜

Hi! We have a #female aziraphale tag you can check out. Here are more fics to add...

Scandalous by hiya_angel (E)

As Aziraphale pulled away from the counter, she heard a tearing sound, and felt a fluttering sensation of fabric across her legs. Turning to find the source of the sound, she saw a piece of fabric that looked an awful lot like her skirt hanging from a loose screw at the counter. Glancing down, Aziraphale let out a breathless scream as she was met not with the sight of her skirt but instead with her tiny white knickers, her favorite pair with the lace trimming. Her skirt had been ripped off; she was standing in the middle of a busy cafe in just her little knickers. When Aziraphale finds herself trapped and humiliated, the barista Crowley, her longtime crush, comes to her rescue.

More Than Friends by StarsSeasNSkies (G)

Crowley and Aziraphale used to be friends, childhood neighbours. Then Crowley left for three years, not even leaving Aziraphale a way to write to him. Now Crowley's back and upon finding Aziraphale unwed, he's determined to find her a husband. Only thing, they're both in love with each other Inspired by Season 3 of Bridgerton

a grain of sand, a universe of beaches by batsingotham (T)

In which Aziraphale wears her heart on her sleeve far too often for Crowley's liking (resulting in him being forced to do good deeds, if anyone asks) and yet never says what he wants her to until it's too late. (Alternatively: Aziraphale goes to Heaven and Crowley decides to bring her back home.)

watermark by summerofspock (T)

Aziraphale happily works as the librarian of a small liberal arts university in the rural town of Tadfield. When the newly hired biology professor seems to enjoy tormenting his students by sending them after obscure references, she decides he needs a stern talking to. He decides they could be pretty good friends.

The Librarian by EveningStarcatcher (T)

Azira Fell is a librarian living a very normal and somewhat boring life when a stranger with dark glasses and red hair bursts into her life. Now to find out who he is and what he was running from...

The Dark Stranger by tuddles (E)

Miss Fell is a young, somewhat innocent woman living in London and doing her best to do good. One day while she is walking through Hyde Park, she comes across a dark stranger in the middle of a storm. Who is this tall and handsome man and why does he make her feel so… wanted.

- Mod D

[adobe-outdesign]

Nigel: The Muppets' Most Interesting Uninteresting Character

(This was supposed to be a fun little post about an obscure Muppet character but now I fell down a hole doing too much research and sunk cost fallacy won't let me live it down unless I include all of the useless information I've learned so enjoy knowing more about this character than you ever have or ever will want to know)

Nigel was created to be the host of the Muppet Show's Sex and Violence pilot instead of Kermit (who only appears in the pilot for like 30 seconds)

He was originally puppeteered by Jim Henson himself, giving him a vaguely Kermit-esq voice initially

Nigel Voice Count: 1

Nigel is a yellow... something. You’d assume he’s just a stylized human Muppet but in S4E18 Sam refers to him as a “thing”

He actually looks near-identical to a Fraggle minus the tail. I don’t know what to do with this information

Nigel was diagnosed with terminal Boring Personality disease due to the following attributes:

He’s very meek. Unlike Kermit, who will freak out and tell people they suck to their faces, Nigel raises his voice one (1) time and mostly relies on Sam the Eagle and Crazy Harry to deal with the assorted chaos

His face is flexible like Kermit’s, but he has permanently partially-lidded eyes that leave him looking exhausted in every scene he’s in

He’s generally unenthusiastic and seems like he wants to go home constantly

Jim Henson: The Works describes him as "lacking in spunk and charisma," which is hilariously cruel yet 100% accurate

What’s surprising at this point is that instead of scrapping him, he instead took on the role of orchestra conductor on the show proper, where he proceeds to do almost nothing for five seasons

The Muppets Character Encyclopedia actually provides a canon reason for this: Nigel lost the job of host due to his “shy manner”, and Kermit, feeling bad for replacing him, gave him his new job

He can technically be seen in basically every episode during the theme song, but aside from that, he often pops up in the chorus during songs

Which is funny when you consider he should be in the pit Doing His Job during those sequences

A quick list of his more important (if you can even call them that) appearances:

S1E2: He has Zoot play a song called “Sax and Violence” b/c pilot references

It’s actually implied the Mayhem falls under his jurisdiction as he threatens to fire Zoot, but this never comes up again

S1E24: Playing the part of a library patron noisily chewing gum (despite not having teeth. idk you figure it out). This one’s only notable because he’s wearing the same outfit from the pilot

S3E16: Nigel’s eyelids are not connected to the rest of his body and he’s facing backwards through the entire backstage segment so you’re uncomfortably aware of this

S1E23 has Floyd complaining that the theme song is cringe(TM), at which point it’s casually revealed that Nigel wrote it?? how is this character so important and unimportant at the exact same time

If you’ve seen this episode and aren’t deaf you might have noticed he has a completely different voice here. This is because John Lovelady has taken over as his puppeteer, presumably because Jim was busy Running The Entire Show

Nigel Voice Count: 2

Nigel has a talent for whistling, which is shown off in S2E18 during a performance with Floyd (this is the only time he comes on stage to perform that isn’t with a crowd)

He shows this off again in S4E18 to participate in the age-old sport of Annoying Sam the Eagle backstage

As of the 2011 movie Walter takes over as the show’s resident whistler because Nigel isn’t allowed to have character traits

He briefly shows up during the credits of The Muppet Movie (now puppeteered by Dave Goelz). Because of this, in the UK version of the end credits, he has another completely different voice

Nigel Voice Count: 3

After a brief background appearance in The Jim Henson Hour (S1E12), Nigel proceeded to completely disappear for 20 years

I’m guessing the reason was that his puppet was becoming unusable. The foam used for the muppets disintegrates over time, and his puppet was ~15 years old at this point

Things were particularly bleak for him in the 90s because Muppets Tonight came out with a new unrelated TV director character named... Nigel. Because Jim had passed away at this point and I think everyone working on the show literally Forgot they already had a character named that

Not that it would be that big of a problem, seeing as the chances of yellow Nigel returning were bleak. who was gonna spend time and money rebuilding an incredibly minor background character like him

TRICK QUESTION because he was rebuilt for The Muppets (2011), which is pretty amazing when you consider that he does Nothing during this movie

The new puppet looks pretty similar to the old one. I think the face is a bit rounder/more structured but I could also be losing my mind

(Side note: shoutout to whoever decided to give him a scarf in this scene. that’s such an unnecessary detail)

What’s great is that now that the puppet’s been rebuilt he’s shown up in a lot of stuff because they have no reason not to include him. Some of the more notable examples include:

The music video for OK Go’s cover of the theme song (which I certainly hope he would show up in I mean. it’s his song)

In the live shows (The Muppets Take the Bowl and The Muppets Take the O2) there’s a parade of overlooked characters, which includes Nigel. I just find it funny that:

A) The writers fully acknowledge that he’s King of the Background Characters

B) The in-universe implication that Kermit was like “no one knows who you are, wanna be in a parade celebrating that fact” and Nigel was like “okay”

His most recent appearance was in Muppets Haunted Mansion, where he’s dead (don’t worry about it). More importantly, he gets an entire shot to himself conducting some skulls, which I think is the first time the camera’s been focused solely on him in literally 40 years. Good job, buddy!

Here’s some other misc appearances that I couldn’t fit elsewhere:

He appears alongside Jim and a few other Muppets in a 1977 commercial for American Express (once again wearing his pilot outfit), which is particularly strange considering he’s the only character there that used to be puppeteered by Jim

In 2010 he got a somewhat important role in the first issue of Muppet Sherlock Holmes, playing the part of a butler suspected of poisoning the head of the house

He gets one whole page in The Muppets Character Encyclopedia from 2014 (right next to other Nigel). In addition to the aforementioned info bridging the gap between the pilot and the show proper, it also states that he’s susceptible to hypnosis and he trained at the Tommy Newsom Academy for Music and Charisma

In terms of future projects: there is both a Jim Henson biopic and documentary coming in the future (side note: why???), so it’s possible he might be discussed briefly in one of those

I have no thesis statement or reason for writing this, but I guess I’ll close out by saying that I find it fascinating that a failed main character from a pilot episode is still appearing in recent Muppet productions but solely as a background character. I hope that in 2073 I can put on some Muppet media and Nigel will still be there still doing absolutely nothing

thanks for coming to my TED talk

[posletsvet]

Death Is a Mirror, or How Death Is Linked to the Sense of Self in Jujutsu Kaisen

Death is a fulcrum of Jujutsu Kaisen's message, a major point of reference for both the audience and the characters within the story. Death is a mirror that catches and reflects the last light of a life reaching its end, a moment of full disclosure that overcomes all distances and renders all defenses permeable. Death is a mirror as it asks one question: who are we when there's no more need to lie?

The thread that binds together all major characters' deaths in Jujutsu Kaisen is how, despite multiple characters trying in an unreliable-narrator-sort of fashion to convince us otherwise, no one's truly alone in death. The connections that people forge with others throughout their lives become their tethers to the world -- and then reach even further, transcending death itself. This is how humans, using Jogo's words, can still linger after they die: through the loving memory of those they held dear.

No human exists in a vacuum. We live in the context of our relationships with the world, of getting to know and getting to be known in return. Our lives, in a sense, are a dialogue -- that's why we give and are given names. We shape the images of ourselves through establishing connections with others; our self-recognition and sense of self come from recognizing those connections. Once again, we learn the outllines of our souls by bumping into others.

These two concepts, recollecting your 'tethers' before death and acquiring self-reflection in others, are consistently brought together in the story. Before everything else, it's reflected in Yuuji's (who the story's focal point as its protagonist) idea of a meaningful death, one gone surrounded by those you love. Nobara, who possesses arguably the strongest sense of self with her loud proclamation 'I'm Nobara Kugisaki!' and who's highly conscious about her relationships with other people. Megumi, whose overarching struggle for self-determination has him relying on others to define his own worth and leaves him passively suicidal. Toji, who in his last moments thinks about his family and understands that by leaving them behind he deviated from his true self. Nanami, whose fading mind conjures the image of his closest friend and who, guided by that, chooses to go south and stay true to himself. Kokichi is yet another example, and actually quite an interesting one. His character is explored primarily through the juxtaposition between the concept of 'the body within the world' and his forced isolation, but who still contextualizes the world through his connections with his friends. It's no coincidence that Kokichi's character arc is closely linked to Mahito, who is dubbed a mirror of death.

In short, there's a plethora of instances where death and one's sense of self are tied to one another like that. I'll ramble a bit about how this correlation is discovered in both Gojo and Geto's characters below the cut.

The lack of self

Gojo is somebody who's essentially lacking both connections to others and a sense of self-identity. His entire personality is shaped around the notion that he's The Strongest, the very thing which prevents him, even if in his own mind, from building meaningful relationships with the people around him.

Not having to challenge or change his self-image, Gojo has little to no recognition of himself as a person outside of his title. He has never faced a need to discover himself in relation to the world; he was given a foundation to construct his identity on upon birth. Did he really need to grow past that and redefine himself? Satoru lacks self-reflection -- most literally.

With Gojo's face obscured by the gaping void, we do not get to see his reflection. I'd say it's quite an apt visualization of Gojo's identity crisis. Who are you if not The Strongest? As Gojo's position is challenged with his Infinity suddenly overcome, this question is forced onto him.

But as he's spent over a decade trying to escape answering it, he never got a chance to acquire a definitive answer. So now, in Shibuya, he flees from it once more.

It's painfully ironic and at the same time fully logical that it is Geto who exposes this issue to Satoru as Gojo's sense of self is arguably connected to him more than anyone else. During their student years Suguru was the one who persistently rejected treating Gojo as a title and not a person, who looked through decorum and actively chose to see him not as Gojo Satoru, The Strongest but rather as Gojo Satoru, a teenage boy. For Gojo, it was through Geto recognizing him as a person that he was able to reach that recognition, too.

But after Toji Gojo is forced to seek self-affirmation and validate his ego by reclaiming his position, which was threatened by him losing to somebody for the first time. He tries to reinforce his self-image by separating himself from the world, which ultimately leads not only to his now automatic Infinity rendering him unreachable (= disconnected), but also to a loss of his sense of self as he loses his one and only connection.

As I've already said, with the Prison Realm breaching the defenses of Gojo's technique, this issue, his lack of a firm sense of identity beyond his title, is exposed to him once more. It's reflected in the way Satoru places his priorities post-unsealing. He fights Sukuna with seemingly a single purpose of cementing his position as the strongest sorcerer alive and thus regaining his uderstanding of who he is. The answer to this question has never lain in the plane of strength alone, though, and that is why Satoru fails utterly.

But in death, as the relevance of his Infinity is eliminated, Gojo is finally able to reconnect with his sense of self. He's reverted to his teenage self, to the time he could still relate to somebody on a personal level and get stronger for it. The entirety of the 236 chapter, in a sense, is written as an affirmative: he is The Strongest because he is Satoru Gojo, not the opposite, but it's his death which makes him finally recognize this.

The deviation from self

Now, this image could not be intended as a visual parallel to Gojo's reflection, or lack of thereof, in the Prison Realm's eye. Nonetheless seeing that scene in Shibuya animated immediately reminded me of it, and I think there potentially might be some thematic similarities between the two as well.

Talking about how our identities are defined by our connections to other people as much as our relationship with ourselves, it'd be only logical to assume that Geto should have a firm grasp on who he is. Not only is he a deeply self-reflective character, but also one who actively relates to others.

However, Geto's reflection in Gojo's eyes is unclear and uncertain, almost indistinguishable. It might be a neat way to convey how, finally taking a moment to look at his best friend for the first time since SPVI, Gojo doesn't really recognize him for how much he's changed. But it also could hint at how Geto, driven to the point where he bends and warps his beliefs to justify his actions, also bends and warps his sense of self.

At least how I see it, the image above calls to mind this panel:

The moment Geto tells Satoru he's decided on 'his true feelings' which would define him as a person. Isn't it ironic how in the exact same conversation he talks about how the goal he's settled upon is only possible for Gojo, meaning striving to achieve it would be akin to trying to become someone he's not? The light novel outright tells us as much:

This was the final confession of a man who could only choose to warp himself, who had erased himself in pursuit of his goals. The only person who could bear such a curse was Gojo Satoru.

In this light it's interesting how Gojo's struggle with his sense of self makes itself known through something which threatens his position as The Strongest, whereas Geto's is reflected in the eyes of someone to whom he refers while saying 'If I could become you...', deviating from himself.

A major factor of overcoming trauma is embracing the inadequacy of what happened. So, to a certain extent, by becoming an enemy to the system Suguru wants to prove the world of jujutsu sorcerers wrong and himself -- right. It once again reminds me of Toji's dying thoughts.

The flip side of 'deciding on your true feelings' is ultimately anchoring your entire identity to what is just a single aspect of it. People exist in motion, and our personalities are in actuality as dynamic and complex as our relationships. But Geto bound his self-definition to what was rather simply a reactive feeling, so in the end he inevitably failed to live up to it.

And once again, it's exposed at the moment of Suguru's death. In his case, though, this failure is also what leads to his defeat and consequent death in the first place. I also find it curious how Geto's face is the first thing Gojo sees in the afterlife, while Gojo's face is the last thing Geto sees and acknowledges in his life. And just like Gojo, in his last moments Suguru reminisces about their shared past.

The image almost mirrors what we saw in the chapter 236, suggesting how Geto's true self is in turn tied to Satoru. Despite how vague and uncertain their relationship's come to be, the two are rendered inseperable even in death -- or rather, in death especially.

[sleepingdeath-light]

home again ; yandere!wally darling

requested by ; anonymous (09/05/23)

word count ; 2031

content ; platonic yanderes, memory loss (the puppets all had their memories forcibly wiped), references to child/teen reader, obsessive protectiveness, author’s first time writing something platonic so… yeah

note ; i haven’t written anything like this before (sfw yandere stuff) so apologies if it seems a tad off. similarly i’m still adjusting to writing wally’s character in terms of dialogue and such, so that may also seem a smidge ooc.

fandom ; welcome home

pairing ; platonic wally darling x gender neutral!reader

read also on ; ao3

It was a beautifully melancholy evening: the stars and moon were obscured with thick, grey clouds that loomed overhead like ragged old curtains; the air was thick with dust and pollen that clung to your skin and clothes like a man hanging onto the edge of a steep cliff, digging their claws in and holding on with all the relentless might you’d come to hate; your room was only dimly illuminated by the pale blue light emanating from your monitor, the low hum of the vents the only sound to compliment the clicking of keys and the tapping of the mouse. Quiet, drab and dull; how very typical of spring.

But at the very least it gave you all the excuse you needed to sit behind a screen and doomscroll. Tired eyes skimming over articles and activists decrying the latest tragedy, thousands of crabs in the metaphorical bucket of social media all fighting for the attention of bystanders — only taking pause when you came across something all too familiar, yet at the same time entirely new.

‘Does anyone else remember Welcome Home? It was pretty popular when it aired back in the 70s and my friends and I are trying to create a complete archive for it’ — the caption read. Below it was a highlighted link and a picture that had been burned into your brain since childhood: bright swatches of paint adorning every surface, all seeing eyes as big as can be, and in front of it, that permanent smile carved into yellow felt. Wally Darling and Home, you remembered them both clearly enough — clearer than you’d have liked, even.

It had been decades since you’d actively thought back on Welcome Home, on your brief stint in stardom, and frankly you’d have rather it’d been kept that way. You still held a bit of a grudge over getting axed: ‘too mature’, yeah right! Every kid loves astrology and nobody is too old to talk about their feelings… you were only 14 for crying out loud! Too mature, your ass.

But perhaps, you reasoned, it wouldn’t be too bad to take a quick trip down memory lane. Sure you’d loved the show when it aired, but you stopped watching after your section was cut, so maybe it would be cool to see what changed in the interim — and, either way, your experiences would probably be helpful to the archivists. So no harm, no foul.

————

The site was easy enough to navigate but man you didn’t expect to get so emotional when you went looking through the recovered art. They looked exactly the same as you remembered, all of them — which is kind of silly to think about since puppets and tv show characters in general tend not to change since, well, they were meant to stay consistent. Frank was always going to look terribly stern, and Julie was always going to come onto scene with a new fabulous hairdo, and Eddie was always going to trip over his own feet on his rounds, and Wally was always going to open and close each episode with a nod to the audience. These things were staples of the characters and the show’s structure so of course they’d be the same.

But, still, you somehow felt like they should have changed in your absence. A small part of your mind, an irrational part surely, crying out that they were alive and that living things were made to change — which was silly. And, frankly, a little embarrassing that you’d even had that thought at all.

So you pushed that idea to the very back of your mind where it belonged and continued to scroll through the various pages of the website. Art from official books (you were sure you even owned the ‘ask Wally’ type book and that it was still at your parents’ place), merchandise like pop up figures (the sort that were found only in cereal boxes and magazines), promotional posters and even one piece from your short tenure on the show. You remembered posing for that photograph, being told to smile and to wrap your arms around Eddie and Wally — but for some reason you couldn’t quite recall what their puppeteers were called.

Or if they even had any puppeteers in the first place.

No. That can’t be right. They were puppets, characters, they had to have someone controlling and voicing them — but none of the promotional art nor your memories supported that basic truth. It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense. This was why you’d tried to forget that show so desperately after you left. It messed with your head far too much to be worth the effort so why bother burning out over questions that could be explained by a faulty memory.

A memory that could, in picture perfect detail, recall the route from Howdy’s store to Home as clear as crystal — as if it were your own route to-and-from primary school. A memory that could replay patchy conversations between Wally and Julie, bittersweet bickering over hairspray and hairpins that you could only recall in pieces, but that still rang clearly as if you were thinking of childhood friends. A memory that was imprinted with the feeling of warm felt embraces and puffs of warm air from stencil cut mouths that would have been impossible if they weren’t alive. Moving eyes, small bodies, freely walking, freely talking — alive and well and clear as day in your mind as normally as recalling your parents arguing over a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the mornings of each shoot.

The distinctly strong smell of the synthetic hairspray Wally used that would hang around him and mixed with the scent of oil paint like a cologne — that burned your nose if you hung around too close to him in the early morning. The sheer joy of Howdy picking you up and tossing you in the air as a congratulations for your first scene done well — caterpillar fuzz that stuck to your clothes for days, as strong as velcro. The way you and Julie squealed when Barnaby shook back and forth and sent droplets of muddy water raining down on you and on her freshly done up hair — and the joke that followed her exasperated tirade as you, through giggles, explained frustration to the audience through a camera they seemed to not be able to see.

Memories that kept unearthing themselves the deeper you went into the site, eventually culminating with you tearing up at the sight of old friends you’d been forced to leave behind. Silly, perhaps, but you recall telling the audience that it was healthy to cry and to let it all go — so at least your teenage self would be proud of your emotional vulnerability.

After a good hour of this, and more than in need of a break, you finally clicked on the attached message board and typed up a simple few sentences. A greeting and a farewell all in one before you closed down your computer and went to bed.

‘I used to have a segment on Welcome Home when I was a kid. I was meant to do astrology and emotions, before I got cut for being too old lol. This brought back so many memories. Thank you, all.’

————

Wally hadn’t meant to linger — really, he hadn’t — but there had been something oddly familiar about his latest visitor that he couldn’t quite place. Even from behind the screen he was trapped within, even as he watched their message load in, he could tell that they were different. It was their eyes, those tearful knowing eyes — he was sure he’d seen them before in that somewhere different, somewhere brighter, that came before the end he and his neighbours were trapped in.

When he saw their eyes he saw himself, a twisted altered reflection of himself that was filled to bursting with the warmth and awareness that he was created to hold within himself. A child’s eyes in the form of someone who he didn’t know yet he knew he must have once. A lingering, niggling feeling in the back of his skull, like fingertips brushing and scratching and digging into his fabric brain — rearranging and scouring and destroying and reaching for something that he couldn’t quite find.

He winced and squinted and stared through the screen to no avail, tilting his head and watching them as they flicked from screen to screen to screen desperate for a sign that he could use to place this familiar stranger. Unable to do so until finally — finally — their note came through and he was able to read the short greeting they’d left behind.

Then, and only then, did those forbidden memories come flooding back. A formidable tidal wave, a whirling rapid, of bright lights and experiences and conversations that had been torn from him and shredded in the writer’s room of their long gone creators.

He knew you, he’d always known you; the child too old for their youth that visited their neighbourhood in the beginning. Who always wore a beaming smile and treated them all with a grace beyond their years, spreading kindness and joy to his friends and to the audience only the two of you knew about. Who was far taller than his measly 12 apples of verticality but who never made him feel small. Who spoke eagerly of the constellations and painted the most wonderful pictures of stars and moons and planets far beyond their reach that he did his best to capture in his paintings. Who was only 14 but felt more like an adult than he did sometimes — he, who was crafted and sewn without a childhood — but who wasn’t above play and foley.

The child who was the absolute most; his favourite transient neighbour. All of their’s, actually.

How could he possibly have forgotten you?

You with your broad toothy grins, and your warm eyes that shone brighter than the stars you loved, and your arms that were big enough to carry even more apples than he could have ever dreamed of. You, who he promised to protect and keep away from the horrors of the world, theirs and your own. You, who never turned down a favour or plea from his neighbours.

You. Just you.

Wonderful, lovable, unforgettable you. His child of flesh, not felt, but he loved you all the same.

And he didn’t get to see you grow up, because his creators deemed you unbefitting of their world and cut you from their memories as ruthlessly as they’d cut your segments from their show. Welcome Home didn’t feel very much like a home after that — even if they didn’t quite recall what was missing.

Wally didn’t even want to think about all of the horrors and harms you’d faced throughout the years you’d been apart — he could see the wear hanging heavily in the downwards quirk of your lips and the dampened glint in your eye. He knew he’d sooner kill someone than let them hurt you, he’d threatened it plenty alongside Howdy and Eddie and Frank — they all loved you as dearly as him, once.

But in his current predicament he couldn’t do much to protect you. Couldn’t coddle you, couldn’t warm you, couldn’t sooth you with those sweets you used to love (if you even loved them anymore, it had clearly been quite some time), couldn’t do anything to help. He couldn’t even communicate with you, to apologise, to tell you he still loved you and that you were still welcome in their neighbourhood.

So he did the only thing he could; he drew you a picture. A silly little simplistic drawing, scratchy and crude, depicting a strong memory he had of you. The two of you, hand in hand, with your arms overflowing with apples you’d managed to steal from Howdy (oh how he missed such trivial things) — he hoped you remembered these moments as fondly as he did. Then, to the illustration, he attached a small message, a plea just for you, before settling back down behind the screen and hoping — praying — that you’d come back.

‘I’m sorry for forgetting you, friend, please come home’

[kykyonthemoon]

Limerence

(noun) — a mental state of profound romantic infatuation, deep obsession, and fantastical longing

⋆˚✿˖° This chapter is a part of a mini-series of dark fairy tales and romance sets in another universe. It consists of three chapters, each with a Male Lead and is separated from one another.

⋆˚✿˖° Character x Reader/MC, from another (OC's) point of view. Reader/MC's pronounce is "she/her/hers".

⋆˚✿˖° Warnings & tags: 16+, MDNI, angst, hurt, thriller, emotional and mind control, manipulation, obsession, unrequited love, major character death, dark fantasy, dark fairy tale, sci-fi theme, m.urder, serial killer, imprisonment, abusive, reference to drugs.

⋆˚✿˖° Detective Cooper is my OC.

⋆˚✿˖° Read more chapters:

✦ Rafayel's ✦ Xavier's

⋆˚✿˖° Masterlist

Chapter: The Goddess — in which he heals and kills for her

⋆˚✿˖° Word count: 4k3

Each white snowflake descended gently to the earth, resting on Detective Cooper's black revolver, which was frozen in the air. The crystal barricade in front of him fractured and dissolved. The ice on his palm eventually melted into frozen droplets of water, allowing him to move again. With a very slow movement, he lowered the gun.

From a distance, sirens sounded. He stared at the city of Linkon on the horizon, which appeared like shimmering stars in the black night. An aircraft had just been dispatched and was flashing its light into the garden, revealing all of the secrets kept hidden for so long.

Cooper narrowed his gaze. He glanced up to the middle of the garden full of jasmine blooms, where there was a shelter made of marble and wood. In the center of that place, on a daybed an ice sculpture of a female in a reclining posture. Prostrating next to her was another figure who had not yet entirely frozen; his head rested on the daybed, and his icy hand held the sculpture's.

Detective Cooper took a deep breath. The cool breeze carried an almost faint aroma of jasmine. He turned and walked away, leaving the tragedy where it had started.

It seemed like just yesterday when Detective Cooper met Zayne for the first time.

The young doctor left the first impression on Cooper as a perfect combination of mechanics and biology. A cyborg. Zayne was a product of ASTRA, the world's foremost technology corporation dedicated to developing robots with human bodies, living like humans, and, of course, exceeding humans in numerous aspects.

That was such a problem with cyborgs. They were too sophisticated, too knowledgeable, and too competent. They overwhelmed real humans, even Cooper. This was how it felt to work with Zayne.

Thanks to the doctor's help, Cooper quickly solved the case. And even though he did not like working with cyborgs, he had to admit that Zayne's presence was necessary for his career. Through repeated contacts, the ice wall surrounding him melted over time. And Zayne, a cyborg, gradually revealed more of his human side.

As for Cooper, he had long considered Zayne a partner. But an occurrence five years ago transformed the doctor into an entirely different person. A cyborg that showed no emotion, as he used to be.

Cooper recalled a tragic accident that occurred in Linkon's suburbs that year. On the way back from her vacation, the little princess of the ASTRA empire was viciously attacked by Wanderers. Upon hearing the news, Cooper hurried there immediately. Yet all he saw were the Wanderers' bodies rapidly dissolving in the snow, blood spraying all over the place, covering Zayne's wide back as he turned away, the dying girl in his arms. That was the last time Cooper interacted with him.

It was not until five years later that Cooper set foot back in Dr. Zayne's office.

It was a late night. The streets were deserted, with flickering neon lights obscuring the sanitation robots. The city slept, but Akso Hospital remained awake as always. Detective Cooper sat alone in the office, waiting. Few hours later, the door opened and Zayne walked inside with perfectly synchronized steps.

���Long time no see, Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne nodded to the detective before returning to his seat behind the desk. He was still wearing his surgical attire, which was concealed by a white blouse. His spectacles were pushed up on the bridge of his nose, and his forehead was still beading with sweat.

"I trust that the surgery was successful?"

"Yes." Zayne replied briefly. Surely he knew what Cooper came here for. “My apologies for making you wait so long.”

"No problem." Cooper settled into the chair across from Zayne on the opposite side of the desk. The doctor remained the same, impeccable as the first time they met. Only Cooper had begun to feel old age creeping up on him, even though he was only nearly forty.

“Saving lives is the most important,” Cooper added. “That's what you were created to do.”

Zayne gave no response, just gazed at him.

“All right, no more rambling. I really need your help, Doctor Zayne.”

"I'm ready to help." Zayne expressed the same thing whenever they worked together. Cooper provided a quick summary of the matter he was investigating. It was a missing case. Many, to be precise. He had enough evidence to assume that the most recent incident was linked to cases that had occurred many years ago.

Cooper placed on the desk photos of the girl who had been missing for nearly half a year. Zayne paid great attention to them while listening to the detective's clarification, which included details about previous cases.

“The victims were young women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Their appearance has many similarities. And above all, they are all patients or have been treated at Akso Hospital.”

Silence fell on Doctor Zayne's extremely organized and clean office, furnished in a minimalist and modern manner with a black and white color scheme. A moment later, he said:

“I recognize a few faces here. They were my patients. Others belong to departments that I do not supervise.”

Cooper nodded, but seemed disappointed since he had anticipated Zayne to add something he did not know.

Their conversation went on for a little longer, yet it led them nowhere. Although Zayne gave valuable information regarding each victim's itinerary while at Akso Hospital, including who they might meet during that time, (Cooper was secretly grateful for a cyborg's superior abilities!), the investigation remained deadlocked. All victims vanished after being discharged from the hospital without any further contact.

The clock struck three in the morning, Cooper's thoughts became clouded with exhaustion, rendering him unable to think. He needed to alter the subject.

“It's been a while since we talked like this. You know, about the cases or other things in our lives.”

His response was the consistent, precise sound of Zayne typing on the keyboard.

"This feeling doesn't change either!" Cooper said with a laugh. At that point, his gaze was drawn to the corner of Zayne's desk, where there was a photograph of him and the heiress of the ASTRA corporation - the one who had given him life.

"How is she?"

Zayne's fingers, which were racing across the keyboard, came to a halt. Something shifted in his eyes for only a fraction of a second. Then he returned to his former state.

“She is well. Thank you for your regards.”

The young lady in the photo was smiling and clutching a bouquet of flowers while standing close to Zayne. She was so beautiful and talented. Yet since that accident, she had entirely concealed herself in an isolated place distant from Linkon City. She refused to appear in public, nor did she welcome guests to her mansion. She only kept one cyborg with her, and that was Zayne.

"That accident was truly horrifying for her…" Cooper recalled. Among the clicking sounds from Zayne's desk, he knew that the doctor was still listening. "I couldn't believe anybody could make it through something like that. But she recovered. It was you who saved her life.”

Zayne came to a complete halt. He leaned back slightly and examined the neatly framed photograph. It had been on his desk for the past ten years, ever since he began his employment at the hospital.

"I just did my job." He responded. After that, the room went silent again.

Cooper mused. Nobody knew how Doctor Zayne saved the life of that woman, whom he dubbed Goddess since she was his Creator. He did not take her to Akso Hospital, but instead returned to her residence, which was equipped with advanced medical technology and facilities. The news that she had been saved became a miracle, and everyone appreciated Dr. Zayne's hands even more.

"Sometimes I miss her energy." Cooper said out, breaking the stillness. "When she found out you were helping me investigate a few cases, she was so excited and asked to join. Although, I must confess, she was quite skilled at messing up clues, and it was you who had to assist me sort it out. Haha!"

Cooper was irritated when he merely received a nod from Zayne. The doctor would spend hours talking about his Goddess, only when Cooper knew how to initiate the conversation. But now it seemed that whenever someone mentioned her, he said as little as possible. Was he also adopting her secluded lifestyle after the accident?

When it was too late, Detective Cooper had to bid his former partner goodbye. Before departing, he made it obvious that he wanted to see Zayne's Goddess again. But the doctor only gazed at him deeply, without a response.

Zayne drove home at dawn. As a cyborg, he did not require as much sleep as a human, yet severe sleep was at times necessary. Still, he had been unable to sleep peacefully since the event occurred. Every time he closed his eyes, the only thing he dreamed of was her body lying in a pool of blood.

He saved her. He must believe it. However, she was no longer the same person she had been before the accident.

The enormous gate opened after scanning Zayne's face. Their home was set on a snowy mountain, with thick layers of bulletproof glass surrounding it. Most of the building was constructed of stone and wood, giving people a sense of modernism and classicism. One side faced the mountain and woodlands, while the other faced the sea and Linkon City. There was also a jasmine garden where Zayne spent hours with The Goddess while she rested there.

He walked through the main entrance made of oak. Greeting him was a woman sleeping soundly on a comfortable sofa in the reading room. He softly raised his feet and crouched down next to her.

His rough, scarred hands lifted her hair, revealing a familiar, pretty face. It was the very first face he saw when he opened his eyes, although now it had been somewhat altered by the passage of time. His touch awakened her. She got up.

“Zayne?” She called, and he reached out a hand to take hers.

Zayne helped her sit up straight. Lately, she had been losing weight, her body was constantly cold and she did sleep a lot.

“Why don't you go into the bedroom?” He asked.

“I'm… sorry…” She murmured. “I was just a little tired and fell asleep without knowing…”

Zayne frowned. Even a simple expression like that made her shudder. She held his hand so tightly, apologized.

“I didn't mean it… I know you told me to always go to the bedroom to stay warm… But…”

"Hush." Zayne placed a finger on the corner of her mouth, keeping her mute. “Lately, you often don't do what I say anymore.”

Her body quivered slightly. Her hands clenched on the sofa underneath. She dared not say a word if Zayne forbade her so. He continued to scold her:

“You don't sleep in the proper place. You don't take enough medications. And you met someone you shouldn't have met."

She shook her head aggressively. She muttered: "N-No... that's not true..."

“Have I allowed you to speak?”

Zayne's expression was melancholy as he stared at her. He was kneeling on one knee on the floor, but his physique still dominated hers, and his powerful voice made her shiver even more.

"You already know your punishment for disobeying orders." Zayne spoke again. He reached out to wipe away the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. "There you go again. The Goddess does not cry."

Zayne instantly stood up. Still with that cold gaze, he looked down at her. With trembling hands, she reached to him and pleaded: 

"Please..." Don't…"

"What's the matter?" His stern voice reverberated throughout the room. "Don't you want to become The Goddess you once were?"

“I… want to… But… I'm scared… Please, Zayne…”

She begged, but to no avail. Zayne did not respond. He approached the door, while she stood up and stumbled behind him.

Many hours later, well past noon, Zayne carried her back to the bedroom. She was freezing and shivering still. Cold sweat erupted all over her body. Yet in that semi-conscious state, she remembered something significant.

She recalled dancing with Zayne, in a garden filled with jasmine blossoms. She was still young at the time, and he was only a little older than her. When did he become such a heartless cyborg toward her? Was it because she forgot who she was and that angered him?

Who was she? There were some faint recollections that surfaced. She was the heir to a technology empire. She was a properly trained hunter. She was a schoolteacher. She was a painter. She was a mechanic. She was a scientist... In all of those scenarios, she had always been a girl with a fragile heart.

And just like that, in all her dreams there was Zayne. Whoever he said she was, she was precisely that person. He intended her to become The Goddess, she would be The Goddess for him. She desired to be the person Zayne worshiped. The only person he held dearly.

But why did he treat her that way? He confined her in a freezing cellar. He injected her with hallucinogens. He left her half-dead. And he solely stopped when she was almost unable to tolerate it anymore.

She heard Zayne's footsteps entering the room. The edge of the bed declined as he sat next to her. His cool fingers brushed her hair again.

"Get some sleep. You will feel better when you wake up."

Was it true that she would ever feel better?

The dismal sky indicated an impending hurricane. She cried. But her tears were hidden into the thick cushion. At the moment, she recalled something else.

She waited for Zayne to depart, and as the door closed, she searched under her headrest and took out an old phone.

She could not clearly recall the origin of this phone, yet it recognized her face. She had found it in the old archive of the mansion, some time after the third time she endured Zayne's punishment. Perhaps since that day, she had planned to leave this place.

She rummaged through the pocket of her nightgown for a business card. On it written a name: Detective Cooper.

Detective Cooper's investigation hit a dead end. The only clue he had turned out to be untrustworthy, due to her incoherent state.

He had traveled to that mansion to find The Goddess. She was still as beautiful as he remembered, only the bright smile and virgo he had seen in her were now lost.

She vaguely recalled their acquaintance; everything else was as blurred as the mist that covered the residence. He had anticipated her to provide more valuable clues to the case, but after the encounter, he had to reconsider his entire conclusion.

The first missing cases occurred five years ago. There had been twelve equivalent cases thus far. Despite the differences in their occupations, hometowns, and nationalities, the victims were all about the same age. They had identical physique shapes and even similar appearances. They all resembled a single individual. The Goddess.

For Detective Cooper, there was no such thing as a coincidence. His visit to Akso Hospital that day was mostly to determine Zayne's reaction. However, the doctor made no mention of the fact that the missing ladies all had something in common with the person he regarded most highly, which made Cooper suspicious. He came to see her knowing Zayne was not home at the time. With his instincts, he felt she was somehow tied to those disappearances. Perhaps she was the one being targeted after all.

There were still plenty of details that were left unclear. Cooper attempted to connect the dots, but was unable to discover any evidence to support his conclusion. That night, Detective Cooper was stressing out alone in his office when he received an anonymous phone call.

“Detective…” A familiar female voice rang out on the other end of the line. “Save me… Please save me…”

"You are—?…"

“Zayne! He's… gone insane… Please… get me out of here… I don't want to go back… I don't want to go back to that place… AAAARGH!”

A scream sounded out, followed by a sequence of noises, and then a beeping sound. Detective Cooper rushed out of the office at full speed, started the car and headed towards the mansion in the snowy mountains outside Linkon City.

The first time he woke up, Zayne was in the jasmine garden. Standing before him was a delicate face with a gentle smile.

“It is my honor to serve you, Master.”

He bowed to the lady. The sound of her laughter resonated around the lovely afternoon garden.

"There's no need to call me that."

She was considerably shorter than him, and he tended to lower himself so she would not have difficulties seeking his eyes. When she sat on the daybed, he would be on the floor by her feet. When she fell asleep, he would spend the entire night outside the chamber, guarding her dreams. She would sometimes lay her head on his lap and fall asleep after humming a few songs. Even though she disagreed with him calling her "master," he privately referred to her as his Goddess.

For his life was a gift granted by her. By using technology from the ASTRA corporation, she had created a cyborg, a perfect replica of the childhood friend whom she cherished so much. He possessed that person's appearance, intelligence, talent, and name.

“From now on, you are Zayne.” His Goddess said. “You shall continue his work and live his dreams."

The real Zayne had passed away a long time ago. After being unable to control his Evol, he chose to dissolve himself. Cyborg specialized in the medical field was originally a project of a lifetime that The Goddess and him had collaborated on.

Even though he was only a replacement, cyborg Zayne was delighted to stay with his Goddess. They lived together at a mountain mansion. Every day, she read books, sang, and danced in the garden of jasmine. She taught him everything she knew, evoking deep human emotions in him. He cared for and safeguarded her, while she granted him the grace to walk alongside her everywhere, to keep her company, and watch time impact her gradually while his physique stayed untouched.

His universe revolved around her. She gave him a reason to exist, which was to save lives.

That day, he should have accompanied her. Yet, the duty he was assigned since awakening obliged him to remain at Akso Hospital. He saved someone else's life, but he was unable to save hers.

Her lifeless, bloodied corpse lay on the surgery table. He had tried every method he knew, but her heart no longer beat.

His world crumbled from that day on.

Though, he still had a glimmer of hope. He took her protocore and memories. Her body was preserved by him in ice that never melted. He placed her on the daybed in the shelter, surrounded by a jasmine garden. It was where she often laid down to rest, her eyes always fixed on the metropolis in the distance.

Then, in the darkness, he began his hunt.

The woman with a similar figure was chosen by him from among the patients in the cardiology department at Akso Hospital. He implanted the core and memories of The Goddess into her body. He brainwashed her and through surgery, he transformed her into a version of the Goddess. However, the first experiment proved unsuccessful. She was quick to remember who she was and what he had done to her.

The second person, followed by the third... With each experiment, Zayne learned and improved. However, although the look was easy to replicate, the demeanor was not. Every time a girl said or did something that differed from his Goddess, he deemed her a failure. Then she was made into an ice sculpture in the garden, duplicating every moment of The Goddess he adored.

A sculpture depicting her seated and reading a book. The other portrayed her dancing. Another one featured her cooking meals... Across the garden placed eleven sculptures, all centered on the original essence, the true Goddess.

That night, the twelfth piece would join them.

Zayne raised the woman's chin in a delicate manner. A visage similar to that of a Goddess was staring at him. But he knew it was not her. She would not weep, she would not plead like that. She was quite resilient in taking on everything, including death. Even in the moment when Zayne failed to protect her, still she smiled and said, "You're here."

As for the person who was steadily frozen in that standing posture, she was weeping and begging him to release her. She used to be a scientist. How unfortunate; her brain was almost perfect for receiving all of the Goddess' memories, as well as the prior females' pasts; nevertheless, that was a side impact Zayne did not desire. However, this woman was not obedient at all. She in secret disposed of the medication he had given her and discovered an old but still functional phone in the archive. She intended to run away but Zayne intervened just in time.

"Quiet." He spoke in his usual calm tone, but it sent chills down the woman's spine, literally. Since her body was almost entirely frozen. Zayne added: "Smile. "My Goddess looked nothing like this."

It was always the same; they screamed, they cursed, they pleaded for life. How ugly! None of them were worthy of wearing the face of The Goddess! It was Zayne's hands that adjusted their faces before the freezing procedure was complete. As a result, they all transformed into beautiful ice sculptures at last.

He came closer, carefully extracting the Goddess' protoccore from the false woman's heart and ending her agony.

When Detective Cooper arrived, the mansion's gate was already open. He heard screams in the jasmine garden, followed by a sudden silence. He immediately took out his gun and moved towards it.

He discovered Zayne's collection of ice sculptures in the garden. Twelve sculptures representing varying looks of the same person were coated in a thin layer of ice that was nearly transparent, allowing the faces of those inside to be seen. Zayne was in the center of the place, kneeling close to the daybed. His hand was softly stroking the hand of the woman who was lying down.

"Do not come close." Zayne's words sounded like anguish. Detective Cooper aimed his gun at him and shot.

A layer of ice developed from the ground, forming a crystal fortress between them. Cooper's bullet ended up caught inside.

"Zayne!" Detective Cooper shouted. "Stop it! You will suffer the consequences for your crime!”

"Consequences?" There came an uncanny laugh from the shelter. Zayne gave Cooper a grieving look. "Having to live in a world without her is already a punishment."

Cooper proceeded one step further. The ice spread to his legs and knees before swiftly covering his hands.

"Zayne, what are you doing? This isn't you. This is not what you were made for!"

Zayne's gaze returned to the Goddess, filled with affection. Her face was so calm behind the thin covering of ice. He replied: 

"That's true. She created me to heal people. Yet, I hurt them.

Silence arrived. For a very long moment, there was only the sound of the wind howling.

"I knew you would find out the truth, Detective Cooper." Zayne cracked a smile at him from over the ice wall. "I just hope I have a little more time to create a perfect replica of her."

Cooper, with a portion of his body immobilized, had become a reluctant audience for Zayne's monologue.

"I've tried a variety of ways throughout the last five years. But I've never been successful. I can't replicate my Goddess. And now I know why."

Zayne leant forward slightly. His arm wrapped over her head, cradling her. He muttered:

“For, in this world, she is the only one. Thus even if I searched the entire earth, I wouldn't find her a second time. I have made my own judgment.”

“What are you going to do?” Detective Cooper said impatiently. He had called for reinforcements and they were on their way. This place would be surrounded in just a few short minutes. No one could escape, not even a sophisticated cyborg with the Evol of Ice. However, it appeared that Zayne had no intention of escaping. 

“I disappointed her…” His voice began to tremble. “I could not save her… I murdered others so that I could replace her…”

Therefore, Zayne, himself, was a failed experiment. Everything that failed would be discarded. A fragment of black ice erupted on his chest and penetrated his body.

"Zayne!" Detective Cooper called out. From where he stood, he could see ice sprouting from Zayne's back. It was a torture.

“I do not deserve to see her again in the afterlife, if there is such a place… But if my life must end here… Please let me die… beside her…”

Zayne's words and breathing became stagnant. Detective Cooper attempted to escape, but he discovered that he could only move once the ice Zayne had summoned melted away, just as life was leaving his body.

Zayne shed a tear toward The Goddess as he placed his head close to her. His hand clenched on hers. He whispered one last time before he, himself, sank into the never-ending ice:

“Let me… die… by your side…”

[caq1e]

i've been trying to rationalize why clay terran's death hits me more than pretty much any other victim, even though the exact intricacies of his character are not the most plot relevant, and i think i finally got it. some of it's that he's the series' first new science freak in a while, yeah, but i think above that it's the emphasis on his ambition.

ace attorney does not like to kill real characters. it doesn't. referring to the main series for the rest of this post, we very rarely get to see a character for one section of one case before they die, with a few notable exceptions. as a result, because we don't get to know the characters very well, we as players are left to pick up the remnants based on the reactions of those still alive. ace attorney creates tragedy and emotional impact through the emotions of those who knew the victims. the victims' personas, therefore, are shaped by others' experiences with them: were they nice or mean, compassionate or abusive, nurturing or strict? while their relationships to others are crucial to their selves, they aren't everything about them.

clay is an astronaut. and unlike pretty much every victim in this series, that's not just his job, it's his life's purpose. the majority of clay's character is shaped through apollo's perception of him, sure, but what's also emphasized is his dream of being an astronaut. he wanted to be an astronaut since he was a child. he went to cosmos, became acquaintances and friends with the employees, surrounded himself with space. and he got the job. i know ace attorney ages can be taken with a grain of salt, but he was going to go into space at twenty-three, where the youngest astronaut in real life was twenty-five. any sizable gap in age below the norm tends to get lawyers deemed prodigies, excluding most themis students, so clay could probably be considered one as well. he was brilliant and remarkably hardworking and dedicated his entire life to reaching this goal, and he... didn't. he died with his dream ten steps in front of him.

when a character is an exception in one way, they tend to be in many, and they also tend to be defense attorneys, for some reason. the two victims with the most ambition at time of death, from my perspective, also have the most pre-death screen time: mia fey and dhurke sahdmadhi. their ambition may be on different scales, but they both died with tasks unfinished. mia had yet to reveal the corruption of redd white and the truth to dl-6, and dhurke had yet to restore stability to his country's legal system. they were both incredibly committed to fulfilling these goals and died while actively pursuing them.

the contrast between these two and clay is the individualism factor. dhurke wanted to see his revolution through, but he wanted a better future regardless of whether he was its leader or not. mia's connection was due to her familial involvement, but she also just wanted to uncover the truth behind redd white's obscurations and reduce corruption in the legal system. these goals are personal, but they aren't limited to them. they are goals that these two aspire to achieve, but they themselves don't need to be the ones to achieve them; in fact, they aren't. phoenix apprehends white, exposes manfred von karma, and discovers misty fey's disappearance for mia, while nahyuta and apollo work to reform khura'in's courts for dhurke. clay wanted to go to space. while a less noble goal than those i'm comparing him to, it's also more intrinsic to himself. he was supposed to be the one in space. there's no one to take over his dream because it's his alone. when he dies, that's it. it'll never be done. while his compassion definitely implies that he would be proud as long as sol starbuck touched the stars again, that isn't his dream. it's not the same as him doing it himself.

another similarity between mia and dhurke is that they are also the victims with the most post-death screen time. mia is channeled constantly through the first trilogy, to the point where she's almost as constant as any living character. dhurke lives for days, concealing his death while being channeled and not revealing the secret until almost the end of 6-5. as a result, these two get front row seats to their goals being fulfilled by their successors. mia's there to help phoenix take down white in 1-2, is certainly made aware of the results in 1-4, and even reunites with diego and re-defeats dahlia in 3-5. dhurke assists apollo leading up to the final court case, and his presence sticks with apollo as he develops his defense office.

clay does not get post-death screen time. he's only mentioned, like any other victim, after his death, and the large bulk of it is regarding the minutes before he's killed. not only is his dream unable to be fulfilled, but he wouldn't get the chance to see anything come of it, if that was even possible. he's not aura, staring out of a prison cell as part of her life's work flies off without her input. he's dead. no seeing the future, no willing on a successor to continue for him, no closure. dead and gone.

i'm not going to go crazy in depth right now, but, considering all major victims, the final truth of clay's death is done pretty poorly. as the successor to investigations, a duology that deals with international affairs in incredible detail, dual destinies is notably lacking. the organization behind the phantom isn't explored in the slightest; what was the point in making them a part of something bigger in the first place? there's no inciting event, no motive, not even a name, and from my point of view it just makes dual destinies feel unfinished, like there were plans that couldn't be made reality. there aren't any hints towards what the organization is doing, no legs to theorize on besides real life events, and it's not portrayed in a way that leaves it as a clever mystery. some international organization wants to sabotage the rocket launches for an unknown reason, so people die. that's all. clay dies due to reasons completely unknown to players, which is just so unsatisfying. not only does he not get closure, but we don't either. it makes me desperate for any new information to justify his death, to make his murder mean something, just like others who are integral to plot. this isn't entirely the point i was trying to make, but i think it's significant enough to mention. or maybe i just wanted to talk about it. not too sure.

clay terran suffers the awful fate of too much ambition and too little closure. this alone made his death have the greatest lasting impact on me. i'm not sure how it is for others, but the sadness of those left behind didn't usually trigger a large emotional reaction in me. however, the way clay's extraordinary dedication, implied intelligence, and nigh inevitable success were ripped from him right at the very end, with no possibility of a successor due to his own personal stake in the goal, made his death hit me through the heart like no other ace attorney victim. and also, just a little bit, because he's a new science freak.

[alphynix]

Crystal Palace Field Trip Part 3: Walking With Victorian Beasts

[Previously: the Jurassic and Cretaceous]

The final section of the Crystal Palace Dinosaur trail brings us to the Cenozoic, and a selection of ancient mammals.

Image from 2009 by Loz Pycock (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Originally represented by three statues, there are two surviving originals of the Eocene-aged palaeotheres depicting Plagiolophus minor (the smaller sitting one) and Palaeotherium medium (the larger standing one).

The sitting palaeothere unfortunately lost its head sometime in the late 20th century, and the image above shows it with a modern fiberglass replacement. Then around 2014/2015 the new head was knocked off again, and has not yet been reattached – partly due to a recent discovery that it wasn't actually accurate to the sculpture's original design. Instead there are plans to eventually restore it with a much more faithful head.

These early odd-toed ungulates were already known from near-complete skeletons in the 1850s, and are depicted here as tapir-like animals with short trunks based on the scientific opinion of the time. We now think their heads would have looked more horse-like, without trunks, but otherwise they're not too far off modern reconstructions.

There was also something exciting nearby:

The recently-recreated Palaeotherium magnum!

This sculpture went missing sometime after the 1950s, and its existence was almost completely forgotten until archive images of it were discovered a few years ago. Funds were raised to create a replica as accurate to the original as possible, and in summer 2023 (just a month before the date of my visit) this larger palaeothere species finally rejoined its companions in the park.

Compared to the other palaeotheres this one is weird, though. Much chonkier, wrinkly, and with big eyes and an almost cartoonish tubular trunk. It seems to have taken a lot of anatomical inspiration from animals like rhinos and elephants, since in the mid-1800s odd-toed ungulates were grouped together with "pachyderms".

———

Next is Anoplotherium, an Eocene even-toed ungulate distantly related to modern camels.

(Apparently the sculpture closest to the water is a replica of a now-lost original, recreated from photo references in the same manner as the new Palaeotherium magnum. I can't find a definite reference for when this one was done, though – I'd guess probably during the last round of major renovations in the early 2000s, at the same time as the now-destroyed Jurassic pterosaur replicas?)

Anoplotherium commune is a rather obscure species today, but it was one of the first early Cenozoic fossil mammals to be recognized by science in the early 1800s. Depicted here as small camel-like animals, the three statues are positioned near the water's edge to reflect the Victorian idea that they were semi-aquatic based on their muscular tails.

Today we instead think these animals were fully terrestrial, using their tails to balance themselves while rearing up to reach higher vegetation. Their heads would also have looked a bit less camel-like, but otherwise the Crystal Palace trio are still really good representations.

———

Next is a sculpture that's very easy to miss in the current overgrown state.

Who's that peeking over the bushes?

Going all the way around to the far side of the lake reveals a distant glimpse of the Pliocene-to-Holocene giant ground sloth Megatherium.

A better view of the Megatherium | "Tree Hugger" by Colin Smith (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Fossils of Megatherium americanum had been known since the late 1700s, but the 1854 Crystal Palace statue was still one of the first life reconstructions of this animal. Its anatomy is actually very close to our modern understanding, depicted with correctly inward-turned feet and sitting upright to feed on a tree with its tail acting as a "tripod".

However, we now know it didn't have a trunk-like nose, but instead probably had prehensile lips more like those of a modern black rhino.

Something weird also appears to have happened to the Crystal Palace Megatherium's hands. Early illustrations of the sculpture all consistently show it with the typical long claws of a sloth, but today it's missing its right hand and its left has only a strangely stumpy paw – suggesting that at some point in the intervening 170 years there was an unrecorded crude repair.

———

And finally we end the trail with three Megaloceros, the Pleistocene-to-Holocene "Irish Elk" that's actually neither exclusively Irish nor an elk.

A closer look at the second stag and the doe.

There was originally a fourth giant deer sculpture in this herd, a second resting doe, but it was destroyed sometime during the mid-20th century. The stags also initially had real fossil antlers attached to their heads, but these were removed and replaced with less accurate versions at some point by the mid-20th century.

One of the stags' antlers suffered some damage in 2020, ending up drooping, and since then one antler has either fallen off or been removed.

In the 1850s Megaloceros giganteus was thought to be closely related to deer in the genus Cervus, and so the Crystal Palace reconstructions seem to be based on modern wapiti – specifically in their winter coats, fitting for ice age animals – since both the stags and the doe sport distinctive thick neck manes.

The stags from the other side.

We now know Megaloceros was actually much more closely related to modern fallow deer, and so probably resembled them more than wapiti. Cave art also shows that it had a hump on its shoulders, and even gives us an idea of what its coloration was.

———

…But wait!

There's actually one more thing.

A small statue sitting on the far side of the deer herd, missing its ears, and seemingly representing a Megaloceros fawn.

Except it's actually something very different and very special.

Ceci n'est pas un cerf.

Some recent investigation work revealed some surprising information about the Crystal Palace mammal statues – much like the nearly-forgotten large Palaeotherium, there was originally an entire group of four small Eocene-aged llama-like Xiphodon gracilis that had disappeared from living memory.

There was also no historic record of a fawn with the giant deer, but instead a suspiciously similar-looking sitting sculpture is illustrated among what we now known are the four missing Xiphodon in early records.

An 1853 illustration of the sculpture workshop. The four Xiphodon are shown in the center, directly in front of a Megaloceros stag and doe. (public domain)

Somewhere in the late 19th or early 20th century three of the Xiphodon must have been completely lost, and the remaining individual was misidentified as a fawn and placed with the giant deer herd.

———

Rediscovering a whole extra species among the Crystal Palace statues is exciting, but it also demonstrates just how much of these sculptures' history has gone completely undocumented. 

The mammal statues especially seem to have suffered the most out of the "Dinosaur Court", being often overlooked, neglected, disrespected (at one point the Megatherium was inside a goat pen in a petting zoo!), and subjected to cruder repairs. A total of five original statues are now known to be missing from this Cenozoic section – the original large Palaeotherium, the three other Xiphodon, and the second Megaloceros doe – compared to the two pterosaurs lost from the Mesozoic island.

Hopefully the excellent recreation of the lost Palaeotherium magnum is the start of a long overdue new lease of life and conservation attention for all of the Crystal Palace sculptures. It was disappointing seeing them all in such an overgrown state, and with signs of ongoing disrepair in places such as the plant growing out of the big ichthyosaur's back.

But there has been some resurgence of interest and public attention in the Crystal Palace sculptures over the last few years, so with any luck these historic pieces of early paleoart will survive on to their 200th anniversary and beyond, to keep on reminding us of where things began and how far our understanding of prehistoric life has since come.

[jupiterswasphouse]

WASP REVIEW - VESPOIDS, VIGORWASPS, AND BNAHABRAS (MONSTER HUNTER)

[Image IDs: Two renders, one of the Vespoid Queen and her colony, another being of a Vigorwasp, from the Monster Hunter franchise /End IDs.]

(To preface this review, thank you to those who voted in last week's pole! Going forward, these reviews will be on an every other week schedule!)

Monster Hunter! Now this is a series with some fascinating creature designs, as one would hope from a franchise whose games are mainly dedicated to, as the name suggests, finding and hunting monsters. Thankfully, there's a plethora of wasps to have a look at in these games, from the social to the seemingly solitary, and from the social to the seemingly solitary. With three entire wasp types to cover, one even with two variants, there's no time to waste!

Let's start with the Vespoids! How straightforward, it seems, to have a species of eusocial, stinging wasps named directly after the Vespoid wasps of our world, that being, Vespoidea. This superfamily, while also containing the more obscure family of Rhopalosomatidae, contains the much more famous (perhaps infamous to some) family of Vespidae, a family which itself simultaneously contains a few subfamilies of mainly solitary and presocial wasps (eumeninae, stenogastrinae, masarinae, etc.), as well as the paper wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets I'm sure we're all familiar with here!

Now, clearly, the Vespoids of Monster Hunter aren't one-to-one with the Vespoids of our world, but it provides a good reference for what we're looking for as we get into the visual assessment of this species! Starting off with the things that might strike someone relatively familiar with wasps first, for one, they have three pairs of wings (six wings in total) as opposed to the two pairs (four wings in total) of a real wasp, two of which have thinner sections that resemble the "tails" of some butterfly wings, they appear to have very very short antennae, and they have quite long metasomas. A particularly long metasoma is typically achieved by having elongated segmentation but an average number of segments, with Vespid wasps typically having roughly 6 (females) to 7 (males) terga, this is not the case in Monster Hunter's Vespoids, with them having upwards of 9 segments making up their metasoma

[Image Sources: Myself, Myself (Again), and bugguide.net, MJ Hatfield | Image IDs: Three photos of different wasps. The first one is of a male paper wasp of the genus Polistes, with seven abdominal segments, on a blue fabric surface. The second one is of a female paper wasp, also of the genus Polistes, with six abdominal segments, feeding from an apple. The final image is of an unrelated, non-Vespid wasp, a female Pelecinid wasp, five of its six abdominal segments being notably longer, yet thinner, than its Vespid counterparts. /End IDs.]

They also seem to have angular protrusions on their head and mesosoma, small eyes moreso akin to Mutillids and ants than to Vespids (with the presence of ocelli being unclear), somewhat longer hindlegs to match their extended metasoma, relatively properly segmented legs (with the correct number and placement as well), setae/fur that only seems to be present at the end of each abdominal segment rather than being all over most of their exoskeleton, and, stingers that stick out constantly (akin to some wasps with relatively long ovipositors like a number of Ichneumons or Braconids) rather than being retractable. Additionally, the Vespoid queen appears to have two additional stabby bits lateral to the main stinger, these resemble something more along the lines of the spines deployed by males of species such as Anterhynchium gibbifrons (Males do not possess stingers, but males of some wasp species may have their own defenses, such as these spines).

[Image Source: Scientific American | Image ID: A photo of a Anterhynchium gibbifrons male being held between a pair of tweezers, using its "pseudo-sting", a pair of spikes on either side of its genitals on the end of its seventh abdominal segment /End IDs.]

Moving forward to the next species, the Vigorwasp is an interesting case, as it seems to have fluffy, almost, bell-bottom-like legs, perhaps to collect more pollen, as well as a sac that seems to be even bigger than the entire rest of the wasp, although this is because it's full up with "vitality nectar" rather than it being some form of permanently big, chitinous mass. Personally, I can't think of any wasp with this exact set-up, but this can, in a way, be thought of in a similar way to the foodstores of honeypot ants.

[Image Source: Wikimedia Commons, Greg Hume | Image ID: A photo of a colony of honeypot ants, a number of which are full of nectar, attaching themselves to the ceiling of this chamber /End IDs.]

They have a more accurate count of metasomal segments, and they have more appropriately sized antennae and eyes for the species (plural) I believe they're moreso based on, although the scapes of the antennae are perhaps a little long (unless this aspect, too, is based on certain ants), and they have a strangely large pseudopupil. The head shape is pretty on point! The presence of ocelli is, again, unclear. and furthermore, this species seems to share their wing-count with the Vespoids, with a total of 6 wings, but they're more accurately shaped this time. In terms of body shape, their almost "humpbacked" appearance is notably similar to the aforementioned Vespid subfamily Masarinae, the pollen wasps, with the shape around the waist/petiole area being more paper-wasp-like.

[Image Sources: bugguide.net, Jim Moore and bugguide.net, Aaron Schusteff | Image IDs: Two black and yellow Pseudomasaris pollen wasps, one on a non-descript grey surface and the other on a wooden surface /End IDs.]

They also possess the same sort of permanently extended stinger as the Vespoids, something that seems oddly common in depictions of Vespids and bees, almost like some designer out there is saying "how will they know it's one of those stinging things of it doesn't have its stinger out 24/7".

Lastly... I'll be honest, I'm not entirely sure what's going on with the Bnahabras. I like 'em, but they're confusing little things, aren't they? Perhaps their shape and oddly shaped dorsal plates of their mesosoma are supposed to mimic birds for whatever reason? If so, their posture and EIGHT wings (yep, that's right, it's four pairs for a total of eight wings this time) would rat them out on their ruse immediately. Maybe they're closer in appearance to some beetles, and mimic those instead? But what purpose would there be in an already dangerous, stinging wasp mimicking a beetle? It's suggested in some places that these might even be beetles, but given the presence of a venom-injecting stinger and their general shape, I find that unlikely myself.

Either way, it's still my job to analyze these things, and, as it turns out, while it's not perfect, I can at the least compare these guys' wacky mesosomal plating to that of the family Eucharitidae! Many of these wasps have scutellar spines that extend backwards, often beyond the gaster/metasoma.

[Image Source: Elizabeth Murray | Image IDs: An image of 9 different species of Eucharitidae, each with varying lengths and shapes to their spines, followed by another render of the Bnahabras /End IDs.]

Their head appears to be EXTREMELY small in comparison to their body, like, this is the Kingpin (Spider-Man) of insects. Their antennae are oddly staight, too. But hey, the eyes and mouth look ok and I think I can even just barely make out a couple ocelli (in the wrong spot and in the wrong number, but it's better than nothing)! They share the butterfly-tail-like thinning of certain wings that the Vespoids have. Similarly accurate segmentation of the legs too. Even shares the perma-stinger + lateral spines combo. I'm not entirely sure if I have anything to compare that metasoma to though; It's sort of similar to that of some ichneumon wasps, but it's a bit too sharp, not smooth enough.

The visual assessment is at varying levels of accuracy for each of these, with many differences between them and their real world equivalents, but what about their behaviors? Well, both the Vespoids and Bnahabras seem to be aggressive, attacking the player with stings that have the ability to inflict paralysis (temporarily)! The increased aggression and the paralyzing effect of their venom honestly might be somewhat accurate given that they're notably bigger than the wasps of our world! As I've theorized before, while aggression towards humans that show indifference or benevolence to wasps is much lower than people tend to think, hunting and parasitoid wasps may need to change targets to larger, more mammalian species if they were to become as big as these Vespoids (136.64cm/4ft 5in worker, 691cm/22ft 8in queen) and Bnahabras (78.84cm/2ft 7in). They don't seem to have biting attacks, which is interesting, but the Vespoids do, in some games, "tackle" the player, which could be comparable to how a Vespid would attack its prey.

Vigorwasps, meanwhile, don't seem to be bothered by players at all, fascinatingly! These (large) little guys are generally carefree, despite that massive, aforementioned perma-stinger they've got going on. You can even keep them as pets! Although, maybe this indifference towards hunters is a negative for them, given how often they end up losing the contacts of their nectar sac to wayfaring adventurers looking for a quick heal.

As for their sociality and nesting behaviors, Vespoids are, obviously, eusocial, complete with a queen, however, I don't see anything indicating that they have nests, which is strange. Eusocial wasps live in nests made of wood, mud, wax, in the dirt, or some combination of these, but Vespoid nests either haven't appeared in the games yet or just outright don't exist. Bnahabras seem to at least be presocial, gathering in relatively small groups, but not really seeming to have colonies or a nest, do correct me if I'm wrong through! This species is specifically described as laying eggs within carrion, even having a special fluid designed to increase decomposition, a behavior that is not really found in the wasps of our world, but is found in a number of beetles and flies. And, lastly, Vigorwasps appear to be entirely solitary (again, correct me if I'm wrong!), flying around mostly separated from each other.

These differences in behavior make me wonder what the full diet of these critters looks like, as well as the appearance of their larvae, eggs, and pupae! Do adult Bnahabras drink nectar like all real wasps do? Do Vigorwasps hunt down prey to lay their eggs on when we're not looking? Do Vespoids make nests and lay eggs in paper cells like paper wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets do? I'd like to see these questions answered! What wonderful worldbuilding you could do!

In conclusion, though, these wasps are all over the place! And that's ok! They're meant to be highly fantastical monsters in a setting as rooted in fantasy as Monster Hunter is. Even still, as these ratings are based on their comparable accuracy to reality, I have to give these wasps...

-

Vespoids: 6/10

Vigorwasps: 7.5/10

Bnahabras: 5/10

-

Leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!