#and i can't see the word ilk without thinking of that

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Rising

Previous =-= Next

Author's note: Ramiel in Husbandry. Thanks to @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Ash'val and Cedric.

Warnings: None that I can think of ? Let me know if I need to add any warnings....

Summary: Ramiel is Hunting Traitor bastards down- and gets stopped by a Salamander Captain. He is. Confused.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Ramiel had been chasing after the cowardly Chaos Traitor bastards, out of the forest, and into a suburban area, they were swearing at him and while he suspects they may be leading him to a trap or where more of their ilk may be lying in wait to harm him.

He will do his duty and kill as many of this bastards as he can before falling. For it is his duty to die for the glory of the God Emperor and to protect humanity until his death. He hears a voice call out to him and he slows down and tilts his helmet to the side and spots a Salamander Captain calling out to him and he slows down to a halt, snapping to attention.

Even as he feels the adrenaline flowing through his body as he almost vibrates with the need to continue moving- to hunt after the traitors.

"Steady there, little cousin," Captain Ash'val says half ordering, half calming the Large- hm… In armor he's larger than Cedric, likely out of it he's the same size.

Ah- another Primaris Black Templar. This one with full kit. Oh dear. At least there aren't any Black Templars nearby with vox for him to call and bring the wrath of that overzealous and rigid Chapter down on the heads of Chaos and Loyalists alike. Ash'val explains where and when he is.

As well as how he's not supposed to slay, or harass Renegade and Chaos Astartes, to which he rears back a little in alarm, due to the treaty that they have in place between the larger war bands and chapters that have come together upon this most Holy places, Ancient Terra, long before humanity has reached for the stars and settled upon other planets.

"But… heretics?" Ramiel says tilting his head to the side, unintentionally looking like a confused pup.

"Yes, but there are so few of us that fighting amongst ourselves isn't feasible," Ash'val says as he slowly guides the other to Imperial Fist and Salamander base. "You will need to be checked out by an Apothecary to see how well you are doing and what you might need for healing. I see that a sword had gone through your armor and body."

Ramiel can't stop the way he flinches and curls in on himself as he remembers the wound that he had thought would kill him. One of his hands going up to his chest where the dried blood was. He follows after Captain Ash'val he hears what the other is saying, but the words flow through one ear and out the other without making much of an impact.

he makes the appropriate noises as prompted, and he'll be able to recall the words the other has spoken and be able to comprehend them better later. He also started recording Ash'val as he realized he'd started going into that numb state where all he could do was move in the direction that he was ordered to go to silently. For if he made a noise he'd not be able to stop screaming. Or Crying. And neither option was good, First Born Brothers did not like such ridiculous antics.

His mentor the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Captain Mephisteil Petras was quite firm on what was Appropriate and Inappropriate behavior, even for such creatures as he was. He sits in the waiting area of the medbay quietly waiting to be tended to. The Apothecary on Triage heads over to him and almost seems to do a double take when they realize which Chapter he's of and he answers the questions they ask him through numb, hazy lips, hoping that he neither stutters nor speaks to fast or slow.

Or too loud or too quietly. He's not actively dying and he's not in much pain, Captain Ash'val says that he's to be processed as new arrivals are to be, so he's not an acute case. He can wait. The Ultramarine First Born peers down at him for a moment or two before heading off. A

nd he … drifts even as he remains in his body, carefully, slowly breathing in and out. He hears a familiar voice call out and he gets up. Ramiel blinks and suddenly he's clinging to Cedric and his helmet's off... How? When did that happen. They are in an exam room and he feels something drip down his cheeks and he doesn't point out to Cedric that his Apothecary Brother is silently crying.

Cedric's got a soft heart, besides Cedric is doing his duties as an Apothecary and it's just the two of them, so Ramiel doesn't have to say anything, so he won't. He never wanted to be one of the hands that punished his brothers, but by the commands of his mentor the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Captain Mephisteil Petras, he had to, or worse things would happen and make him wish he'd obeyed promptly.

"Are we both dead, then?" Ramiel says to Cedric, after the check up is over tilting his head inquisitively to Cedric. "after all, I thought the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Captain Mephisteil Petras would be… wise enough not to piss off your mentor. Not after what your mentor said he'd do to others if they tried to harm you."

Cedric reiterates what Captain Ash'val said about them being on Ancient Terra… and how as far as anyone can tell they are all still alive. Just here and not where they were before. Cedric's eyes flicker and he hesitates before telling Ramiel that his mentor, the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Captain Mephisteil Petras had been punished.

As had those who'd sided with him when their Chapter Master put his foot down and declared that the Primaris Marines aren't Heretical and/or Abominations to be purged. And who had decided to challenge, and fail and suffer the consequences (death) for doing so. He's quite surprised that his mentor, the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Captain Mephisteil Petras had been one of the ones to challenge, and fail to win.

[girldragongizzard]

Epilogue 3: The Fenverse

"People say that my experiment failed dramatically," Fenmere the Poet says to me as we watch the proceedings. "But those that do weren't there. And they fail to acknowledge the beneficial repercussions of what the Harmless Free Radicals did. But, of course, I never finished the comic, so there's no record. Still…" She gestures at the two Artists working to restore the wooded wetland of her old vacant lot.

I've read what remains of that comic, what's left online, and I really can't see how it was part of anything big. There's very little that's special about it, and it's messy and weird. But, then, the outward appearances of the works of the Artists are often like that.

What I can see now, however, is that Chapman is crouched down working with Scilla the Botonist, quietly and carefully, murmuring in low relaxed tones. I am, in fact, in the presence of three Artists and they are not bickering, arguing, snapping at each other, or otherwise showing any sort of friction between them. And that is profoundly, disturbingly unusual. And nice.

This work started with the new year, actually. Every month, Chapman and Scilla have made their rounds to each of Säure's burn scars, and started prepping them for a year of intense, planned but wild growth. It only took that long to get started because they had to form the business and strike up a contract with the city to do the repairative work instead of someone else. Though, that was helped along thanks to certain connections I'd already established, and a few strategic pieces of poetry by Fenmere.

This is my first time going along for the rounds, though, so Fenmere is bragging to me about what she's done to make this possible.

I'm genuinely interested, of course, because this is Fairport and Artist history, though I was even alive for a lot of it.

"I was the first, you know," Fenmere says. "This is why I've called myself 'the Worm' for so long. A reminder of my first form, but also of how lowly we all truly are. A reminder to myself to be humble, though I'm still very terrible at that." She looks at me for a moment as if to see if I'm about to react to what she's said, but I'm afraid I'm a disappointment to her. She continues after a breath, "I got to see the hatching of each of my siblings, and watch them grow with the help of the others in a way I didn't get to experience. And almost immediately, there was fighting. We've never all got along. Too many differences."

"Ah," I say.

I've been constantly working on my vocabulary, but I seem to be coming to the limits of it. So, I've started collecting noises that are as versatile as possible. The various grunts of acknowledgement that English speaking humans use to keep a conversation going. It seems that I can learn to imitate an unlimited number of noises, really, but only remember a small handful of them as words. So when I practice and use a new word for long enough, my memory of a less used one will become less available when I need it. I'll never talk like a human without my AAC, and I'm totally OK with that. Often, I prefer it.

"Now I know what people like Säure and his ilk say about us Artists. I know they call us the Architects, or other terms and phrases of similar provenance and intent. And that my work, my Fenverse, must seem like playing into their expectations," the Poet explains in her strange, rough, lispy voice, mouth opening a minuscule fraction to let the air and sound from her syrinx escape, her nostrils doing most of the work. "But, I don't give a flying shit about them. Whether we're talking about ants or gods, cooperation is better than eternal conflict. And the world really has seen too many eons of chaos as it is. I think it is high time for some more harmony. Don't you?"

"Yes," I agree.

She gestures with her right claw at the ground of the land surrounding the creek, which gleams in the morning sun, and says, "When they are done planting this round of seeds, I'll bless the lot with some of my words, and we'll be ready to go to the next location. This should never have happened. But we can bring it back to its original half-assed glory of municipal environmental posturing within the year, and to something much better by the next. The raccoons and deer will love it!" She turns to smile at me, eyes doing the same slow blink that I do. "Of course, the Earth needs far more work than this. And if something isn't done soon, this lot will burn down again in no time. But I think with how us dragons have turned out, and how we may be shaping humanity and the world itself in ways that we Artists could never achieve, there should be some hope!"

I bob my head.

"But I am still inordinately proud of what I did," she mumbles. "The Fenverse was probably my greatest work."

"How?" I ask, happy that that word bubbled up in time to use it.

"Did you know that not all poetry must be written or spoken in words to be considered poetry?" she asks me.

"No," I reply, honestly. That sounds like bullshit.

"It is true," she says. "I've been composing poetry since billions of years before language existed, so I should know, of course. In any case, it was simple. I used the ridiculous shenanigans portrayed in my comics to lure representatives from the various cliques and factions of my siblings. And then, when all the important players were here, I bound them in a poem, the Fenverse. And despite what they think, it worked. I was so cunning, I disgust myself."

As I said, having read the comics myself I still find that hard to believe. But, again, Rhoda once said that the Artists are like the scientists to the ants that are the rest of us. And I certainly know that the Artists can Do Things. Chapman, for instance, can draw a few careful lines on a paper cup and turn it into a megaphone. Or with a few different lines, and a hole in the end, it becomes a small jet engine. So I don't discount anything Fenmere is saying, as hard it as it is for me to emotionally accept it.

—

Way back. Thursday, October 24, 2002, if I recall correctly.

The new coffee shop finally opened its doors where the old Donut Kitchen used to be. The sign on the brick column in front of the door had the business' logo as big as a child. And it was a child. A cartoon of a black haired girl holding a huge steaming cup of coffee.

I was the first customer. I'd been checking their "opening soon" sign every day to be sure I remembered the hour correctly. 6:30 am, October 24.

It was a different set of owners at the time. They'd eventually sell the place to their employees, after starting their own roastery. All such good people, even if they occasionally had their differences.

That day, I put up with the company of others to start a line at the door at five o' clock. And the owners, who were staffing the counter that morning, were bewildered and delighted by the enthusiasm of these five people, as if they found themselves hosting a rock show with first come first serve seating or something. I don't know why, but when the doors opened, the other four people stepped aside and insisted I go first.

I was wearing New Balance shoes from K-Mart, a pair of jeans I found at Good Will that were a bit too baggy and held up by a belt my grandfather gave me, and a huge gray hoodie. The biggest hoodie I could find, hood up, with my beard poking out from it. There was a crumpled up collection of dollar bills in my fist in the pocket.

This was before I'd become fully disabled. I think the job I had at the time was at a record store. It wasn't going well. The boss was a high strung anal-retentive dick.

Look, I've never really used words like that to describe anybody before. It's not my style. But there really isn't a better way to describe this guy.

I'd already put myself on the waiting list for the Magnolia apartments, though. I think I knew where I was headed already.

Anyway, I did not look or smell like someone anyone should give deference to. But for the brief few seconds, I was treated like a lady, and it hurt in such a good way. And I'm sure none of the people there knew or would have guessed why.

I ordered a cowboy cookie and a double tall mocha with no whipped cream, and then immediately saw my favorite seat, off in the far corner.

The golden upholstery, high back with wings, and deep shadows of the twelve buttons punched through the padding all called to me, but the location was the best part. I could watch the whole cafe from there, and the parabolic array of my hood would channel sound from the front into my ears.

So that's where I was sitting when the wild haired, goateed person in a navy blue trench coat walked in, shoving their hand deep into their satchel to pull out a stack of neon orange quarter page handbills. They were so excited. And, now, I know that most people looking at this person would have gendered them a man, just like what they would have done looking at me. But, I know better now, so I'm using they/them in retrospect, even though their name is a stereotypically male name.

I really don't know many enbies named Jonathan.

After placing their order, and introducing themself, which they did with excruciating politeness and care, they pushed their stack of handbills forward on the counter and said, "I'd like to ask if it's OK for me to distribute these weekly comics here. They're kinda weird, but my friend draws them, and we both thought this would be the perfect place, because your logo looks like one of her characters!"

Both owners of the shop leaned forward over the counter to look at the sample of the comic, Andi up on her tiptoes in order to see, and Henry leaning in sideways, hands busy wiping down a freshly cleaned mug.

"Oh, yeah!" Andi said. "These would be great! We'd be honored to carry these!"

"Oh, sweet. Thank you!" Jonathan said, then took most of the stack and turned to put them on the windowsill near the counter. "Is this a good spot."

"You bet," Henry said.

Then Jonathan, waiting for their drink with hands in pockets, looked my way and pulled a hand out to wave.

I guess I waved back.

They grinned, then kept looking around the shop in awe of it.

The decor was the same back then as it is now, but the colors of the walls and ceiling were different. With the new owners came a fresh look, but still in the same basic "actually the Victorians really loved color" theme. The fixtures and collection of strange glassware in the windows have remained. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling were added much later. They were absent when Jonathan took in the place.

Walls the color of milky coffee were trimmed with golden orange molding, and the ceiling was an amazing yellow. The furniture and counters were painted in a circus rainbow of reds, blues, greens, yellows, and the occasional purple. The radiator was painted a dark russet.

"Great Scott, I love this place," Jonathan said.

"Thank you!" Andi exclaimed, handing them their drink in a to-go cup.

Then Jonathan left.

Andi shot me a smile before returning to her place behind the counter.

The other four customers who had been waiting with me outside the door were also scattered around the shop, and had watched the exchange. One of them stood up to go look at one of the comics. I watched them flip it over and read something on the back, then put it back down, grunting. Then they left.

After a couple of hours, I was the only customer in the shop, so I got up to see what the fuss was about.

The comic was titled Harmless Free Radicals and was marked as copyright 2002 by Fenmere, the Worm. It was printed in thick black toner on this Astrobrite card stock, four up and then trimmed into these little handbills. This one had only one panel. It was a scratchy cartoon of a girl, a lot like the one on the shop's logo, sitting on the floor next to her bed, with some kind of little dragon made entirely of shadow perched on her bed looking over her shoulder. She was holding a set of the comic handbills.

"More cards?! How? I thought they came out once a week! It's only Thursday!" the little dragon exclaimed. I felt like I could hear her voice.

"Shush! Stop breaking character! We have to maintain a suspension of disbelief in order for this to work," the girl replied in low tones, I imagined.

There was a url. It was a webcomic in the early '00s. Of course self-referential meta fourth wall breaking bullshit was totally in at the time. Well, all the webcomic authors seemed to think it was a hit.

—

After an hour or so of listening to Fenmere talk about her big scheme, her Fenverse, I'm maybe ready to say more than just a word here or there.

During a pause in her speech, while she's busy observing the work of her siblings, I turn and plod my way over to the sidewalk and pull out my tablet to put it on the concrete. Then I look at her and wait for her to notice. She has fully forward facing eyes, like a human's, so her peripheral vision isn't as great as mine.

"So, in any case," she starts saying and then looks over to where I was. Then she notices where I am and how I've pulled out my tablet. "Yes?"

"Ian and Brenna starred in comic," I tell her. "What about Ink and Jenifer?" Ink was the little dragon and Jenifer the girl.

"Oh, yes," Fenmere says. "Everyone in the comic was a real person who lives today. Though, Ink is Jenifer's imaginary friend. She's sort of a special case."

"And Jonathan?" I ask. "They aren't a hampster."

"Oh, yes they are," Fenmere says.

"Like Kimberly a poodle?" I ask.

"Oh, beans, no," Fenmere chuckles. "That's 'Hamster, with a capital 'H' and an apostrophe before it. The cartoon was a liberty to throw people off, but Jonathan is from Bellingham. A Bellinghamster."

"Bellingham? Where that?" I ask.

"Somewhere else," Fenmere says. "It's unimportant now. In any case, as I was saying, in order to make the whole thing work I had to bind Fairport in the treaty as well. It's inherently part of the alliance. So, when my siblings come here, there's a minimal amount of trouble they can cause each other. And when I'm present, it's peaceful."

"Wait," I say.

"Yes?"

"You started comic in 2000?"

"I did."

"And you finish in 2015?"

Fenmere cringes and says, "I stopped in 2015. The Fenverse was completed then, but not the comic. I'll always regret that, but there are more important things to do now."

"What is Fenverse?" I ask, even though she sort of already explained it. I want a more detailed description. Something's itching at the back of my mind.

"My entire life's work," Fenmere says. "A poem written with the fabric of reality itself, where my siblings are the words, and this city, Fairport, is the signature. I had to use the inherent magic of humanity to make it work, though. Other people, other animals, would have eventually sufficed. Humans were just lucky enough to put together the right mix of dreaming, beliefs, and science, I think."

"Why Fairport?" I ask.

"Because I was here at the time," Fenmere replies. "It's nothing that special, except maybe it tends to isolate itself from the rest of the world too much, and lies to itself about its own nature. Like a lot of small cities across the world. So that isn't all that special, either, just the right properties for what I needed. Also, I like the coffee here."

"Are people of Fairport part of Fenverse?" I prod, getting to the crux of my itch.

"Oh, I suppose yes, they'd have to be, since the city wouldn't exist without them," she responds, looking up in the air at something in her mind.

"I bound by Fenverse," I say.

"You were here, so yes," she says.

"Rhoda bound by Fenverse," I point out.

"Oh."

I get up and walk away. I've got some thinking to do.

I think I'm going to want to compare notes with Chapman, when sie is free to think about this kind of thing. And I want to figure things out more clearly before I talk to Rhoda about it. And, I also wish I was in better touch with Ptarmigan. There were a bunch of things the Artists were doing when we were fighting Säure that didn't have obvious effects, and they didn't explain what happened. I feel like the same thing is going on here with the Fenverse, whatever it really was.

More particularly, I think the Artists aren't always fully aware of the side effects of their Arts. Or they don't care.

I have no idea if it could be true, but Fenmere's exclamation when I pointed it out seems to indicate it's a distinct possibility.

If Rhoda and I are part of the same enforced treaty that was meant to bind all of Fenmere's siblings to some sort of harmony and peace, maybe that was a force in the way the dracomorphosis unfolded. It might be how Rhoda became the Bellwether, or the Dreamer.

Because right about the time Fenmere was putting the final touches on her life's work, a poem that was billions of years in the making if we believe her, Rhoda was freshly grieving the loss of her child, Jacob. Only a handful of years into that grief, at most. Not a perfect coincidence, and other people in the city must have been grieving things. But still.

I'm not sure it's relevant in the grand scheme of things, though, besides giving Fenmere something to think about. To bring her up short next time she's doing something that big.

Things still happened the way they did, and a bunch of other things that were going very badly have started turning around.

I'm not sure anyone would really want to risk rewinding things and doing them differently, even if we could do that.

I know I don't.

[general-klumpp]

DuckTales THEORY: Team Who?

Hello Duckblr! We know that in DuckTales 2017, Huey, Dewey and Webby have their own definite cliques, but what if this idea were to extend to each of the six Duck children in hypothetical future seasons?

TLDR: If DuckTales kept going on, we would have seen more Louie/Doofus/Goldie episodes. May's interrogative side can blend her in with the Rescue Rangers.

Team Science (Huey)

Huey's group of allies usually revolves around working on scientific breakthroughs and his hero, Gizmoduck. Huey stories would usually involve these specific characters:

Gyro Gearloose

Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera (Gizmoduck)

Manny

BOYD

Gandra Dee

Huey's enemy is usually Mark Beaks, a businessman who makes his living off dumb and/or stolen ideas, which is totally against his moral code. If executed better, Dr. Akita could make a better contender.

Team Action (Dewey)

Dewey's group of allies usually revolves around getting into dangerous situations, definitely not due to the influence of Launchpad or his very own mother, Della. Dewey stories would usually involve these specific protagonists:

Launchpad McQuack

Della Duck

Drake Mallard (DW)

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer (an extension of DW)

Kit and Molly

Dewey's enemy is usually Don Karnage, a deranged air pilot who will go to any lengths to gain vengeance on him. Falcon Graves has also appeared in Dewey stories, a serious contender for his showboating.

Team Scheme (Louie)

Despite being shown to be a charmer in the show, Louie falls flat when it comes to making secure friends, especially when it's in his nature that he is the 'evil triplet' of the Duck boys. However, the cunning antihero, Goldie O'Gilt is quite fond of him. Louie stories would definitely involve these specific characters:

Goldie O'Gilt

Doofus Drake

Ottoman Brothers (placeholder because they're always in the background of Louie stories)

Although Louie completely destroyed Glomgold in S2, I'd love to see Rockerduck as his enemy, as the Wild West Swindler has a more interesting way to battle - with his words, instead of his fists.

Team Magic (Webby/April)

Webby's group of allies usually revolves around trying to fix the curses laid out from Scrooge's adventures, or his most powerful enemy, Magica De Spell. Webby stories would usually involve these specific characters:

Lena Sabrewing

Violet Sabrewing

Blackarts Beagle (redemption arc??)

Phantom Blot and Pepper (maybe they're forced to team-up??)

Morgana (placeholder because they don't have a grown-up hero)

Webby and Lena's enemy is usually Magica De Spell, a witch who wants to use her powers to abuse and take advantage of others, completely opposite to how Webby wants to play.

Team Mystery (May)

Despite the wishes of her current guardian, Donald Duck, I could see May get into contact with her ilk, also experimented on by FOWL - no other than the Rescue Rangers themselves!

Chip and Dale

Gadget Hackwrench

Monterey Jack

Zipper

...and maybe Detective Gokart from the comics (a loser that May could help to become a better person)

Perhaps the Rescue Rangers have found a larger FOWL experiment gone rogue and they need a heroine around their size to help bring the experiment to justice.

Team ??? (June)

Team Sports? Team Wellbeing? Team Theatre? Team Adorable? It seems that poor June is the only one I can't think of for a team.

By process of elimination, the only frequent group of protagonists without a child character to support them are the gods/goddesses of Ithaquack.

Bum Bum Ghigno, an everyday person from the comics might help her appreciate the normal and might draw parallels between the clone twins and his relationship with his brother.

I'd love to put the Idle Hour Club from Donald's first ever cartoon somewhere, but those stories wouldn't be fun.

[hell-drabbles]

I been learning 19th centuries Literature so I can improve my writing even more 👉👈 Eldritch is so fun to wri6✍️- dyssey

-

Behold the comedy of the mortality.

Pursing and vying against one to another in the reiterative it deems life. Peeking down at the peasant 's desultory. Once full of optimism and pursuit of understanding, now dissolved in shallowed, old and waste of life. All because of an endeavor they can't get pass without any narrative from their guts. Not once a god.

Fascination yet mundane.

FAILURE

FAILURE

FAILURE

FAIL𝘜𝘙𝘌FAIL𝘜𝘙𝘌

𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌

𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌

𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘓𝘜𝘙𝘌

𝘍𝘈𝘐��𝙐𝙍𝙀𝘍𝘈𝘐𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝘍𝘈𝘐𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝘍𝘈𝘐𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀

𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀

𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀

𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙁𝘼𝙄𝙇𝙐𝙍𝙀.

FAILURE.

You are all nothing but a sack of futile dreams and ambitions. Believing, waiting, yearning until your days end and becoming an additional feast for my unyielding hunger. You sin. You preach. You live. You die. You love. It's all the same to me. There is no such as Good nor Bad in 𝘮𝘺 palm.

Be still your breathing heart. Solomon. For your end has yet on my fork.

(Ahh, I remember that phase I had way back when, when all I wanted to do was emulate that specific writing style those old novels used to have. Those paragraph long sentences. Fun times. It's pretty fun exercise, especially if you're attempting to write in that Stream of Consciousness style. Now, let me stretch out my muscles and see if I still got it. While I have my doubts, all I can do is try, right?)

Pray tell me, how many years do you think you can afford to spend prattling at me, swallowing my every word until you've reached the end? Tell me, dear dear Solomon. Tell me, oh human who vies for my every little seed of knowledge.

...Ha. You'll be dust by then. Is that really the kind of fate you want? To shed off bits and bits of your humanity until there is nothing left? I heard stories from your homeland, of colorful, cautionary tales of what's to come when you're no longer human. That you'll hunted by the angels, that the earth will open up and swallow you right into the depths of hell with no hesitation. That even the sun will gaze upon you until your existence has been erased.

You will not know rest, dear dear Solomon. No matter how many years you may gain, understanding will always be far from your reach. You know this well. Understanding me means sentencing yourself away from the rest of your ilk, and I know well how isolation breaks a most fragile human mind.

...you find that much comfort in my presence, in just this small, grain-like part of me? You are speaking to a speck, Solomon. And I am speaking to something so, so much smaller.

How strange you are, Solomon. A true human, in every sense of the word.

And how fleeting you will be, Solomon, when I next blink, when I next sleep. If I so much as sigh, your little system will end just like that. If I move to stretch out my branches, you will all fall apart and end without even knowing it.

...no, dear dear Solomon. Mourning, lamenting when all has past, I don't do such things. Past, present, future, it does not matter to me to mourn or reminisce.

Solomon, my branches, my leaves, my fruits and seeds stretch across all. I cannot mourn what can never leave. Did you not dedicate your existence to me?

I am not human, Solomon. I am not confined to this shell you have made me. I do not dream, nor do I yearn. I hunger. For as long as I am, I will hunger. There will not be an end to it.

...Ha. That makes you happy, even when, as all things, you will become nourishment for me eventually?

How... human of you, Solomon. How delightfully and stupidly human of you.

Ascribe as much meaning to yourself as you like, dear dear Solomon. Whether you break, or grow, or even learn to hate and love, you will be a part of my branches eventually.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C6_olobo19o/?igsh=MTloNjEzaWNweTBnag==

It's a bit strange to see that she can't even pronounce the ancient greek she's using correctly. Of course, since she's not a native speaker she won't have the perfect pronunciation but still, I'd always imagined that she'd have spoken it better. Even the "PatrOklous" feels annoying.

Emily Wilson my behated.. Anglo classicists being Anglo classicists - what did we expect. Also she's talking about Achilles calling Patroclus "philos", a word she doesn't even pronounce right even though it's a two-syllable word and the stressing marks are RIGHT THERE. Thankfully she doesn't say that the "philos" or the text in general shows erotic love between Achilles and Patroclus, which shows at least she has done the most basic research xD

But she also makes an oversight when speaking about a phrase. Achilles saying for Patroclus "I love him like my head" doesn't necessarily translate into "I love him like myself". Once more western writers ignore Greek sentiments. Equating people to body parts in Greek culture and nearby ancient cultures means "he is very precious to me (as precious as this body part is to me)". This affects Wilson's approach and she then thinks that Achilles considers Patroclus "a part of his own body", and that when Patroclus dies Achilles loses "his head / his thoughts". This approach feels a bit lucklaster, ngl.

The phrase is like the English "he's the apple of my eye", and if I were to analyse this English phrase how Wilson and more of her ilk do it for Greek, I would be say""Of my eye" means that Achilles covets this particular fruit as it's the only one in his eyes, and so he desires Patroclus! Plus, so many fruits are consumed during this Epic, so when Patroclus dies Achilles is without food and nourishment!" 😂

That's cute speculation on her part but again, just speculation. I am not saying her speculation is out of the question, but sometimes considering the Greek cultural norms (ancient and newer) when studying the Greek epics can turn you into a new direction.

[blackjackkent]

Quick trot around camp to talk to everyone.

Rakha's actually having a (comparatively) decent couple days following on from her joy at seeing the curse purged from the Shadow-Cursed Lands. She's still sleeping as badly as ever, the beast still desperately wants her to kill Isobel and Aylin and even sometimes Wyll, and she still sleeps tied up in a corner of camp rather than risk letting it get the upper hand. But for the few days of walking it's taken them to get to the city, she's been, if not at peace, then at least in less pain, and that's more than she's come to expect.

Pity we're about to backhand her with The Horrors again around bedtime.

Let's see how everyone else is doing.

------

Gale missed his chance to follow Mystra's instructions but doesn't seem that broken up about it.

"I was supposed to sacrifice myself to stop the Absolute - yet I don't think I could have gone through with it in truth. And I'm glad that I didn't, given what has come to light."

For some reason, Karlach is hanging around for this conversation. She's not in Rakha's active party and her tent is nowhere nearby, so I have no idea why she's just here listening to Gale ramble. I guess camp entertainment is limited and they all have a vested interest in knowing what Gale is planning for his on-board nuke.

"You seem in a good mood,"(*) Rakha says noncommittally.

"Indeed!" Gale says enthusiastically. "Under other circumstances, I might have been subdued. Or ashamed. But after what we saw? I must admit I'm excited!"

Excited is certainly not the word Rakha would choose for the current situation, but she has long since come to the conclusion that she will never fully understand the way Gale's mind works.

"The elder brain," Gale goes on. "But more importantly - the crown that it wore. Even without seeing it for myself, I could sense it. Netherese magic. So pure, so complete, that I doubted what I was feeling at first. Most Netherese artifacts contain only the faintest amount of their former power - the ghost of an echo of a memory. That crown was different. I can't fathom how such a wonder survived - surely everything of its ilk was destroyed along with Netheril itself."

He catches himself on the beginning of his downward slide into rambling, straightens up a little. "But no matter. It exists, and I must learn more of it."

Rakha nods. This, at least, is something she and Gale share - an appreciation for the sense and appearance of pure magic. And she too felt the intensity of the power contained in that crown before the brain drifted out of view. Also, what he's saying correlates with what the guardian said in her brief appearance after the battle - that the crown is a Netherese artifact, like the orb in Gale's chest.

"What do you suggest?" she asks slowly.

"We need to learn more about what we saw. An artifact as powerful as that crown must have been documented somewhere. As luck would have it - we'll soon find ourselves near one of the finest book collections this side of Candlekeep: Sorcerous Sundries. I need to go there and learn all I can."

Bookstores are another thing Rakha has little familiarity with. Stores in general, really; all her trading experience has been with random people willing to give this-for-that on the road. But she can extrapolate what Gale's describing well enough. A book collection - a room full of answers.

"Sounds like an excellent idea," she says matter-of-factly.

"The only kind I have!" Gale says cheerfully. He's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with enthusiasm. "Their collection of rare tomes is unparalleled! Netherese texts are hardly commonplace, but I'm certain they'll have one or two stashed away. You'll have to forgive my eagerness, but if my suspicions prove to hold water, this could be the answer to all our problems."

Well. That certainly sounds promising. Rakha has no idea what this store looks like or where in the city it might be, but she makes a mental note to keep an eye out for it.

-----

(*) Slightly shortened line ("You seem in a good mood. I thought you might be more subdued after coming close to blowing up.") to fit Rakha's speech pattern better.

[protoslacker]

Politics in the Toilet

Lots of graffiti in one of the toilet stalls at work recently . There was a running Biden v. Trump argument. The Biden side was hampered by ink vulnerable to whatever chemical the cleaner uses against graffiti. The Trump side was probably using a Sharpie which remain unphased by it. The Trump side seems to have won, at least a temporary victory, writing: "Since you hate America you damn Communist."

When I got home I stumbled upon a author event with Kohei Saito and listened in. Saito"s 2020 book, Capital in the Anthropocene, became a surprise bestseller in Japan.

My experience in the USA, being called a "communist" is a lot like being called a "faggot," both epithets imply that such a person deserves violence meted out. I'm not sure that's the case in Japan, but Saito remarked that he used the term "degrowth communism" to emphasize that the climate and environment crises demand radical responses.

I can't view anything on YouTube that's remotely"left-leaning" without first some stern words from Victor Davis Hanson or something of that ilk. Saito's unexpected popularity has spawned lots of critical reviews as compared to Jason Hickle's book Less Is More: How Degrowth Will Save the World. There's some traction in having an unexpected bestseller. I enjoyed listening to Saito and my sense is that sudden or perhaps fleeting fame isn't going to phase him much.

Some of Saito's critics are from the left and a recurrent criticism is over the politics of achieving degrowth, or more broadly a politics of eco-socialism. One reviewer suggested reading Vincent Bevins's book, If We burn along side Saito"s Slow Down. Bevins's book sought to answer why a decade of protest has resulted in so little political change.

I'm a very commonplace person who looks to the writing on the toilet stall wall for a feel for the political pulse. But I noticed that Bevins previous book was The Jakarta Method. That book chronicles the American policy of mass killing in countries over the globe during the Cold War.

Seeing that book reminded me that it's not just everyday bullies who want to beat me up because the think I'm a faggot, a communist, or a faggot-communist, the violence is baked into the slow movement of history.

The climate crisis is moving faster than expected. The politics leading to positive change are very hard, and the stakes existential. I feel encouraged by Kohei Saito and Jason Hickel courage and good humor. I'm convinced that kindness is essential to politics now.

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks for tagging me, @omgpurplefattie!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

78 😅

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

864,062 - this is apparently just a bit more than Gone With The Wind....twice. I don't know how to feel about this.

What fandoms do you write for?

The Untamed (I have also written a handful of fics for Word of Honor and a very tiny one-shot for Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty, but I'm definitely a CQL/MDZS author lol)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

You Need Tending - A very young, tiny Wangxian meet as children in Yunmeng and canon diverges sweetly from there.

Unexpected Solutions - LXC POV - What if the other sect leaders got to see the Burial Mounds instead of taking JGS's word for it that WWX was raising an army?

You Are Of Their Ilk - Sequel to You Need Tending, a LQR-centric fic examining what it's like to actually raise the Jades (and WWX) when he's got a Sect to run and parenting insecurities to overcome.

Plans To Make - A Wangxian-centric Time Travel Fix-it AU, technically the prequel fic to my first 3zun fic (in which the fixings-of-it have already been done and the post-canon, 5-years-in-seclusion Lan Xichen wakes up in the altered timeline wondering how the hell he has two husbands who are definitely not dead).

Professor Lan, Babysitter Extraordinaire - Modern AU Professor!LWJ spends an afternoon minding A-Yuan for Mature Student!WWX and is instantly charmed.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Sometimes! I used to respond to every single comment I got when I first started posting, but then I just got really overwhelmed and had to stop, and I've never picked up the habit again. If I feel particularly strongly about a comment or have something specific to say I'll try to respond, but otherwise I bask in them all silently (sorry, and I love y'all, I really do read every single comment I swear).

What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

The Shadow's Call - An extremely depressed Lan Xichen is violently dragged out of his seclusion in the Hanshi 8 years post-canon by fierce corpse NieYao, who definitely aren't sentient at all but still somehow feel incomplete without their third.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Aside from The Shadow's Call all of my fics end happily!! I just can't do the depressing ones most of the time 😅 I think some of my favorite happy endings for various reasons, though, are The Sculptor, After Each Midnight Begins A New Day, anything in the Orville Peck Cinematic Universe, and anything from the 90's Strip Mall AU, Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center. (Everything in the last two especially is just pure feel-good fluff, not only the endings haha)

Do you get hate on fics?

Not anymore! The XiYao troll must have found something better to do so we can now like JGY in peace 😌

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! I don't know what kind though 😅 the smutty kind? I don't really delve too deeply into kink or BDSM, and I don't write omegaverse or tentacles or anything all that creative; I just write what I would consider bog standard 'I'm ace and I understand people like doing this, I really hope the allos find this enjoyable to read' kind of smut. (Usually for me it's more about the emotional impact/character development use of it rather than the porn-y-ness of it, if that helps??)

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Nope! I like writing AU's of my favorite ships blended with other media I like, but not direct crossovers.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hope not!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! Вони — це ми/ They Are Us is a Ukrainian translation by sandbranco of 'They Are Us', El escultor By Eleanor_Fenyx is a Spanish Translation by ellieffect and KabiBaali of 'The Sculptor', and another Spanish Translation of 'The Sculptor' by GabyObando13. I'm always so flattered when someone likes something of mine enough to do such an incredible labor of love as translating it ❤

What's your all-time favorite ship?

3zun, my beloveds

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Plans To Make - In an ideal world I would finish this soon so I can stop being eaten up with low-simmering guilt about it (along with several other projects, let's be real), but the fact of the matter is that I never actually wanted to write the full fix-it for this universe in the first place. I started Lan Xichen's introduction into this universe after the fix-it has already happened partially because I find that dynamic of a depressed Lan Xichen suddenly partnered with a happily married NieYao really interesting, but also because I don't like all the tangled threads of a universe-wide fix-it and I knew I'd get way too bogged down in details to really enjoy it. That's exactly what's happened, and that's partially why the fic has been sitting so long without an update. I do really want to finish it one day, though.

What are your writing strengths?

I occasionally get comments praising my characterization/character voices, so hopefully that's one. I also like to think that I do a decent job with accurately communicating both relatable and not-quite-as-relatable experiences - queerness of various flavors, neurodivergence, strangely specific life experiences...I usually try to write what I know, and I'm always happy when it resonates with people in the ways that I'd hoped for while writing them.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I feel like I can get sooo long-winded, and I'm also kind of bad for setting up plotty bits in my longer fics that I never actually follow through on.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

The furthest I'll go is honorifics that I'm confident with using, I absolutely do not trust myself or any online translator to attempt whole lines of dialogue.

First fandom you wrote for?

BBC Sherlock - those fics are all orphaned now, though

Favorite fic you've written?

I'm going to choose three just because I can: After Each Midnight Begins A New Day (3zun), The Sculptor (Wangxian), and Main Objective : Destroy Yiling Laozu (Breath of the Wild AU, my beloved)

I'm going to tag: @little-smartass, @wei--wuxian, @scarlet-gryphon, @wishthatiwasnessiesgirl, @threephasebird, and anyone else who writes who wants to play!

[enarmor]

@allegreta & @sorcerese sent:

6; a turning point in their life

//via memories; no longer accepting

A young boy, no older than can be counted on his fingers, takes up a stool next to a pair of burly men. Knights, they are, though one might not have glanced as much from their appearances. They are sloppy and worn, and without their armor: veterans who have grown hard, but also crusty. They lack the kind of refinement one would expect from a fairy tale hero, and they are in stark contrast to the boy who can barely climb onto his seat with all four of his limbs. They are made for adults, which he soon finds out by the ugly stares cast his way.

"And just what the hell do you think you're doin'?" asks one, all but livid that his conversation had been broken up by a mere kid.

"This is a knight's hall," quips the boy, matter-of-factly, "and I am a knight. I'm supposed to be here!"

Another of them grumbles. He hits his fist against the bar when he speaks, not too keen on listening to childish homilies, "And we don't care! Yer' still a kid. What we're talkin' about ain't for a kid's ears."

"Why not?"

It's such a natural question that he doesn't think twice when asking it. Inquisitive by nature, he would simply like to know. There is a reason why wonder is often called childlike: because children have it in abundance.

"'Cause you've gotta grow a few hairs on yer chest before you can appreciate any of it. Now scram! 'Fore a few bad words become the least of your worries."

He wrinkles his face in response, mood and visage soured by the notion that he would ever be excluded from anything. It isn't fair! The others rarely want him around, so this place should have offered some respite... But...

"I... I can handle it!" He is blurting things without thinking again, letting his desire to be accepted be what leads him on, "I am Sain, the strongest of all knights! One day I'll learn what it means to be a true knight," and thus, impress father, "so lay it on me!"

The men look to eachother, then back at Sain, and one belches a laugh. His hand collides with the table a few times, earning a nervous chuckle from the boy as he tries to follow it with his gaze. "Alright you little squire, you think you're hot stuff? We were talkin' about bar maids. Ever seen a woman before?"

"W-Women...?" Sain nearly loses his footing, surprised that his comrades were so quick to change their minds. And their question is surprising, to boot. But a friend is a friend, no matter the ilk. If they must rub some of their qualities on him for Sain to do the same, then he'll comply without hesitation. He'll bear their burden, talk about what they want to--just so they can talk about anything at all. "Of course I've seen 'em! There are plenty of women out there!"

"But I betcha' ain't ever looked at one."

Again, confusion. Seeing them and looking at them are the same thing, right?

But before he can reply, the other knight takes his silence to mean he doesn't understand. "Listen up, boy!" he clamors, delivering a forceful shove to Sain's shoulder, "Falling for beautiful women is what we cavaliers do! It's our job to rush in and protect them. The reward for our jobs is their affection: the prettier the face, the bigger the payoff."

A fearful smile twists the corners of the squire's mouth. He can't quite tell whether he should be appalled or excited, that he had been treading upon so different a path. "Are you... Sure? I thought knights were paid in riches..."

"The gold is secondary! Now are you gonna slink outta your seat and leave us alone, or are we makin' you a man today?"

Something churns in his gut. His instinct tells him to leave, that the men were right, that he is too young a boy to be thinking about how pretty girls are. But when he thinks about the alternative, loneliness, his heart sinks. The General doesn't have time to spare for him, and most other squires his age find him annoying or overbearing. The exception is Kent, but Kent can sometimes be overbearing himself!

So he sucks in a breath, and his whole chest rises. "I thought I told you! I'm gonna learn what it means to be a true knight!"

"Ha ha! That's the spirit!"

[atheostic]

"The problem is you are ... implying your mom ... would have been most effected long term."

She would be equally impacted. A baby changes your life forever. Financially, emotionally, even physically.

Being pregnant is extremely dangerous compared to having an abortion (7.06 deaths per 100,000 live births vs 0.56 per 100,000 terminations), and that's not counting things like how you could have your teeth fall out or become an amputee if things in the pregnancy go wrong.

And my mom's full-term pregnancy (me) did go wrong. The placenta calcified and I was 24 hours away from suffocating and starving to death in the uterus. Had she never been to medical school she would not have known to seek a second opinion and saved my life.

My mom's family was so poor that growing up she thought butter was a luxury item. Had she carried her first pregnancy to term she would not have been able to provide a good quality of life for the baby, which is why she did the responsible thing and didn't continue with the pregnancy.

"If you couldn’t abandon a baby. Why can you murder one?"

*sigh* Why is consent such a hard thing to understand for forced birthers? If you consented to have a baby you have also consented to care for that baby.

And a clump of cells isn't a baby yet. It doesn't even have a nervous system.

"And you mother would only have to be pregnant for 9 months. That’s would not have ruined her life..."

Yes, it WOULD have ruined her life. She would have to have dropped out of university (which is really hard to get into in my country) and have lost her one chance at a good quality of life for herself and any future children.

By the way, had she dropped out, she wouldn't have saved the baby she saved in medical school, nor helped a blind nun see again after 20 years of being blind. Both cases needed her to be the one to do it, because she was not scheduled to have been in the maternity ward when she noticed a baby turning blue, and the nun she met during a trip to another state she would not have been able to afford had she dropped out of university.

Talk about stopping potential!

"Adoption exists."

And the foster system has millions of kids who are already born and looking for homes. She didn't want to have a baby just to abandon it to the system in our third-world country during a brutally violent dictatorship.

"I am not shaming your mother"

Yes, you are. My dude, you're literally calling her a murderer. If that's not shaming and judging I don't know what is. What happened to "Judge not lest ye be judged" and "May the one without sin cast the first stone"? Rules for me but not for thee...

"And she could have “got rid of” the baby then"

I never used that terminology, you're intentionally misrepresenting my words and not parting from a point of honesty and good faith.

"Not once has she ever suggested murder to make her life easier."

Neither has my mother, you condescending prick.

"Abortion is the lie that claims to be for women while limiting us, not supporting us in other options..."

I absolutely support people learning about other options and having the support to have other options. Abortion isn't the only option, but it should be an option. It's your ilk that wants to cut programs that would help people like my mom feel like having a baby was an option.

"To decide which lives are worth living just because you think they aren’t (by your narrow definition) “good” and without pain is the height of cruelty disguised, as “compassion” and takes a great deal of hubris."

I never said the embryos are bad. Being bad or good is irrelevant. And I think the embryo is at worst amoral, since it doesn't have the thinky parts that allow for complex thinking about morality yet. It kind of just is.

And again, EMBRYOS AT THE TIME OF ABORTION ARE LITERALLY PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF FEELING PAIN BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE THE NECESSARY NERVOUS SYSTEM YET.

The fetus can't feel pain until the 24th week, and most abortions are done before the 12th week:

Late abortions are only to save the pregnant person or because something has gone horribly wrong and the baby will either not make it after birth or will have a terminal illness (or has already died in the womb). No one who's late into their pregnancy goes "Nah, I changed my mind. Let's abort the baby." They do it because it's medically necessary.

"And Embryo’s ARE people. Science show us that."

No, it doesn't. And even if it did, people are not allowed to use other people's body without consent. So much so that parents cannot be compelled to donate organs or fluids to born children.

"The human embryos killed in abortion is genetically different and separate from the Mom pregnant with them."

Exactly. They are another person making use of the body of someone who hasn't consented to it. That's illegal, my dude.

"Your biases and feelings don’t change the science of what abortion actually is."

Funny how most scientists and doctors don't agree with you.

YOUR religious beliefs shouldn't dictate what people who aren't in your religion get to do.

[hazyscrounger]

What is your main quest? You've forgotten, at this point. There's an abundance of things to uncover, but surely nothing is around here. It's deserted. You've gone looking in all the wrong places to find answers.

What are you doing here? Don't you think this is straying a little too far from the beaten path? You start to wonder whether or not you should turn back. This seems like a colossal waste of time.

Or maybe not, you realize, as you walk through the wrong door into exactly the right place.

All at once you are overwhelmed by the giant fucking mess covering the room. Art supplies and books are stashed in the corners, occasionally glitching halfway into the walls. Ink stains are smeared and spattered over everything, half-cleaned. The carpet is pitch black, but effort has obviously been put in to sanitize everything else— unsuccessfully, but you can appreciate it nonetheless.

Despite all the chaos, your eyes are drawn to the center of the room. Papers in various states of disarray are scattered around a figure hunched over a laptop. You think you know that music.

You think you know what they're doing.

They are so focused that they don't acknowledge you.

Intrusion unnoticed, you take some more time to adjust to the cluttered surroundings. Posters are tacked to the wall, colorful cartoon characters littering each one. Some are recognizable. Most aren't.

You find yourself fixated on one. You know this comic.

"Do you like that poster?"

Their voice crackles like radio static. They're smiling at you. You never even saw them move.

"That's my favorite. Can you tell?"

Upon further inspection, every poster in the room is the same. You must have imagined there being a difference.

They gesture to their shirt. Underneath all the inky grime, you see that the image is the same as the posters. "All these things, they keep me sane. I could never live without them." Out of the corner of your eye, you could swear you saw a different cartoon on the poster right beside you. There's no poster when you look.

"I could never leave them behind. They coexist, you know? In my brain. Always so hungry for my attention. We're playing the same game right now, so I hope you can relate." Oh. They're changing them. They keep changing them so fast you almost feel nauseous.

You sit down, suddenly dizzy. They don't seem to notice your discomfort.

Turning their body, the figure points to the poster you were looking at. You don't look back. Your eyes follow a drop of black ink as it lands on the void where a carpet ought to be.

"That's my all time favorite. It has such a rich, winding story. So many characters. So much fanlore."

You don't care. How is this relevant? You need to get back to exploring. The way that ilk keeps dripping from their hands is unsettling you and you don't even know why.

"It's just as relevant as anything!" They insist. "Without that comic I would have never found my latest, greatest obsession. Without it... I wouldn't be who I am. You can see it, right?"

They look at you. Their eyes are pure television static, but through the haze you see question marks that gaze into your soul, then down at their hands. "It's contagious, you know.

"You can't be scared now. You can't. It's all over you, too. Before you even walked in, so don't go blaming me for it."

Your alarm rises as they tilt the laptop towards you. First you notice the keyboard, completely covered in black ooze— What's on the screen is much more eye-catching. It's you. Not your face or your name, but every thought you have plays out on the screen. You just read that line as you thought it, and shifted nervously in your seat.

It's not even generating as you act. It's like it knows what you will do before you do it.

The

words

go on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

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and on

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and on

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and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

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and on

and on

and on

and on

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and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

and on

The figure clears its throat, and the static goes away. Hearing them speak clearly to you startles you out of your spiraling for now.

"Did I alone make this? Of course not."

You didn't ask, but you would have liked to if you could only have read that you did.

"I can't pull ideas out of thin air, silly! You made this. We made this. It changed the moment you walked into this room. Do you get it?"

You don't get it. You don't get anything. You thought you did until just now.

"You found me because you were looking. You were looking because you caught it. You are already covered in it."

You can't see the ink but you know it's there on your hands too. You didn't know that until you read it. But since you read it, it must be true, right?

"No, no, no. I mean, I guess that's one way to deal with it. Actually, I won't tell you how to live with it now. You've been doing just fine. Still, you can take most things with a grain of salt. You can make your own salt, even. It's all up to you, really. That's why I don't want a cure."

God, they talk a lot. You can't tell if they make perfect sense or no sense at all. The room is spinning. They giggle at the G force.

"Just know that you're somewhat in control! I mean, yeah, crazy wild shit is gonna happen to you the more you keep spreading it around and bumping into people like me, but that's the fun of it! Don't you see? It doesn't have to be a sickness. It can be a plague. A wonderful, elaborate plague of winding roads and learning new things. Do you understand?"

You don't. You do. You don't. You need to get out of this room. Your clothes are wet with invisible ink. The figure reaches out to grab your shoulder with a sudden excited zeal.

"Spread it! Be it! Live as a contagion, smear it all over everything you love. Maybe if you manage to clean it off for guests and special occasions you might avoid total obsession."

You'll spread it. What other choice do you have? You've been nothing but disoriented from the moment you stepped foot into this room. You need to get out.

You stand up to find yourself waist deep in ooze. The figure smiles at you from the surface.

"Ooh. Looks like you can go deeper than me. Come back and give me a hand sometime, eh?"

You watch their fingers type something. Yes, you say, of course, you say. They beam at you like a parent showing off their walletful of family photos.

"Oh, and don't worry," The static crackle returns to their voice as they turn back to the laptop. Staring.

"I'm just as confused as you are. Maybe more."

You dive into the inky depths and keep going. You have to keep going.

You have to spread.

[1eos]

“Gross weirdo nerds are comparing the divine comedy to fanfiction! as if fanfiction could ever have real literary merit!” is my least favorite Flavor of Post right nowbecause instead of, ya know, thoughtfully discussing “fanfiction” and “Real Literature” as social categories of writing, this Flavor of Post relies on mocking anyone who disagrees as a gross weirdo nerd who does not read Real Books. There is no reasoning for the supposedly Obvious Fact that fanfiction is Not Real Literature

genuine question. is anyone who insists that the divine comedy or other pieces of lit of that ilk are fanfiction ever someone who actually reads real books meant for age 20+ on the regular? bc that's literally an argument i see from ppl who only read fanfiction nd maybe a popular YA so they can ship teenagers.

and it's like.... yeah we COULD discuss fanfiction and prose as two social categories of writing but that's not gonna change the fact that calling greek myths fanfiction is just inherently not true 😭😭😭😭 the divine comedy is not fanfiction and no one is going to take fanfic writers seriously for as long as they refuse to take criticism on their work. like you can't demand to be treated like a professional using amateur rules.

im totally fine with fanfiction being a place for fledgling writers to exist without getting eaten up in more serious circles but the problem is ppl can't stay in their lanes. you can't say 'i enjoy fanfiction more bc i have a hard time getting into new characters and i like mindless smut' no it's almost always 'fanfic writers are better than published authors bc they will write 30k abt sex' and then try to say the building blocks of literature are bad. fanfiction obsessed readers are literally saying character development is overrated, symbolism isn't real nd doesn't matter, themes should be ignored etc etc. and it's like.... if the prose you're reading makes you actively dislike the core components of creative storytelling...... then no it is not Real Literature. LMAO?

there are logical reasonings for these arguments i think ppl just want to ignore that to justify all the bland fodder they shove into their heads. and it's like if you never want to have a critical thought over anything that's not a sexuality headcanon of a fictional teenager that's not my business but also expect to get mocked??????

maybe i just haven't seen the actually well read ppl arguing random pieces of lit are fanfiction even tho it goes against the literal definition of the word. but i feel like if you want a nuanced conversation you need to be annoyed with the ppl who are actually comparing the divine comedy to fanfic not the ppl critiquing that el oh el

[encantresse]

the way he sharply withdraws his hand is enough to coax a smirk from her. rosy lips curl with satisfaction as his frown deepens — he certainly had it coming, didn't he? all that insufferable yapping, yet nothing to show for it.

“what was that you were saying about your ilk, my lord? goodness. such a forgettable display.” dorothea smugly tosses her hair over her shoulder, her words dripping with sickly sweetness. “is it any wonder you’re only here as a guest? i believe i'll endeavor to keep things in my own capable hands from this point on."

she steps back, raising both hands before her and steadying them with sharp, deliberate movements. elbows remain poised at precise angles, and with fingers splayed, the songstress channels a familiar rush of energy. the thunderous crack! of thoron rings through the hall, engulfing the portrait in a brilliant, blinding light. a force that, by all rights, should have seared the canvas to ash and melted the metal frame.

but instead, the portrait merely quakes where it lies, shuddering as if drawing its final breath. how strange.

when the spell finally subsides, dorothea lowers her hands, peering cautiously to see if any change has occurred—until, without warning, that distorted, ear-piercing wail erupts once more. the canvas ripples like a disturbed pond, and the fair lady within begins to thrash violently. with a bloodcurdling howl, she appears to erupt from her oil-bound prison, lunging at them with a force so horrifying that her head bursts through the canvas. no longer a visage of beauty ; her face transforms into a grotesque mask, fangs bared in a savage snarl. she snaps at them with an unfettered, primal rage before recoiling back into her cursed frame, leaving behind a lingering sense of dread.

and all dorothea can think to say in that moment, lest the man believe her afraid: "i don't believe she finds you charming in the slightest. i can't say i blame her."

♫ 𝄈 the original sin.

( ANNIVERSARY 2024, reason +1 )