#whoever draw them with strings all around them you are such a genius (its probably fluffy themselves)

[pleafyistired]

why is c!fluffy always in my head like girl,,, (gender neutral) why you so strings,,,,,

[st-just]

Another Demon

It turns out that it being immoral to leave the house is a great spur or creativity!  I’d apologize, but you all chose to follow me, so. 

Vetali, Muse of Glory, The Choir of Falling Stars, Demons of Thought

Literal translation from Abyssal [Dreamer, firstborn and unbegotten, weaving ruin around the chains of time]

Demons of thought and ideas are particularly interesting objects of study for several reasons. First and foremost, they possess far more subtlety than other demonic infections, to the point that if it is obvious that one is present the situation is likely unsalvageable. This is, admittedly, not helped by the insistence of superstitious moralists that every sort of ambition or foolishness is the result of demonic influence. Compounding this, they generally lack obvious physical manifestations, whatever masks they use to communicate entirely disposable if it serves the demon’s purposes.

Despite their lack of obvious physical power, in truly threatening multi-demon infections, Demons of Thought are invariably the masterminds behind the breakdown of reality, and accorded a sort of deference and authority even by imps and spawn that do not normally balk at consuming their ‘siblings’. Presumably because of this, they are accorded a prominent role in the mythology of the Free Cities, honoured as fragments of ‘Vetali’, a sort of primeval mother-goddess of creativity and genius, said to predate time and conventional divinities (despite official veneration, she largely lacks the sort of zealous devotees the Republics are famous for. This can probably to discomfort with the idea that one’s thoughts and ideas are actually part of another, who presumably might want them back).

Despite Ilyrin protestations that every self-destructive or spiteful impulse is actually a nascent demon, Thought-Demons only rarely appear without conscious invocation (these cases generally being minor, and the result of desperate thought and resentment sustained over long periods). Importantly, they are almost to a rule incapable of directly affecting the world (unless, again, they are so fully empowered that the whole area is a loss. If Ilyrin chronicles can be trusted, the holy city of Imir was a haunted ruin for nearly a century following the Year of Two Suns). Most likely as a result of this weakness, or perhaps its cause, they never consume their summoner as part of their incarnation, instead opening a dialogue, appearing to agree to aid them, and then proceeding to manipulate, deceive, or overawe them into becoming an obedient puppet and recruiter of same.

It is hard to overstate the danger of this. Demons of thought are invariably eloquent, charming and experts at presenting themselves as reasonable or non-threatening. They cheerfully offer to aid whoever they find themselves dealing with, certain that the tools they offer will naturally cause enough chaos to offset whatever goal is achieved. Despite their intelligence and sophistication, they are still fundamentally similar to simpler demons to be analyzed as a class. Just as demons of flesh are motivated by consumption and mutation, and demons of the elements by natural cataclysm, demons of thought are fundamentally driven to engender conflict and discord, to push social structures or vital individuals within them to dizzying heights so they might enjoy the sight of it all crashing down. Of the three kinds, they are easily the most dangerous, all the more so for being clever enough to disguise it.

-Encyclopedist Hayy, “A Taxonomy of Spirits, Vol. 2: Demons and Imps”

Notable Aspects:

The Fool’s Sage: A woman formed of paper and ink, every word and page from some famously banned or censored text. Famously honest and helpful, generally shown drawing some sigils or diagram upon the ground to amazed scholars, or (metaphorically) presenting a richly dressed prince with some weapon or artifact.

The Dreaming Plague: A crowd or jumble of slumbering figures, whether a thoroughly similar clan or sworn enemies on the eve of battle. A glittering and beautiful spider of stained glass walks between them, laying down lines of dreamstuff and connection that it weaves into an ever tighter and more elaborate web. Occasionally scenes are faintly traced in panels framed by these strings, hinting at various tragedies and obscenities. Other times, the web is drawn so as to give the appearance of a face or silhouette.

The Tyrant’s Seer: A young woman, usually dressed in some new fashion the artist finds scandalous or suspiciously foreign, hand soaked in blood as she draped it over the shoulder of some great lords, presented as either furious or terrified to contrast with her own detached amusement as she whispers in his ear. Her other hand holds a dagger behind her back, or (in particularly brazen pieces) gestures at a representative of some group the artist views as unjustly persecuted.

The Thief of Light: A numinous, many-winged figure. Usually pictured with four brightly coloured, bird-like wings curled protectively around it, while two vast wins of quicksilver or stained glass are fully unfurled. As the sunlight passes through them, it is stolen and re purposed into a grand mirage, generally to the doom of those fooled (a desert caravan headed to a nonexistent oasis,  a wild and terrible river appearing calm and placid, a mesmerizing dancer providing a distraction as assassins approach).

The Handmaiden of Genius: A servant of some kind, generally an apprentice, assistant or secretary, looking either content or gleeful as she stands a few steps behind her master, in one hand the puppeteer’s strings or the slaver’s lash. The artisan is ecstatic as they presented their masterpiece to an awed crowd, no one taking any notice of how starved and skeletal they seem, or whatever wounds the artist felt fitting to give them.  

The False Sun: A regal figure of prismatic light floating above a cathedral altar, dressed in all the finery of the Hierophant. Deliberately washed out and faded, prelates and paladins kneel around it, fascinated or worshipful expressions on their faces. From their eyes and mouths flow streams of laughing imps, growing larger and brighter and the congregate below her feet.  

The Wings of Ruin: A collection of birds (a conspiracy of ravens or parliament of owls being traditional), every one of their eye sockets empty as they crowd the dead branches or icy roofs of a desolate winter landscape. As one they look down at a figure on the ground-either on their knees and sobbing over the results of some divination, or walking in blissful ignorance, a half-dozen steps from a tragic accident.

The Unbinder of Days: A finely dressed dandy, sitting or kneeling as if in the middle of a game of chance. Older portrayals associate her with sunlight or hourglasses, but in modern works her eyes are almost universally clockwork gears, an ornate pocket watch dangling from her fingers, its chain looped tightly around her wrists. In deference to tradition, sand is usually shown to be leaking from the corner of her smirking mouth. When shown playing against a mortal, she inevitably has the best possible roll or hand, and they are shown in shock as collapse into shifting sands. When shown facing a god, royal or hierophant, her expression is one of barely contained heat, and the watch’s chain long enough to loop around her several times and tightly shackle her in place.

[wealchaos]

7KPP Week - Day 1 - Past

So, I’m going to stop lurking and join the fun. Here’s something about the past (mostly childhood) of my favorite MC: an Ethical Widow called Lady Disdemona. (She has two more brothers that did not appear in this fic due to being much much younger, think 9 or 10 by the time she leaves for the Summit).

  The Origin of a Paradox: Ambitious Selflessness

It’s the beginning of the cold season and the wind is harsh against the bare skin of her arms. She doesn’t mind the cold. It’s much easier to climb trees like this (last year the sleeves of aunt Augusta’s cardigan kept getting snagged on bark and branches).

As she finally grabs the highest branch with both arms, she bends into an arch and throws her head back to look at Alec on the ground. Her brother claps excitedly and she can’t help but show off a little, extending one arm towards him. Her stunt finished, she quickly climbs down and lands on her feet, lowering her knees to absorb the shock and sweeping into a mock-curtsy (neither of them got much further than “How to politely greet guests” in the etiquette manual).

“Dis! Dis! You gotta show me how to do that!” 

“Sure Alec, if you manage to catch me first!”

He lunges at her with all the misguided enthusiasm of a boy just turned seven (and whoever decided that seven was the age of reason had clearly never met her brother) and she dances out of his reach before breaking into a run.

He chases her through the barren field and wind rushes past her, whipping at her exposed calves. The thunder rolls somewhere behind them, but she knows that running like this they can make it to the house before the rain starts falling in earnest, so she doesn’t care about the storm.

 But the weather’s not the only thing going to hell in Revaire.

 The next time she runs like this, she has a mob on her heels.

Both of the footmen her parents had hired (at a bargain, mother said) made a break for it as soon as they sensed danger and left her behind. They probably didn’t feel the pay was worth the risk. It’s a good thing her ballet instructor (hired when father had chanced upon an old acquaintance that was going to introduce him to the Court) thought she was worth something and insisted to keep coming even as her parents paid her less and less. Dis managed to slip through their grasp and lose her pursuers into the woods. 

As she finally stops for breath and wipes her eyes furiously, she defiantly thinks to herself: “At least I proved I can take care of myself!”

And that has to count for something.

 Sadly neither aunt Augusta (gruff aunt Augusta who was always too quick to offer hospitality and assistance to strangers in need), nor the acquaintance (a charming young lord who seemed to have friends everywhere, much good that did him) proved to be as capable.

Those, her parents say, are dangerous times. “But don’t worry, my pretty Dis. We are going to get through this and the sun will shine again.”

She is 12 with a mind as agile as her feet and she already knows an empty promise when she hears one. And she can recognize the empty comfort of a trite metaphor unsuited to a complicated situation (all of her tutors are gone but she always had an excellent memory and from their distant lectures she managed to collect quite the large vocabulary). She has a feeling that words will serve her well when she is an adult like her parents and has to use them to get things from people.

In the meantime, she crafts stories for her brother and her two sisters, to explain why they can no longer light candles at night.

 “Since long ago there have been creatures, we call them the Nightshades. The Nightshades eat our hopes and dreams, they chill and numb our souls with fear until the only thing left behind is an empty husk.”

“What’s a husk?” asks Catarina, a vivacious six-years-old with a penchant for asking too many questions and throwing tantrums when she doesn’t get her answer.

“It’s a thing that was meant to cover and protect something, only the thing that it covers is missing so it’s empty and it doesn’t have a purpose anymore.”

“And what’s a purpose?”

“A reason to be.”

“Soooo. If a husk is an empty thing, why did you have to say empty before husk?” Catarina points out, with the tone she has when she doesn’t want to be taken for a fool. “Doesn’t sound very tactical to me!” she adds triumphantly.

“Practical, Cat, practical,” huffs Alec, who is starting to shift unhappily, eager for Dis to get on with the story.

“You are right Cat, I didn’t need to say empty. But the way I said it, it’s like the Nightshades made your soul twice as empty, which makes it scarier.”

Cat likes when the grown-ups (or the more grown-ups than her, anyways) take the time to give her logical answers and honesty, so she beams and magnanimously allows Dis to keep going.

“Nightshades only come out at night.”

Alec and Cat nod, that makes sense, obviously. Dis expands a little on the terrible Nightshades and their dark but deliciously absurd castle full of empty people who are attached to strings like kites and float about aimlessly (“Because, without hopes and dreams, a human life doesn’t hold weight anymore, you see.”).

But, when she has finished telling how the queen of the Nightshades has a train made of those kite-people which goes up so high it gets stuck in the spider webs dangling from the ceilings, a small voice interjects anxiously:

“The Nightshades, they are scary because they take people, and they make the people become their toys, because they steal their light?”

Little Pauline stops talking, intimidated by the surprised stares of her three siblings. She is by far the most timid of the four, and she gets fascinated by the strangest things. But she understands a lot, far more than any five-years-old should, far more than most people can bear without collapsing. Dis smiles gently at her and, despite her discomfort, Pauline keeps going:

“Because if people don’t have a light. If they don’t have a light in-inside, they don’t know why they do… why they do the things that they do. And so they are alive but also they are dead, because of the Nightshades! Because they only do the things they do because of the Nightshades.”

For a moment, they are all struck speechless by the barrage of words from the usually silent girl. But then Alec congratulates Line on how well she gets the characters of the story (Alec is full of appreciation for others and shows it whenever he can, and unlike their parents’ empty reassurances, it helps). Then Catarina and Dis join in and they happily fuss other their baby sister.

 Still Pauline’s words stick with her, because they describe rather well something she only managed to get glimpses of, impressions pieced together from accounts of traveling merchants and aspiring artists coming back from the capital, inferences made from the weariness and edge to their smiles and their words.

 Years later, when they have become Disdemona, Alexander, Catarina and Pauline to the world and to themselves (and, how strange! Dis and Alec had always found their names too weird, too long, too many syllables; they never expected they would one day grow into them), Pauline tugs on Disdemona’s sleeve, an uncharacteristically childish gesture from the serious and thoughtful teenager:

“Sister, this Court I knew long ago from your stories.”

She doesn’t need to say more (unlike blunt Catarina, Pauline knows how to let words hover in the air, waiting for those insightful enough to pick them up and do with them what they will). Her practiced faint smile, lauded by many a poet and a painter (master craftsmen know how to recognize their own), flickers on Disdemona’s lips as she closes her eyes in pain.

She fears this place, what it might do to her sister. But, paradoxically (or perhaps not at all) artists thrive there and Pauline’s gift for music and melody would be squandered anywhere else. And genius musicians, especially so young and so dreamlike, travel easily and under (comparatively) little observation. Her sister would have a way out and a future to explore it.

Alexander and Catarina are managing her late husband’s estates well-enough (the staff adore him and they respect her authority and mastery of practical matters). The attention The Scandalous Widow draws and monopolizes lets the rest of her family fade into safe obscurity.

 But they are still not safe.

Disdemona has learned to sense the storms and plan around them.

Revaire isn’t remotely safe and its instability is only getting worse by the day. The world itself isn’t safe: conflicts have exacerbated everywhere and tensions are rising.

If history books (and a few years spent in the shadow of a condescending tyrannical husband) have taught her anything, it is this: wait, watch and learn.

And if there is any reason the Revaire Court has failed to cut her down, it is this: always, she must know what game is being played.

The Summit is where everything will be going down and she has to be there. She will protect her family and those whose happiness depends on her. And if her selfish wish could bring peace for all…

 Pauline’s eyes bear into her searchingly and she readjusts her mask of angelic serenity (the contrast with her sulfurous reputation had worked so well, clearly the fool who proclaimed duality was the nature of women did not lack for company).

“Please, sister, don’t become like them.”

Disdemona doesn’t even flinch, she expected that. Pauline is far too observant for her own good, yet she lacks the ability to hide how much she knows, the sooner she gets out of Revaire the better. The famous musician she has singled out as the most honorable and devoted to his art is leaving just three days after the ship bound to the Summit. Line will be all right, even with her gone.

“Don’t worry, Line”, she begins, far kindlier than she usually allows herself to be these days, 

“I know how to take care of myself.”  

Pauline’s slight frown suggests this wasn’t what she was worried about and Disdemona smiles back reassuringly (sorry, dearest little sister, this will have to be enough).

 Disdemona has no dream left for herself (it is debatable if “herself” still exists anyways), but still, she hopes she can be an agent for peace.

Lady Disdemona, in all her Mona Lisa-like glory.

[flauntpage]

Wushu Watch: Neckbeards and Nunchucks

A love for weaponry is sometimes seen as quirky but it isn't exactly a social taboo. Whether it is an armory full of firearms or a wall covered in blades and staffs, you can probably recall at least one acquaintance that collects or collected armaments. Cars, weapons, power tools: boys will always love their toys. Most treat a collection purely as a hobby and a passion, but you will run into the occasional collector who is convinced he is preparing for something bigger. That one friend who jokes about how well they would do in the zombie apocalypse but brings it up often enough to make it clear that they actually do dream of becoming the savior of the wasteland. No single item of weaponry has developed quite the same peculiar cult around it that the katana has. It is a rare week on the Internet, particularly the martial arts side of it, that you don't see a photo of a doughy teenager, possibly wearing a trilby or fedora, holding a katana and glaring at the camera. Thanks to anime the katana has become the weapon of choice for what is colloquially termed the 'neckbeard'.

Perhaps the hoping for 'barbarians at the gate' or the zombie apocalypse can be explained quite simply: when else are you going to get away with carrying around a sword outside of your house? This question cuts straight to the kokoro of the issue with the cult of anime swordsmanship: no matter how good you get at cutting through water bottles (or rolled up tatami if you're going authentic) no problem you ever encounter will occur while you are wearing a replica Edo era sword at your waist.

At least… that is what the normies would have you think. As it turns out there have been numerous cases of the katana actually changing the course of real life altercations in the twenty first century. For instance, in April 2015 a man in Cordoba repelled three home invaders, one allegedly armed with a pistol, by seizing a decorative sword from his wall and going berserk. In 2009, a John Hopkins student killed a suspected burglar with a katana. And perhaps most famously there is the story of Kairo Seijuro.

One night in 2012, a standard World Star recording was turned into a Kurosawa movie when a bystander drew a katana and defused the situation. Showing a lack of self-awareness that would make Tony Ferguson do a double take, Kairo Seijuro gave this legendary interview in the aftermath:

Four years later the 30-year-old Seijuro died after his kayak capsized while he was taking his 16-year-old female disciple to practice swordsmanship on 'Sunflower Island'. I wish that any part of that were a joke, but sadly it is not.

At any rate, the sword bros may have a point. If you happen to be carrying a katana when the muck hits the fan, or within reach of a katana when your home is broken into, you will be better off for it. It is hard to dispute that a long bladed weapon that can be swung or thrusted wildly from half a metre away isn't handy to have in a life or death altercation. Frankly, if you have a sword and zero training with it—even if it isn't good quality or sharp—you are at a tremendous advantage in defending yourself from everything but a gun, held by a decent shot, at a range beyond sprinting distance. And for those who like knights more than samurais, getting angry about this concession to katanas, yes that is equally true of a longsword.

The Chuckers

A stranger fascination is the one which exists among real, trained, career long martial artists. I am referring to the endearing fetish that martial artists have for the nunchaku or 'nunchucks'. Part of this must be the taboo: there are plenty of places in the Western world where two bits of wood joined by a string are illegal. Norway, Spain, Canada—the U.K. even censored out Michelangelo's use of nunchucks in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Why? Ten seconds of nunchaku twirling in Enter the Dragon most often receives the blame. Bruce Lee's small segment of nunchaku use caused an army of children to whip either themselves or their siblings in the eye with improvised 'chucks'.

More of the nunchaku's appeal has to be that you can do neat tricks with them. They were the original fidget spinners for weird kids. Bruce Lee did them and they looked super cool. Nick Diaz used them between bong rips on a Strikeforce conference call and he's too cool for school. And just to be clear to those who don't own a set of chucks, they are fun. Well, they are fun if you use a foam set. If you use a wooden set it is essentially self-harm.

The origins of the nunchaku are murky at best. Some say they used to be a rice flail, others say they were 'clappers' used by officials to gain the attention of crowds. Either way the belief is that they started out as something inconspicuous and evolved into a weapon. And that's the beauty of the nunchaku when you consider them in the context of say, Okinawa, where weapons were prohibited but crime was as common as any society without street lighting or a police force. Joe Average could pick up a set of nunchucks without ever having seen them before, start swinging, and have a good chance of hurting whoever gets in the way. That is the genius of a flail after all—all you have to do is swing it.

But to a traditional martial artist a flail is more than a flail, it is as versatile as the human hand. The simple bit of string (or occasionally chain) that binds the two pieces of wood has become an obsession to chuckers. Every book or video you encounter on nunchucks has someone demonstrating how to parry a straight punch—it's always a stepping straight punch with these people and if you read Wushu Watch on the regular you know why that is—and entwine it.

Then the opponent is thrown down by the wrist, somehow, as if his other hand isn't entirely free to do whatever he feels like in the meantime. This stupidity reaches its height when knives come into the equation.

Once again, if you happen to be attacked in your home and you have a set of nunchucks handy, they might help you. If you have a knife, or a baseball bat, or almost anything else, they will probably work better. The downside of flails is that they need a bit more space and as soon as they clatter off a wall or doorway, that swing is worthless. That is why passing your nunchucks all the way around someone's wrist or neck in a single smooth motion is so far-fetched. Fortunately few teachers are advocating taking your nunchucks with you, though in Nunchaku for the 21 st Century, George Dillman insists that you take your chucks in your bag with you at all times.

In Nunchaku for the 21st Century, G-Dilly also lays out some of the more unorthodox strikes available to the chuck-master. Defeating the point of holding a flail, Dillman insists that throwing the butt of one of the sticks into the opponent's face, while holding the other, is a great surprise technique. But is it better than actually swinging at someone with a flail?

Fumio Demura's classic text, Nunchaku: Karate Weapon of Self Defence, contains a whole heap of silly stuff. For instance, using the area of the nunchucks with the most slack to catch that mythical overhead knife strike, entwining it, and throwing a perfect high kick.

Where Demura's book is at its best from a strategic stand point is encouraging the nunchuck user to simply swing at what is available. Clip yourself with a wooden nunchuck and it hurts. Take a full swing at someone's arm or leg and you're going to do some damage. Overwhelmingly material on nunchucks focuses on defend and counter, which is all well and good from a chivalrous stand point, but if you have a weapon in hand, any time the opponent is close enough to attack you and they don't have a weapon, you have undermined the main reason to have a weapon. As with almost everything we discuss in Wushu Watch, nunchuckistadors focus on overcomplicated responses to oversimplified problems. A guy is coming at you with a stepping straight punch? Give him one of these!

If the stories about the origins of the nunchucks are true, they made sense at one point. The purpose of most weapons in most martial arts is to make use of what was permitted or available. The Shaolin monastery developed a reputation for its spear techniques, but to a single monk travelling on the road, who will likely run into trouble if he is waltzing around with a spear, the staff is far more useful because it makes use of what is ostensibly a walking stick. Similarly the weapons of Okinawan kobudo all seem reasonably discreet. The tonfa, which is essentially a night stick, is reckoned to be the handle from a grindstone. The kama is simply a sickle used for farmwork. The kuwa is just a hoe, and the eku is just an oar. The bo and jo are just plain old sticks. Other traditional weapons from the 'weaponless kingdom' include unnecessarily sturdy and sharp hair pins. Much like carrying a baseball in your car to justify the baseball bat in the trunk, all of these things can be justified in their context. If you carry around a sickle or sword or nunchuck today you'll draw a lot of questions and look like a tit.

The interesting thought is that there are tons of things that you carry around or encounter every day that can comfortably be weaponized almost as effectively as the stuff that we suspect Okinawan peasants had to make do with. The most obvious example that almost everyone will have in their pocket right now is a sturdy, jagged key.

Though this grip has often been criticized for the damage it can do to your hand if your connection is messy or your grip isn't sturdy.

Might be a door key, might be a car key. Better if it's a car key because it has a nice plastic pommel on it that you can clench in your fist, projecting the metal part from between your fingers like a low budget Wolverine cosplay.

Here's a fun thing to think about though: in twenty years time we might have moved away from car keys and towards the cards or contactless fobs that many new cars use now. Will martial artists in a hundred years' time reflect on the key as a weapon of circumstance with limited and simple application, or will they find a thousand ways to entangle a stepping straight punch between the key and the key ring?

Still, after taking a dump all over nunchucks it is well worth mentioning this video that made the rounds this week. A chap at a Dog Brothers meet up, successfully using a three section staff (essentially giant nunchucks) to fight at range, ensnare and close on his opponent, and apply a stick choke for the finish! Events like this always look painful, but they allow martial artists who train with weapons to combat test their skills in an open environment. Of course, he's unlikely to carry that bad boy around with him all the time hidden down his trouser leg, but you can't fault a guy for playing with new techniques and applying them against resisting opponents, rather than slowly walking a class through on how he would disarm a knife-wielding attacker.

Wushu Watch: Neckbeards and Nunchucks published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv