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gunpowderdtim · 1 year ago

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It's no wonder Out happened when you really think about it. Nastya doesn't like organic life because it's complicated, it can break, sometimes it's even unfixable.

quote from gender rebels

Nastya is in love with Aurora, and in saying that she is saying "you are not organic life, I can deal with you because you are metal and algorithm and predictable" - we can see this in bedtime story when she says she'll tweak Aurora's story creation algorithm

screenshot from A Bedtime Story

Aurora is not inorganic. She is not ai. She is a space moon made of flesh and blood and teeth and bone. She is not an ai. She is a body that was taken and stripped of autonomy, of the right to self identify, of the right to think- to be imperfect and organic.

The metal is a veneer that hides how messy and traumatized and unfixable she is. From the outside she is a starship. From the inside she can still bleed.

And this makes them fundamentally incompatible. But yet, they are in love.

And really, it's no wonder Nastya fell in love with Aurora. Let's take a look at Nastya's home planet, or at least home society:

"Terminals were scattered across the planet. There was one on every street corner, one beneath every lamppost and one in every commune block." "The midwife-machine performs a series of programmed manœuvres to quieten [the baby]. It cradles it and hums at several pitches until it finds one that seems most soothing. Mechanical arms stroke the baby’s flesh even as others start the process of implanting augmented reality interfaces into its nervous system." "The Czar an atrophied frame, never present in the real world and worn to dust by the chemical compounds that kept his brain alive so it could live forever in a perfect virtual paradise. The Rabotnik a copy, a mind preserved unchanging in the instant before its death and placed in an everlasting metal frame." (Cyberian Demons)

Its safe to say the world Nastya was born into, from the very minute she was born, was ridden with technology. She has augmented reality interfaces inplanted into her from birth. It would stand to reason that being taken from this society, wherein technology is everywhere, inside and out, would stand for a bit of a shock.

Aurora too had been augmented by the Cyberia.

While it is stated that the last time Nastya had used the ports themselves was directly before her death — "The last time she had used the ports, her tutor had ripped them out of her as the rebels stormed the palace" — Aurora is laced with Cyberian technology. I'd imagine she has something of a 'bluetooth wireless connection' with Aurora, rather than the physical data transfer of files between the ports and Nastya, it may as well be similar enough.

Imagine being Nastya, going from Cyberia, wherein there is augmented reality contantly, transplanted onto a ship with metal blood, a jonny, and a vampire. To Aurora, where the only bits of augmented reality run through Aurora.

Of course she'd fall in love with her. Aurora is familiarity. Aurora isn't organic. Aurora isn't human.

And of course when the undeniable part of aurora that is organic, that is a flesh moon plated in metal with her brain hooked to machines, when so much has broken and been replaced, when, presumably, aurora is less of an algorithm, nastya leaves with the brand cyberia left on her.

Because Aurora healing, becoming more of herself and less of a starship, is messy, and organic, and human.

and hard for nastya.

‘Think how long she’s been flying you around. Think how many bullet holes you’ve punched through her and how many atmospheres you’ve dropped her through. Think how many alterations and improvements we’ve made, Tim to her guns and Ashes to her storage and Brian to her engines and the Toy Soldier to who knows what. How much do you think is left of her after all she’s brought you through?’ Nastya held up the ancient, battered piece of hull plating. Just visible under the grime and scars of particles of space junk was a fragment of the Aurora’s original logo and serial number. Jonny honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a version that hadn’t been painted by the Mechanisms themselves. ‘So she’s free, now.’ Nastya gestured around at the spaceship they were standing in. ‘This Aurora can take you where you want to go. I’m going to take my Aurora somewhere else.’

Aurora was ship of theseus'd. Aurora was improved. Aurora was no longer cyberian. (both literally, and metaphorically)

So nastya left.

#is this anything guys #nastya #aurora #nastya rasputina #aurora the mechanisms #the mechanisms

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reveryfics · 2 months ago

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could you make a story about stephen strange with m!reader, where the reader is a sorcerer just like stephen? only the reader has a rather 'weak' physique and this is because his magic is corroded, which affects his body. sometimes the reader is annoyed when stephen is so 'protective' when he joins the fight, because stephen thinks that the reader is not strong enough for it. ;)

[u know, I really LOVE the way you write story about stephen and terminal illness m!reader, it makes me bAWl!!¿! *hehe* have a nice day!]

Dark Signs

Stephen Strange x Male Reader

Summary: Your role as watcher and guardian of the sanctum, a place containing potent dark magic artifacts and the Darkhold, has gradually corrupted your eldritch magic and tainted your being, leaving your body weak.

A/N: I'm so glad you liked the last one! You guys have been absolutely nailing it with all these requests, and I'm trying to get to as many as possible.

TW: Slight angst - Protective Stepehen - Small argument - Fluff

You had been steeped in the arcane since the cusp of your teenage years, a prodigy whispered to be a successor, perhaps even a reincarnation, of the venerable Ancient One. Yet, the path destiny carved for you diverged from wielding celestial energies. Instead, you became the stoic sentinel, the unwavering guardian of a sanctum choked with forbidden dark magical artifacts. Each pulsating with malevolence, each a siren song to the unwary. You had walked into this role with eyes wide open, acutely aware of the insidious consequences, the relentless strain it would impose upon your very being. You understood the grim calculus that would eventually necessitate drawing upon the volatile power of the dark dimension, a desperate measure to maintain a fragile equilibrium, to prevent your physical form from imploding under the weight of its forbidden charges.

The toll had been brutal, inexorable. Your once vibrant physique had withered, leaving behind a gaunt frame where skin stretched taut over sharp bones. The extremities, particularly the tips of your fingers, bore the indelible stain of the dark hold you so fiercely protected – a creeping blackness that seemed to leech the very life from your touch.

Concern rippled through the small community of fellow sorcerers. Wong, in his quiet wisdom, had witnessed the insidious corruption firsthand, observing how the dark magic seeped into your very essence, tainting not only your body but the delicate weave of your own magic. Yet, their anxieties, however genuine, seemed to pale in comparison to the palpable distress etched on the face of Stephen Strange. Your paths had intertwined through the legacy of the Ancient One, his ascension to her mantle forging an unexpected bond between you.

It visibly grated on Stephen, this slow erosion of your being. With each passing year, the shadows beneath your eyes deepened into cavernous hollows. The black stain on your hands inched its way up your arms like a creeping vine. The stark outline of your ribs became a grim testament to the energy the sanctum relentlessly devoured. Your veins, once vibrant blue, now pulsed with a sickly, inky darkness beneath translucent skin. Stephen never held back his worry, his voice laced with a sharp disapproval whenever you engaged in even the slightest magical exertion. He pleaded with you to rest, to consider your own well-being, but his entreaties always met the same weary dismissal, a stoic brushing aside of his heartfelt concerns.

Within the sanctum's aged walls, a constant murmur permeated the air. It was a disquieting symphony of whispers, the sibilant voices of trapped entities intertwining with the low, resonant cadence of your own incantations. Each syllable you uttered was a thread in the protective tapestry you wove around the dangerous artifacts, a bulwark against their potential to unleash chaos upon the world. Your body screamed in protest, the insidious corruption draining your vitality with an unprecedented ferocity. Yet, you pressed on, driven by an unwavering sense of duty, the incantations a desperate mantra against the encroaching darkness.

As the final syllable of the last protective ward faded into the oppressive stillness of the chamber, a dizzying wave washed over you. The room swam before your eyes, your knees threatening to buckle. With a monumental effort, you willed yourself to take a step forward, only for your body to betray you, teetering on the precipice of collapse.

A familiar warmth enveloped your shoulders, strong hands gripping you firmly, gently guiding you backward until you leaned against a solid, comforting presence. Stephen. You could only assume it was him, the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely his own a familiar anchor in the swirling chaos of your senses. A low murmur reached your ears, his voice a barely audible counterpoint to the cacophony of voices echoing within your skull.

"I'm fine!" you barked, the words a low, gravelly rumble that surprised even you. Stephen huffed, a sound of utter disbelief, but he didn't argue. Instead, his grip tightened, and he steered you, with surprising gentleness, towards the sanctum's private bedroom. Your vision swam in and out of focus, the edges of the world blurring. You could just make out Stephen's concerned features as he carefully laid you against the soft, worn sheets of the bed. He settled beside you, his large hand finding its way to your hair, his fingers threading through the thinning strands with a tenderness that mirrored countless moments shared in quieter times.

Eventually, Stephen rose, his movements sharp with barely suppressed agitation. He began to pace the length of the small room, his shadow stretching and shrinking against the ancient stone walls. "Do you even care what this is doing to you?" he questioned, his eyebrows drawn together in a deep furrow of worry and frustration. It was a familiar refrain, a question he had posed countless times before. And each time, your response remained the same, a resolute declaration of your duty as a sorcerer, your solemn vow to the Ancient One in her final moments. You sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years, and pushed yourself up, your body trembling with the effort. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold stone floor a stark contrast to your feverish skin.

"It's enough, Stephen," you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor that ran through you. "I'm aware. I've been aware for years that this… this is killing me." You took a shaky breath, the air catching in your lungs. "That's why I call upon the dark dimension. It's not a source of power I relish, but it's a… a crutch. A way to keep myself tethered, to keep the corruption at bay, until I physically can't continue." You pushed yourself to your feet, swaying precariously before catching yourself on the edge of the small bedside table. Stephen took an involuntary step forward, his face a mask of horrified realization. You narrowed your eyes, a flicker of defiance in their depths. "I know better than anyone else the insidious reach of these artifacts, the seductive whispers of the dark hold. I cannot, will not, allow them to fall into the wrong hands."

Stephen flinched visibly at your stark admission, the raw truth of your words hitting him like a physical blow. His voice was barely a whisper as he finally spoke. "Is it truly worth it? Letting your body wither and die, while your mind…continues to fight to stay alive?" You couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, your body wracked with a turbulent mix of exhaustion, fear, and a profound sense of inevitability. "Why does it bother you so?" you questioned, the words escaping your lips almost against your will, laced with a fragile vulnerability you rarely allowed to surface. You were almost afraid of the answer, of the raw emotion that seemed to emanate from him.

Stephen took a deep, shuddering breath, as if bracing himself against an invisible force. He took another step closer, his hands, trembling slightly, reaching up to cup your gaunt cheeks. His thumbs brushed gently against the hollows beneath your cheekbones. "It bothers me," he began, his voice thick with unshed tears, "because seeing the man I love slowly becoming a husk of his former self… it's pure torment." He leaned closer, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that made your heart ache. "It bothers me because I love you." The words hung in the air between you, a fragile confession that shattered the carefully constructed walls around your heart. You weren't sure how to respond, the weight of his admission overwhelming. Your body seemed to give way, and you collapsed against him, his strong arms wrapping around you, holding you tight. Your fingers clutched at the worn fabric of his cloak, your head resting against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the chaotic storm in your mind momentarily stilled by the simple truth of his words.

You took a deep, steadying breath, finally finding the strength to lift your head and meet his gaze. The love reflected in his eyes was a tangible thing, a warmth that momentarily chased away the encroaching coldness within you. "I love you too, Stephen," you whispered, the words a fragile offering. "But I cannot… I cannot abandon my duty. Not even if it costs me everything." A tremor ran through his body, and he leaned down slightly, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, fleeting kiss. You returned the gesture, a silent acknowledgment of the love that bound you. When he pulled away, his eyes, though still filled with sorrow, held a newfound resolve. "I understand," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Your duty… it is a part of who you are. But know this," he continued, his grip on your hands tightening, "I will stay by your side. No matter what happens."

#dr stephen strange #stephen strange #stephen strange x male reader #dr strange #marvel dr strange #marvel x male reader #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #marvel #requested

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niqhtlord01 · 4 months ago

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Humans are weird: The Last Guardian

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

There was once a legend of a dead world called “Terra” that held a vault so ancient that even time could no longer fade its surface. It was said this vault contained the last vestiges of a species that once strode across the stars like gods and shaped the very fabric of reality to their liking on a whim.

The Vault was said to contain not only the collective knowledge of this species but several of their most advanced machines they had ever created. Jump drives that span entire quadrants instead of systems, portable dimensional storage spaces, templates for artificial life forms both mechanical and organic, and so much more beyond the vast depths of a universe’s imagination.

For years treasure seekers hunted this legendary world. Called to it from across the stars every manner of species came in search of the lost world with no luck until finally a lone survey team stumbled upon it while searching for fresh mineral deposits.

Terra was just as described in the stories; an entire planet covered in cities and empty buildings reaching forever into the sky for the heavens they will never touch. Only a single power source was detected on the planet and the mineral team made straight for it.

Set in the center of a decaying city the mineral ship set down and began prospecting while several of their number went to investigate the energy readings. They had not traveled far when a strange figure appeared before them. It was a bipedal robotic figure caped in a cloak to protect itself from the harsh wind and eyes as bright as the sun that shun between the clouds.

It spoke in a tongue that none of the crew understood or their translator units and allowed none to pass. When the crew ignited their mining equipment to begin harvesting some of the rare metals still found in the decaying buildings the robot’s eyes turned red and disappeared in a blink of an eye.

Not much is known after that as the teams recorders terminated one after another until finally the entire contingent was killed. This was only known as the ship’s emergency systems activated and the autopilot took the ship back to headquarters to report the loss of crew.

When news broke of the events that had transpired additional crews were dispatched to investigate, yet all shared the same fate as one by one their empty ships returned home to report entire crew deaths. From then on security details and treasure hunters flocked to the mysterious death world in search of the promised fortune.

They lasted only slightly longer than the mineral teams.

Even with their advanced weaponry, the lone figure would appear before them and dispatch them as if they were nothing more than children. Plasma fire bounced off its polished exterior, quantum rockets were caught midair in its grasp and flung away like playing balls, an even the strength of a Omega class war droid was nothing as it ripped its arms off and impaled the droid on them.

Attempt after attempt was made until finally the body count had reached such an extent that the galactic powers took notice and dispatch their mightiest warships to the planet to investigate from orbit. They had no sooner arrived in high anchor when a beam of dark energy shot up from the planet’s surface and simply erased them from existence. From then on a quarantine procedure was placed around the entire solar system on pain of death for crossing it until the galactic powers could determine what to do next.

This lasted a year before one of the powers suggested opening diplomatic talks with the entity on the world. In truth none had considered it given its innate hostility to intruders, but they soon realized that in the previous attempts no one had actually attempted to communicate with the robotic being.

A small delegation was dispatched, comprised of the finest diplomats and linguists, and made landfall at the same place as the original mining team that had discovered the world.

In short order the lone robotic figure appeared before them mysteriously and spoke again its strange words.

As before no one could understand them, but since the original first contact other locations had been discovered in the universe that bore many similar markings as the Terra planet. It was theorized that these had once been colonies or other worlds controlled by the same power many millennia ago and through careful study a working translation had been achieved.

When activated the figure’s words finally became clear.

“Tread with care, for you stand on the greatness of my creators.”

“They….create….you?” the translator replied. It was not a complete translation but it could pass for the minimum understanding.

“Yes.” It replied. “I am the guardian of this world and the legacy it contains.”

“Why…attack?”

The robot cocked its head to the side in an unnaturally life like pose of confusion.

The robot stood to the side and held up a hand towards the entrance of the vault. As the dust winds finally dissipated the gathered delegation could finally make out the surroundings and wept in fear. Before the doors of the vault now stood row upon row of corpses, shoved on to stakes or mounted to walls in numerous horrific fashion each more grotesque than the last.

“The fate of thieves and pilferers is not one of kindness.”

It clasped its hands behind its back once more and addressed the gathering.

“Shall you share theirs?”

#humans are weird #humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #ai generated art

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cryptotheism · 2 years ago

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Any thoughts on the Hollow Earth conspiracy theory? Like 0 to Flat Earth, how much is it "dumb but fun" to "cult mentality"?

It's a diverse community, mentality speaking.

There are some people who have this air of terminally divorced Rational Internet Skeptic who does shit like try to conduct experiments. But when confronted with plane flights that prove the earth is round will just patently deny that evidence even exists.

Some people are just rabid antisemites who think The Jews are hiding The Edge from us to hide the idea that the earth is the center of God's creation.

I think my favorite are the people who are otherwise normal but believe that "yeah the earth is hollow and full of ancient Hindu dinosaurs but this doesn't actually effect my day to day life as a used car salesman"

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evolutionsvoid · 6 months ago

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All that is this world exists because of the death of gods. Great celestial corpses that have converged here and formed the land, sea and sky. Over countless millennia, these carcasses have fallen upon this world and built it into the thriving place that it is today. Even though it is the very ground we trod upon, their deaths have brought so much more. Fertile soil fit for growing vast ecosystems of trees, fungi and invertebrate. Potent fluids and humors that flow in endless rivers and bottomless oceans. And perhaps the greatest gift of all is the life that has come to call this world home. It is well known that man was born from Ichor, the blood of the gods, but many other creatures were brought here from these celestial corpses. Some emerged from the fluids, others generated from the rich bountiful flesh. But for the likes of the wormfolk, it was said that they already knew life before coming to this world, as they lived within the guts of the great gods.

It is said that the wormfolk were parasites of the gods, but that role was lost in ages past. According to their tales, the Hostia Prima was the god in which they inhabited, their kind born and living within the Intestinal Cradle. When death struck their divine host, it was devastating to their lives and culture. The corpse fell upon this world, and their original civilization collapsed. Yet, some of the wormfolk survived and were able to slither free of their perished god. Emerging into the light for the first time, they were witness to a bountiful land of plenty, where a new life for their kind could be made. And so, like man, the wormfolk took to this world and soon called it home.

Though much of their ancient knowledge and past was lost in time due to the destruction of the Intestinal Cradle and their kind abandoning much to survive in this new land, the wormfolk are not haunted by this. What happened long ago does not matter, and the world that their ancient ancestors knew is forever gone. Best to focus upon the lives of the present, and find purpose in what they have. Compared to the great works of man with his sprawling cities and grand inventions, the wormfolk are simple folk. Hunters, gatherers and farmers, living in crude villages. There are no impressive automatons built by their hands, or towering works of art erected in their name. They choose a simple life and seem content with it.

The wormfolk have boneless bodies, their flesh soft yet flexible and elastic. They possess a primary pair of tendril arms with which they do most their work. Running down their chest is another six stumpy limbs which are mainly used for grasping or holding onto objects. Their long serpentine bodies terminate in a thorny barb, which is used to anchor themselves when needed or as a weapon if threatened. Their heads possess three eyes, many sensory organs and a impressive mass of teeth. This thorny nest may look perfect for ripping into prey and carving through flesh, yet there is no mouth behind it all. The wormfolk have no mouths, rather their bodies absorb nutrients whenever it comes in contact with food. These teeth are primarily used for sifting and churning through rich muck, or pulverizing thicker globs into easier absorbed fluids. The flesh they are anchored in is more absorbent than other patches of their body, which is why they often "eat" by utilizing this part of their face. The ability for these teeth to move and vibrate to better churn its food is how the worfolk communicate with each other and man. They have learned how to quiver these teeth in such a way that when combined with air exhaust from various opening, they can speak in human tongues.

Though they eat through their skin, wormfolk do not often go about naked, as this very same flesh is also vulnerable. No tough hide to protect them, or potent spines to ward off attackers. So they may clad themselves in crude "clothes" that may be harvested from prey, or built with their own secretions. Wormfolk can excrete a glue-like substance that hardens over time. This was originally used in their host to build nests or anchor themselves in place, but now this fluid is used in the construction of homes, armor and even pottery. Wormfolk mix this liquid with clumps of waste to make a sculpting material, shaping it in the way they want before letting it dry. Once fully hardened, it becomes dense and tough, perfect for making armor or sturdy shells. While they may erect huts or sleep in burrows, wormfolk can also construct coiled shells from this material. This serves as a sort of mobile home that they can drag with them, much like a snail with its shell. Here they can store items while also using it for defense and rest. One just has to retreat inside to be safe, as the tough shell protects them. To make it even better, some wormfolk construct plug-like hats that can seal the entrance whenever they hide, making it harder for foes to breach.

Their method of feeding makes things simple at times, as they only need nutritious muck to bathe in. Places like fecal swamps have this stuff in great abundance, and thus many wormfolk villages are found there. With such a setup, the village merely needs to construct a central pool to collect the richest waste in which they rest in. However, wormfolk still may partake in solid food, be it through gathering, hunting or farming. Their setup makes tougher, crunchier foods hard to consume, so they lean more towards the squishy, fleshy and juicy. With these goods, they use their teeth to pulverize it so that they may soak it up more easily. It is said that wormfolk "eat" solid foods like this because they enjoy new flavors, while some claim this method became more popular when they came in contact with man. And when invited to their table, the wormfolk felt it polite to find a different way to feed to better engage with these fine fellows.

Interactions between worm and man are often pleasant, as either side has no ill will towards the other. The fecal swamps tend to be territories far from the Church's shining cities, and thus such foul regions are often ignored. Poorer communities tend to crop up around fecal swamps, as folk make a living by harvesting waste for fuel or hunting the creatures within. Thus, it is these people who interact most with the wormfolk, and they have built a good bond. Wormfolk tend to be kind and warm towards those they meet. Though they have little to offer, they are content with exchanging polite words or fulfilling favors.

Sadly, the kindly wormfolk are not exempt from the great war that ravages these lands. Though they have no ties to any church or front, they suffer at the madness that has gripped many. With the land falling into chaos, and horrid forces now running rampant, the wormfolk have been seen in a new light. The Arimakki that swarm the land and boil the flesh are parasites as well, and terrified souls have started to connect the two parties. It does not help that the wormfolk fit the description of the White Worm, and thus are believed to be tied to the Vile Red Tree. In their madness, soldiers and cleansers have started to believe that the wormfolk are aligned with the Arimakki, and thus they are met with burning yellowflame. After a few of their villages have been scorched, the wormfolk have packed up and fled deeper into the fecal swamps. They retreat now to more rank and sludgy regions where man struggles to travel. Here in the foul pits they hide, hoping that the flames of war burn out before they reach this rotting haven.

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"Wormfolk"

Things just ain't right til you got sentient worms!

#worm #parasite #monster #creature #art #drawing #fall of ichor

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contentment-of-cats · 1 year ago

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More Chiss head canons

Why, yes. I am geeking out.

1: The Chiss came from a 'sleeper ship' that missed its target world around 30,000 years ago after being launched from the Ratukan Empire. The ship spent 3,000 or 4,000 years in transit. The Humans who reached Csilla found not a welcoming world, but a planet that experienced periodic ice ages.

2: The Chiss skin color evolved from minerals in the hydrosphere, and were later found to be a silica-based life form that acted as a symbiont, allowing rapid evolutionary changes. The life form is now extinct, but slotted itself into the genes of the settlers and has remained in Chiss DNA and is outwardly reflected in their iridescent 'freckles' - which are a silicate similar to mica. The freckles will shed from time to time over the course of a Chiss' life. It was debated at the time that this was a sapient life form that was dying out, and 'invaded' the settlers to survive. Others argued that it was a type megavirus or even a hive virus with no sentience. Many settlers died from the 'infection' in a time called 'The Interval' before Ancient Chiss evolved into Modern Chiss about 5,000 years after the founding.

3: The Chiss terraformed Csilla over tens of thousands of years, turning it into a garden world, settling other worlds in the same time period. Before the Intergalactic War where they allied with the Sith, the Chiss governed an empire. After the Intergalactic War and the use of the Starflash along with Ratukan weaponry, the Chiss never terraformed another planet as penance for their sins.

4: Hundreds of Chiss colonies were lost to the warfare that created the Chaos. What is not mentioned in any modern history course is that the Chaos was created deliberately to confound both Sith and Jedi. The Chaos interfered, as as seen in Alliances, with the ability to find other Force users in the Chaos. Palpatine could not find the Sky-walkers until they were taken beyond the borders of the Chaos.

5: Chiss history is heavily redacted. After the Intergalactic War, they changed even their system of writing to make it incomprehensible to outsiders. Cheunh is not allowed to be spoken in the presence of outsiders, and communication instead relies on trade languages like Minnisiat. Meese Caulf, and Sy Bisti.

6: There are Chiss intelligence agents in 'Lesser Space' and even in the Empire and Rebellion itself. Candidates must be smaller than average and undertake extensive surgical remodeling to pass as other species. It includes eye transplants, and only the most dedicated (fanatical) of intelligence officers will undergo the years-long process. The program is top-level clearance, with six people at a time knowing about the program and allowed to read the briefs. The Supreme Admiral, the Supreme General, the UAG Chief, the Speaker of the Syndicure, and two civilians who are kept anonymous.

7: The histories of many planets speaks of blue warriors, or even blue gods who disappeared 5,000 years back. Chiss ruins can be found on Hoth, though nobody can now read the language.

8: There are Chiss who live outside the Ascendancy, descended from exiles and those who fled in other ways. If any Chiss of the Ascendancy happens on the Outlanders, they are instructed to report immediately, detain if possible, terminate in extreme cases only. In some cases, these Outlanders have hundreds of years outside of the Ascendancy and are not keen on going back.

9: Yes, there are a number of women in the CEDF, and nobody would stand in their way. As with Lakinda/Ziinda, it's a way for girls of Common and Lesser families to move up and secure their future outside of making a good match and having children. Blood-born girls like Ziara are heavily pressured not to join.

10: Upon leaving service, Sky-walkers are not encouraged to talk to others about being Sky-walkers, even to other former Sky-walkers. They are largely isolated by the Ruling Families, and pushed to marry within their adoptive or an allied House. Many do marry within their adopting House as it is well-known that the little girls of Ruling Houses are seldom chosen as Sky-walkers.

#chiss ascendancy #chiss #headcanon #thrawn

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stale-cornflakes · 3 months ago

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Regards in False Thought - Redesign

I've improved so much since last year and it really shows in this redesign. For RIFT, I really wanted her to resemble her Ancients. She had a very close relationship with her creators, as well as a very long one. RIFT herself is a very early iterator. Her body is elegant and elongated, dawning both Ancient markings and wardrobe. She takes pride in the Ancient Culture and seeks to preserve it even after so many cycles. Clinging onto the memory, and even finding her own form of citizens with a vast scavenger population inhabiting her grounds.

details under cut

Light blue pearls

"Its entire memory is filled with a mantra repeated... 5061 times - and then a termination verse. It was worn as an amulet, probably together with many identical others forming a pattern on some garment.

The repeating mantra is important because it symbolizes the cyclical nature of life and death, and the termination verse is a symbol for ascension above and beyond it. I don't know how familiar you are with the nature of life and death, but I imagine like all living creatures you have some intuitive knowledge?

Then you know that death isn't the end - birth and death are connected to each other like a ring, or some say a spiral. Some say a spiral that in turn forms a ring. Some ramble in agonizing longevity. But the basis is agreed upon: like sleep like death, you wake up again - whether you want to or not.

This is true for all living things, but some actually break the cycle. That doesn't apply to you or me though, you are too entangled in your animal struggles, and for me not breaking that cycle is an integral part of the design. Our mantras keep repeating." - LTTM

The Scholar & The Chieftain

Both of these symbols can be seen on her Robe, with The Chieftain seen on her shins. She specializes in pearls as well as preserving information as referred to above cut. She is also a Chieftain with her leadership skills and good terms with her scavengers. On top of this, she is the senior of her local group, so her leadership extends to her fellow iterators.

Markings

Her markings are similar to the stripes that Ancients have, they were painted on by her creators as she too is a part of the community. On her chest there are 4 squares reminiscent of Ancients and their own anatomy. (Fun fact Ancients have 4 nipples so that's pretty cool) The markings at her feet also shape to resemble sandles.

3 fingers

Yep, 3 fingers!

Face panels

Her face panels are meant to make her more angular and immediate a facial crest

Longer proportions to make her feel less human

Bonus old ref from 2024

#stale art #rain world #rainworld oc #rw iterator #iterator oc #ocs #RIFT #I had a lot of fun with this one #I'm debating on changing the color of her mark :P

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justforbooks · 4 months ago

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‘It allowed us to survive, to not go mad’: the CIA book smuggling operation that helped bring down communism

From George Orwell to Hannah Arendt and John le Carré, thousands of blacklisted books flooded into Poland during the cold war, as publishers and printers risked their lives for literature

The volume’s glossy dust jacket shows a 1970s computer room, where high priests of the information age, dressed in kipper ties and flares, tap instructions into the terminals of some ancient mainframe. The only words on the front read “Master Operating Station”, “Subsidiary Operating Station” and “Free Standing Display”. Is any publication less appetising than an out-of-date technical manual?

Turn inside, however, and the book reveals a secret. It isn’t a computer manual at all, but a Polish language edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell’s famous anti-totalitarian novel, which was banned for decades by communist censors in the eastern bloc.

This copy lives now in the library of Warsaw University, but for much of the cold war it belonged to the Polish writer and dissident Teresa Bogucka. It was Teresa’s father, the art critic Janusz Bogucki, who first brought it to Poland. In 1957, during a window of liberalisation that opened after Stalin’s death, Janusz picked up the Orwell translation from a Polish bookshop in Paris, smuggled it back through the border and gave it to his daughter. Teresa was only 10 or 11 years old then, but she was a precocious reader, and recognised the ways in which communist Poland mirrored Orwell’s fictional dystopian state: “It absolutely traumatised me,” she remembered.

Years later, in 1976, when Bogucka joined the emerging Polish opposition movement, she decided to create a library of books that had bypassed the state censor, and donated her own small collection, including this Nineteen Eighty-Four. The SB security service, Poland’s KGB, kept continual watch on her, eavesdropping on her conversations, arresting her and searching her apartment, so she asked neighbours to store the forbidden books. Much of the time, though, they would be circulating among readers, since this would be a “Flying Library”, which rarely touched the ground.

Bogucka’s system of covert lending ran through a network of coordinators, each of whom was responsible for their own tight group of readers. She sorted the books into categories – politics, economics, history, literature – and divided them into packages of 10, before allocating each coordinator a particular day to pick up their parcel, which they carried away in a rucksack. The coordinator would drop the books back the following month at a different address, before picking up a new set.

The demand for Bogucka’s books was such that soon she needed more, and these could only come from the west. Activist friends passed word to London, where émigré publishers arranged shipments of 30 or 40 volumes at a time, smuggling them through the iron curtain aboard the sleeper trains that shuttled back and forth between Paris and Moscow, stopping in Poland along the way. By 1978, Teresa Bogucka’s Flying Library had a stock of 500 prohibited titles.

How many people read her copy of Orwell’s book in those crucial cold war years? Hundreds, probably thousands. And this was just one of millions of titles that arrived illegally in Poland at that time. As well as via trains, books arrived by every possible conveyance: aboard yachts; in secret compartments built into vans and trucks; by balloon; in the post. Mini-editions were slipped into the sheet music of touring musicians, or packed into food tins or Tampax boxes. In one instance, a copy of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago was carried on a flight to Warsaw hidden in a baby’s nappy.

What some in the east suspected, but very few knew for sure, was that the uncensored literature flooding the country wasn’t reaching Poles by chance. It was sent as part of a decades-long US intelligence operation, known in Washington as the “CIA book program”, designed, in the words of the programme’s leader, George Minden, to assault the eastern bloc with an “offensive of free, honest thinking”. Minden believed that “truth is contagious”, and if they could only deliver it to the oppressed peoples of the Soviet zone, it was certain to have an effect.

From today’s vantage point, when disinformation threatens western liberal democracy as never before, and censorship and book bans are once again turning schools and libraries into ideological battlegrounds, the CIA literary programmes appear almost quaint. Although they had political goals, they must rank among the most highbrow of psychological warfare operations. Along with copies of the Manchester Guardian Weekly and the New York Review of Books, the CIA sent works by blacklisted authors such as Boris Pasternak, Czesław Miłosz and Joseph Brodsky, anti-totalitarian writings by Hannah Arendt and Albert Camus, literary fiction from Philip Roth and Kurt Vonnegut, writing advice from Virginia Woolf, the plays of Václav Havel and Bertolt Brecht, and the spy thrillers of John le Carré.

Later, as well as smuggling books, the CIA would fund and ship presses and printing equipment into Poland, so that the banned titles could be reproduced in huge quantities by underground printers in situ. Few individuals were more central to these latter operations than the dissident publisher Mirosław Chojecki, known to the CIA by the cryptonym QRGUIDE.

On a Tuesday evening in March 1980, the police came to arrest Chojecki for the 43rd time. Chojecki was 30 years old that night – a tall man, with a mane of red-brown hair. He lived with his family in a third-floor apartment in Żoliborz, a suburb of northern Warsaw, and was cooking dinner for his young son and talking to his father-in-law when they heard the door. There were three men outside, a local cop in the jackboots and grey tunic of the citizen’s militia, and two plainclothes SB agents. They flashed their badges and told him to get his coat. There was no explanation. He had just enough time to calm his crying son, grab a toothbrush and a pack of cigarettes, then they clapped handcuffs on his wrists and took him down to the police Fiat waiting on the road below.

They brought him to Mokotów jail, a house of terror to rival the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow, and put him in block III, a wing reserved for political prisoners. He had been here before, once for “vilifying the Polish People’s Republic” and again for “organising a criminal group with the aim of distributing illegal publications” – at least then he had known the reason for his detention. As the days dripped by, he and his cellmates talked politics and played chess with a set made from heavy black prison bread. He wasn’t allowed a lawyer.

At Easter, when he had been locked up for 10 days without being summoned to court or allowed to contact his family, he decided to take the path chosen by political prisoners everywhere: he would go on a hunger strike. Eight days later, when he had lost 8kg (17lb), the prison doctor announced that they would force-feed him. They inserted a hose into his mouth, pushing it in deep so that it scratched his oesophagus and made him gag, and poured in a sweet, fatty mush. Tears ran down his face, of helplessness, rage, revulsion. When the food was gone, the doctor whipped out the tube and left without a word.

Chojecki had not yet recovered when the guards returned and forced him to climb three landings to an interrogation room, where an intelligence officer was waiting. It was Lieutenant Chernyshevsky, an old sparring partner.

How was he feeling, Chernyshevsky asked?

“Bad.”

“Do you know that there is a printing house on Reymonta Street?”

Chojecki didn’t answer.

“Do you have Jan Nowak’s book Courier from Warsaw? If so, where, when and how did you come into possession of it and what is your relationship with the author?”

There were more questions in this vein, all about the underground press. Chojecki gave the same response to each: as long as he didn’t know what the evidence was against him, they had nothing to discuss.

Realising the interrogation was pointless, Chernyshevsky brought it to an end. He offered the prisoner a cigarette, then the guards took Chojecki back to his cell.

Of course he knew all about Nowak’s outlawed text. His publishing house had just printed it. It was, he said later, one of the best books they had ever produced.

Unlike the Nazis, who burned books as a public ritual, in the Soviet system the destruction of literature was designed to be invisible. The lists of banned titles sent round to libraries and bookstores every year were secret. Works were pulped covertly. Allusions to censorship were not allowed. A list of prohibited publications from 1951 details 2,482 items, including 238 works of “outdated” sociopolitical literature and 562 books for children. Mostly these were proscribed for ideological reasons, but some rulings made little sense even within the bizarre logic of the party: a book about growing carrots was destroyed for implying that vegetables could sprout in individuals’ gardens, as well as in those run by collectives.

Chojecki was introduced to the idea of uncensored literature by Krystyna Starczewska, a teacher at his high school. “She got me interested,” he remembered. “She got me reading.” It wasn’t hard for Chojecki to find banned books, as his parents – war heroes who fought against the Nazis – were already plugged into dissident intellectual circles. He was never allowed much time with these publications as they had to be passed on to other readers. But the fragments he read, often overnight, were enough to sow the seeds of dissent.

In 1976, when the government announced drastic increases in the state-controlled prices of food, workers went on strike, and the party responded as it always did, with violence. One victim recalled waking up from a beating with a broken nose and no teeth; another remembered seeing men beat a pregnant woman. The 1976 events turned a group of bookish young graduates into hardened opposition activists, and it didn’t take them long to realise they needed a public voice.

In spring 1977, Chojecki decided to focus on underground publishing. He wasn’t the only pioneer of illicit printing techniques, but the operation he led, the Independent Publishing House NOWa, grew to be the biggest and most successful in the underground. By Christmas they had published short runs of half a dozen books by blacklisted writers in Poland. Crucially, they also began to reprint editions of titles that were arriving from the west. The same books that were actively pushed by the CIA.

By the third week of his hunger strike, Chojecki’s body was shutting down. On 27 April 1980, the warden came to see him. This was a first: he had never heard of the head of the prison visiting an inmate in their cell before.

“How’s the starvation?” the warden asked.

“Very well.”

“Do you intend to starve for a long time?”

“Until I leave prison.”

“That’s five years.”

“Less.”

“Four and a half years?”

“A few days, Citizen Warden.”

The warden was wrong, as it turned out. Two weeks later, on Saturday 10 May, the order came through that Chojecki was to be released. He had been arrested in the snow; now the season had turned. As he squinted out from the shadow cast by the prison wall at the sunshine blazing down, he could pick out green shoots on the branches of the trees.

He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat. He struggled round the corner to a cafe, where he bought a small coffee and two doughnuts, and sat at a window table. He ate very slowly, savouring the sweet pastry with absolute delight. People passed by on the other side of the glass.

“They think they are free,” he thought.

The regime might have released him, but it was still determined to prosecute Chojecki. As he prepared for his moment in the dock, it was more important than ever for the dissidents to show that underground publishing operations would not be stopped. Five days before the court date, two young NOWa printers set out on a job that would turn into a cat-and-mouse game with the secret police.

The night before leaving for work, Jan Walc went through his pockets. In this line of business, you had to assume you would be caught, searched and interrogated, and he couldn’t be found with anything that would incriminate him or his friends. Next he packed a few essentials and took a long bath, knowing it would be his last for some time.

He knew where to meet his partner, Zenek Pałka. The only extra piece of information he needed was the time, and Pałka had given him that over the phone. Without saying his name, he had announced that they should get together at 11am on Monday 9 June. Walc recognised the voice. He also knew what the wiretap sergeant listening in didn’t: namely, that he had to subtract two from everything, so the rendezvous was set for 9am on Saturday 7 June. That morning, he said goodbye to his wife and young son and walked out into a humid Warsaw day.

Leaving the building, Walc discreetly scanned the street. As a rule the secret police liked to watch your apartment or place of work and follow you from there, so if you didn’t pick up a tail right away, the prospects of avoiding one were good. All the same, he kept checking until he reached the cafe. Soon Pałka, a giant of a man with frizzy red hair, was settling into the seat next to him.

“Is the place far away?” Walc asked. Pałka took a paper serviette and wrote down an address before burning through the words with his cigarette. Then he passed on a few more details. Water came from a well, but they would need a week’s worth of food, since they couldn’t risk leaving the job to go shopping. The printing machine was a mimeograph made by AB Dick of Chicago. It had already been delivered to the house, along with a tonne and a half of paper, six full carloads. The job was to print several thousand copies of the civil society newsletter Information Bulletin, plus some pages for NOWa’s literary journal Pulse. They would need to buy 10 bottles of turpentine to run and clean the press.

By the time they’d packed all the food, they had no room for the solvent, so they stopped by at a friend’s place to borrow an extra bag. They didn’t realise he was under surveillance, and when they left his building they spotted a boxy grey Fiat saloon with three men inside which shadowed them as they walked along the road.

Reaching a tram stop, they saw the Fiat pull into a side road and park illegally, a sure sign it was the secret police, and when the tram arrived and the printers boarded, two plainclothes agents jumped out of the car and ran across the street, climbing up behind them. All four men now sat in the same streetcar as it rattled towards Zawisza Square. The Fiat kept pace alongside.

How to get rid of them? As they reached a stop, the printers saw the Fiat was boxed in at the traffic lights, and they took their chance, leaving the tram at the last minute. When the lights changed and the unmarked car had to pull away, Walc and Pałka were hurrying in a different direction, towards the railway station. A part of their tail was lost, but the other two agents had been alert and were keeping pace behind them as they ran down the station platform.

The agents were close as they boarded a train for Warsaw Central. Walc made a show of placing his bags on the luggage rack, but as the doors closed Pałka jammed his leg between them and slipped out. Walc now had the two remaining agents to himself. His job was to drag them around long enough for Pałka to prepare the next move. The men were behind him as he left the train at Warsaw Central and ducked into the warren of passages beneath the station. He knew police radios wouldn’t work down here. He ordered a Coke at a bar, bought some cigarettes, browsed the shops. When 20 minutes had passed, he emerged and headed for the taxi rank. He could see one of the men talking into his lapel as he climbed into a cab.

Warsaw’s Poniatowski Bbridge is as much a viaduct as a river crossing, the roadway linked to the streets below by a series of stone staircases. Speeding east, Walc gave the driver his instructions. Midway along the viaduct, the taxi came to a sudden halt, and the printer dived out and ran down the steps to the street below.

The chasing agents pulled up behind and raced down in pursuit, but as they reached the lower level Walc was already climbing into another cab, where Pałka was waiting. The policemen watched as their quarry pulled away. Knowing they would now be radioing in the cab’s licence plate, a few hundred yards up the road the printers swapped into another taxi. They transferred their bags, left a generous tip and gave the new driver an address on the far side of the city.

Around 3pm, they caught the train to Rembertów The place looked ideal. It was set back from the street, at the far end of a large, overgrown garden. The printing machine and the paper were hidden in an outhouse, 500 reams stacked almost to the roof. The paper was damp, which was far from ideal, but they would make it work somehow.

By evening their small room was filled with the fumes of cigarettes and turpentine, and the sound of the duplicating machine beating out its regular, soporific rhythm, bad-dum bad-dum bad-dum bad-dum. Underground printing was filthy, exhausting work. The duplicators were old and the paper was poor. Bibula, the Polish word for uncensored publications, means “blotting paper”, which reflected the stock they had to work with, which had to be hand-fed into the machine, three pages a second, hour upon hour. This meant they worked round the clock, in shifts, for days, until the job was done.

Pałka had brought along a transistor. They tuned it to Radio Free Europe, which maintained a regular commentary on Chojecki’s upcoming trial. American printers and British lawyers were protesting at what they called a show trial. Amnesty International was sending a legal representative. “A great day is coming,” Walc thought, “and we are stuck in a printing shop!” If they hurried the job, they might still be able to get to court.

Early on Thursday morning they had 20 reams left to print. By 8pm, Pałka was finishing the last stencil and Walc was burning misprints in the garden. Before leaving they had to strip down the machine, wash all the parts and lubricate them.

At last, carrying 50 copies of the Bulletin, they found a taxi and gave the driver the address of the apartment where they had been told to collect their pay. They arrived around 11pm. It was crowded with people, including half the Bulletin’s editors. Walc asked about the trial. He was astonished to hear it was already over. The sentence had been read an hour ago. One of the editors had just come back from the court, where they saw Chojecki deliver an excoriating indictment of the communist system. He told the court that his flat had been searched 17 times in the past four years, on a litany of pretexts: they were looking for a murderer, they had said, or a poisoner or a thief, but all they ever took away for evidence were books, typewriters and manuscripts.

“Why are such accusations levelled against people who fight against the pillaging of our culture?Officially, half of our recent history is erased from textbooks, studies, encyclopedias,” said Chojecki. It was the same in literature, where the state gave itself a “monopoly of thought” and a “monopoly of the word”. The lists of banned authors contained some of world’s best writers, he said. That was why he and his colleagues had set up NOWa, to fill the silences and correct the falsification.

Reaching a rousing finale, Chojecki announced that the trial was not about the accused at all, but about “free speech and thought, about Polish culture, about the dignity of society”.

Of course, none of this would change the verdict. The court duly convicted Chojecki and his co-defendants of theft of state property. He was sentenced to 18 months in prison, suspended for three years. But to everyone gathered in the editors’ apartment, this was a tremendous victory and Chojecki was a hero.

“Everybody around us rejoices,” Walc wrote in his account of that week’s events, which would be published in the following month’s Bulletin.

Someone pressed a cold beer into his hand. It was midnight.

Chojecki’s parents had fought for Polish independence with guns and bullets. He continued the struggle through literature and publishing. At times, his father, Jerzy was sceptical of his son’s tactics. “Do you think, Mirek, that you’ll be able to bring down the communist system with your little books?” he would ask. “Do you think your little words will make a difference?”

In fact, the impact of the CIA-sponsored literary tide was huge. By the mid-1980s the so-called “second circulation” of illicit literature in Poland grew so large that the system of communist censorship began to break down. Poland was the most crucial of eastern bloc nations: when communism collapsed in 1989, this was the first domino to fall. As the leading Polish dissident Adam Michnik put it: “It was books that were victorious in the fight. A book is like a reservoir of freedom, of independent thought, a reservoir of human dignity. A book was like fresh air. We should build a monument to books … they allowed us to survive and not go mad.”

Teresa Bogucka didn’t know for sure who was paying for the literature she received from the west, but she was aware that the Polish regime claimed that American intelligence supported émigré publishers, and the idea didn’t concern her at all.

“I thought, wow, a secret service supporting books,” she said. “That’s fantastic.”

🔴 This is an edited extract from The CIA Book Club: The Best Kept Secret of the Cold War by Charlie English, published by William Collins on 13 March.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Charlie English #The CIA Book Club #book review

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reredram · 11 months ago

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Actually, continuation of last post, let me brag about my iterator ocs, from oldest to newest

Surprisingly they have a lot of lore that just lives rent free in my head, so this is a longreed, put some music so it won't be boring.

Part 1/???

Third Eye, iterator prototype, so you can put him in gen 0 I guess? I don't know why I called him Third Eye when he has 4 eyes in his design, really. Firstly I've made that first illustration with him and his slugcat The Transmitter, using dying pens and other shit I could find in the office, it's still nice looking thing, considering with what materials I've made it.

As I remember he was based on song HEAVEN SAYS, his whole plot was that he was a testing iterator that ancients forgot to terminate, and just shut down his communication arrays. When he tried to run some tests without permission of the Ancients, his can overloaded, and in result of explosion his mind was transferred into Transmitter, to his own surprise. From now on, he seeks help from remaining iterators to restore his can and remove testing taboos.

Here are his first draft ref, Transmitter ref and some of his purposed organisms(as you can see, I've reused his lizards for Scale, that I'll talk about later!)

Your Own Little Guide and Last Destination of the Journey is a pair of conflicting iterators, representing future and past respectfully. Guide seeks for new ways to solve The Great Problem, while Journey preserves the traditions and looks onto them for the salvation.

They also had a cool two sided art wip, explaining their motives

They both end up dying, Guide reaches something close to SoS' triple affirmative and simply sease to exist, while Journey turns into echo somehow

#rain world #artists on tumblr #drawing #rain world art #sketch #digital art #traditional art #rw fanart #slugcat #rain world iterator oc #long reads

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studentinpursuitofclouds · 1 year ago

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Hello again, Mousey~ ^^ I hope you're doing well. My questions are quite long, and my english sounds messy, it's not my first language. So apologise in advance

I'm always curious about the world building in Stardew Valley, especially the expanded mod. The game let you know the existence of celtic fantasy-liked society (Castle Village) coexist with seemingly, modern present days society (Ferngill Republic) like us.

So, with that long introduction, my questions:

How do the health sector of both social cultures would respond? (Example: how would a pharmaceutical company react to elixirs?)

In terms of technology, how would people in Castle Village deal with it? If they did, do they have the basic one, like television or wired phones? (If you think they did, would they at least follow the development of it? We know that analog broadcast television had been terminated, so did the people in Castle Village switched to the digital one?)

Would both of these different social cultures people influence each other through art, music or fashion?

Do you think anyone in Castle Village ever suggested to open tourism sector for Ferngill people? (This is just a weird question for me 🤣 I could imagine Camilla randomly asking this, and smirking while everyone try to convince her not to do it. Of course she knew not to do it. Duh)

Thank you very much for reading my unnecessary in-depth Stardew Valley world building. I really love the way you write stuff about SVE. There aren't many that do it the way you do, and reading everything you write after my hectic college life is just therapeutic for me.

Hello again! 💕 And oh boy, get ready, for I have written a lot..... More than I had previously planned 😅 Thanks for the question, and enjoy my rant about SVE! 🫰

_________________________________________

1. How do the health sector of both social cultures would respond? (Example: how would a pharmaceutical company react to elixirs?).

I remember that someone raised this topic, but I can't remember where this post was. In general, it's quite difficult to say, because, on the one hand, I always thought that modern medicine denies all kinds of elixirs or healing spells, considering them pseudo-medicine, which charlatans try to sell to ordinary people, and therefore - censured by society. And in the meantime, that real mages and witches themselves even somehow support this idea, because if all people recognise elixirs, it will upset the balance of nature, there will be a mass hunt for rare ingredients, exploitation of resources, etc. I always thought that all wizards and the Ministry of Magic itself are conservative people, strictly obeying the old laws of magic, so revealing secret knowledge to everyone and mixing it with modern technologies is unacceptable in their eyes.

On the other hand, by this logic, Harvey, as a doctor, should hate life elixirs. Yet this elixir is almost everyone's liked gift. You can blame mechanics of the game here, but still. It seems to me that a society of adventurers and mages like Castle Village might allow modern medicine at some points, but still, I'm sticking to the idea that the two societies will not allow modern medicine and ancient healing magic to mix, and people who try to do so are publicly censured by both societies.

2. In terms of technology, how would people in Castle Village deal with it? If they did, do they have the basic one, like television or wired phones? (If you think they did, would they at least follow the development of it? We know that analog broadcast television had been terminated, so did the people in Castle Village switched to the digital one?)

Well, if Castle Village even had wired phones, let alone mobile phones, Sandy wouldn't have to communicate with Emily through letters, would she? OK, there's definitely got to be at least some electricity in the village, fuelling the street lights, the houses and the fridges.

But at the same time, it can't be. As I said earlier, the Ministry are conservative people (my headcanon, not sure how they would behave), and they're not very happy to see ancient magic mixed with digital gadgets. So they may order other magicians to find an "alternative". Need electricity for your fridge to store food? Why, when you can have a small ice crystal that keeps your food cold. Want to talk to a person who lives on the other side of the world? Telepathy for mages, letters and mail animals for common folk. Lighting up the streets of the village? Magic lights that never go out. TV and smartphones? Well, this is optional, but no one will cable you and no one will make you wi-fi here. Moreover, the Ministry can, in addition to traditions and other stuff, write it off to save resources. After all, why pay someone for electricity when there are plenty of free alternatives?

3. Would both of these different social cultures people influence each other through art, music or fashion?

Mmmmmm, yeah. But somehow I think it would be one-sided.

The inhabitants of Castle Village know for the existence of other cities not like their Village: huge megacities and stone jungles. And as far as I understand, residents who were born in the Castle Village itself, as well as other people who proved their courage and right to enter through the barrier, can safely leave the village. And they can visit the same cities like Pelican Town and Zuzu City without any problems. Naturally, there will be culture shock, but also at least one person will want to visit a modern art museum, listen to local music, try local food, and then want to take that bit of it home with them. Buy a recipe book of popular Zuzu City dishes, for example, buy a small statue or souvenir, or draw a picture inspired by a new place, you get the point. It's unclear, though, how strict the Ministry will be about this, but I think that when it comes to art and entertainment, Camilla will definitely give the okay. Even the same Lance knows for the cinema and quite enjoys some films.

Whereas in the opposite case... There's none of that. The residents of Stardew Valley get nothing from Castle Village. Because who among the locals even knows about the existence of the Castle Village? I'd understand if there was at least a couple of dialogues from someone along the lines of "there's a village where monster hunters gather, but there's a barrier and only one person decides who can enter". No detailed information, but at least showing that people know or guess about the existence of the village. And here we have nothing. Victor still somehow talks about the The First Slash Clan adventurers themselves and about the authorities' desire to cut down the magic Cindersap Forest, but nothing about the Galdor Continent or the Castle Village. Maybe I missed dialogue somewhere in the game, but- wait, Morris, being the mayor (Joja path), does talk about them, but that's it. So what art and music is there to even talk about if many of the residents don't even know there's such a town.

But on the other hand, barring one village specifically, a society of wizards and adventurers might (limitedly) share their music or art. However, this would not be much.

4. Do you think anyone in Castle Village ever suggested to open tourism sector for Ferngill people? (This is just a weird question for me 🤣 I could imagine Camilla randomly asking this, and smirking while everyone try to convince her not to do it. Of course she knew not to do it. Duh)

Not exactly tourism, but I had a thought that Camilla would one day (or even a whole week) allow vetted vendors and merchants from all parts of the world to visit Castle Village. And I like to think that something similar could be in the future 2.0 as an event (or just as a headcanon).

And the funny thing is, Camilla would be the originator of this idea. The witches and wizards running Castle Village before her were definitely upholders of the old traditions, and so no one could enter except warriors who had proven their bravery, courage, and desire to help the Castle Village community. To which young Camilla looked and said "fuck your rules" and started to get her way. Eventually, she and the Ministry came to a compromise, believing that a once-a-season or once-a-year vendor of useful items is not a bad event after all. And some members of the Ministry don't need to get the goods they want through smuggling (because I truly believe that someone sitting there is definitely corrupt).

_________________________________________

A small lyrical digression, but while I was writing the answers, I had a question: why is there such a thing at all, I mean allowing only verified people to pass? I understand the point of a barrier against monsters, but why the complication? Is it adherence to tradition, as I mentioned earlier, or is the Castle Village hiding something so powerful that the rest of the world shouldn't know?

Generally, to prove the theory that a society of magic and sword hiding more from a society of advanced technology is that humans are afraid of repeating the fate of the elves who lived before them. Dwarf mentioned in their mature SVE event that the elves mixed technology and magic together, creating a weapon so powerful that it wiped out the creators themselves. Could it be that the Ministry and other mages are afraid of repeating such a fate, which is why they impose such strict rules? There are loads of theories, so I'll stop, otherwise this is going to be a whole dissertation 😅

Thanks again for the question! Write if anyone else has more theories on this, I'm interested in reading them too 👀

#sve #stardew valley expanded #sve world building #sdv #stardew valley #sve headcanons #thanks for the ask!

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clown-university · 3 months ago

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Welcome to My Descent Into

I've finally come to terms with the fact that I am a very silly person, it's a terminal diagnosis. Unfortunately, for the most part, I look like a normal human being so classmates, aquantainces, and unassuming strangers are often confused by my interests and syntax. Rather than repressing my personality to become more tolerable, I choose to embrace visually what I really am deep down: a clown.

I have a background in amateur acting (not the sexy kind, just community theater), singing, and design, but I got famous on tumblr one time so that means I'm definitely qualified to take on this new role for myself. That said, I am getting some help on the research department. I found a copy of Be A Clown! The Complete Guide to Instant Clowning by Turk Pipkin in a thrift store (sadly, without the nose that's supposed to be attached to the cover) that I will mostly be referencing. In addition, I will be consulting my ❤️ beloved bozos 🩵 in acting school, who performed a circus show last spring.

Read more for my first entry. Or don't. You're not my English Professor.

Establishing bullshit out of the way, I started tearing into

as I shall refer to it. Obviously for a book about clowns and how to be one, the author tried to make each page visually interesting (even though they were black and white, it was printed in the ancient year of 👴1989⌛afterall). Lots of photos of real clowns of yore and clipart, fun chapter titles, and all the text is formatted in columns like in newspapers or children's magazines.

I found it amusing my goal was addressed right in the introduction.

"Undercover clowns, hide no more! Armed with a free-flowing lesson plan, you can sail over the edge of accepted behavior." - Turk Pipkin, pg.6

I shall recoil no longer, I am vindicated by this guide to become a menace upon the population! He goes on to explain that being a clown is really about showing off what you're already like on the inside and finding humor in it. The intro also advises not to run away to the circus, though, and I have to wonder if that was to stop lawsuits from parents if a kid really did try.

Next time, I'll get into the next section with gags, tricks, and skills of the clowns, and maybe turning to my acting brethren or one of the improv clubs for some pointers.

The next section, "Ring One: Get Ready", is all about how your clown looks, speaks, walks, and more. I found it peculiar that the author put the guide to crafting a voice before the makeup or costume, but maybe at the time of writing, most famous clowns were TV actors over the facepaint circus clowns. I haven't quite decided what kind of voice I would go for. I loathe the sound of my own voice (for...🩵🩷🤍🩷🩵 Reasons), but I've done choir for years, and I've been told I have unique verbiage when I speak casually, so maybe a pantomine or a clown that only speaks in old english or only sings but doesn't speak might be right for me.

Luckily, on the costume front, I already have a variety of silly clothes and hats from thrift stores I can modify (retail therapy works out sometimes!). Just need to go through my deep recesses of my closet to see if I have enough things to make a complete clown of myself.

Puddles from Puddles Pity Party! He's a whiteface clown, but very visually similar to Pierrot from Comedia del Arte. I like his cover of Helena by MCR (I'm about to put on black and white face paint, yes I was an emo kid).

Next <- here's to hoping I keep with it!

#clown university journal #entry 1 #clown #clowncore #clown blog #commedia dell'arte #puddles pity party #costume #acting #improvisation #mcr #I'm taking suggestions on how i should tag this blog #not like the search functions on Tumblr but still don't want to clutter up other tags #Spotify

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hanro50 · 7 months ago

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Audio transcript Cycle A77-e9B

J"Are the humans at war again? It's barely been 50 cycles since the last such event. " Janifer said. Her antenna raised as she looked out of the main deck window.

B"I am aware Beedriods are fairly new to the intergalactic community around this sector of space. Human wars are luckily rarely an issue to those whom keep their distance from their cluster of space during such events." Barrett said. His scales toned down as he swirled the glowing liquid in his hand.

J"Sentient life requires strive if I recall. An evolutionary pressure to keep intelligence as a trait desirable to select for. Varicose such as yourself spawned from a homeworld that barely had enough of a magneto sphere to prevent its atmosphere from being blown away due to the internal turmoil of your system's star"

B"And yours evolved around a world launched outside any cluster of space on a world that was relatively poor in minerals. What is your point, princess?" Barrett said with a chuckle.

Janifer looked, taken a bit aback by the comment. J"I was merely curious what drove humans to evolve. From what we could tell, their home world seemed set to be a paradise world. Their cluster is also by far the biggest" her antenna twitching as she thought.

B"In a sense, yes, their world has the ideal formation for a paradise world. This being said, due to a variety of factors, their planet failed to fall to a mono culture of life most paradise worlds have. The abundant resources thus caused an explosion of life that quickly overwhelmed even the bountiful resources their home world could provide. This led to harsh competition, which led to intelligence being selected for heavily and that eventually spawned humans." Barrett rattled off this story mindlessly as his done before.

J"So their modern issues are a reflection of what their home world instilled in them? Rather understandable, but still a dull explanation non the less compared to planta and even the Vericose." Janifer scoffed.

B"I mean, they're still experiencing the pressure that drove them where they are today. After every war, we gain some new breakthroughs they made during their fights. Scale-less as it may be, all efforts to stop them from the occasional war last precisely as long as one of their lifetimes before it restarts. Besides, these are two different factions within the human cluster fighting one another compared to last time."

J"Poetic," Jennifer said. Shielding her eyes from the flashing warning lights as she takes some monitoring systems offline before they have a chance to burn out. J"Still, rather annoying....I do wanna visit their home planet at some point.

B"The H1 in our database isn't the original earth, just so you're aware. Collectively, it was known as H0, and before you ask. Their home system's star ran out of hydrogen and is currently undergoing a slow meltdown."

J"That process would have rendered a planet sterile long ago....how old are the humans?"

B"Ancient, comparatively to everyone else in this sector." Barrett said with a sigh.

J"Surprising. You'd have thought a species of self waring orcs would have driven themselves to extinction by now." Jennifer said with a chuckle, leading into a sigh as she turned to process some data that had popped up on her terminal"

#humans are space orcs #fun #experimental #humans are strange #hfy

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bug-oc · 1 year ago

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Bug Fables OC Tournament Round 1

Bau (they/any) from @mantisgodsdomain

Bau (short for Bauplan) is a bandit - a dune cricket of a bandit, to be more specific. Cheerful and enthusiastic, they're prone to making friends wherever they go, with a well of energy and good cheer that almost seems bottomless. Though they belong to a species that's best known for being antisocial and cannibalistic, Bau is, perhaps, the biggest example of "terminally friendly" you'll ever meet - in more ways than one.

The ways to describe them are endless. "Party animal". "Shoulder to cry on". "Like if you violently blended a frat boy with a golden retriever and then made them 8'2 and a criminal". All of these descriptions, and more, fit them nearly perfectly (though they are not, in fact, literally 8'2, for reasons relating to them being an insect). When it comes to those they call their friends, they've got a nearly endless well of both energy and willingness to stick by the people they care for even in the worst of circumstances.

This extends, of course, to conditions most would consider to be decidedly unfriendly. They'll consider you a friend long after you've stabbed them in the back, after you've robbed them blind or carved their shell open with a sword. They are still a Bandit. They understand the kinds of things you have to do to make ends meet! The time might come, after all, where they might have to do the same for you.

They'd hate for you to die - truly, genuinely hate for it - but when it comes down to it, the lives of their fellow bandits have to come first. It's one life against many - and, you know, even if they'll mourn over you, their family needs to eat. They care for the people they meet so genuinely it can be overwhelming - even if you've only met for a bit, you're still a friend in their eyes, and they'll both gleefully and vocally consider you to be a companion. They're painfully genuine in all walks of life - they would never lie about anything regarding their own feelings, even to spare yours.

Down to the wire, they'll always pick the option to preserve as many people's lives as they can. Under kinder circumstances, they would never need to make a choice, but they're a Bandit, and a high-ranking enough one that making tough choices comes to be their responsibility.

They have the fate of their whole community in their hands. They'd love to offer a better chance, but they have to be pragmatic sometimes, especially when it comes to the Bandits they're responsible for feeding. When it comes down to a trolley problem, when it's the life of someone they care for against the lives of however many strangers - your life holds value to them, but they're not so cruel as to let people starve for the sake of one person's feelings.

If it were you with your dagger in their chest, then they would forgive you in a heartbeat. But if you don't feel like they deserve the courtesy of forgiveness - well, that's fine, too. They don't get to choose how you feel, after all. What kind of friend would they be if they tried to pick your thoughts for you? They still consider you to be a good friend, even after everything.

Holly (he/they) from @thetroupemaster

Holly's an ancient Roach with the most hellish commute known to Bugaria, long dead by the time Team Snakemouth rolled around. He was an inhabitant of the Sand Castle in its prime, assisted in his endeavors by a Warden named "Citadel" - who, in fact, practically just pestered him and nothing else - and worked at the Upper Snakemouth laboratories on the immortality experiments conducted within. Every day, he'd have to make the walk from the desert to the caves, and every night, he'd have to make the walk back, with the majority of his work day being travel time.

In fact, this horrible commute was what saved his life from suffering the same fate as the other Snakemouth scientists, as the cavern had already suffered its breakout of the subjects contained within and was thrown into total lockdown by the time he arrived at the gate, unable to get inside. So, Holly went home, unknown of what horrors happened within the walls, and unknowing that their life had been saved by the suffering of walking across half of Bugaria to get to home and work.

Personality-wise, he's a rather casual individual, just doing his job of… well, torturing people. But it's fine, it pays them well enough to make the transit worth it, and he's curious enough about what makes a bug tick that he just couldn't say no to the offer! With a particular interest in technology and biology, and maybe a couple of records of vivisection under their belt, this immortality-obsessed Roach makes quite the impression.

Why should you vote for him? Well, it'd be really funny to vote for a dead scientist, and their awful robot that bites. Oh, yeah, Citadel bites.

#bf oc tournament #bug fables #bug fables oc

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