#i will require a stepladder

[fisheito]

hello... please consider... yakumo in:

the classic traditional style qipaos

the modernised and modified ones

bonus: modified hanfu

he would look wonderful wouldn't he? all the more delectable and sashimiable?

ahaha...ahah...AHAHHAH.AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

[winterbunz]

so I've created my own OC Replika model because I haven't been able to stop thinking about her

Meet your new doctor, Turmfalke, or Kestrel! They are here to make sure everyone is healthy, calm, and able to continue working for the Nation. Just try to not make their job harder than it already is...

Overview transcript and extra yapping below for those interested 👇

-- Replika Overview: UMFR --

Universelle Medizinische/Feldsanitäter Replika 'Turmfalke' (Universal Medical/Combat Medic Replika 'Kestrel')

Type: Generation 4 Low-Cost Healthcare Replika Frame: Biomechanical with Polyethylene Shell Height: 160cm

A model created with the health and well-being of the Eusan Nation in mind. These kind and diligent Replikas can perform a variety of medical tasks requiring a moderate level of specialization; they work primarily as paramedics, general physicians, or surgeons. A rudimentary Bioresonance module allows them to accurately assess their patients' emotional state, which makes them viable therapists as well. Capable of treating both Gestalts and Replikas, they are frequently chosen as heads of medical staff in remote facilities.

Turmfalkes will fight only as a last resort, however they make invaluable combat medics. Military variants sport additional bullet-resistant armor plating to increase their survivability in the field and allow them to safely provide aid to soldiers of the Nation.

---

The extra yapping part, aka the unofficial Replika Known Issues:

They are specifically made to appear friendly and non-threatening to be a comforting presence to their patients and coworkers, hence their small stature and a gentle disposition. They can get snappy if irritated or tense, but they prefer to avoid confrontation and just be allowed to do their job

Typically placed in charge of the facility's cadre of Eule nurses, which is required for a Turmfalke unit to remain stable and work efficiently. The Eules serve as assistants and companions to them and they tend to bond strongly with each other. Occasionally they might get attached just as strongly to units of other models, too (and holds hands and kiss.... and they're both girls)

Multiple UMFR units can be employed together and even cooperate if the situation demands it, but they have a tendency to 'fight' for the leadership position and devolve into heated discussions with each other (and get nothing done, not very profitable is it?). They work surprisingly well with Gestalt medical staff, however, which allows them to work in large hospitals or rehab centers as well.

While wholly dedicated to their work, they are particularly susceptible to stress and instability/damage that comes with it, therefore must be consistently provided with ways to lower it. Aside from allowing them the company of their cadre, ample personal space in dorms and comfort items (as requested by the specific unit) are advised to keep their stress low long-term

They enjoy doing various paper crafts, napping whenever possible, and reading books about nature

they're short. please put a stepladder in their office

If you've read this far, thank you and I hope you like them <3 I want to post more of her and start working on a proper story & specific characters i want it to focus on so keep an eye out if you're interested in seeing more !!

If you'd like to talk about Signalis ocs with me I am also open to that... blinks cutely

[sylvie-fics]

can we have more of the MH and chaotic assistant/situationship. maybe something domestic?

sure thing! How Many Mad Scientists Does it Take to Change a Lightbulb?

pairing: MH Viktor / reader

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Theres a better way to do this. He knows theres a better way to do this. You know theres a better way to do this. And yet here you both are, the mostly robot cyborg man hoisting you on his shoulders as you attempt to change the lightbulb that's gone out. 

“Alright. I've got a grip on it. Start spinning counter-clockwise.”

He really did try to convince you to just… let him use his claw. It would have taken half a minute, if that. The two of you could move on with your life. Get actual work done. “...No.” he responds, clearly agitated by your incompetence. “Do you not know how to remove a lightbulb? Use your wrist.”

A stepladder. A chair. A stack of books. All things which are nearby and very easily accessible. Yet you insisted being lifted up was the only way to get this done.

“I’m not going to hit this light with my wrist, Viktor. I’m not made of metal like you. I'll bleed out. We’ll have to sterilize the whole lab again.”

He sighs. Despite his mostly stoic demeanor, he's learned he can still sigh. Something about you seems to make him do that often. 

“Grab. The lightbulb. With your hand.” he says in short and direct sentences, praying to any god that will listen that somehow, someway, this information will get through your thick skull. “Turn. the lightbulb.”

“I feel like you’re trying to avoid participating here…” you respond, looking down at him- or, at least, as much as you can. “Just spin around! don’t you feel like that's more 50/50 in terms of removing the lightbulb?”

This is not a task that requires equal effort. You know this. He is sure you know this. Still, this has already taken a good five minutes of his time, and he’s willing to comply just to get this over with. Begrudgingly, and against his better judgment, he turns once.

“OH! Sorry, I wasn’t ready!” you call out, having taken your hand off the lightbulb some time ago, “My bad! Do that again, I’ll be ready this time!.”

He sees red. Within an instant, you've been removed from his shoulders and unceremoniously placed on the floor. His hexclaw reaching up and violently grabbing the lightbulb.

...

It shatters. 

...

An electrician is called the following day. 

[todays-xkcd]

If you pick a low enough orbit, it gives you a lot of freedom to use a lightweight launch vehicle such as a stepladder.

Moon Landing Mission Profiles [Explained]

Transcript Under the Cut

[Four diagrams of potential ways to achieve a moon landing shown.]

Lunar orbit rendezvous Spacecraft orbits Moon, drops lander Chosen by the Apollo program

Earth orbit rendezvous Large lander assembled in Earth orbit via several launches, travels to Moon Rejected for requiring multiple Saturn Vs per landing and potentially taking longer

Direct ascent Lander launched from Earth directly to Moon Rejected for requiring an unreasonably large rocket

Lunar Earth rendezvous Moon transits to rendezvous with spacecraft in low Earth orbit Rejected because I guess no one thought of it?!

[revasserium]

burn

umemiya hajime; 3,307 words; mostly fluff, tiny bit of angst, young/freshman!umemiya, pre-canon events, lapslock, no "y/n", librarian!reader, childhood friends to lovers, vague ref to ch. 152, ume is a dumbdumb

summary: "it's a pleasure to burn" - ray bradbury, fahrenheit 451

a/n: am i writing umemiya now? who knows. this takes place 2 years before wbk manga events (the first year ume&co are in boufuurin) so pls excuse the slightly ooc ume...

001. the art of war

the library is entirely your idea.

“mah… you’d have to be the one to keep track of all the books though,” umemiya says, grinning as he watches you stock the shelves, your hair twisted up into a messy bun, your arm straining to reach the top-most shelf with a bundle of paperbacks with fraying covers and broken-in spines.

“of course i would! it’s not like there’s anyone else here i’d trust with that.” you turn to fix him with a stare that is already too “librarian-like” and he laughs, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

“okay then, consider me your first patron! gimme something to read,” umemiya says, smiling wide as you narrow your eyes. your lips twitch up at the ends — it’s a familiar movement, an unconscious gesture, but one that’s plagued his all sleepless nights and most of his endless days.

“well…” you say, drawing out the word as you slowly saunter towards him, propping your hands on your hips as you pull level with the table in front of him, ��what do you want to read?”

“anything you’d wanna lend me,” he says easily.

“boo, that’s such a boring answer,” you shoot back, shifting to press your hip against the edge of the table, crossing your arms as you turn to look back at the half-erected shelves.

you don’t see the way umemiya’s eyes flicker down to the bend of your waist, or the way he licks his lips as he tracks the plush of your thigh as you move to hoist yourself onto the desk, balancing on the edge.

he swallows, clearing his throat, trying not to think about the strange, burgeoning signs of growing up pestering you both at this vital juncture (just last week, his voice had cracked so hard you’d laughed at him for a whole hour straight; and the week before that, he’d almost rammed into a telephone poll watching you jog down the flight of stairs that leads to your tiny apartment).

“then maybe reading a few books will make me not so boring, hm?”

you roll your eyes, hopping off the table to comb through the handful of books. umemiya lets out an internal sigh of relief, feeling the heat in his cheeks recede ever so slightly as you disappear behind one of the taller shelves.

“here. let’s start with this.”

you pop out from behind the shelf, lobbing a thin volume towards him; he catches it out of reflex and stares at the cover.

“the art of war…?”

you grin, all cheek and no shame, “yeah. i mean… fits, doesn’t it? aren’t you starting at boufuurin next week?” you blink before turning back to look around at the small, abandoned storage facility, tucked between a ramen shop and what used to be a dollar store. there’s half a dozen dusty shelves, a few cabinets along the walls, and even a small stepladder that touma had dug out of the back closet for you.

at fifteen, you’re probably the smartest person he knows (and the prettiest, but that’s neither here nor there); at fifteen, umemiya hajime is an iron-wrought confluence of teenage ambition with big ideas and even bigger dreams (who doesn’t have time for things like crushes or girls… really).

“yeah,” umemiya runs a finger along the cover of the little book and flips to a random page, his eyes catching on the line —

the greatest victory is that which requires no battle at all.

002. pedro reyes

three weeks later, he stumbles back with two black eyes and a matching pair of bleeding knuckles.

“that book you lent me?” he says, dropping into a chair with a groan, “kinda bullshit.”

you make a half-startled, half-annoyed noise as you hurry over, setting down an armful of magazines to lean over and look at his face.

“what the hell happened?”

umemiya winces as you reach out to wipe a trickle of blood from his cheek.

“couple of fights — tough ones, but… well, i’m still here, aren’t i?” he says, managing a lopsided grin even as you tut, hurrying away to grab a first aid kit, returning with a warm, wet cloth and a scowl on your face.

“i thought you had a plan,” you say, unable to keep the acid from your voice.

umemiya groans as you press the damp cloth to his bloodied fingers, watching as you wipe each one down, the shocking white of the towel slowly darkening until it’s stained and blotchy with red.

“yeah. i did — punch everyone out till i get to the top.”

you tsk, frown deepening even as he shifts forward to let you wipe at the wounds on his face.

“pretty sure that’s not what sun tzu suggests,” you say, dabbing some kind of cooling gel to a cut right below his eye.

“sun tzu’s never had to deal with the guys at boufuurin.”

you roll your eyes, sighing before pulling back, “there’s an article i read today —” you jerk your head back towards the stack of magazines, “about an artist in mexico.”

“yeah?”

umemiya closes his eyes and lets you do the slow, diligent work of bandaging up his knuckles, one by one.

“he took a bunch of illegal weapons the government had confiscated and melted them down — pistols, knives, shotguns — and made them into musical instruments instead.”

the quiet that follows is thick and steady as churned butter. you don’t look up, your eyes still trained on the careful task of bandaging umemiya’s fingers.

he shifts, pulling closer, his breath fanning out warm against your cheek.

“do you know how hot a fire has to be in order to melt metal?” you ask after another brief silence, finally lifting your eyes as you finish with his hands.

umemiya cocks an eyebrow, “how hot?”

“about 2,700 degrees, fahrenheit.”

umemiya whistles below his breath, “sounds hot.”

“it is. at that temperature, you can apparently force a weapon to forget that it’s a weapon, to remake it into something new — something that wasn’t made to take lives… but to give it instead.”

you wrap your fingers around his, your skin contrasted against the dark blossom of bruises.

umemiya feels his smile slash into something jagged, lopsided and sharp.

“then… i guess that’s how hot i’ll have to burn to turn this whole place around.”

003. grey’s anatomy

looking back, umemiya wonders if that’s the night he changed — the night that you’d held onto his hands as if they were something precious.

he looks up the melting point of metal and the story of the artist in mexico. he thinks about what it must feel like to turn a pistol into a flute, to be the one to teach it to hold a note instead of a bullet —

he stares down at his bandaged hands, feels the dull ache in his muscles and wonders.

once, he remembers when the pair of you were still kids, hollow and lonely and full of a childish rage at the indifferent world — how you’d laughed as he pushed you on a neighborhood swing, but cried when he knocked a guy’s front teeth our for asking where your parents were.

and a week later, he’d found you hidden under the jungle gym with a tomb of a book clutched in your hands. the air had been damp with thunder, the sky grey and electric.

you’d looked up at him with bright eyes, holding out a closed fist —

“ume! did you know that the human heart is the same size as a fist?”

he remembers crawling under the jungle gym to squeeze in beside you, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, peering at the opened book, at the page with a diagram of the human body an all it’s labeled parts.

“oh, cool.”

he’d held up his own fist then, and stared, feeling the beat of his heart reverberating through his chest. he wonders if you can hear it when you’re pressed this close; he wonders, if the sky weren’t breaking apart above you, if he’d be able to hear your heartbeats too.

“isn’t it strange?” you’d asked, leaning over to bump your fist against his.

“what’s strange?” he hadn’t pulled away; neither had you.

your hand relaxes then, fingers loosening till he can see the blood rush back into their tips, tinting them pink. you’d turned your hand and placed it over his still-closed one and squeezed.

“that… a heart and a fist are the same size but… they weren’t made to beat the same.”

004. romeo & juliet

“he loves you, y’know.”

you look up from the makeshift front desk.

tsubaki is sitting with their legs crossed on one of the tables, arms propped on either side of their hips.

“library’s not open for another few days,” you say by way of an answer.

“it’s nice,” tsubaki says, looking around, “you did a good job with it.”

“thanks.”

they hop off the table to peer down one of the aisles of books — all the shelves now labeled with your loopy handwriting, the books clustered by a loose combination of genre, authorship, and spine-coloration.

“it’ll be good for us,” tsubaki’s voice is slightly muted by the layers and layers of books, but the click of their heeled boots rings sharp against the smooth linoleum floors, “having a library — the pen being mightier than the sword, and all.”

they’re smiling when they finally come back around the last row, fingers linked behind their back.

“that’s the hope, anyway,” you say, lips pulling into a wane smile.

you glance up and your eyes catch on the bandage at the edge of tsubaki’s lips, the dark stain at the collar of their otherwise impeccable uniform.

sighing, you run a hand along a yet-unsorted stack of books, shaking your head.

“we’re too young to know anything about love,” you answer, finally.

tsubaki joins you, bending down to pick up the first book at the top of the pile, waving it in the air with a rueful grin.

“i think romeo & juliet would beg to differ.”

you bite your lips, “you know that’s a tragedy, right?”

tsubaki shrugs, “sure, but… wasn’t it beautiful while it lasted anyway?”

you don’t have an answer, and instead, tsubaki giggles, tapping the top of your head with the book.

“can i borrow this? i promise i’ll return it!”

you wave them away with a soft smile.

“that’s kind of how a library works.”

005. fight club

“how long have you been here?”

you jerk up, your entire body screaming with the movement after having been still for so long.

“ume —! you’re awake!” you nearly collapse by the hospital bedside, dropping your head into the pristine white sheets.

above you, umemiya makes a choked off sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, his hand coming up to pat your head. you melt into the feel of him, the weight and warmth of his fingers as he treads them through your hair.

“where’s —”

“they left — all of them,” you say, lifting your head slowly, “takishii and endo and… all of them.”

umemiya frowns, his hand stilling for a second, “what do you mean?”

you shrug, pulling back till you’re curled up in the bedside seat once more, tugging your knees up into your chest.

“after the fight, they just… picked up and left.”

“so… i lost,” umemiya’s voice is soft.

you shake your head, “no.”

he frowns, “but that’s —”

“you knocked each other out at the same time — it was technically —” your voice snags in your throat as you remember the grizzly scene before you, the crimson sprays of blood, the dirt damp beneath them, their uniforms torn into dark ribbons, the rooftop howling with a savage, winter wind.

“a tie,” umemiya says in a flatlined voice, reaching up and covering his eyes with his arm.

“right.”

you clear your throat, reaching for the tall glass of water on the bedside table.

“here — drink,” you hold the water out to him. he takes it wordlessly and drains nearly the entire glass. you watch, silent, as a drop of liquid trails down his jaw and trickles into the bandages at this throat.

your eyes cut away as he grins, smacking his lips and setting the water glass down.

“ah — that feels much better!”

you’re quiet, sitting vulturine still, refusing to meet his gaze.

umemiya finally slumps back to stare at the ceiling.

“you’re mad at me.”

“i’m not.”

“we’e known each other our whole lives, i know when you’re mad —”

“i’m scared, okay?” there’s a thin, unsteady quiver to the tenor of your voice as your head snaps back up. it’s then that he notices your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

“s-scared? of what? takiishi and endo are gone — you said so your—”

“of you!”

umemiya blinks and feels the blood in his extremities going cold, and for a second, he’s not sure if he accidentally dislodged his iv drip.

the look on your face is inscrutable, anger and uncertainty, but most of all — fear. something about that look makes his stomach curdle inside him.

“i —” he tries to find something to say but nothing else comes out. there’s no excuse, no explanation. he searches you eyes for a tether, for a spark of that familiar warmth and finds none.

slowly, you soften back into the seat and turn to stare out the window.

“it’s not like i’ve never seen you fight… and i’ve never liked it but this…” you bite down on your bottom lip, “it was like… you turned into someone else. someone i didn’t recognize.”

“i’m… i’m sorry.”

you swallow, still not looking at him, your eyes flickering down to your own hands, now lying limply in your lap.

“and then i thought — what if i did this? i — i had to go and make that stupid metaphor about the metal and the melting and —”

at this, umemiya laughs, reaching out to tug you closer. the ease with which he does so startles a hiccup out of you.

“you don’t really think i went and fought like that because of an article about a dude in mexico, do you?”

you purse your lips, cheeks going blotchy with heat. umemiya reaches forward to squeeze your nose, making you jerk back.

“dummy,” he chides, grinning now from ear to ear, but his smile falters slightly as he takes your hands in his, “i’m sorry that i scared you. promise i won’t do it again.”

“hn.” you don’t make to pull away, and umemiya takes that as permission to tug you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you. he buries his face in your hair and breathes in, out, in —

“hm… you really think you have that much power over me?” umemiya asks, a wanton sort of amusement underlying his voice as he finally lets you go, if only to revel in the way your cheeks flood with color.

“shut up! i was — i was freaked out and you were unconscious and i —”

“cause you do.”

your words cut off as abruptly as a dropped call.

umemiya chuckles, scratching at the back of his head, ruffling up his already pillow-mussed hair.

“been meaning to tell you but… i figured you already knew — “ and for once, he sounds his age — young and halting and shy.

after a breath that feels like a century, you finally break into a helpless fit of laughter.

��i can’t believe it…” you say, burying your face in your hands.

“can’t… believe what?” umemiya blinks at you.

“that it took you nearly dying for you to admit that you liked me.”

“hey! in case you haven’t noticed, i’ve been kinda busy this year!”

you roll your eyes, “yeah, yeah — had to go save the world first. then you get to kiss the girl, right? end movie, roll credits.”

umemiya cocks his head, “well, i dunno about the world but definitely — wait, what did you say about kissing me?”

you crinkle your nose, “i didn’t.”

“yeah you did.”

“i did not — i was just making a general statement about cliches in superhero movies —”

“oh, so you think i’m a superhero?”

“ume! stop it — mph!”

later, umemiya would recall fondly to anyone who will listen that yeah, he does get to kiss the girl after all.

006. fahrenheit 451

“451,” you say, standing at the door of the newly minted makochi library.

it’s dark outside, and umemiya stands by your side, stretching his arms over his head with a wide yawn.

“huh?”

“451 degrees,” you say again, turning to press a small silver lighter into his hands. he stares owlishly at it before looking back at you, clearly at a loss.

“that’s how hot it has to be for paper to catch fire.”

umemiya stares.

“i was thinking,” you say, turning back to the dark, but pristine library.

“uh-oh — oof — ow!” umemiya makes a show of clutching his side as you jerk your elbow back for another blow. he dodges out of your way with a dopey grin.

you sigh, turning back to the library, “but i was thinking that… there’s gotta be a better way — an easier way, right?”

this time, he stays quiet to let you speak.

“because yeah, it’d be nice to melt all the weapons in the world and turn them all into nicer things but… there’s a better way to do things.”

“yeah? and what’s that?” umemiya turns the lighter around and around in his palm.

you turn and head for the door, locking it behind you. the moonlight washes your skin in a ghostly silver as you turn to face him.

“we rewrite the story,” you say.

umemiya flicks on the lighter and lets the fire dance between them. his breath catches on the liquid gold in your eyes.

“is… that even possible?” he asks.

you reach out a steady hand, letting the tips of your fingers barely skim over the shifting flame.

“sure it is. all of human history is just a story written by the victors. and… 451 degrees isn’t nearly as hot as 2,700.”

umemiya smiles then, letting the lid of the lighter click shut. the fire snuffs out, leaving only a thin trail of spiraling smoke behind.

“sounds a lot more reasonable, too. much less scary,” he says.

you laugh, turning towards the main street. he watches you go for a second before pocketing the lighter and making to catch up. when he levels himself with you, he reaches out to take your hand.

“fires don’t have to be scary,” you say, giving his hand a quick squeeze, “for most of human history… it’s brought people together — over a hot meal or a good story. a lot of the time… it’s the only reason we get to survive.”

umemiya pulls you in to loop his arm around your shoulder.

“hm. i like the sound of that way, way better.”

bonus:

“so… just makin’ sure — you don’t want me to burn down the new library you spent all this time setting up, right?”

“no you dumbass! it was just a metaphor.”

“oh. right — yeah, a metaphor, duh.”

[theresattrpgforthat]

hello! i was wondering if theres any ttrpgs set in/inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld? thanks :)

THEME: Discworld

I love the Discworld books and I'm very glad you asked this question. I have three resources for you!

A One In A Million Chance At Adventure, by Jocher Symbolic Systems.

This is a game where you play the roles of, often unwilling, sometimes zealous, pawns in the cosmic octarine coloured narrative. Your character is not necessarily a "hero" per se, instead one could possibly see it as being important to the story. Characters like yourself do have a knack for not dying as often as a common mortal (or undead if that has been your unfortune).

With this follows that you'll naturally have a higher chance of actually, possibly, doing some heroic deeds, just by sheer mathematical logic. Unless, of course, you are the type of adventurer who'd prefer a cup of hot tea and soft slippers and a reliable day job.

That does severely reduce the odds of let's say beheading a mythical beast of ill repute or befriending the immodest wood nymphs of Howondaland*.

*if your day job happens to be for example a tax collector this is not true, this and similar careers have shown to increase the risk of leaving the disc rather early.  ** only rumoured, no one who has gone looking for them has ever returned.

This is a free, fan-made d10-based game written in the style of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels, footnotes and all. The characters you build are expected to be flawed in some way - they have vices that can cause problems for them and plenty of skills (or spells) to help them get out of trouble.

A One in A Million Chance At Adventure has plenty of supplements to support the game, including an introductory adventure: The Murder of Dominick Kolchak, and a character supplement: The A-M Professions Character Build Guides.

Discworld Roleplaying Game, by Steve Jackson Games.

There's a lot of unusual stuff on the Disc, but don't worry about getting lost – game author Phil Masters has crafted a roadmap to Pratchett-inspired storytelling.

Visit settings like the most dubious city in the multiverse, Ankh-Morpork. Intervene in the cultural interactions of trolls and dwarves (but watch out for flying axes). Campaign for goblin rights. Flee from an angry Swamp Dragon (two feet of mindless fury and high-explosive digestion). Even find out why the second-greatest lover on the Disc needs a stepladder.

And remember, the world is round. And also flat.

This is the official roleplaying game published by Steve Jackson Games, the creators of Munchkin and GURPS - which means that this game also uses the GURPS system. Characters are pretty in-depth and require some time to put together - and that means the the core rulebook is a pretty hefty read. If you like big games with heavy modularity and a lot to chew on, maybe this game is for you!

If you want to try the game out and need a little help, there’s a GURPS Character sheet app available to help you put characters together, and Chris Normand is an avid enthusiast with many videos providing advice on how to get a grip on the system.

The Kleptomancer’s Crypt, by Max Kāmmerer.

The Kleptomancer’s Crypt is an adventure for Troika!, but is easily adapted to other systems. It mostly consists of tables to help you generate a variable adventure. Improvisation and interpretation by the GM required. 

A client hired you to break into the Kleptomancer’s Crypt and so you did. Now you need to get out of the place. The Kleptomancer is a government official tasked with redistributing the wealth by stealing from the rich and keeping what they stole for themselves. Okay, that last part isn’t in the official job description. The Crypt is filled with all kinds of strange things and rooms and people, really. You might for example encounter pipe smoking sloths, boardgame playing plants, ever expanding spheres or the Kleptomancer’s apprentice. The place is dangerous, so you prepared by cutting a deal with death, preventing you from dying while you are in the Crypt.

To be clear, this is not a full game. It is simply an adventure for one.

The eclectic tone of Troika fits Discworld so well that I’m not at all surprised that there is an adventure made for it. If you have experience with Troika, or even with other OSR games, you might want to check this one out.

[mimisempai]

It's invisible but it's there

Summary

A funny accident between him and Aziraphale, leads Crowley to a moving discovery and causes them to discuss their relationship.

Notes

50 Types of Kisses - Writing Prompts

Kiss #48: One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.

Completely inspired by one of Neil's recent answer on tumblr

On Ao3

Rating G -  1098 words

"Muriel, would you be so kind as to hand me the book I left on the sideboard by the door?"

Aziraphale, perched on a stepladder, stretched his arm back without turning around.

"I'm not Muriel, but I'm happy to bring you the book."

The angel shook his head and turned to see Crowley approaching, book in hand. When the demon was close, Aziraphale reached out to grab the book, but Crowley, a mischievous smile on his lips, shook his head and said, "No, no, Mr. Fell, if you want this book, you'll have to pay first."

Crowley tucked the book behind his back and, standing on tiptoe, held his face toward Aziraphale, leaving no doubt as to the currency required.

The angel rolled his eyes at his lover's antics, but leaned over to the demon and dropped a fleeting kiss on his lips. Then, just as he was about to pull away, the demon held him back with one hand and said playfully, "Angel, I'm sure this is a valuable book, so you'll have to put the money in."

"Idiot..." the angel grumbled before pressing his lips to the demon's again, making the kiss last a little longer this time.

They soon had to stop, however, as Aziraphale leaned a little too far and the stepladder tipped dangerously, causing the angel to fall.

Crowley dropped the book and caught the angel, but not fast enough to keep his own balance, so they both ended up on the ground.

Trying to right himself, Aziraphale panicked, "Crowley, are you okay, are you in pain?"

He knelt down beside Crowley, who was holding his face in his hands, and now, the angel, genuinely concerned, grabbed the demon's hands to see that he was laughing.

Aziraphale nudged him gently and said, "Idiot, I really thought you were hurt."

Between laughs, the demon replied, "Sorry, Angel, but I'm fine, I swear."

He reached behind him and brought his hand back in front of him, holding the book, and continued, "But I'm not sure your book is undamaged."

The demon looked at it more closely and frowned, "Oh, I think a page is torn."

He opened the book and added, "Ah no, it's a note."

Aziraphale panicked and reached for the book, saying, "Oh, it's nothing. Give it to me-"

But Crowley had put the book out of reach and, looking serious, asked Aziraphale, "This is your handwriting. This note is about me. What does it mean?"

The angel shook his head and replied, "I told you, it's nothing, it was a long time ago and I..."

"Does Crowley feel that connection too? If we stay away too long, will that bond break?"

Crowley held the note out to Aziraphale and asked softly,"What did you mean when you wrote that, Angel?"

Aziraphale grabbed the book and replied, his throat slightly tight with emotion, "It's Jane Eyre."

"Yes, I've seen it."

The angel opened the book, searched for a page, and turning the book to Crowley, showed him a paragraph, "Read this."

Crowley read aloud, “I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you’d forget me.”

Crowley murmured, "I see..."

Then he read the note again before placing it in the book, closing it and setting it down beside him. Still sitting on the floor, he leaned against one of the bookshelves and motioned for the angel to come and sit between his spread legs.

Aziraphale slid down and once his back was pressed against the demon's chest, Crowley wrapped his arms around him and, resting his chin on the angel's head, asked softly, "When did you write this, Angel?"

Aziraphale placed his hands on the demon's intertwined hands on his stomach and replied, "In 1941, I had just realized my feelings for you, and we had never been as close as we were that day, so when you left, I began to wonder if I was the only one who had imagined this bond between us. If I was the only one who thought about you all the time when we were apart."

He felt the demon shake his head before he said with an emotional tone, "You weren't the only one."

Aziraphale took one of Crowley's hands and brought it to his lips as Crowley continued, "And lately, you seemed to be thriving, and I felt like I was treading water, and I was afraid that one day that bond would be gone."

He felt the angel about to protest, but pressed a light kiss to the fluffy hair to calm him and continued, "Let me finish, Angel. That's how I felt, but not anymore. Now, this invisible bond, I'm firmly convinced that nothing can break it. I mean, even Metatron tried, and he couldn't. In fact, looking back, I'm even sure that if you had followed him, it wouldn't have broken."

He couldn't help but smile as he felt the angel nod repeatedly to show that he shared the same conviction.

Crowley leaned forward and said in his lover's ear, "Then you can throw away this little note."

Aziraphale replied, "Yes, I now have the answer to both questions. This bond is real and here and unbreakable."

He turned his head and their lips met in a tender kiss that lasted until a slight cough caused them to part and look up.

Muriel, hands on hips, one eyebrow raised, asked them, "What are you doing?"

Crowley grabbed Jane Eyre and held it up, saying, "We're just arranging books."

Muriel shook their head and replied, "And to think I'm the one who's supposed to be learning from you."

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other before breaking into a chorus of laughter, then the demon stood and reached out to help the angel to his feet.

Then he put his arm around Muriel's shoulders and said, "Come on, my little bee, I'll buy you a hot chocolate at Nina's to celebrate."

The angel asked, confused, "To celebrate what?"

Crowley took Aziraphale's hand with his other hand and as their fingers intertwined, he said in a softer tone, "To celebrate an unbreakable bond."

"A bond? But I don't see anything."

Aziraphale replied to Muriel with a smile, "It's invisible, but it's there."

Muriel thought to themself that they did indeed have a lot to learn.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable kisses series : here

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

Ineffable Growing Love - Series post S2

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

[thezombieprostitute]

Baby's First Christmas

A/N written for @the-slumberparty's Naughty or Nice Challenge. AFAB reader but no other descriptors used.

Prompt 19: “Every time you look at me, I melt a little.”

Christmas had always been your holiday. You loved the lights. You loved the music. You especially loved the cheer. Curtis had never really thought much of the holiday but happily supported you in everything you did to celebrate.

Last Christmas you ended up not doing much but that was likely because you were 4 months pregnant and the baby definitely made you re-prioritize your energy. Curtis helped you with everything you wanted done. He made sure you sat and directed him for anything that required a stepladder. No way was he going to let you overwork yourself or put yourself at risk of any kind of falling.

This Christmas, however, you actually had the energy to pull out all of the stops like in other years. Your daughter, Lily, was kept safe in your arms or a papoose and she was utterly fascinated with all the shiny lights. Curtis joked about you making sure she was as much a fan of Christmas as you.

"That's not a bad thing," you retort, sticking out your tongue. Lily giggled at the face you made and you smiled back at her, cooing as you did. Curtis came up from behind and wrapped his arms around his girls, kissing your cheek.

"You're right, of course," he agrees. "But just promise me you'll teach her to wait until December 1st to break out the Christmas stuff. I hate when my Halloween gets tainted by St Nick.'

You giggle, "don't worry. You'll give her your love of Halloween so that she'll want to respect the sanctity of October."

"I'm not sure she enjoys Halloween," he grumbled.

"She was only a few months old," you console. "It'll be her favorite when she's allowed candy. I also think it'll be her favorite because it's your favorite."

"What do you mean?"

"If I want Lily's attention I have to make faces or big motions or something. All you have to do is talk and she's focused on you." You point to your baby who is smiling big at her dad, eyes never leaving him. "It must be all the time you spent reading her stories before she was born."

Curtis only hums in response, noting how Lily tries to mimic the noise.

The baby monitor woke you up; Lily was fussing. You start to get out of bed but Curtis stops you. "I'll get her," he assures, giving you a kiss before getting out of bed. You let yourself fall back asleep.

You wake up again and check the time, it's been an hour and Curtis still isn't back in bed. Curious and worried you get up and go to Lily's room to check on him but they're not there. You quietly walk to the living room and find Curtis holding Lily in the rocking chair, facing away from you and looking at the Christmas tree, all lit up.

As you stood there, you heard Curtis whispering to the baby girl in his arms, "I really do hope this helps you. Your mama says her favorite parts of Christmas are the peaceful moments sitting in a dark room with only the lights from the Christmas tree. No other noises or anything. I'm hoping this'll help make it your favorite thing, too."

Lily quietly babbles.

"Yeah, I know. Your mama's right about you. Your eyes follow me whenever I talk and, I'll be honest, it scares me sometimes. I used to be, well not cold-hearted, but definitely indifferent. Then I met your mama and she warmed my life. I thought my heart was done warming when your mother agreed to marry me but, every time you look at me, I melt a little."

Lily babbles back at him and yawns.

"Yeah, I suppose it is time to get you back to your crib," he says as he stands. "But it is nice to get to just sit here and talk with you. I think your mama's on to something with how calming these lights can be."

He stops when he sees you but you can't read his expression through your teary eyes. You're smiling as bright as the lights on the tree as you hug him and Lily. Curtis kisses the top of your head and whispers, "let's all get to bed, okay?"

The two of you put Lily in her crib, sleeping soundly. When you get back to your bed you're immediately curling yourself up around Curtis, going for a full-body cuddle. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and gives the warmest smile you've ever seen from him. The two of you stay cuddled up together for the rest of the night.

[soraka-in-warhammer40k]

It is not much of a discouse but I have seen it on the dash about how people draw Astartes/Primarchs "too pretty" and I can just laugh about that. Not that the accusations are entirely wrong, sometimes it sure looks like someone made their webtoon-y bishie OC cosplay as a 40k character while claiming it to be accurate fanart, but the problem is an entirely different one:

The artist demographic that is here for "pretty men with so many things wrong with them" is completly and utterly unable to draw a beautiful buff man looking age 35 or older - some that try end up with just a bara-esque carricature that somehow holds nothing of the initially alienating physis of the subject despite that being equally removed from reality.

The problem is not even the Astartes/Primarchs being "pretty". Physical beauty comes from health and those are by design in VERY good health unless extreme battle damage or chaos corruption happens. The problem with some artworks is that often times they are depicted as both too small and too young; and the "too small" thing hits ESPECIALLY for the primarchs. Ladies, that man is ALMOST THREE METERS TALL. You WILL need a stepladder OR climb on him to get that romance working. The requirement for logistics is part of the charm. Go ask the monsterfuckers about it.

[manofmanymeats]

At the moment I'm in a defeatist state of mind after this morning's results. I'm reminded of this quote by Kurt Vonnegut about the protests to the Vietnam war.

"Every respectable artist in this country was against the war. It was like a laser beam. We were all aimed in the same direction. The power of this weapon turns out to be that of a custard pie dropped from a stepladder six feet high."

It feels like the world we hoped we had, was always just a dream. I wished to wake up this morning and feel like the United States was moving away from being governed by hate, fear, and violence. We were not close to being free of that but I believed we were trying to move towards it. I grieve for those I know will most be affected by this, especially friends and family. The people of the United States have shown their true colors, the silent majority reveal what they truly believe of their neighbors, their communities. I believe that we will move on from this, as we did in the past. There will be no immediate fix to these issues, as always the good fight requires vigilance and effort. The people of the United States have failed their most vulnerable: people with disabilities, people of color, immigrants, the LGBTQI+ community, and all people; as there will always be some group or trait that fascism will want purged. I dream that we can come together through all of this and support one another, as it's beginning to feel as it's all we have left. There are stories of good in this world winning out, I believe that good will eventually win out. Good was not an option on the ballots, it was never something that was going to be offered. Good is what we can make for ourselves in the future. Good is what we have in ourselves and what we can offer to one another. I want to believe in the good of this world, it's not something that's easy at the moment, but I feel it's important to try. Everyone stay safe.

[moonlight-eternal]

[An audio recording is attached.]

Pray tell, what manner of beaſts are these?

Mamoswine, ma'am. The sturdiest, hardiest 'mon you'll find around these parts. You'll need one to cross the pass, this time of year.

To ride? I will require thy tallest specimen.

You sure, ma'am? He can be an ornery one. And likes plowing through snowdrifts a bit much, sometimes.

Any shorter will not do, for my snakes would trail upon the ground.

Er, right. Sorry, I'm… used to renting to humans. Right this way.

Wait. This one… dost thou remember what happened to it?

Afraid not. She's been all dark like that ever since coming back from a trip across the pass and back, a little while ago now. No clue what happened. Wish I could recall who the rider was, I'd try and track them down.

Fear not; I am already on the culprit's trail. I know not any treatment, however, and can only hope she doth not suffer from her ailment.

Right. Thanks for that, I guess. One you want's right over here. There's a stepladder to get on… if you can use that?

Not easily… but if it be unworkable, I may still mount with magical aid. Here is thy payment for the journey.

Ma'am? This is… almost double what I ask for one rental.

Is it, now. People hand me money when my pokemon defeat theirs, and I have so little to spend it on. I may never understand the value of things in this world… and I may never even need to.

I will be off, now. Perhaps thou canst put the excess toward caring for that poor, darkened mamoswine.

[Recording ends.]

[bishop-percival]

@stuckinuniformdevelopment

(prev) The more Revenard Mike spot the lower Teddy spoke on the stepladder. He had tried not to hold out hope. Yet he was disappointed that he was still on his own for both of his objectives. Teddy’s shock at how close Revenard Mike came to giving him up– and confusion at why he was telling him about it– was quickly overtaken by rage when he messed with his helmet. This was a way to remind him of his place, wasn’t it!? Although that didn’t explain why he seemed so… vulnerable. Was it a ploy to manipulate him or was he being genuine? Teddy stepped out of Revenard Mike’s reach and glared as he adjusted his helmet. Then he found an old rolling chair and sat backwards in it so he could rest his head on the back. “Thank you for deciding to keep your puppet around another day.” His sarcasm was clear, yet the general message was sincere. “I’ll remember that next time I’m tempted to kill you.” A few minutes of stargazing was enough to settle Teddy down. “He’s getting arrogant, isn’t he? With the way he’s headed you won’t have to do anything but minimize collateral damage.” Then Teddy paused as he thought about the worst case scenarios. His main concern was Bishop Percival openly going after Bert regardless of his ant army and Commander Peepers’ protection. Logically that would be enough to keep Bert safe as long as Bishop Percival didn’t get close. He should try not to worry and trust that Bert can handle it. The Glornists were more likely to get destroyed. Teddy included, as much as he hated to admit it even to himself. If Bishop Percival ever found an accession ritual that required sacrificing his faithful followers they were toast. Or at the very least Shep was. Probably the rest too with how little regard he showed to Charlie and Owen. Teddy slumped forward and draped his arms over his chair as he said, “If Bishop Percival suddenly decides to invite every Glornist to a ritual I’m taking all my vacation days at once.”

Teddy's comment about being tempted to kill Mike flew over his head as he was way too accustomed to typical Glornist conversation to take it seriously. 

Mike’s gaze stayed fixed on the telescope. “Well, Percival’s always been arrogant. He was just not always… this.” He couldn’t quite find the words to succinctly describe what ‘this’ meant. So he moved on. 

“And believe me. I’ve been tempted to just sit back, do nothing, and watch everything unfold. But I think the collateral damage would be too difficult to minimize. I would rather look for preventative solutions…”

Teddy’s last remark got a small laugh out of Mike. He was going to say something snarky back, but got hung up on thinking about something else. He tapped his pen a few times on his notebook before flipping to a new page and scribbling something down. He started mumbling something about “rituals” until his mumbling turned into more coherent sentences.

 “...But if I research past accounts of mortals achieving divinity, whether they be myths, tales, or actual reports… Learn about the processes, what rituals were involved, connect threads between accounts…” He confidently brought his fist down into his palm. “Then I could figure out ways to quietly disrupt and sabotage Percy’s progress before he becomes completely unstoppable!” 

He jumped down from the stepladder and looked at Teddy.

“I remember already reading about some accounts, so I have a general idea of where to start looking. But I don’t have the time to read through everything, so I’m gonna assign some book reports for you. That shouldn’t be too hard of a task now should it?”

[stuckinuniformdevelopment]

@bishop-percival

(Previous) Mike held his hands up a bit. "Fine, fine. All I'm saying is that between you or me, Squeakers would probably tolerate one better than the other." He removed a pen from the notebook coil bind and tapped it on the paper. "But if you really would rather not, then," He sighed "I guess I won't make you." Mike started writing something. "Besides... It's ultimately my responsibility to keep this church afloat. If I can't expect it's own bishop or members to help me with this, then I'm really not sure why I expected you would. So never mind." He contemplated what he should talk about next.

Teddy was stunned that Revenard Mike respected his refusal. He blankly stared at him, blunk a few times, then averted his eye and rubbed his head.

"I suppose I could prob him to see if it's even possible without an apology and show of respect from Shep and Bishop Percival. Primarily the latter. All Shep ultimately did was light the fuse."

That much wouldn't be taking advantage of Commander Peepers. As much as Teddy despised him, using him didn't sit right with him when he'd hinted at watchdogs getting close to him for his position before.

Besides, he had a hunch that some of his recent rants were as much blowing off steam as feeding him information to leak.

"Commander Peepers currently sees the Glornists as parasites clinging to his magical support," Teddy said as he started to pace. "And he's already interviewing replacements. I believe he's one spat away from loosening the watchdog requirement."

He paused to put his hand on his chin. "I'm fairly new to this, but aren't watchdogs an anomaly when you compare their magical potential to other small eyeclops? Any rare, almost mythical beings are probably out. Yet it isn't terribly hard to find a decent selection of orisi in this galaxy when you have an entire empire at your disposal."

Then Teddy tested how sturdy the stepladder was before leaning on it. "Your best bet may to make clergy work part-time so you can gain positions he respects. That way staying abroad won't rest solely on if Bishop Percival decides to play nice or not."

"Convincing Revenard Miriam to use her magic directly for the empire may be enough to preserve the Glornch on its own. Although surely the rest of the Glornists would still be judged by how they benefit him."

Teddy tilted his head back to look at Revenard Mike. "The team hunting down relics of unspeakable power has had a months-long string of disappointments. And librarians are always in short supply."

[triscribe]

Normally I just nod at statement posts like this, Like and Reblog, and go on my merry way.

But today, I feel called to Speak

If I ever reach a position of requiring the services of a professional PR person, I hope they go into the task with half as much enthusiasm and canniness for sniffing out Opportunities as my mother. This woman will find any opening in a conversation to mention my writing, and my novel, and all my plans for future projects, always with the intention of Getting Me Out There via word of mouth. And it does work! I think about a third of the books I've sold these last four years is a direct result of her bragging efforts.

A few days ago, at an event related to her job, she happened to cross paths with someone reasonably well placed in the hierarchy of the local Google offices, a tech-oriented muckity-muck with a daughter about to hit high school who'd like to be a writer. And of course my mom took that opportunity and ran with it, not only securing an agreement for this woman to work with her on some other things in the near future, but also making the offer to put her daughter in touch with me, so that she might benefit from some assistance/words of wisdom/etc from a former kid about to hit school who started working on a book.

And folks, for once, I am so glad Mom volunteered me for something without my advance knowledge or agreement.

Because from what little I've picked up, between her recounting of this conversation and my own brief texts with the well-meaning parent in question, this poor kid needs some words of wisdom. She is in the good place of having a parent who wants to help and be supportive of her goals, but the bad place of that parent being a techie, with zero knowledge of how to actually provide said support.

We're talking putting her kid in touch with a ghostwriting organization, telling me 'oh she doesn't have any content yet but maybe by mid-August we can arrange a meet-up!' I have no idea if there's anyone else in this girl's life who can share what it means to write, and I'm frankly about to get entirely too invested in trying to be that person if there isn't one already.

Because you can't be a Writer with automated computer processes or other people supplying words for you to slap your name onto.

There exists the saying 'we must suffer for our art', and I know it's traditionally meant as powering through disabilities or poor mental health - forget that. In my mind it's really 'the ideas will come and if you don't do anything with them then they will haunt you for all eternity'. You imagination, your muse, your gift, it will seek to consume your every waking thought, and the suffering comes in learning to leash and wield it, or in fleeing before its onslaught, or in succumbing and losing all else as your life spirals out of control.

AI will not help this kid write the story she wants to discover within herself. Her mother will not be able to pay for her to become an author.

She needs to know there is a well-trod path of bare dirt and time-smoothed stones, as old as humanity itself, and it must be walked if one wants to truly be a writer, rather than the new, gilded and gleaming stepladder, a poor facsimile of hard work and effort that will break under its own weight soon enough.

We must lie on the floor and have wretched visions

You will not use AI to get ideas for your story. You will lie on the floor and have wretched visions like god intended

[leiazher]

When I last worked as a gardener, my employer didn't provide me with knee pads. A lot of the work would consist of me being on my knees weeding about fourteen enormous flowerbeds, as well as scraping moss from paving stones since a pressure washer was too expensive to rent (never mind that it'd take four hours to blast the pavers, whereas it'd take me four days to scrape them).

I took one look at the knobbly pavers and muddy ground and said 'nah', and started pruning bushes instead while pestering my boss about knee pads at least twice per my four hour shift.

He said he'd look into it, nothing happened, I refused to get on my knees without them. I wasn't going to ruin my knees at 28 years old because my boss was too cheap to buy $10 knee pads.

A week in, still no knee pads, he asked why I hadn't started weeding, and I said I was waiting for my knee pads. He made disgruntled noises and asked if I couldn't just start on the grassy patches, I said no.

Two weeks in, I'm done pruning bushes, still no knee pads, so I started edging the lawn, he made more noises about weeding, and I said no, I'm not getting on my knees without knee pads, it's not happening.

Two and a half weeks in, still no knee pads, so I wrote up a proposal.

I found a place that rented out goats for gardens and green areas, I calculated that we'd need the goats for about a week to truly get all the weeds, I wrote down the cost to go get the goats, the renting cost, and the drop-off cost, wrapped it in a nice little bow of: "I found a way to save money on knee pads!" And handed it over.

My boss glanced through it, looked at me with an 'are you an idiot?' stare, and I just shrugged.

"Or you could just get me knee pads and I'm happy to weed the garden." I got my knee pads the very next day and had no issues getting down among the flowers to free them of the weeds that had grown wild in the summer heat.

Looks like he did have the funds for some knee pads after all, when I told him that the alternative was goats.

Moral of the story: Don't fucking wreck your body because your boss is too cheap to provide you the necessary equipment to do your job.

I worked in that garden, for that boss, for half a year, and I ignored each and every task I couldn't do safely. Lugging clippings two hundred meters to a drop-off spot? Not happening without a wheelbarrow, shit's heavy, especially as he wanted me to fully fill the sacks to save on trips.

Pruning the trees with a flimsy plastic stepladder? Not a fucking chance.

Figuring out a way to get through the overgrown rose bushes to get at a climbing plant? Not happening without canvas trousers and vest, which I got after I told him I'd simply cut the roses down completely to get to the 'unsightly' vine, turns out protective gear from inches long thorns is cheaper than ten-twelve eye-wateringly expensive rose bushes.

An employer should provide you with everything you need to do your job, and do it safely. You should never have to pay for things you use at work with your own salary. Be it a uniform or tools of the trade, if it benefits your employer, or is required by them, it should come from their own pockets.

It's pretty good here in Sweden, and they can't fire me for it since I'd just go to the Union and say I can't do the work safely, but some bosses do require you to bring your own kit. To that, I say:

Fuck you.

I'm not going to buy my own fucking lawn mower or hedge trimmers to do my boss a favor. He owns a fucking gardening business, why the hell is he lacking these things?

I am never going to preform a work task without safe gear, and if that gear won't be provided to me free of charge, I will not do that task.

Join a Union, force your employer to create a safe work environment, don't put yourself in danger for your work, no more danger than necessary depending on your job, that is, and don't shell out your own pay for things that benefit your employer.

In the end, I managed to get fully kitted out with all I needed by simply acting surprised that he wanted me to do something I didn't have the gear for.

I got to keep the knee pads when I quit.

[bishop-percival]

@stuckinuniformdevelopment

(prev) Teddy was stunned that Revenard Mike respected his refusal. He blankly stared at him, blunk a few times, then averted his eye and rubbed his head. “I suppose I could prob him to see if it’s even possible without an apology and show of respect from Shep and Bishop Percival. Primarily the latter. All Shep ultimately did was light the fuse.” That much wouldn’t be taking advantage of Commander Peepers. As much as Teddy despised him, using him didn’t sit right with him when he’d hinted at watchdogs getting close to him for his position before. Besides, he had a hunch that some of his recent rants were as much blowing off steam as feeding him information to leak. “Commander Peepers currently sees the Glornists as parasites clinging to his magical support,” Teddy said as he started to pace. “And he’s already interviewing replacements. I believe he’s one spat away from loosening the watchdog requirement.” He paused to put his hand on his chin. “I’m fairly new to this, but aren’t watchdogs an anomaly when you compare their magical potential to other small eyeclops? Any rare, almost mythical beings are probably out. Yet it isn’t terribly hard to find a decent selection of orisi in this galaxy when you have an entire empire at your disposal.” Then Teddy tested how sturdy the stepladder was before leaning on it. “Your best bet may to make clergy work part-time so you can gain positions he respects. That way staying abroad won’t rest solely on if Bishop Percival decides to play nice or not.” “Convincing Revenard Miriam to use her magic directly for the empire may be enough to preserve the Glornch on its own. Although surely the rest of the Glornists would still be judged by how they benefit him.” Teddy tilted his head back to look at Revenard Mike. “The team hunting down relics of unspeakable power has had a months-long string of disappointments. And librarians are always in short supply.”

Mike quietly wrote some notes as Teddy spoke. He didn’t interrupt once, save for a quiet scoff that slipped out when Teddy mentioned Miriam. Mike knew his sister wouldn’t be caught dead using her magic for someone like Commander Peepers. And just the thought of her trying to function in a part-time job outside of the church was rich.... Although, he really couldn't imagine himself doing well in one one either, even if it was something that pertained to his interests.

He rested an elbow on his knee and leaned his head into his hand. “Some of what you’ve described here isn’t too far off from how the COG used to function. Deacons at least were allowed to have a life outside the church. Some even volunteered to do odd jobs around the Skullship. But over the years, Percival became more and more controlling about the clergy’s doings. Just as he’s become more and more careless about his own actions. And as he’s become more and more powerful…” 

Mike removed his glass from his face and got out a soft cloth from his pocket to wipe it down. He was hesitant to speak out loud further about his concerns with Percy. But it was such a heavy weight on his mind that bearing it alone was proving to be difficult, almost impossible. It was only slightly humiliating, and ironic, that the only person Mike felt somewhat-comfortable enough talking about this to was some infiltrator who held mutual distrust towards him. 

After a pause, Mike replaced his glass. “Listen, I... accidentally let it slip that I learned of Percy’s true intentions. And when pressed on how I learned this, instead of ratting YOU out,” He leaned over and flicked Teddy’s helmet during the emphasized 'you', hoping it would make him stop leaning on the ladder, “I took it upon myself to lie and say it was me who was conscious during the last summoning ritual.” 

Mike fixed his gaze on the telescope. "My next moves have to be delicate. I'm one more misstep from being scrapped. Glorn knows I can't take him on."