#well i say cane but really she needs more of a fancy walker too

[rxttenfish]

btw i feel like i should make it clear. miranda gets a cane + wheelchair in the future, at least in as far as i write her. being on land for extended periods of time is not something that her joints and back and hips were made for, and ESPECIALLY not bipedal walking as much as she does, so she’s already dealing with some pretty severe chronic pain. the only reason she doesn’t yet is because the merkingdom and the vanderbilt family line is. ah. very resistant to the idea.

[herenortherenearnorfar]

Final graduation ficlet (which got quite long). A-Qing lives (sort of) and channels ghosts while living out her fashionista dreams. Jiang Cheng is identifiable due to his clothing choices. Light violence and zombies. 

The best thing about living in Koi Tower is the clothing. Silk that runs like water between her hands, brocade heavy with embroidery, jewelry that chimes and sings as she moves. She doesn’t feel heat or cold, can’t sense gentle changes in pressure or even most pain. There’s still enough perception in her fingers to map out the bamboo grove and song birds stitched on her favorite dress and feel the whorls of gold and inset jade on her new bracelet. 

After the first impolite insinuation about their friendship Jin Ling stopped buying her gifts more excessive than those he gave to the rest of his friends. Ouyang Zizhen, who can describe the grandeur of Lanling’s markets so clearly she can see the hawkers and jewel-bright fancies in her mind’s eye, has been thoroughly scolded by his father on her behalf so many times that they��ve regretfully halted their shopping trips. 

Wei Wuxian makes up for it. He doesn’t have money of his own, but his husband is rich and lets him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to spoil A-Qing whenever he’s in town.

He calls her cousin (biao zhi mei, an affection which makes several martial relationships familial and she thinks retroactively enforces at least two adoptions) and takes her places the boys are too scared to go. Good company though they usually are, they’re rich kids to the core. The streets A-Qing grew up on, back alleys and muddy side streets, are too lowly for little princes. They aren’t like Wei-qianbei, who can banter with street walkers and haggle with counterfeiters. His company is a welcome escape from the pompous brats in Koi Tower. Together with Wen Ning they walk the streets, wearing high collars and low hats for disguise. They sniff about the food vendors until oil and salt fill A-Qing’s throat and coat the remnants of her tongue. Wei Wuxian buys her trinkets, little squares of silk and jangling bracelets of gilt and enamel, louder and more delightful than the demure ostentation of the Jin. When she was young and dreamed of being rich she wanted bracelets up to her elbows, not “restraint” or “taste”.

At the end of every outing Wei Wuxian hands her a little parcel. “From your shushu by the water” he says, as if she has any idea who that is. They’re nice gifts through. Scarves and robes in fine cotton and brocade. There’s stitched florals and ribbons. She makes Jin Ling describe them to her and he reluctantly tells her about violet and turquoise geometric patterns, waxed pale into fabric. There’s one overrobe she especially likes— dark blue, Jin Ling says, with a cracking pattern like mud under the sun, like lightning, like the death lines on her own skin. She can feel the stares on her when she wears it.

The old men certainly stare when she slams open the door and begins tapping her way into the conference room, though she can’t tell whether it’s the crackling midnight robe, the green jade pins in her hair, or the fact that she’s here at all that has them so startled. That’ll teach them to try to distract her with poetry and fancies. As soon as the fine cultivator ladies, who normally scorn Koi Tower’s corpse, swept her away, she knew something was wrong. 

It’s bold of them to try to ambush Jin Ling in his own home. They’re going to regret it. 

“Xiao-guniang,” Jin Ling says, sounding relieved. A servant takes her arm and guides her over to the table, and A-Qing doesn’t snap at them. She’s learned to pick her battles. “I was just about to send for you. These kind elders have quite the suggestion for me and I wanted your input on it.”

“Is this really the place for a young... lady?” come the protestation. 

“My shibo thinks highly of her judgement.” Jin Ling says, leaving everyone to put together in their own heads who his shibo is.

That stirs up whispers. It always does. A Sect Leader, almost grown, consulting her? A corpse under the Yiling Patriarch’s protection, a barely civilized street rat. They might have given her Xiao Xingchen’s name (it still hurts to hear it spoken, still scrapes every time someone calls her Xiao Qing, though even Song-daozhang insists he would have wanted her to have it) and a backstory worthy of tears (’she survived Xue Yang!’ Ouyang Zizhen would cry, passionate and sweet, and Jingyi would add a story of her bravery so embroidered it was unrecognizable) but she’s still a parentless urchin. A girl. A dead thing. There are a dozen reasons she shouldn’t be here. 

Jin Ling has the full support of the Jiang and the Lan behind him though, and Nie-zongzhu always compliments her accessories. None of the other, weaker sects can do a thing about it. Politics is a lot like living on the street; the big people make the rules and everyone else puts up with it. The old coots make some noises about propriety, forcing chaperones and moderating the affection A-Qing and her friends can show each other in public, but they can’t get rid of her or mitigate her influence on their young ruler.

At best they can insinuate, and since Jin Ling started making eyes at the visiting cultivator from Dali those insinuations have had increasingly little weight.

What are their words? A-Qing signs, even though she knows perfectly well why they’re ganging up on Jin Ling in a side room. She won it out of Duanmu-zongzhu’s wife, who was sent to distract her. It’s amazing what people will say in the presence of a mute girl-- they think she’s deaf too and talk quite freely. You would think they’d be more careful, since she is, by their own accusation, a conniving abomination, but for all their fear they never quite take her seriously. 

“They had some suggestions about the salt trade.” Jin Ling is doing an admirable job of playing the mature diplomat. “Surely they can explain it better themselves.”

“We merely wished--” one of them starts stammering, and another one takes over. “We thought to inform Jin-zongzhu of the opportunity to centralize control of the salt market. The Jin, Qin, and Lan together hold most of the salt marshes, and Jin-zongzhu’s great-aunt ruling in Meishan mean he would be able to get the western brine wells to cooperate with a taxation pact. It would be very beneficial to both the sects and the merchants!”

“They want to put limits on who can buy and sell salt, and they’re willing to levy a tax to make it worth our while.” She can practically hear Jin Ling’s posture, arms crossed, defensive. “Xiao-guniang, I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on that?”

I’ve walked in salt villages, A-Qing replied, leaning her cane against the table so her hands can move furiously fast. It’s not a good life. Brine and heat. If they could only sell to a few merchants they would be underpaid. No choices.

(A maid helpfully murmurs a translation of her words to the rest of the room. Few people have bothered to learn the language she now uses, the one she pieced together with the help of her friends.)

Jin Ling hums. “That makes sense.”

“There’s no reason to hesitate on the behalf of some peasants,” a very bold voice complains. “Their state won’t be improved by empty sympathy.”

“They’re just boilers, of no concern to you Jin-zongzhu. We treat them well.”

Oh. Oh. 

She was going to hold back, for Jin Ling’s sake, but now she’s angry. Who of you is Hu Anshi? she demands, mouthing out the sounds of the name and punctuating it with the bracketed meaning (beard, safe, stone) over and over until it’s duly translated. 

Reluctantly, one of the many voices in front of her says, “I am, xiaojie.”

Even with her ever sharpening sense (honed by cultivation that she came into late and kicking) it’s hard to differentiate him from the rest of the horde of weakly pulsing qi before her. They all have ghosts attached to them, hovering resentment like a cloud about their heads. Rich men attract desperate hatred better than anyone else. But she thinks she can single out one fuzzy figure with a particularly heavy load of sins and a familiar tinged energy over his shoulder,

A-Qing takes up her bamboo cane and strikes it once on the ground. I talked to your ghosts, she signs with her free hand. They had a lot to say. 

That silences them. 

Jin Ling inhales sharply and moves closer to her side, hand grazing her sleeve in support. When she shakes her head he withdraws, leaving her alone on in the cool air of the Koi Tower, shivering in her fine cotton and silk. Shivering because she’s letting the change come over her, letting the whispering, angry ghosts attached to Hu Anshi’s back have their say. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when she took up this route of cultivation. Mediumship is... frowned upon by the sort of people who bear swords and seek immortality. The common people like it though and before she knew Xiao Xingchen, A-Qing made the acquaintance of a number of temple diviners and spirit writers. Some of them even offered her apprenticeships-- blind girls made for good optics. Spirit specialists willing to take on a pickpocket without the slightest inclination towards ghosts were unfortunately untrustworthy by definition. She never took them up on the offers. 

Then she died and, like many of the restless dead, needed a way to communicate. Lan Sizhui played her Inquiry a thousand times in those first weeks, to ask her if she was comfortable, to field questions from the other giggling Lans. Eventually A-Qing memorized the song and began to play it on her own, tapping it out with bamboo against earth and fingers against wood. The spirit language, limited in form and structure, was easy to pick up and didn’t need a tongue or eyes. 

When you played Inquiry, ghosts answered. A-Qing didn’t mention the questions at first, just did her clumsy best to give offerings to those whose names she learned, to give justice to those small inequalities her late night listening uncovered. 

Wei-qianbei, who had what he called a “vested interest” in her wellbeing, learned about it eventually. He was the one who found her in Caiyi town (hidden from Lan and Jin elders alike while some ridiculous politics happened) fighting off possession by the little girl who’d been murdered two doors down a year ago. He was the one who helped her curse the wrongdoer, soothe the restless soul, and settle back into her own cold skin. After that he taught her Inquiry, and how to use the meditations Xiao Xingchen had happily guided her through to solidify her presence and strengthen her energy output. If she was going to get possessed, he suggested, she should be purposeful about it.

He didn’t teach her how to use her corpse strength to drag evildoers into the light. It came naturally enough and only needed a few suggestions from Wen-qianbei and Song-daozhang. 

After that things had sort of... spiralled. By the time she went to join Jin Ling, then Jin-zongzhu, in Lanling a few months later, A-Qing had found herself an avatar of vengeance for any number of unquiet spirits. The living consulted her too, when there was bad luck or poltergeists, hauntings or incomplete burials. 

As it happened, the highest halls of cultivation have hungry ghosts in need of justice too. 

She lived in the north, in a village with no name. A-Qing says as icy incorporeal fingers close around her neck. They were poor and made money by selling salt, because one woman could bring up enough brine in a day to provide a whole family with salt for a year. And it paid. Until one day the merchants came to town with you at their head. 

You have to give Zu’er, the maid who’s translating, credit. Even though the hand language drops lots of in-between words by necessity and requires creative substitutions-- earth for salt, sky for day-- she always picks up on A-Qing’s meaning. And she doesn’t flinch as smoke, hot and roiling, begins to peel off A-Qing, which speaks to her nerve if nothing else.

A-Qing taps her staff again and begins drumming out the song of opening, of offering. 

Under your guidance they wouldn’t pay them enough to buy firewood from the inland where trees grew, or rice from the flood plains that weren’t salted beyond survival. Salt worth a fortune sold for scraps.

So they starved. Working, salt crusted, they hungered and hated you.

Footsteps echo on the cold marble floor.

“Bar the door,” Jin Ling says next to her, mild and spiteful. Whatever spirit he channels in clan politics, it’s a vicious one. “I think everyone should hear this.”

So a woman took salt on her back and went to sell it someplace else. And who did she meet on the road but the merchants? Do you remember what you did?

“She’s a witch and a liar,” someone, maybe even Hu Anshi claims. A-Qing is too deep in to care. The ghost, who came to her instantly when she played Inquiry this afternoon, looking for answers about this purported plot to head a monopoly, is particularly insistent and clever. She’s been following Hu Anshi for a long time, too weak to strike, too smart to get caught by protective charms and spirit dispelling talismans. 

Now she finally has a chance to speak, in a sense of the word.

There is a complication to channeling without a tongue or eyes. She can get around just fine in this body of hers but spirits are rather less experienced. Without Sizhui or another Lan expert most can’t make their wishes known. So A-Qing has to get creative. 

As much as she hates to admit it, she knows who she learned this mean showsmanship from. Three years with Xue Yang teaches you a lot about drama. 

Cane held out like a divining sword, she advances, letting the spirit half sunk in her flesh and a faint memory of the room’s layout guide her around the table towards the bundle of quaking men. Like cowards, they scatter before her, not even trying to fight back (just as well; she can’t be killed but a sword in the stomach doesn’t make anyone happy). The ghost over her shoulder knows which target she wants to pick and swings about as frightened bodies swirl around her. Hu Anshi might be able to dodge but he can’t hide, soon she has him cornered. 

His friends abandon him quickly, fleeing to the edges of the room as she advances. When her bamboo strikes his shaking legs, she gives in and lets the ghost have its way. 

The problem with possession is that you have very little control. Locked away in the cool dark of her own flesh, A-Qing can’t even see what’s happening. Jin Ling is there, though, with his Clarity Bell, so she’s comfortable sitting back. 

She gave the ghost pretty clear directions; no permanent damage, show how you died. At worst she’ll choke him for a bit before Jin Ling snaps her out of it. 

For the sake of her friend, A-Qing tries to be subtle about her skills. Jin Ling helped her form her sign language, stuck with her even in the earliest days when the other frightened juniors were suggesting they report her to the Chief Cultivator, sent her long letters that Lan Jingyi would sprint down from Gusu to read out loud to her. He brought her here, gave her pretty dresses, listened when she talked about hungry children and towns that cultivators never visit. Listened when she talked about frightened female ghosts, begging for their lives, and murdered servants who have never gotten justice. Even his dog has been kind to her, has guided her through gardens and chased away bullies while Jin Ling sat in stuffy rooms doing grownup work. In deference to his family and responsibilities she doesn’t swear even when people act like bastards, she doesn’t run, she doesn’t summon evil spirits indoors without cause. 

Sometimes she wonders how long their friendship (bound by oaths though it is) will last. In the three years they’ve known each other he’s gotten tall and deep-voiced, while she’s stayed the same. By the calendar she’s a decade older than him but she’ll never be fully grown. A-Qing is a creature of boundaries, not a girl and not a woman, not living and not dead. Not a destitute orphan anymore but not made for places like this. 

More accurately, places like this aren’t made for her. It’s a shame because they clearly need her badly. Who else will give the ghosts and forgotten people a voice? 

When the Clarity Bell finally shakes the ghost out of her body, she’s throttling a man with exquisite delicacy, holding his warm and moving throat like it’s the finest china ware. This is how she died, A-Qing thinks. You strangled her and left her body by the roadside. You took her salt and sold it and her family starved. 

There’s a heavy hand on her shoulder. “That’s quite enough, I think.” says Jiang-zongzhu, whose voice she bothers to remember.

A-Qing lets the man fall to the floor, gasping even though she barely choked him. 

“I told you all to stop talking about your salt plot,” Jiang-zongzhu is shouting above her. “Now you’ve tried to convince Jin-zongzhu alone to go along with your little price fixing scheme? Pathetic. I’ve heard enough of it. Get out. Don’t ever bring it up again.”

There’s a desperate skittering that A-Qing barely notices in the post-possession fog. She assumes the room clears. 

“We’ll send the accusations of foul play to the local authorities?” When faced with his uncle Jin Ling always phrases orders as questions. 

“A good idea,” Jiang-zongzhu agrees. “Send some cultivators too-- it’s outside of our wheelhouse but there’s bound to be some resentment built up if a merchant syndicate has been running wild through the marshes. Where did you say they were active, Xiao-guniang?”

He’s always polite to her. At first it was a disgusted sort of politeness, a politeness that suggested that she didn’t belong anywhere near his precious nephew. Over time it’s mellowed into frosty gentility and the occasional hand on her arm when she’s lost. 

Qing province? she shrugs. South Bo Sea coast.

Signing proper nouns is like playing charades. For qing she points to herself (the words are close enough in pronounciation) for bo she taps her staff. It must make sense though because Jiang-zongzhu doesn’t even wait for Jin Ling’s swift interpretation. “That’s closest to Laoling. Qin Cangye has had a lot on his plate lately. Best to send a letter and some of your men.”

“I guess I should go do that. And I have to reassure the sect leaders I’m not doing demonic cultivation again.” A-Qing frowns and Jin Ling hastily amends, “You did great though.”

“Great is pushing it,” Jiang-zongzhu snaps. “You’re getting a reputation.” 

Jin Ling, whose voice is already by the door, isn’t impressed. “They can get over themselves.”

Then it’s just her and Jiang-zongzhu in the room. One heartbeat, one steady warm core. A-Qing turns to go, only to be caught by the arm. 

“Thank you.” Jiang-zongzhu says slowly. “You’ve been a good friend to him.”

A-Qing remembers the courtyard with the lotus pond, where she and Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi swore to be siblings in the eyes of the gods. (Though they love their other friends, they were excluded for practical reasons. Sizhui is already related to all of them and needed no further binding. Zizhen is a little in love with everyone and Jin Ling claims it’s bad form to sleep with sworn siblings, so for them to keep their options open he had to be excepted.) It’s a secret oath; Jin Ling doesn’t need the political complication of open sworn brotherhood. It’s still binding. 

I try.

Jiang-zongzhu always smells like thunderstorms when he’s stressed. Right now all she can smell is the cloying Jin incense and a sweetness of lotuses. “Keep trying. And don’t be afraid to send for me again if you hear they’re ganging up on him.”

As he lets go of her her hand brushes his trailing sleeve. In an instant her fingers graze over silk brocade and fine patterned cotton. The texture is familiar and she instinctively grabs the fabric to feel the delicate embroidery and the stiff, thick woven cotton that still smells ever so slightly of wax. She can imagine the patterns inked on, maybe lotuses? Greenery? The colors are definitely shades of purple, blue and green. 

A-Qing smiles as Jiang-zongzhu pulls away and stalks out. 

The best thing about Koi Tower is the clothing, which sits against her skin and reminds her of the people who have taken her in. 

The second best thing is getting to terrorize entitled rich people.

[katedrakeohd]

The softer side of Neville..

I had fun writing this for @sirbeepsalot and the #SofterSideofNeville prompt. I hope everyone likes it.

Word count: 4164..( it kind of got away from me. LOL)

Writer tags: @dcbbw @choicesarehard @jovialyouthmusic @ritachacha @tornbetween2loves @bobasheebaby

Warnings: None really, I guess you could rate it PG.

_______

_Masquerade_

A month after King Liam's coronation the Capital city was abuzz with preparations for the annual Harvest Festival. It was the last social event of the year where the Palace and grounds were open to the public. All over the city Cordonia's citizens were gathering their family's best recipes in hopes of winning the pie baking contest.

A week before the Masquerade Ball, costume designers and local stores were busy with shoppers looking for something special to wear. It was a black tie event and by invitation only. Rumors among gossip magazines, entertainment blogs, and social media outlets were flying with who among Hollywood's elite might be there.

In a menswear shop on Fenton Street, the Capital's posh upscale shopping district, Lord Neville Vancoeur and his friend Earl Rashad Domvalier were browsing through designer suits.

"Neville if you show up in another boring Armani suit it's hardly going to be a costume." Rashad scoffed.

Neville rolls his eyes, "No kidding. So this time I'm looking for some inspiration. If I'm going to be rubbing elbows with commoners, nobility and celebrities alike I want to look good. For the first time in decades, Cordonia has a young King who everyone wants to get to know."

Rashad was looking forward to seeing the ladies at the Ball. His father was anxious for him to find a wife and settle down, but Rashad wasn't quite ready for commitment just yet. He was more interested in finding a hot Hollywood girlfriend. He wasn't sure about Neville's romantic ambitions though, he'd never seen his friend successfully pick up a date at any one of these events.

"So Neville, do you have a theme in mind for your costume? A rakish, well dressed comic book supervillain perhaps? Or  something more from a classic movie character angle." Rashad wondered out loud as he looked through a rack of pinstriped dark suits.

Neville pauses from where he was looking at dress shirts, "Hey, that's not a bad idea."

"Which one?" Rashad raises an eyebrow.

"Either one. Hmmm, do you think I could pull off that dark grey pinstriped suit and that fedora as a gangster or something?"

Rashad narrows his eyes, trying to picture Neville as Al Capone or Elliot Ness from the Untouchables.

"Eh, I don't know. But that dark suit with a top hat would make you an excellent Penquin from DCs Batman."

Neville tilts his head, trying to picture it. "You know what? I like it. I wonder if they have a suit jacket with tails?"

As Neville walks over to the shop employee to ask, Rashad chuckles to himself. He could totally see Neville pulling off the dapper yet cunning Oswald Cobblepot.

Rashad frowned in thought. What could he wear to the Ball? He wanted to look handsome, not foolish. Checking out his reflection in the mirror he considered his dark features, piercing eyes and slim but athletic build. What heroic movie character could he fit into?  Spotting a black pair of suit pants and an embroidered white shirt on a rack behind him in the mirror, his eyes go wide when his mind clicks onto an idea.

Zorro. Oh my goodness why hadn't he thought about that before?

Spinning back around, his eyes searched the shop for clothing pieces he could put together.

At the Palace boutique, Hana, Madeleine, Riley and Olivia were looking through dresses for costume inspiration. Riley would be on Drake's arm and she had convinced him to wear a tuxedo. He had balked at the idea of dressing fancy but she had insisted. Now she was wondering what to wear to look nice next to him.

"No, no, no." Olivia protested. "None of these dresses are the right style." She had planned to wear a sexy vampire costume with a mask. She'd already had the mask custom made to fit her face, and none of the Palace dress offerings were good enough to go with it.

Hana and Riley both roll their eyes at Olivia's whining. Riley speaks up, "You must have something suitable at home then. I know how much you covet the color red."

Madeleine turns away from the rack she's looking at and folds her arms, sneering at Olivia. "Oh please, she'd look much better in something black to match her cold dead heart."

Olivia scowls at her, "You're one to talk. Why Liam chose you as Queen is beyond me. Oh look Maddy, here's an icy blue dress that would suit your cold heart too."

Hana smirks, "Oh would you two just let it go already."

Riley picks up on the 'Elsa' reference and bursts out laughing. Olivia and Madeleine both scowl at her, not getting the joke.

Still giggling, Riley tries to catch her breath. "So Hana, do you have a date for the Ball?"

Hana bites her lip, "Not really. But I'm assuming Maxwell will be without a date either, so he'll make do as a companion."

Olivia scoffs, "You two are both so foolishly cheerful most of the time you make a good pair. I'm assuming Riley is going to stumble around the dance floor with the oafish Mr. Walker."

Riley frowns, "Hey, we've been taking dance lessons. I'm sure Drake and I will manage just fine."

Olivia turns to leave the boutique, "Whatever you say. I have some calls to make to my favorite dress designer. Good luck Ladies."

The night of the Ball, Drake goes to Riley's room to pick her up. Stopping outside her door he tugs at the white collar of his dress shirt, trying to loosen the strangled sensation his black bowtie was causing around his neck. Sucking in a deep breath to calm his nerves, he lets it out slowly then knocks.

Standing at her mirror, Riley fixes her earring. She was wearing a long black satin gown that skimmed her curvy figure in places, and hugged it in others. It was cut low in the back, and dropped into a deep vee in the front. She hoped the ballroom wasn't going to be too chilly. On her face she wore a black lace cat mask. Her hair was in a partial updo, secured with a black sparkly clip, the rest of her hair falling in chestnut curls  against her shoulders. Her makeup was simple, so as not to be ruined by the mask, and she wore a bright red lipstick that matched her fingernails.

"Come in," she says when she hears Drake's knock.

Drake swings the door open, "I hope you're rea-.." Then his mind goes blank. Wow, she looked incredible. Turning around, Riley smirks at his dumbstruck expression. Walking over to him she straightens his tie.

"What's the matter Drake, cat got your tongue?"

The cat's got my everything tied up in knots at the moment, he thought.

Having her so close to him in that ridiculously sexy dress, those red lips of hers turned up in a sly grin, he felt warm all over. He needed to get control of himself, quickly, if he was going to lead her into the ballroom and not embarrass them both. Damnit she was still touching him, smoothing the lapels of his jacket...

Drake steps back, brushing her hands aside. "Ahem, enough fussing over me Brooks. I already feel like I'm dressed like one of the waiters."

Riley scoops up her clutch from the desk and then takes his arm.

"Nonsense Drake, you look very handsome, even if a tux isn't really much of a costume. Who are supposed to be?"

Drake leads her out of the door then closes it. He hadn't a clue what to say at first, but then glancing at the cat mask she was wearing he had a spark of inspiration.

"I'm Bruce Wayne."

A red carpet lolled out of the doors of the Palace like the long tongue of a snake. Flashbulbs of press photographers bombarded each limousine and sleek luxury car as it pulled up to eject its passengers.

Flocks of Nobles from all over Cordonia and Europe, Hollywood movie stars, and local dignitaries were arriving. Some wore elaborate costumes, some wore formal wear and masks, and some were just dressed in formal wear.

Neville and Rashad shared the backseat of a limousine. Waiting in a long line of other sleak automobiles, they were both getting impatient at the delay.

Rashad shifted in his seat again, adjusting his mask, every time he moved the sword he wore at his side rattled. Neville rolled his eyes at him and sighed.

"Seriously Rashad, the Palace security isn't going to let you into the Ball wearing that thing. Even if it is part of your costume."

Rashad looked over at Neville. With his top hat, monocle, and cane he looked like the dapper gentleman. He felt kind of foolish in his black mask, bolero hat and tall boots. But he had no doubts about who was going to catch more attention from the women. He wish he could have arrived on horseback since it suited his Spanish persona better. The press would have eaten it up.

Hana and Riley are standing next to a table of hors d'oeurves and sipping champagne. Drake had ditched Riley shortly after they made their grand entrance into the ballroom. When the camera flashes had gone off, Drake's body had stiffened and Riley had to keep a death grip on his arm to stop him from running away. Once he had spotted Hana at the hors d'oeurves table he escorted her that far and then made himself scarce. Riley didn't mind, because she knew these sort of events weren't his kind of thing, but she had made him promise to give her at least one waltz before the night was over.

The two ladies were oohing and aweing over the various costumes and trying to pick out the celebrities and nobles that they recognized.

Hana, in her flowered goddess of spring costume dress was getting plenty of looks of her own. With Riley's dark and sleek next to her sweet and ethereal they were the perfect picture of opposites. Yin and Yang.

Hana took a sip of her champagne and then gestured to a group of men standing across the room, nursing drinks and plates of food of their own.

"I can pick out Drake for sure, because for once his dressed up tuxedo looks casual compared to the other guys. But who is that guy in the tophat, tails and gloves? I don't recognize him."

Riley takes a moment to appreciate Drake in his tux, and then looks over the other men. She didn't know many of the noblemen at court, but she could pick out most of the Hollywood celebrities.

"I haven't a clue but the tall man in the bolero hat and boots looks like a tasty snack."

Hana takes in his costume and frowns. "He looks like a cross between a thief and a pirate. What is he dressed as?"

Riley takes a sip of her champagne and then smiles as she catches his eye from across the room. "He's not wearing the sword, but that is definitely a Zorro costume."

"What's a Zorro?" Hana asks.

"Not a what, a who. He stole from the rich and gave to the poor, sort of a Spanish version of Robin Hood." Riley says.

As the orchestra begins the first waltz of the evening, guests start pairing up. Drake stays rooted to his spot, there wasn't enough whiskey in him yet to attempt any dancing foolishness. The costumed  men next to him were openly debating which available women they wanted to proposition to be a dance partner. He eavesdropped on their conversation, waiting for the chance to defend the honour of Riley or Hana if they received any harsh comments.

Neville sipped his wine, and listened to Rashad talk about his options as he scanned the room himself.

"The dark haired vixen over there keeps looking at me." Rashad says, tipping his hat at Riley.

Drake frowns and then interrupts, "Actually I think she's wearing a cat mask."

Rashad smirks at Drake, "Oh believe me, I know a fox when I see one. Pardon me, I think I've found my first partner for the evening."

Before Drake can protest, Rashad weaves his way across the dancefloor and makes his way over to Hana and Riley.

Neville notices Drake's frown deepen as Rashad sweeps his cape to the side with a flourish, removes his hat and bows low to kiss Riley's hand.

"You seem to be interested in her as well, do you know her?" Neville says turning to Drake.

Drake tears his eyes away from Riley and Rashad, just realizing that the stranger next to him had asked him something.

"Huh? Oh yeah, I know her." Drake says, downing the last of his whiskey. 

When he looks back across the room he sees Hana standing by herself. Damn, that Zorro dickhead took her for a dance. He searches the crowd for his ridiculous hat, seeing them both on the far side of the room.

Neville gestures to Hana with his wine glass. "Well now that Rashad has claimed the girl in the black dress, why not take her for a spin instead? She is quite attractive."

Drake attempts to swallow the lump in his throat. He knew he couldn't keep up with the rest of the gentlemen dancers on the floor. He decides to spare Hana's toes from getting stomped on.

"Go ahead. She's a nice dancer. Her name is Hana by the way."

Neville grins, pulling off his hat and gloves and handing them to Drake. "I wouldn't mind at all, she does have a lovely smile. Here hold these will you?"

Drake is left alone at the bar, reluctantly holding Neville's things, as he strides over and approaches Hana. Looking down, he shoves the hat and gloves toward the bewildered bartender and then walks away.

Riley smiles up at Rashad as he whisks her across the dancefloor. He was an excellent dancer, even if she had to keep moving his hand off of her ass from time to time. He kept blaming it on the slippery nature of her gown, but she knew better. He held her against him a little too firmly at times as well, but she just went along with it. The dance wouldn't go on forever, and he was ridiculously charming. From time to time she spotted Hana dancing with someone as well. The dance steps of Hana's partner were more precise than romantic, and Riley wondered who he was. She'd lost sight of Drake entirely, and her scanning the room for him meant she often fell out of step with Rashad. He kept correcting her, and was losing his patience from her not following his lead.

Maxwell, carrying a plate of appetizers, finds Drake standing alone in the corridor between the ballroom and library. "Hey there Drake, I thought you came to this shindig with Riley?"

Drake sighs with exasperation. "Yes I know, but dancing isn't really my thing."

Maxwell looks hurt for a moment, since he was Drake and Riley's dance teacher, "But you were doing so well with your lessons."

"Dancing with Riley in private is one thing. But dancing with Riley with everyone else watching is something else." Drake replies, he really hated the idea of Riley dancing with somebody else, but he didn't want his own limitations to get in the way of her enjoying herself.

Maxwell pats him on the arm. "I understand buddy, big events like this can be overwhelming. But she's your date, and I know she would rather dance with you, squashed toes or not."

Drake nods, swiping the last shrimp canapé from Maxwell's plate and eating it. "You have a point. I promised her a dance afterall."

Maxwell smiles as Drake turns and walks back into the ballroom. "Go getter tiger."

As Drake makes his way through the crowd, he sees Liam talking with Madeleine nearby. Liam waves him over. Once he's within earshot Liam smiles and says, "So Drake, how are you enjoying the festivities so far?"

Drake shrugs, picking up a glass of  champagne from a passing server, "The food is tasty, but the drinks are better. So everything is fine."

Madeleine smirks, "High praise from Mr. Walker, so glad we're keeping you entertained."

Drake frowns at her and then downs his champagne. Stifling his burp with his fist. He feels amused at Madeleine's look of disgust.

Liam just shakes his head and grins. "So Drake are we going to see you on the floor during the upcoming Cordonian Waltz?"

Drake's eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes desperately search the crowd for Riley. "Uh, if I can find where my date has run off to sure!"

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Riley walking over to them. "Oh look there she is."

Drake smiles as Riley steps up to him and tucks her hand under his arm. "Good evening your Majesty, Countess Madeleine." she says with a curtsey.

Liam looks Riley over from top to toe and gives her a warm smile.

Madeleine quirks an eyebrow, taking in Riley's risque choice of dress. "Good evening Riley."

As the orchestra begins the opening notes of the Cordonian Waltz, Madeleine pats Liam on the arm to draw his attention away from Riley. "Uh sweetheart, shall we dance?"

Liam's face flushes slightly as she leads him away, "Oh certainly..."

Drake slips an arm around Riley's waist, feeling how thin her dress actually was, sweeping his hand over her hip he didn't feel any discernible undergarments. Leaning in he whispers in her ear, "Please tell me you're not naked under this dress."

Riley turns her face toward him, her lips a breath away from his. "Maybe, maybe not." she says.

Closing his eyes, Drake groans and then looks away. "You're trying to kill me aren't you?"

As Riley leads him onto the dancefloor she whispers, "You'd die a very happy man Drake."

As guests start pairing up again, Riley sees Hana being led onto the floor by Rashad, Penelope is in the arms of his friend.

Taking up the starting position Riley checks Drake's form, he seemed to be ok. "Ready?" she asks.

"Yup," he lied. Drake was terrified.

As they sweep through the first few steps without any problems, Drake feels his confidence rising. Maybe he could do this afterall.

They both stumble a little but manage to avoid eachother's toes, and the other dancers. Drake holds up his arm and watches Riley do her spin. He smiles and brings her in close, her back pressed up to his chest. As the music changes, Riley twirls out of his arms again. When she gives him a slight curtsey and then turns toward her next partner, Drake starts to panic. Oh crap! I forgot this was supposed to be a group thing.

Drake turns to accept his next partner. It's a woman in a bluish green costume dress, he guessed by the design and the sequins she was supposed to represent a mermaid. She flashes a dazzling white smile at him as he takes her hand, leading her through the same steps as he did Riley. He tries not to step on the hem of her sparkly dress as he goes through the motions. Her red curly hair kept whipping him in the face, and he clamps his mouth shut so he doesn't have to taste it too. When he raises her hand and she does her spin she giggles and nearly trips over her dress. He gasps and reaches out to grab her by the waist to steady her. When she leans in close and attempts to kiss him, he panics and pushes her away gently. "Uh sorry, but no thanks."

Looking at the other dancers around them, to see which move he was supposed to be doing, he carefully turns her around and after giving her a slight bow, hands her off to the next gentleman.

He takes a quick look around the room to see where Riley was. She was with a man he didn't recognize, but by her smile and blush she did seem to recognize him. Drake tries to ignore the person who was tapping him gently on the shoulder with a shrug. "Um Drake?"

He turns to see Hana, and then breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God it's you. Please tell me this waltz ends soon."

He takes Hana's hand, not fighting her as she corrects his form and they go through the rest of the steps smoothly together. "Don't worry Drake," she says with a smile. "I should be your last partner."

Drake doesn't mind dancing with Hana, as she participated in Maxwell's dance lessons with him and Riley. She knew how to avoid his clumsy feet and smiled and nodded as he performed steps of a dance correctly. She was an excellent and patient teacher.

Drake smiles as she dances gracefully next to, and with him as the music ends. As he bows and she curtsies to end the waltz he's deeply relieved. "Thanks Hana. I'm so glad you didn't turn out to be another drunk mermaid."

Hana giggles and takes his arm as he leads her off the dance floor. "Oh my goodness Drake you poor thing."

Drake and Hana meet up with Riley, Rashad, Neville and Maxwell by the bar. Riley smiles and settles in next to Drake. He wraps his arm around her again, laying his hand on her hip. She wraps her arm behind him as well, tucking her thumb into his back pocket and cupping his ass cheek. Drake shoots her a warning look and she just smirks back at him with defiance.

Hana cozies up next to Maxwell, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Rashad and Neville exchange a surprised glance, assuming they're standing with two couples. Rashad removes his hat and mask, raking his hands back through his hair to fix it. He smiles and extends his hand to Maxwell in greeting.

"Lord Beaumont can you properly introduce us to your friends? I know we've both danced with these lovely ladies tonight but didn't know they were friends of yours."

Maxwell laughs and then shakes Rashad's hand, "Oh I'm sorry, sure. This lovely goddess of spring next to me is Miss Hana Lee of Shanghai.  Hana meet Earl Rashad Domvalier."

Hana and Riley remove their masks. Hana smiles, "It's a pleasure to meet you Rashad."

Rashad smiles, bowing low and taking Hana's hand and kisses it. "The pleasure is all mine Miss Lee. You are a lovely dancer."

"Thankyou Rashad, you're too kind."

No he's not, thought Neville. He's a lecherous lothario and if you only knew, you'd probably want to wash that hand Miss Lee.

Rashad straightens back up again, and then smiles, patting Neville on the back.

"Oh where are my manners? Lord Maxwell, Miss Lee, this gentleman next to me is Lord Neville Vancoeur."

Neville nods and smiles, "It's a pleasure to meet you both. And who are your other friends Lord Maxwell?"

Maxwell turns and indicates Drake and Riley. "Oh this is Drake Walker and Riley..."

"Riley Brooks!" ... Neville's eyes go wide. "Oh my goodness I recognize you now. Those tabloid photos of you and Tariq didn't do you any favours did they? You're far lovelier looking in person."

Riley's smile falters, not sure how to respond. Drake's arm tightens around her protectively.

Neville's expression goes from one of surprise to being apologetic, "Oh don't worry I don't believe the trash in the tabloids."

He steps forward and gives her a slight bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you as well Miss Brooks, and from what I've read you're being sponsored by the Beaumonts, a most honorable house."

Riley smiles, relaxing a little, "Thankyou Lord.."

Neville smiles, "Oh please, just call me Neville."

Drake extends his hand in greeting, "Lord Neville."

Neville shakes it, "It's a pleasure to meet you as well Mr. Walker... Walker?..Why does that name sound familiar?"

Drake braces himself for some kind of commoner insult. But it doesn't happen.

"The son of Jackson Walker I presume?" Neville's smile widens, he keeps a hold of Drake's hand, placing his other hand on Drake's arm to extend his warm greeting.

Drake frowns slightly. "You knew my Father?"

Neville shakes his head, "No unfortunately, but it's an honour to shake the hand of the son of a National Hero."

Drake grins, feeling a mixture of pride and embarassment. He'd never been acknowledged that way before. "Th..thanks."

Neville lets go of his hand, still smiling. He turns toward the others in the group. "Well now that we're all acquainted, why don't we all celebrate with a round of drinks?"

Drake glances at Riley, raising an eyebrow. "Sure, why not?" She says with a smile.

Everyone turns back toward the bar.

"Bartender? Six whiskeys please." Drake says.

-- the end--

[audiodiaryofasuperhero]

About that Unannounced Hiatus...

Hi, y'all. Remember us? We took a pretty long unannounced break from… well, just about everything to do with the public side of this show.

While we can’t go back & make this hiatus have never happened, or hell, even go back and handle it better, we can explain how & why it happened. If we can’t fix it, we can be honest about it. Maybe we can even bring about a little awareness in the process.

Note: This post is almost entirely about the past year & a half. We will write a separate post covering what’s going on now & what’s next for ADoS. We don’t want to cram those things onto the end of this long post when those are the things worth getting excited about!

Now, to do this, I need to address you as Laura Henderson, the writer/producer/nearly everything on this show. Because the reasons behind the Unannounced Hiatus of Suffering pretty much all have to do with things that were going on in my life.

Hang with me - this is a long explanation.

Some content warnings before proceeding. This explanation includes anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, mania, hypomania, dislocations, & doctors being shitty people who are bad at their jobs.

I made an announcement right before the hiatus, publicizing what was meant to be a small break in production while my household dealt with a clusterfuck of a moving process. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I was struggling with some worsening anxiety & depression issues as well.

As soon as we’d moved, when I was meant to be finishing episode six, three different things happened. 1) I got caught in one of the worst depression spirals of my life. Like, I hadn’t felt so terrible since middle school. I struggled with awful focus issues, self-harm, & suicidal ideation. 2) I got a promotion to sales lead at work. This sounds fancy, but it functionally means that I became the lowest tier of management at my store. With our staff numbers dropping post-Holidays, my hours ratcheted up to 35 hours a week. Plus school. Plus chronic illness. Plus mental health issues. Which all feeds into - 3) I wasn’t happy with the draft of episode 6. I needed that script to do five different vital things, & at the time, it did maybe two of them. I recorded that draft, but ended up deleting it out of frustration at what it didn’t set up for later plot. With everything else going on, it was easiest just to… put it down.

Spring came & my depression receded, although my focus issues increased. This was just in time for me to dislocate my knee pretty majorly. With EDS (an illness I share with Adira), dislocations are pretty commonplace. But most of them are small, slide back in nearly immediately with little to no intervention, & do very little damage to the tissue surrounding the joints. Others are major, where the joint slides farther out of place than usual & stays out of socket until manipulated back into place, doing a fair bit of damage to the surrounding tissues. This was definitely the latter. I was in pain for weeks, & all my spoons were spent trying to get through my shifts at work.

The knee eventually healed. My first night out dancing after it healed, some asshole stepped on my ankle & dislocated it. Not my foot, mind you - my ankle. (I am still very salty about it.) Wash, rinse, repeat from above.

Then things really started to go to hell.

In late June, I started seeing a psychiatrist for my focus issues. My dad has ADHD, & we’d begun to wonder if I may have inherited. The psychiatrist, understandably, chose to start by treating my depression and anxiety instead. She also indicated that she suspected I may have a bipolar disorder. She prescribed me Zoloft, & told me I should call her immediately if I started experiencing suicidal ideation or mania.

Lucky me, I got both.

By week two, I was drifting into a mixed affective state, where I’d be slightly uncomfortably energetic but also a bit depressed. By week four, I was on a little carnival rollercoaster. I was energetic, anxious, depressed, & had a very small voice in my head suggesting awful but non-fatal things I should do to myself. By week six, I was riding a Six Flags thrills rollercoaster, with celestial highs & infernal lows. I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin, I went from aggressive cheer to rage at minor provocations, and the voice in my head was nearly indistinguishable from my regular thoughts, telling me all the different ways I could & should kill my self. I was manic. I would have been suicidal if my friends hadn't been acting as voices of reason. I called my psychiatrist in tears & left a message with her receptionist. She never called me back. I stopped taking the pills.

Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist, an awesome guy who believes in evidence-based practice. We started experimenting to find a good balance of meds. We started with the assumption that there was a low but substantial probability that I had a bipolar disorder, but that it was more likely that Zoloft was responsible for most of the mania symptoms. As the milder medicines mostly failed to stabilize me, we adjusted the probabilities of bipolar upwards, eventually concluding with a diagnosis of bipolar 2. 

While we were still in the early stages of medication experimentation, & I was mentally stable enough to sort of function & get a bit optimistic, my body decided it was its turn to be a melodramatic little bitch. 

Everything started dislocating. Everything. 

My knees, normally prone to minor dislocations around 4 times a week or so, started going out constantly. And then my hips got in on it. And then my ankles. And my ribs. And my shoulders. I went from using a cane, to using crutches, to using a rolling walker. I usually had more joints out than in.

I tried to work through all of this, but it was a nightmare. At one point, I was sitting in my walker at the cash wrap, twisted around to grab something from behind me, and both my hips popped out with an audible “snap.” I tearfully handed the guest what I’d been grabbing for them, then backed myself away from the register to cry for a moment.

Right at the end of October, I asked for a medical leave of absence from my job, with the intention of seeing my rheumatologist to update her on the situation and see what could be done.

When I went to see her, I had a list of ten things that needed to be accomplished. I managed none of them.

When she arrived in the little room, I started explaining what had been going on with my joints for the past two months. She cut me off.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said impatiently. “I can’t help you.”

She went on to add, “But I see you’ve been losing weight - that’s excellent.” (I’d been in too much pain to eat.) “And I’m glad that you went dancing,” (referring to the ankle dislocation from June that had been giving me so much trouble since). “You should exercise as much as possible.” (Ignoring that I’d been trying to tell her I could barely move.)

At this point, I was very teary. My joint doctor was telling me that she could not help me with my joint condition.

“You should look into being treated for depression. You seem very upset.”

To say I left her office devastated is a bit of an understatement. I sobbed in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

I called my auxiliary brain, my most rational, anti-suicide friend. 

“Please, come keep me company. Make sure that I don’t do anything stupid,” I pleaded.

He had some errands to run, but I sat in the car with him. On the interstate, I had to fight the urge to open the car door and throw myself into traffic.

But he got me through that awful day. The next month and a half was a long, drawn-out depression swing.

At the beginning of December, my manager called me. 

“Are you coming back?” she asked.

“I - I don’t think I can,” I admitted.

“I’ll consider this your notice, effective immediately,” she said. “Get better, Laura.”

Things slowly got better. My body calmed down. One of my psych meds was able to pull double-duty as a joint pain medication. I could walk again, even if I wasn’t quite comfortable dancing. I became happier, and if I was hypomanic or in a mixed affective state more so than even-keeled, it was better than being manic or depressed.

I withdrew from my college program, and applied to an online program. While the new program was not my beloved data science, combining information technology with mathematics was close enough.

I was accepted too late to start spring classes.

In early February, I managed to find a new rheumatologist, after calling four offices who explicitly said they weren’t comfortable treating me. She didn’t do terribly much for me, but she explained what she was going to watch for. She referred me to an orthopedist.

By this point, I was thoroughly bored of sitting around the house. I re-applied at my old work place, and was welcomed back with great enthusiasm.

Then my psychiatrist cancelled an appointment. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of his office to reschedule over the phone. Every time I went in person to reschedule, there was no one at the desk. I started rationing my medication, and then I ran out. Things, rather predictably, went pear-shaped.

A few weeks ago, summer classes started for me. I finally got back on medication. My work place started a big hiring push, which reduced my hours to my betterment.

After all that shit, I’ve finally begun to feel like a person again. It was rough and it tested me in ways I hadn’t been tested before. It made social media seem like an overwhelming prospect. I couldn’t manage a huge undertaking like my beloved podcast. But now....

Audio Diary of a Superhero never once left my mind, and now I’m ready to get it up and running again, better than ever before. I’m healthier, happier, and very motivated.

I’m not going to talk about what comes next in this post. But it’s coming. Look out.

[megades-sweet-darkness-delight]

@leather-gremlin  (OP) @elisaintime

Okay so 1.  Nice subtle way of replying IN A NOTE but not a reblog so that OP couldn’t engage with you OPENLY WHERE PEOPLE COULD SEE IT!

2. Dismissing a disabled by telling by basically telling them “ WELL YOU JUST WEREN’T LISTENING THE FIRST TIME! PLEASE COOPERATE! PAY ATTENTION! ”  Hm, okay Special Ed Teacher Elisa, it’s not like abled bodied bodied always love to imply that we’re not listening in order to gaslight us enough, and that’s and that’s a pretty strong thing to ask of them, that they go back and “listen”, considering you won’t even reblog their post so that people would actually have the chance to read and listen to the argument that OP is presenting, and have the chance to consider your rebuttal as well, unless you chose to write you’re reply to them this way where no one would be able to actually reply it or see it because you know that you’re argument is ... weak sauce? Like, you aspect them to engage in a non-open dialogue with you via these passive aggressive little reply notes that you’re leaving? Really? No. Because I know you didn’t want to have a clear, visible dialogue with them that anyone can see, because you don’t care. Or at least not enough to have a disabled persons discourse out in the open on your blog. That’s why you chose to do it that way. Taking the easy way out by telling a disabled person to “please listen” to you more while not giving others the chance to listen to them and then running away as fast as your abled bodied legs could carry you.

3. Why would they want to watch the video again? If I’m correct, the video that they’re speaking of is like, what? Two hours long or so and, I for one, stopped watching when the gamer guy came on cause I can deal y’all fancy college film makers pretentious attitudes sometimes because I know that it comes with the paycheck and a cis woman’s gotta do what a cis women’s gotta do.... (I wouldn’t know, I’m non-binary and I also have Cerebral Palsy [I know Lindsey would know what that is because she watches Breaking Bad, but I also know that that Cis White Male Actor doesn’t identify as “disabled” so therefore he doesn’t identify with me and I’m getting really tired of the only wheelchair users or people who do or do not identify with my disability that I get to see in the media being cis white straight boys but hey.... At least I still got Peter Dinkledge who’s  in another show that Lindsey used to like to be pretentious about but he doesn’t like the word “disabled” so I guess I can’t identify with him ETHER and there’s also Emilia Clarke who stars as a love interest to a disabled man who is in fact NOT played by a disabled actor who KILLS HIMSELF because HE IS DISABLED and I’m sure Lindsey knows and cares VERY DEEPLY about the controversy surrounding that that movie, just as much as she cares about the controversy surrounding other cis, white, abled bodied romances, ifshedoesn’tthinkusdisabledsarebeing”too sensitive” about it and maybe she can review it like Doug Walker youtakeourbotoxawayfromusANDyourubitinourfacethatyoucanwalkyoufuckingablests? Did with the room and than blame me for being lame and making her do it while she drinks her copious amounts of alcohol while making a snide comment that she forgives me cause she likes my blog motif ormaybenotbecauselikeJamesWoodsandvampiressheisanactualheartlesspersonbutdespitehowmanypinsshehasandhowweaksaucysheisshecannottakeHadeshunchedbackorMeg’soutofplacehipsandweakanklesawayfromme and then pass out the end.  And despite Mad Max being her favorite movie, she has to know that Furiosa isn’t enough with #EndOfDisability and as for the non-binary thing the most Rantasmo can do is review that one kids story arch from Glee and oops! Abled bodied actor again!

So why should we, the disabled people that you and your “compatriots” say are ether too sensitive or just aren’t listening, stay watching you?] 

What we’re taking about again? Oh pretentious cis internet reviewer women hanging out with pretentious cis gamer guys and theatre snobs in 2017. Talking about pretenticis abled bodied things for 2 + hours. Ain’t no body who ain’t cis and disabled got time for your interpretations of how disabled people should respond to things. YOU’RE ALL GROSS! DOUG IS GROSS AND NOW YOU’RE GROSS! HE’S A WHITE WALKER AND HE BIT YOU AND HE TURNED YOU GROSS! Or was the virus inside of you all along?        

4. the way you used word “weak” as an example here... seems to be implying a very subtle sneaky way of asking the OP if they think the term “weak writing” is ableist or not if they have a a problem with you and your teams ableist language? WHICH IS PATHETIC?!

5. OP was never addressing YOUR use of the slur “lame”, they where address LINDSEY’S use of it, which begs the question why you feel the need to come and defend YOURSELF. Then again, maybe you DID use the slur. You’re mic was so weak that I personally, couldn’t hear a word you were saying.   

6. “BUT UNLEARNING ABLEIST LANGUAGE IS SO HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRD!!!!!!”  OH BOO-FRICKITY-HOO GO CRY YOUR BLOOD TEARS WEREWOLVES ARE BETTER!!!!!! 

PLUS, WEREWOLVES HAVE CANES SO THEY’RE TOTAL CPUNKS! 💙♿️🌙

 WHICH IS THE TAG I FOUND THIS IN!

US WEREWOLVES ON WHEELS RIDE IN PACKS! 💙♿️🌙

GO CRAWL BACK INTO YOUR COFFIN! ;3