#when I look at my dog I feel a kinship with her

[crepuscular-coyote]

I know I am a coyote, but I am also a dog. Not any particular dog, just a stray with ribs peering out from underneath its pelt. One who obeys because it's afraid yet bears its teeth at the slightest movement. One who is ready to run at a moment's notice yet so loyal that you wonder how anyone threw it away.

[gardenofnoah]

middle aged touya my beloved 🫶🏼 (cw: drinking)

in his 40s, Touya is relatively tame. he spends most of his time working on his bike in the dingy little garage across the street from his place. he doesn’t need to work anymore (finally benefitting from nepotism, he thinks with a snort), but he finds himself helping out the elderly couple that live next to him from time to time, usually with an uneven shelf or a leaky faucet. they don’t ask him about his scars and the wife sends him back home with some sort of bread or sweet dessert every time, with the intention of fattening him up, since he won’t do it himself—which he finds ironic because he eats more and with a consistency that he hasn’t ever until now. 

he establishes a routine without meaning to, and at the end of every day he finds himself looking forward to going home—also for the first time in his life—because when he opens the door he’s nearly taken off his feet by the 93(.7, says the vet) pound monstrosity that he cohabitates with. 

he found himself walking through the kennels of the local animal shelter a few years ago, after several of his mother’s gentle nudges to find himself a companion. after making it explicitly clear that she was barking up the wrong tree for grandkids, she just rolled her eyes, shaking her head. 

“I think it would be nice for you to have something to take care of,” she told him, expression only a little worried—but mostly just fond. 

so that’s how he ended up in front of the last kennel in the pound, lowered to a crouch and speaking softly to the huddled, shivering mass at the far corner of it. even as crouched in on himself as he was, touya could see the pale scars that littered his otherwise dark brown coat. he felt the phantom ache on his own skin.

“he’s been here a while,” a worker muttered from behind him, “not sure how much longer they’ll want to keep him here.”

touya turned his head to regard the voice, raising an eyebrow. “what d’you mean?”

“he’s on the euthanasia list. we’ve tried to keep him off of it for as long as we can—but he’s aggressive and there haven’t been any interested adopters. time’s running out for him, unfortunately.”

the reality of it turned in his stomach something familiar and wholly unwelcome. he was overcome with a feeling of sympathetic kinship—it was just like the world he knew to chew up and spit out everything it could. 

he decided he’d try to stop that cycle where he could. 

“I’ll take him.”

“get off of me, you fuckin’ heifer” Touya laughs, pushing the dog back in a way that has it bounding back toward him, eager to play despite his age. neither one are particularly gentle, but there’s an underlying respect that comes with time and patience to keep the rough housing playful. touya hasn’t named the thing (because despite all of the ways he has changed, he’s still a bit of an ass), but any time Fuyumi brings his nieces over to visit, they stuff him into frilly princess costumes and call him whatever variation of “Princess Spotticus Snuffalopagus” they come up with that day—he figures that’s enough. 

he’s home to change and then he’s out the door again—because another first for him has happened unexpectedly: he’s found himself a few friends, and they have a standing Friday night meet up down at the bar across from the bike garage. none of them are much for talking, which suits Touya just fine. he strides up to the bar and takes his regular stool, nodding the familiar faces to the left of him and ordering his usual dark beer. it’s something he looks forward to now—the quiet comradery, the absence of the need to look over his shoulder. 

and right now, he is pointedly not doing that, because he thinks that if he just ignores the tap on his shoulder, it might just stop. 

it doesn’t.

“look, you little fuckin’ runt—” he snarls, turning to the source of the irritation—

“will you hold my drink?”

the interruption stops him dead in his tracks, long enough to blink back the shock at having been truly and willfully ignored to get a good look at you. 

at least 10 years his junior, clad in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a black tank top that leave just enough to the imagination to peak his interest. he realizes he’s staring, and his eyes snap to yours to find a knowing little smirk on your face.

“and why the fuck would i do that?”

“only for a minute,” you roll your eyes, like you’re the one that’s inconvenienced by this, “i just have to go to the bathroom.”  

he sighs, clipped and full of irritation, but holds a hand out to you regardless. you give him a smile that he immediately has to turn away from, huffing out a little “hurry up” as you turn toward the bathrooms. there’s no one around but him and his friends, but he finds himself curling your drink into his chest anyway, hunching over it like something nefarious might drop into it from above. 

it’s only a moment before you return, and much to his chagrin, you hop up onto the stool next to him and do well to make yourself at home, turning to hit him with another lopsided grin. he shoves your drink back in your hand a little too roughly—you pay it no mind, thanking him for watching it. 

“you just give your drink to any old stranger you find?”

you laugh a little, tipping your drink back to take a sip. he watches the tip of your tongue swipe a stray drop from your lip and he knows he should look away. 

he doesn’t.

“not usually.”

“that’s quite the fuckin’ gamble,” he gruffs, taking a sip of his own. 

“maybe,” you say, like you know something he doesn’t. he doesn’t like it. 

“don’t you have friends to get back to?”

“mm, yeah—i suppose i do,” you set your drink down and reach your arms up in a stretch—he has to look away then, because your chest strains against your tank top and he’s suddenly worried for his old heart—“what’s your name?”

he studies you then—eyes you with overt suspicion and you let him, smiling sweetly at him in a way that makes him nervous. he tuts at you, looking away to hide the flush that he feels creep up the side of his neck. 

“touya,” he grits out.

you repeat it, trying it out on your tongue, and he nearly comes out of his skin. you hop down from the stool, far too close to him—he doesn’t know why he wants to lean into your proximity.

“see you next time then, touya.”

he feels you well after you’ve gone. when the air stops vibrating, he lets out a sharp exhale, dropping his forehead to his hands on the bar top in front of him. the man next to him barks out a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder in some show of knowing sympathy. 

he’s too old for this shit. 

[saltyb0ba]

CH3-RRY LORE MASTERPOST...

long story short, i made a funny silly little puppy for my hi-fi rush fic! and with an oc comes a Lot Of Lore...

so here he is! little puppy <33

and here's his backstory (before he's introduced into SPECTRACtrlFinal.mp3 (1) ) find it below the cut!

CH3-RRY was originally created as a mascot for Vandelay Technologies. Kale was head designer for him and monitored every single point of the process to the point he was just working CH3-RRY himself. He had copied 808 for a base, as another way to stick it to Peppermint. References and pictures came in handy.

When he was finished, he looked like a dog version of 808, but with a Vandelay logo stamped on the side (Kale isn't that creative). 

He was planning to advertise CH3-RRY to the masses, as a new child-friendly mascot of the company, but Mimosa had other ideas. She needed to choose market her ass off with a limited budget to make Kale happy, or instead start another campaign for her (unofficial) makeup brand. She chose the latter (she's a cat person).

To make sure CH3-RRY couldn't easily make it back to Kale to report her decision, she sent her bodyguards to dismantle the dog. CH3-RRY squirmed and ran for his life, missing half an ear and an eye, but it was better than nothing. He'd obviously notice something was up, but she could blame it on the dog being clumsy.

CH3-RRY made it back to Kale with his tail between his legs, and Kale welcomed him back warmly. CH3-RRY's eyes had recorded everything: they were camera lenses with no shut-off. He promised he'd handle Mimosa, and thought long and hard about where he would go from here. It was too much work to get CH3-RRY's face out there as a CEO with no time, and he definitely wasn't in a pristine shape. Repairs were difficult as he had parts for him custom-made (with a big backlog for replacements).

He eventually decided he'd just keep the dog around his office, and that's how it was for a long time. He'd come up with something eventually. But the moment he saw CH3-RRY repeatedly getting into things he wasn't supposed to, messing with his Armstrong plans, chewing up wires -- he kicked CH3-RRY out.

CH3-RRY's cams still worked, so he could keep tabs on where he went, but CH3-RRY was unaware. He just kept running and running, trying to get as far away as he can. At one point he came across the entrance to the Hideout, and snuck in.

Immediately he was met with a hissing 808, but he quickly made it clear he meant no harm and she began to play with him. Peppermint was confused, but the poor thing clearly looked unwell and Chai was too busy smothering him in pets, CH3-RRY giving him way too many dog kisses. Everyone else circled around them and welcomed him into their little troupe.

CH3-RRY remained with the resistance until Kale was defeated. He saw Roxanne and instantly sprinted towards her, feeling a kinship between the two of them. Peppermint was just happy to have him somewhere else, and promised 808 she could visit him anytime.

He currently is being extensively pampered and spoiled in Roxanne's care, and waiting on replacement parts to be finished so he can finally get his ear and eye back.

Though he sometimes feels like someone's still seeing the world through his eyes.... even from beyond the grave. He doesn't pay much attention to it though.

[arcxnumvitae]

Daileas' feelings about each of @thewolfisawake's Unseelie Generals (and, uh, my Unseelie General too):

Balmoral: Has respect for what he's managed to achieve, but is overall annoyed at him and likes to antagonize him where he can. Originally didn't think much of the "upstart" when he first appeared since Daileas didn't believe the charismatic soldier would achieve much. It turns out he was wrong, and though he at least realized it in time to switch sides and fund the winning team Daileas doesn't like being wrong. He also holds a bit of a grudge from Balmoral paying back the debt immediately since Daileas also prefers people he can more easily control.

Mhoirbheinn: Calls him a loyal puppy and/or rabid dog. Daileas kind of just sighs at the thought of Mhoirbheinn. People like him are both incredibly predictable, but also incredibly unpredictable. And Daileas doesn't like the unpredictable.

Solanine: A woman of business, and that he can appreciate. He feels a...not quite kinship, but a bit of amusement at the similarities between their respective family businesses. He has made use of her services before to hunt down any debtors that thought they could escape him.

Morgan: He doesn't have many thoughts on her actually. He makes nice though, in case she could ever come in handy.

Risteard: Took one look at him sometime after Balmoral took the crown and went "I want that one." He finds Risteard to be very intelligent, cultured, easy to get along with, reasonable, clever, and basically consisting of all the makings of a perfect life partner with which they could support each other in all of their endeavors. Moreover, someone who seems rather uninterested in pursuit of monetary gain, and thus unlikely to betray Daileas for his wealth. Daileas invites Risteard to tea, dinner, buys him gifts, and essentially sugar b.aby's him. He's courting him, basically.

Siubhan: Also not many thoughts on her! She's one of Balmoral's more "warrior" Generals than an advisor so she has less use to him. Once again, he's still pleasant and polite to her.

Norval: He previously held some regard for Norval since there was also overlap between the two in how their jobs revolve around being smooth talkers. Daileas can tell that Norval is a clever man, he'd have to be impressive to have remained at Balmoral's side. But...after realizing that Norval and Risteard have a late nights in the office/stress relief/fwb thing going on...Daileas just kind of wants to kill the guy. Or make him disappear. Or at least keep him out of the room. Daileas is friendly to the "incessant chatterbox" through words alone. Beneath the words is an icy tone and a threatening smile that Daileas doesn't at all bother to hide.

[cellard0ors]

For over the last thirty years, Laura has lived in captivity.

Trapped in a glass tank full of water from Lake Septimus, she was shuttled all around from town to town, no one's company to keep save her own.

At first.

But eventually she struck up a kinship with another fellow captive, Silas. Or Silas the dog boy, as Vorez called him.

Eliza Vorez. Their 'mother'. Their owner would be more accurate.

However, she found Silas long before Laura and at least treated him with some semblance of decency. Not much, considering she still expected him to perform at showtime, but he at least got kind words and a gentle attitude.

Laura got the exact opposite. She can only assume it's because, at some point, Vorez thought she would break her. Make her docile and meek. Subservient.

She chose the wrong Mer for that.

It didn't help that Silas was younger and kept so through a perpetual age retention spell - one that kept him trapped at thirteen.

Laura was allowed to go through her First Embarkment and gifted two years after before Vorez struck her with the same spell, coming to the conclusion that it served a two fold purpose. One it kept her attraction young and beautiful. Two, as a punishment.

...Laura wasn't even allowed to naturally age alongside her lost love.

Her lost love - Travis Hackett - the starry-eyed sweet boy who kept her going. The one she grew up with, played with - the one she sacrificed everything for, because she loved him.

She loved him and thinking of him - alive and safe and out in the world, was her only respite from the life she was enduring - not living - enduring.

And now here he is, sneering at her and the only way she can think of to cope with it is to turn it to anger, "Or else what? You'll shoot me? Go ahead. I'm not telling you where my brother is."

"Your brother?" He scoffs and he gets to his feet, peering down at her with disdain, "Well, your 'brother' is responsible for the curse on my family and I'll be damned if I let it continue when I finally have a chance to end this thing!"

"And what do you think I'm here for? The sights?" Laura snaps at him and she does her best to shift around. Her jeans are wildly uncomfortable, her scales having returned and her legs wanting to rejoin to form her tail.

That's not even to mention her patch covered eye socket, which feels like it's bubbling and fizzing, the lake water on her skin, but not where she needs it to heal.

This in mind, she tosses off the patch and while she can hear the sheriff make a sound of disgust at the sight, she ignores him, scooping up handful after handful to splash on her face.

Sure enough, the cool water seeps in and she lets out a sound of sweet relief. There's a slight bit of discomfort as her lost eye returns, but it's worth it once she blinks and realizes her depth perception has returned.

Travis sees her eye is back and gapes at her, "What the hell are you?"

"You said it yourself." she grumbles, "I'm the fish girl..."

"So...a mermaid?"

"We prefer the term Mers." She sighs, "Gender more a human convention..."

"But you said-?!"

"I identify as a girl." Laura explains, "That's my choice."

"Okay..." He says it lightly, in that way where it's clear he's trying to understand and doesn't. It's funny, because it's the exact same response and tone he used when he was ten and asked the exact same thing.

Looking at him now, she can still see bits and pieces of that little boy. She can also see the parts of him she fell in love with during their teens. But he's also different. He looks...tired. Worn. Sad and the sadness kills her, makes her ache, so she speaks to distract herself, "This lake is my home. I was born in its' waters, so they can heal me from pretty much anything."

"Like a lost eye?" He offers and he's managed to fish out the patch she's been using since the last full moon.

Laura eyes it with distaste, "It was an accident. Normally I can be around Silas without fear - my blood is made of these clear waters, so, he tends to avoid me once he's changed, but," she shrugs, "I pushed."

"It shuns clear water..." Travis mummers and she just nods, because clearly he knows more about Silas's condition than she thought. What he knows about her, thanks to her singing, is zip, so she holds up her arms, "If you could, ah - pick me up?"

His expression is cold, stone faced, but she ignores the sting it causes - again, he doesn't know her. Not anymore, "Look, you saw my scales. The water in the lake can turn me back into my natural form. When I'm dry, I have legs just like any other human, so-?"

Travis looks out over the lake and then back at her, his tone full of doubt, "You were down here by the water."

"Yeah, to fix my eye! Not swim away! I would have gotten some water, healed myself, and then been on my way if you hadn't come stomping through!"

"I wasn't-?!"

"Just pick me up, Officer Dick Whippet!"

His jaw sets and he looks furious, but he does as asked. He scoops her up and makes a big show of acting like she's heavy even though she knows that he can more than handle her weight.

...in fact, his arms have gotten very...muscular since last she saw him. Laura can feel the corded strength of them through his police uniform. Swallowing, she feels her face heat and thanks the darkness for covering her blush as he carefully sets her far from the lake.

As she begins to dry, he begins to interrogate, "You say you weren't planning on swimming away, but you refuse to lead me to Silas."

"Uh, yeah. Because you'll probably just kill him." Her tone tells him that he's stupid for thinking she's dumb enough to have thought otherwise.

He sighs and runs his hands over his face, "Look, I don't want to kill the kid. Okay? I just-? I want this nightmare to be over."

Silence settles between them for a moment while Laura patiently waits for him to continue. He does, "When my niece, Kaylee, and my nephew, Caleb, busted your 'brother' out of his cell, he bit one of them. Turned them into a werewolf and they passed it on. So now I've got three infected family members and for the last six years, we've been dealing with all kinds of hell."

"Silas is my brother. You can stop air quoting it." Laura hisses, "You have no idea what he and I went through. No idea. We're bonded by something more than blood and what your family has suffered is nothing more than an eye blink in comparison to the amount of time he and I were trapped with Vorez!"

"Okay, okay, but if that's the case, then why did you two run?!" Travis cries, "When Kaylee and Caleb freed you, you could have-!"

"Could have what?!" Laura interrupts with a bark of laughter, "Gone to you and your family? Yeah, right."

She shakes her head ruefully, "There's only one Hackett I trust, and he didn't show up that night."

Once the words leave her mouth, she realizes the mistake she made. It was said in the heat of the moment and her eyes widen at the ramifications of what she just admitted.

Travis, for his part, seems - thankfully - confused, "The only-? Which Hackett? What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Nothing." She waves her hands, "Let's just-? Just drop it."

She wishes her legs were dry enough that she could stand. If life were perfect, if it was as well timed as music or a scene in a film, they would be. But this is real life, so it leaves her in this well of awkwardness as the minutes pass and Travis, obviously, works over what she said.

And while he might have been confused initially, it doesn't take him long to figure it out. No, of course not. He's the sheriff for a reason. He's capable of solving a puzzle when need be and his eyebrows rise, face a mask of shock as he says, "Wait...that night..."

Laura gulps.

"The night of Harum Scarum...the tickets were addressed to me."

She feels her bottom lip tremble, feels herself looking away from him, eyes heating with unshed tears as he rises to tower over her and growls, "You sent the tickets to me. Why?"

She starts shaking her head and he reaches down and grabs her arms, shakes her roughly, "Why? Who in the hell are you?!"

"I'm-? I told you. I'm nobody. Just some fish girl, just some-!"

"Oh, don't give me that horseshit! You sent me the tickets! You're responsible for all of this! Who ARE you?!"

"Laura!" she cries out sharply, "Alright?! My name..."

She sucks in a shaky breath, "My name is Laura..."

[nikomedes]

(thinking about my durge again. normally)

i realized i rly don’t think shrike ever saw orin as a threat, but not in a dismissive way. i think he was grateful. on a certain level once he’d been brought to the cult of bhaal, sprayed with a garden hose (so he could be re-blood-drenched properly), re-domesticated, and filled in on the religious dogma of bhaal, i think he looked at younger orin like. okay she is blood of bhaal but she’s a descendant of a descendant. bhaalist worship loves children of bhaal fighting to the death, but that made shrike cagey around sarevok, not orin. orin was a bright spot. dangerous enough not to need coddling but young and full of surprises and just as fucked up as he was. i think having been functionally dragged out of the woods as a rabid animal and then made to lead a church, her digging at him or dogging his footsteps or ambushing him wouldve made him feel more normal, almost? like i imagine theres a sharp division between bhaalspawn and bhaal devotees, and orin was technically on his side of the line but not a clear and present danger. predator pups will play fight, play hunt each other. i think thats how shrike saw their relationship

on the other hand, i think orin fucking hated him lmao. she killed her own mother and was cosseted by sarevok and likely knew from a young age that because sarevoks time had come and gone she was to be the scion of bhaal, at least in baldurs gate. and then sceleritas fel drags in this nonverbal twitching cannibal elf and is like “actually this guy is MADE from bhaal and thus supercedes u.” and sarevok presumably just accepts this once shrike does enough killing. and shrike unintentionally always broadcasts the fact that he doesn’t take her seriously. he finds her cute. he won’t even just kill her off and be done with it— for some reason he likes the idea that she’ll just hang out in the temple with him forever. they can braid each others hair. no one in this temple has the rational thinking or emotional intelligence to try to really understand each others perspectives and hash out this utterly fucked family dynamic. bhaal would probably see them killed for trying. so shrike dotes on orin in his way and orin seethes and then finally she bashes his fucking head in and gets everything she wanted. but then of course he comes out of the woods again to ruin her life

and god. this is so crucial to me bc for me canonically shrike will always handle cazador with astarion before facing the temple of bhaal. he helps strike down the monster who ruled over astarion and pitted him against his siblings, and astarion gets to kill him, is free of him, and while theres no touching reunions his “siblings” are free too. it all (from a truly fucked perspective) works out. and shrike rejects bhaal bc he’s taken onboard shadowheart rejecting shar, lae’zel rejecting vlaakith, astarion killing cazador, etc, he knows he has a choice now that he didnt when he was compelled to kill his clan and then dragged feral out of the woods. and shadowheart still got to meet nocturne, lae’zel finds kinship with kith’rak voss, astarions “siblings” lived. i rly think he goes into the temple of bhaal thinking he can somehow get orins netherstone and save her too. and that is not what she fucking wants. its fucking insulting. even after she nearly succeeded in assassinating him, he won’t take her seriously as a scion of bhaal. i rly think its only moments before shrike has to kill her that he realizes a fight to the death was all she ever wanted, because at least in this he has to acknowledge her as an equal, finally. and shrikes misery is 100%. he rly went in and thought, even if hes now remembered in gory detail killing his foster mothers and their whole clan, he might leave bhaal with a sister. and that was never going to happen

literally if he didnt have a new sort of adoptive relationship with jaheira, his comraderie with the other companions but particularly lae’zel, and his relationship with astarion, withers couldnt have called him back. he just wouldve let bhaal kill him and been added to the wall of the faithless. on a fundamental level he was born a predatory wild animal, taught the warmth of a hearth and place to belong by his mothers in a way bhaal has been trying to blot out ever since, and no amount of devolution of him as a person could get rid of the knowledge of love on a basic, maybe instinctual level. if someones kind and loving life can be shattered by an act of violence, i think someones life of violence and misery can be shattered by an act of love. i think he carried love like a disease even when he repressed his childhood to survive in the wilds, and he tried to spread it the first chance he got, to orin. it just didnt take. it wasnt something she needed the way he did (she thought she had it. thats why her reaction if u convince her sarevok betrayed her hits so fucking hard. shes destroyed by the loss of love, even as fucked as it was). and if he’d made his way back to the temple alone to face the truth about orin he wouldve died of love like a terminal disease. rabies parallels but not the obvious ones

anyway. is there anything as undoing as a sister. etc. god i gotta write for shrike again

[murdasblog]

Feeling the urge (heh) to talk about my Durge playthrough in BG3. It's my current playthrough and I'm feeling very attached to her.

This is Amelia. She's a high elf wild magic sorcerer. She is resisting the Urge and is becoming very attached to her people.

Shadowheart is the person she considers her closest friend of the group. She feels a kinship with relation to the whole missing memories thing and Shadowheart was the first to stick with her after the Nautiloid.

She's romancing Gale. It's still early, they just met Elminster, but she's been head over heels for the wizard since pretty early. She likes his intelligence, drive, and humor. He was the first person she trusted enough to tell about her urges. She looked to him in the beginning to help nudge her moral compass in the right direction.

She is very fond of all the others as well. Astarion was very cold with her to start but now she enjoys teasing him and they get along well. She respects Lae'zel and admires her resolve and strength. She admires Wyll's ability to know what is right and his drive to fight to help whomever he can. Karlach was the last to join the group but Amelia really enjoys her positivity and is also coming to rely on her moral compass. Karlach eventually starts calling her Meli and eventually the whole group does as well.

Halsin hasn't been with them too long, but she respects him and really appreciates his perspective with regards to her urges.

She is enjoying having Scratch and the Owlbear Cub around camp.

So far her favorite place was the mountain pass, I mean, look at that view! She was less enthralled by the locals. But the view was worth it!

Favorite wild magic surge was when the whole party were turned into dogs, except for Gale who was a cat😂

We're finishing up things in the Underdark, so that's about where she is for now. Thanks if you made it this far!

[iamcrystalqueer]

Scarlet Hallow ask game

TRAITS:

- Your “canon” train combination? For my very first play through I picked mystical and street smart and I’m still mostly drawn to that combination.

- What third trait would you pick for hardcore mode? Probably talk to animals, just because Dustin is a dear friend to me and I love being insulted by Frou-frou directly.

- What trait are you least drawn to? Hot definitely. I can’t deny that it’s very nifty, but it was the very least trait I tried out.

- Coolest trait? Talk to animals. Who wouldn’t want to talk to animals?

ROMANCE:

- Who are you romancing? Kaneeka. It physically pains me when I romance others. Oscar and Avery are close seconds tho, but at the end of the day I’m a very simple lesbian.

- What romance are you least interested in? Stella’s actually. Sybil’s and Joan’s are gonna be unhinged and Wayne is interesting. Stella just really doesn’t speak to me as a romance.

- Who would you romance if every single character was eligible? Still Kaneeka. I’m always gonna romance Kaneeka.

MISCELLANEOUS:

- What character would hurt you the most if something bad happened to them? Kaneeka definitely, but seeing as bad things are definitely happening to her (looking DIRECTLY at you Sybil) I’d have to go Avery. They just wanna be a part of the town so bad, and as someone who is very flamboyant but has trouble finding their place as well, I just feel a deep kinship to Avery and I will get violent id they get hurt.

- Would you stay in Scarlet Hollow when the week is over? It depends on how the rest of the game plays out, but honestly it doesn’t really seem like MC has a lot going on for them in their hometown, so yeah I probably would.

- Who would you vote for as dog mayor? The only right choice is Scraps and we all know this.

Tagged by @cymatile and thank you so much 💜

Tagging: I have no friends who play, so honestly if you see this and wanna do it, consider yourself tagged 💜

[fatuispolaris]

headcanon time! i posted this on my old blog but it was a little bit outdated so i'll fix that right up. this post delves into how i picture childe's relationship with the fatui, with a particular focus placed on the other harbingers. i'll cover the tsaritsa and how he views subordinates as well. word isn't law with these as they can develop or we can plot different threads if you write one of these muses, but this is sort of a default that i'll approach unless we decide upon otherwise. as always, under the cut for length.

the tsaritsa - after feeling rejected by most of his family and village, childe views her as the one person that doesn't reject him. she welcomed him among the harbingers with open arms and kind words, and it's why he's so fiercely loyal. he truly believes that her heart is good and wishes to help her achieve her goals. he feels a kinship with her, and strives to do well in his role because of that. he's often been called the tsaritsa's dog because of his loyalty.

the jester - childe recognizes him as the leader but honestly doesn't think of him too much. he has enough sense to be respectful and obviously follows orders, but he doesn't feel any loyalty to him. he is a bit wary of him, because part of him believes pierro's ideals may not necessarily align with the tsaritsa's (as most of the harbingers don't). he would like to challenge him to a fight, though.

the captain - childe admires him greatly. he knows a warrior when he sees one, and he'd love to cross blades with him, even if it'll be certain defeat on his own end. he simply wants the honor of learning from a battle with someone like him. as a new recruit when he'd first joined the fatui, capitano was a bit of a hero to him. he views him a bit like a goal to overcome one day, despite his admiration. he wants to best him in his quest to become stronger.

the doctor - of all of his coworkers, dottore is among the ones that childe likes the least. he keeps his distance as much as he can, because the guy gives him the creeps. he doesn't know all of the details, but he's heard stories about all the different sorts of experiments the doctor and his segments (rip) get up to, and he wants no part in that.

the damselette - one of his comrades that he knows the least, he keeps his distance from her too as something just feels incredibly off about her. he's curious, of course, because he'd like to fight her too (he wants to fight all of his comrades), but there's a hidden darkness about her that gives even him pause. he mostly just doesn't understand columbina. a lot of his coworkers he believes he's gotten a pretty good read on, but he can't quite grasp what her deal is. he's not sure he wants to find out.

the knave - like most of the rest of his comrades, she's cold and committed to her own goals. more than the rest of them, she doesn't bother to hide that she has ulterior motives, and wouldn't hesitate to betray any of them. she seems to regard him with indifference.

the rooster - perhaps it is naïve of him, but childe truly believes that aside from the tsaritsa, pulcinella is the only other one among the harbingers that feels an ounce of care for him. he's one of the only ones that regularly makes conversation with childe, and since pulcinella himself spends most of his time in snezhnaya, childe often looks to him for updates on his family. pulcinella has never given him a reason to distrust him. he seems just as loyal to the tsaritsa as childe is, and has been nothing but encouraging from the start. pulcinella was the one that noticed him among the new recruits and helped him climb the ranks so fast, so childe is grateful to him.*

the balladeer - oddly enough, childe always felt a sense of one-sided kinship with him. although scaramouche and he often spared antagonizing words for each other (especially scaramouche, childe usually just responded to his scathing words), he knew that the other was a bit of an oddball among the harbingers, like himself, which is a funny way of putting it considering that all of the harbingers are odd already. he never knew too much, because it wasn't like they were friends, but he was aware that the two of them were seen more like assets/weapons. when he first was promoted to the rank of harbinger, childe tried approaching him and becoming friends because he thought the balladeer was young like himself. naturally, that went horribly...**

the marionette - she seems a bit similar to the doctor in his eyes, the mad scientist type that places their research above all morals and reason. they haven't crossed paths much, but he can tell the disdain is mutual. he figures sandrone, like most of the other harbingers, sees him as some idiotic and incompetent kid.

the fair lady - from the start, signora was always rude to him. she seemed to take joy in undermining him when she could, treating him like he was lesser—more than the others, even. he never knew much about her, as signora seemed to always present herself as some cold-hearted witch. given her place among the harbingers, he knows she has to have some sort of past too. he feels a bit of sympathy, despite everything.

the regrator - his feelings regarding pantalone are mostly neutral. childe tries to maintain a good relationship because he knows pantalone is in charge of the fatui's coffers. he likes to think they're on friendly enough terms since pantalone's entrusted him to oversee the northland bank from time to time, but he knows better than to actually trust a guy like him.

subordinates (skirmishers, mages, named/unnamed npcs/etc.) - childe doesn't exactly try to become buddy-buddy with his underlings (despite silently and unwittingly yearning for friendship/acceptance), but he does respect them. he doesn't actively try to harm them out of a sick sense of joy, nor is he the type to abandon them should a mission go awry. he listens to their opinions and often likes spoiling those that work directly under him. he likes hearing them talk about their families and will often share about his with them. just because he's a good boss to them doesn't mean he's a push over, though. he might not kill them like some of his comrades do, but he doesn't shy away from striking fear in them either, should he need to. because of his respect for them, they respect him, too.

* this is hinted at in scaramouche's voicelines about pulcinella, but childe is absolutely misguided in his view of him. i think pulcinella's closeness to childe's family/childe himself is a means of insurance. by maintaining contact with childe's loved ones pulcinella essentially has childe in the palm of his hands. i hc that pulci does this as a means of ensuring childe will work for him whenever he needs him to. childe's treated a bit like an attack dog, and pulcinella thinks it wise to have someone like that on his side.

** this depends on whether a thread takes place before or after the events of 3.3. if it takes places after, then childe does not remember scaramouche. also, i've inferred that scaramouche and childe might've talked quite a bit because of scara's familiarity with childe's family situation, as well as what he had to say about childe (calling him weak and dumb, lmfao). this coupled with his line to signora about her and childe always complicating things... he seems to, in his own roundabout way, express concern for childe (and signora) so... i won't say they were friends, but i think they definitely talked.

anyway like i said this is all sort of a baseline to how i approach interactions but i'm definitely open to plotting different stuff and absolutely 100% wanna write with other harbingers so! i want childe to have work enemies, work buddies, etc etc. if you write a harbinger/fatui let's ball c:

[zuixian]

ᵀᴴᴱ   palace   remains   unheard   so   late,   only   a   whisper   is   delivered   on   the   wing   of   a   passing   crow,   the   yawn   of   sand   on   the   breeze.   ( a   pin’s   dropping   would   be   heard   like   a   scream   and– in   an   age   not   long   since   sunsetted– would   have   been   punished   as   such )   in   even   the   shallowest   of   shadows,   i   make   myself   unknown,   vanishing   into   indifference.   doubtless,   shangque   will   trail,   following   my   scent   like   the   dog   he   is,   but   we   have   time.   between   you   and   i,   a   promise   has   been   unspoken:   confluence.   our   rivers   will   meet   again.

            ... beyond   the   tides   of   the   desert   playing   moat   to   the   palace,   the   dry   wood   of   the   villages   lay murmuring   in   the   waxing   hour,   a   bustling   night   market.   light   of   bonfire   catches   the   modest   curve   of   my   ashen   crown,   and   heads   dip   as   i   make   my   presence   known,   gliding   along   the   wind   with   the   scent   of   spiced   laurels   and   sweet   pork   and   incense.   it   has   been   too   long   since   last   i   visited,   and   as   few   drop   to   a   kneel,   foreheads   pressed   to   the   ground,   taciturn   in   their   begging   for   my   hand–   which   i   bless   them   with   until   i   no   longer   possess   the   patience– i   feel   the   gentle   tugs   of   shame   behind   my   left   lung,   a   land   so   foreign   to   me   i   haven’t   a   word   for   it.

the   night   i   was   born,   there   was   a   tree   planted   inside   of   me.   i   have   always   known   it   couldn’t   have   been   a   gift   from   my   father   because   my   father   has   never   known   love.   it   grew   until   winter,   and   since   winter   it   has   been   dead.   this   moment– as   in   many   others– i   miss   the   empty,   rootless   space   it   once left.   because   now,   the   clouds   part   and   the   moon,   with   her   round   chin,   reaches   through   with   an   open   palm   and   her   silent,   boreal   gaze,   guiding   me   through   the   candlelit   towns   i’ve   walked   before.   as   a   boy,   my   nurse   told   me   tales   of   the   moon   as   my   mother.   she   sighs   the   nighttide   upon   him:   a   god   has   never   looked   so   small,   white   in   the land of penumbra,   bare-faced   as   the   saxaul   crawling   behind   him   that   twists   like   the   sorrow   of   his   brow,   and   he   has   only   looked   so   achingly   beautiful   with   his   blade   descending   upon   my   neck.   a   student   of   humility,   a   bindweed   blossom   in   the   sand.   i   approach,   hands   folded   behind   my   back.   he   is   a   tender   wound   that   i   must   not   yet   touch.

“ changheng. ”   the   brush   at   the   edge   of   the   village   curtains   the   trickle   of   the   brook.   “ i   could   feel   your   call   from   my   balcony. ”   a   tangle,   really,   woven   in   thorns,   veil   worn   in   the   face   of   trespassers.   “ you   look   miserable. ”   you’ve   never   had   trouble   worming   your   way   quietly   through,   when   you   wanted   to;   mortals   see   the bindweed   as   rather   invasive. we’ve   both   had   our   share   of   infiltration. i   step   over   the   bramble.   

@jishui , the god of war : "  there is a twisting feeling in my chest, like cloth being wrung dry. "

far   behind,   my   people   hum   a   litany   of   kinship   and   break   bread   in   cross-legged   complacency,   backs   turned,   fires   dimmed.   limning   a   thread   between   us,   his   words   sit   in   the   air,   illumined   by   his   breath.   the   moon   is   my   mother   and   she   places   a   hand   on   my   shoulder,   and   i   do   not   turn   to   meet   his   umbrous   eye   as   i   pass.                                   “ who   did   this   to   you ? ”

[thegreatobsesso]

UUUUUGGGGGHHHH

Do you ever just - reread - something you wrote you haven’t read in a long-ass time and you totally forgot what you did, and how poignant and absolutely wonderful it was???

I didn’t set out to post this on Valentine’s Day but it feels right. Fucking little Delaney found family my beloved.

💕❤️💕

Callie POV

When they threw her down outside in the dirt and the grass, she had thought for a second she’d never see Delaney again. And she hadn’t even looked closely at any of it on her way out, made any special attempt at committing the details to memory. The way the columns rose to meet the vaulted ceilings, spiraling into them like they’d grown that way. The glimmering stained glass; the stars cut into curving slivers of ceiling. Overstuffed and mismatched chairs in front of roaring fires. The way the light of Ken’s wardwork shifted and shimmered and set everything in a constant state of being alive.

The secret chamber where they did their good work under Delphinia Delaney’s kind-of-creepy but also weirdly comforting marble gaze. And the real people, too.

Miller, who had to leave his post as a Downing Bay guard because his magic manifested when he was fifty fucking years old. A concrete slab of a man who only spoke when he had something helpful to say.

Flora, who hated her because she hurt Bennett, who she felt a very special kinship with, because she hated herself for the same reason. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Ken, prickly and irritating, but undeniably smarter than every one of them put together. Also undeniably pretty, and yes, nicer than Callie gave her credit for at the start, once you got to know her. Even her dog wasn’t so bad. Smelly breath, but more focused when it was at work than she’d probably ever be.

Colorful and carefree Dig, the pagan priest who spoke in nonsense half the time and didn’t wear shoes. Bennett’s friend and second-in-command, who she trusted by osmosis.

Eric and Angela, two random children she’d have never looked twice at if she saw them on the street, who were different as could be and had all kinds of contradictory and intelligent thoughts inside their heads, more than she realized kids’ brains could carry.

Grace.

She liked being here and she liked these people, which was bad news, because these weren’t her people and this wasn’t her home. She’d been pretending to herself that this was just a place she was right now and that when her parole was up, when it was time to go, that it’d be fine.

They took that away from her when they threatened to take her away. Now she couldn’t pretend anymore.

She fucking cared, and it hurt like hell.

[pielove123clan]

i associate you with clovers and red spider-lilies, macarons, sparrows, raccoon-dogs, and Ryoshu. flames as well, in the same sense that flames are sometimes associated with passion and vitality.

Geting associated with Clovers, red spider-lilies, macarons, and sparrows is a first. It means quite a bit to me that someone's interacted enough with me to have the confidence enough to come forth and tell me an answer. These are also really flattering and made me smile.

Under this cut, I'm just yapping.

I'm a big fan of finding the symbolism of objects and concepts even if it really doesn't matter in the end, unless you make it matter. Feel free to not mind these because these are just me trying to think thoughts. This is just a shallow look through websites of varying dubious credibility.

Spider-lilies: Death and rebirth is the most striking one, corpse flowers, but I really like how they look. I'm just a bit scared of being called edgy if I were to say it out loud. Luck is nice too, warding off evil sprits. Other meanings were sorrow and sadness. As i've grown up, the people around me who don't understand me told me I was very sad and I'd grow to live a sad lonely life. It's silly but it's part of the reason I feel a kinship to the sorrowful and muted, because I've been called that. I'm a pretty emotional person working on myself and growing up.

Two of my real names are flowers so I have a giant bias towards flowers and floral symbolism. It's the first time I've been compare to one of these. Unrelated, but now a days on this internet, as I grow, I feel like I'm getting too liberal with my personal information. It's fun to self-disclose though, I understand it now. Authors do it all the time, that's an autobiography. Directors do it all the time, it's called a documentary. Maybe i'll think diffrent in a year.

Sparrows: Cleverness. I guess? Compared to the people around me, not really. Sparrow songs are really pretty. Hard-work is funny because I'm pretty lazy and I procrastinate a lot. I'm not used to psychoanalysing myself but it's fun. Apparently some people think they carry the souls of the dead which is cute! Giving off joy is nice. Perseverance is an interesting one because I try to persevere on paper. Though, I have quite the laundry list of things i've picked up and given up on. Having me finnish something is a once in a blue moon occurance. Yet at the same time, there's no rules against coming back something eventually, but there's a limited time for some of those eventualies before their lost forever. But even when you lose those, you'll get new stuff, so you just gotta gauge at your own discretion. My work ethic is a mess. Im doing something or at least trying to do something, I promise. Something with luck.

Care and hope, I try I guess? Typing/talking about it is weird. It's whatever. It makes me feel egotistical but also I'm talking about myself rn still. Huh.

Clovers: Luck, if I say anything or think anything about my luck, I get bit by misfortune so I won't comment on that. Protection is nice and hope is cute. I can't find much outside these.

Macaroons: THESE COOKIES ARE EXPENSIVE BUT SO TASTY. I'm so picky about where to get them because crappy macaroons still cost the same as the good ones. They just make me happy. I know two songs about macarons which are nice.

I can't find anything for these but somewhere down the line, I heard they were a cookie of friendship. I don't know how valid that is but it stuck with me enough to remember, so i'll make it so.

Raccon-dogs: Ah yes, this one is because I am Tanuki. Yeah, I try to live up to the name at least a bit.

Ryoshu: I heavily restrain myself from wanting to gush about her 24/7. She has so far, my obsession with her has brought me places and made me talk to people and socalize out of my shell even if its just on the internet. I feel a kinship with her, I laatch onto her like a parasite. I want her so badly. I want Ryoshu to get me. I also want to get Ryoshu. I am so attached to her right now. I want to idk be respectful to her and just stand there while she's doing art or maybe contribute myself to her art. I like her a lot. I like her loner vibes, her being a mother, her tragic source material, her mindset with her art, I'll be happy to see her grow and develop through Limbus.

Flames: Showing off my passion has only been a recent development. I'm kind of just all talk. Vitality seems supprising. I know it's hard to know with how I seem here on tumblr or on discord but in real life, I'm very silent. People think I hate all of them and if your my family, yeah. Kind of but also you have it coming. I just don't speak much in real life or when I do, people look at me like I've said the most out of pocket thing or they just ignore me. People look down upon me often because I ask too much questions and give the stink of neurodivergence. People think I look down at them and I don't most of the time at least? I really just don't put myself out there either, but then my Ryoshu obsession happened to kick in. Now I'm socializing and having fun, but I'm still not used to it. I'm not forcing myself, im taking my time.

[crmsnmth-journal]

3/8/2024 10:23 PM

I hate getting to the end of a TV series that I enjoy. I always drag out the last few episodes, because for a week or two, the characters became my comfort. A weird friendship and kinship develops, and when the shows over, it feels like I'm saying goodbye to someone, and I hate goodbyes. Tonight, I said see you later to Raising Hope and am now watching Scrubs. Because I'm problematic in my humor. I can see my aging with what's in my list. It's all crappy comedies from the same era. And with the same kind of humor in each one. My one predictable trait.

Work sucked tonight. But I guess it sucks most nights. Sherry was on her game of not listening to a word I said. So it was constant waste on almost every call. If she'd just call back, we wouldn't have the problem, but she hears me rattle off a ticket, and just immediately grabs for stuff. You'd think that'd be a great idea, but when you do that, you forget what you need. Especially when we're straddling being in the weeds and service going down. I have too much pride in what I do. I've been doing it a very long time, a very long time. I've only had two jobs that weren't kitchen, and neither of those lasted for every long. But the kitchen is home. I may hate the place I work right now and that's mostly because of coworkers, and maybe that's just my cynical attitude. I don't know. If it is because of that, then I need to recognize the problem and not be such an asshole. Something about old dogs learning new tricks.

Sunday I'm bleaching half my head again. The inch-long new growth looks really grungy right now. Shauna's hopefully actually going to come. She was supposed to on Thursday, but my paster meeting ran long and she just didn't seem like she wanted to drive all the way out to my place. I don't blame her. It's a pretty good distance. So Sunday.

I'm still trying to figure out the point of this, and my other two projects. I mean, the book, i know why I'm writing that. It has to be done. I need to share my life, and to take my responsibility. And since I'll never get closure on so much of it, this is my forced way to get it. The poetry I've been writing every day all day since high school. It's the reason I failed so many classes. I preferred to write. I want to know why I suddenly woke up and just decided to start sharing again. Same with this odd little journal. Which I will say, since I've turned it to this, and not a traditional paper/pen (i mean I still write in that, but that's for very private things), I've been pretty good at writing in it everyday. I'm kind of leaning that the reason is I need to actually re-find myself. After ***** led to me fully destroying everything about myself, followed right after with ******* destroying anything that was left, it's time I reached in. It's been almost four years since ******* pulled her final card and took down my entire life. I think that's long enough to wallow in self-pity.

[astarab1aze]

Truth Serum + How do you really feel about Jezebel? [ Kaede ]

truth serum!

Annoyance struck him on a dime, speech compelled by - something, something he couldn't fight.

"I-- Think she's fucking irritating. I don't know what her problem is, and I never know what she's thinking until she's throwing herself into the middle of a fight or telling me in so many words she thinks I'm a git. It's frustrating to never be able to have a solid conversation; She always rebuffs, attacks me, or incidentally drags me into a fight when all I'm trying to do is make sure she stays alive. She thinks she knows what type of person I am, or doesn't care, and reads my efforts as a personal affront-- But that's the furthest thing from the truth. She'd know that if she stopped for a minute and talked to me. Maybe she knows and just doesn't care, that seems more likely. Obnoxious, annoying- It makes me want to throttle her, cut her down where she stands, and I hate that because I don't fully understand why I feel so fucking strongly about it. She doesn't care about me, but I care about her in a way I can't make sense of, no matter how tempting the idea of murder can be.

"And I hate, even more, that I can't help but draw similarities between us. That I feel some flavor of kinship for her. That I'd like, maybe one day, to see her be less like me, less like whoever made her into the violent asshole she is now. I mean, it's like looking into a... broken mirror at times. I just can't stand it. I want her to be quiet and listen to me. I want her to settle down and stop thrashing. I want her to let me help her. But fuck, if I can't do it myself, I guess I'll never get her to do the same. Too volatile, both of us, and I'm not sure if that's a trait unique to us or if it's just part of what it means to be fucked up, or human. In either case, I think of her as an asshole. An obnoxious little shit, like she thinks of me, but maybe I care just a little more. I don't want her to die. I'd be even more pissed off at her if she kicked the bucket and I wasn't there to do anything about it - I'd also be royally pissed at myself, but that doesn't matter. And maybe she doesn't need saving, but fuck her. I don't care how good she is in a fight; I don't and won't ever allow the people I'm allied with to die or suffer injuries if I can help it. I don't expect her to do the same for me, but the least she could do is let someone who maybe, sorta, kinda at least cares about her safety and wellbeing even a little to help her out.

"As I'm sure you've gathered, she makes me fucking mad. Now why, really, do you think that is, huh? Because in my heart of hearts, I want to be close to her and I fucking hate it. She'll never want to be close to me, so it's a wash. It literally doesn't matter what I say or do. I will always just be an idiotic potential threat to her, an enemy she just happens to be forced into an allyship with because I won't just leave her be. Do you know how embarrassing this is? How utterly moot a point. It would be easier if I didn't have to deal with this anymore, but I'd still fucking - worry, about her like it matters. This is why I still drink whisky. I hate this. I hate thinking and feeling shit for people who don't give a rat's ass about me, yet here I am... Here I am. Like the trained dog my clan turned me into. And she wonders why I'm so dogged."

[signalwatch]

Noir Watch: I Died a Thousand Times (1955) Watched:  01/21/2024 Format:  TCM Viewing:  First Director:  Stuart Heisler Selection:  Me Uh...  I don't know why this movie exists other than the fact money is a good thing to have.   TCM's Noir Alley host, Eddie Muller, forewarned this was a remake of a personal fave of mine, High Sierra, from 1940.  That film stars Bogart and a very young Ida Lupino, is directed by Raoul Walsh, and generally kicks ass.   A mere fifteen years later, the studio decided to remake the movie, but not in the way I'm used to remakes on Noir Alley.  Generally, studios would use the skeleton of the plot, relationships and conflicts, but reset the movie in a different place, changing circumstances, combining characters, etc...  You might have to squint, but you can tell.   This movie is a straight remake, beat for beat, scene for scene.  It would be like someone deciding "let's remake Iron Man now, but with Andy Samberg and call it Super Suit".   And then you'd roll through all the same scenes with different dialog, etc...  Which is an amazing academic exercise, but - if you've seen Iron Man, not exactly thrilling.   Rather than Humphrey Bogart, we get Jack Palance.  And, rather than Lupino, we get Shelley Winters.  Which, look, I don't think I can hurt Winters' feelings many years after her passing, but she just isn't my cup of tea.   Palance is an iffy enough choice himself.  In my limited viewing, and certainly in this film, he lacks the vulnerability that Bogart had beneath his version's surface - or at least some level of empathy.  You don't think he's helping the poor farmer's from Illinois because he feels kinship, he just wants to bang Velma, the 19 year old.  He doesn't soften for the dog, he just doesn't know what else to do with the dog. Winters, in my limited viewing, is a product of her time.  Apparently an award-winning actor on the stage, in this movie, she's basically hitting one note, and it's wildly different from the strong but desperate young woman Lupino plays, but using basically the same sort of dialog.  Lupino played it as flattering to Bogart, appealing to him as a big, strong man, when she was pretty tough herself.  Winters is just a hopeless mess who really does need Palance to tell her what to do.  She makes the same face of sad confusion through 85% of the movie, and you just... can't really pull for the character.  And you *have* to.  That's the heart of the story - the chance that this crook will maybe get away and he's realized this girl actually matters to him. But in those 15 years that passed between 1940 and 1955, a lot had changed with how women could be seen in media - and while there are innumerable instances of tough, smart women in 1950's movies and media, the tomboyish tough guy girl of the 1930's and 40's had been replaced with the idea of maybe someone might make a good little wifey who would let the man tell her what to do. Bleh. It doesn't help that one of the movies I associate with Winters is He Ran All the Way, in which she also plays a kind of weepy sap for the wrong guy.   The Velma in this version - the crippled 19 year old that Roy (Palance) helps out is... a lot worse and less sympathetic than the one in High Sierra, and the relationship seems doomed from the start.   https://ift.tt/L9jKDUX via The Signal Watch https://ift.tt/kbtelSO January 21, 2024 at 11:26PM

[wenchofthescullery]

What To Do During the Strike, Day 8

*

Subtitle: A loose collection of recommendations to keep you busy, should we suffer from similar tastes and interests.

*

So, poetry.

Before anything else, do you know about PoetryRx? You need to know about this! You, too, can get a list of poems curated for a very specific interest or emotion.

The archives are here:

In this loosely collated series of posts, I've been trying to focus on easily accessible recommendations for good writing that might have passed you by. Oddly, poetry is a bit more difficult. I think it's because this is Tumblr, and we do love our snippets here.

How often have you seen this?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?

It's from Mary Oliver's The Summer Day. People love this, and it gets quoted frequently. Another favorite is Wild Geese:

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

She has been described as naive, brilliant, popular, and a thousand other adjectives we will not name. Today I want to give you an aged woman with a simple life: someone who survived sexual abuse as a child, back before we discussed it much; who lived her love with another women for 40 years, back when that was even more dangerous than now; and a woman who walked the farm with her dog, looked at the world, and wrote things.

And Mary Oliver was gentle, and she was strong. She died a few years ago, just before the pandemic. That was a grief for me. I lost a friend.

Here is the first poem I read of hers, and the one that stays with me:

The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice— though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do— determined to save the only life you could save.

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Edited to add: That lingers. That hurts. It is advice, but it is also holding the hand of someone who had to make hard choices, and for whom you feel a kinship.

We have been here before, you and I. Let us sit here for a moment. Although you left, you are not alone.

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Next up is religion.