#solution rupture

[maitreretouaffectif]

Retour affectif urgent avec Maitre Medium Safari Tidiane

Lorsque l’amour s’en va, chaque minute compte. Un message sans réponse, un silence qui dure, un départ sans explication : cela peut détruire votre équilibre. Et plus le temps passe, plus la douleur s’intensifie. Si vous vous trouvez dans cette situation de crise sentimentale, sachez qu��il existe une solution puissante et immédiate : le retour affectif urgent avec l’aide du Maître Marabout Safari…

[hearingcentre1]

Understanding Ruptured Eardrum: Treatment & Prevention in North York 👂

A ruptured eardrum can disrupt your hearing, but early intervention makes all the difference. At Toronto Hearing Centre, we offer expert ruptured eardrum treatment to help prevent complications and restore your ear health. Treatment options: 1️⃣ Dry Ear Care: Prevent water or foreign substances from entering. 💊 Pain Relievers: Medications like ibuprofen can reduce inflammation. 💉 Antibiotics: Used if an infection causes the rupture. 🩺 Eardrum Patching: A small patch to encourage healing. 🏥 Surgery: Tympanoplasty for larger perforations.

To protect your ear and ensure proper healing, it’s crucial to avoid water or irritants and seek timely medical care. Visit our Hearing Clinic in North York for expert advice and support on your healing journey.

[dostoyevsky-official]

american politics has been liquefying for years in a way that one more election can't fix. when trump goes on a podium and says we'll expand our borders, we'll take greenland, and the crowd cheers, it's not something you can fix with a vote. when kamala said trump doesn't walk the walk on border security and told genocide protesters she's speaking—while presiding over a genocide—and the crowd cheered, it's not something you can fix with a vote. the anti-immigrant rhetoric matches that of the bush years and deportations only surpassed bush-era numbers in the biden administration. the elections in 2000 and 2004 were outright stolen; 2008 and 2012 didn't fix it. obsession with the trump rupture papers over what's been boiling for a long time (pick your favorite starting date), that there's a poison seeped through 40% of the electorate. whatever the solutions are to the current impasse, we aren't voting ourselves out of it; or, if we are, it's not happening with this party

[kxsagi]

Heyyy

Sooo i know you may have many request but i couldn't help myself...

How about Kaiser, who is Readers boyfriend, getting jealous of Isagi?

I would leave you the room about how it goes just pleaseeeee make it fluff♡☆

♡Thank you!♡

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤”

a/n: i love reading about kaisagi fighting over you, or either one of them getting jealous that you, their gf, is talking to their enemy, so i’m so happy i could write this request!

(btw for clarification, reader has the mikage earpiece that translates languages)

there was no reason for him to feel this way. at least, that’s what kaiser kept telling himself. over and over again. but his jaw was still clenched, and his grip on his water bottle was so tight he was pretty sure the plastic was about to rupture. 

he wasn’t looking at you. no, he was glaring at him. 

isagi yoichi. 

his “rival.” his “equal.” his “public enemy #1.” … or whatever dumb label the media was using these days. 

meanwhile, you were over there, laughing at something isagi said like he was the funniest man alive. the sound of your giggle rang out a little too brightly for kaiser’s liking. the worst part? isagi wasn’t even funny. he knew that for a fact. 

and then you did the unthinkable, you placed a hand on isagi’s shoulder. 

kaiser nearly choked on his water. 

oh, hell no. 

his eye twitched. why were you touching him? why were you smiling at him like that? and why the fuck was isagi leaning in slightly like he wasn’t currently committing a crime punishable by death? 

kaiser’s jaw clenched so tight he was half-convinced he cracked a molar. 

the moment you walked over, all sweet and soft-spoken, completely oblivious to the murderous aura practically radiating off your boyfriend, you greeted him with a bright smile. 

“hey, schatz.” 

oh, now you were calling him schatz all cute and affectionate? right in front of isagi? oh, he was definitely going to kill him. 

kaiser didn’t say anything. instead, he stared at you like you just kicked his soccer ball into a black hole. you blinked up at him, confused. 

“what’s wrong?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. 

“nothing.” he forced the fakest, most tight-lipped smile known to mankind. “just… thirsty.” 

you eyed the way he aggressively chugged his water like it was laced with liquid vengeance, but you shrugged it off. “okay…?” 

and that was when kaiser’s oh-so-brilliant solution to his jealousy hit him. 

without warning, he hooked an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. before you could even blink, his lips were on yours. 

except this wasn’t one of his usual soft, teasing kisses. no. this one was practically a public service announcement. bold. dramatic. a “fuck you” to anyone who so much as looked at you, specifically the walking offense known as isagi. 

your eyes widened slightly at the suddenness of it all. “m-michael?” you mumbled against his lips, dazed. 

he didn’t answer. he just deepened the kiss. in the background, you vaguely heard someone mutter, “bro, get a room” (this was raichi for sure). 

when he finally pulled back, you were left wide-eyed and slightly breathless. “w-what was that for?” you asked, blinking. 

kaiser smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he just committed a crime and was proud of it. “just felt like it.” 

liar. 

behind you, isagi stared flatly at the two of you, clearly unimpressed. “wow,” he deadpanned, already turning away. “real mature.” 

kaiser’s eyes narrowed, and he slung his arm around your shoulders like he was marking his territory. “oh, i’m very mature,” he muttered just loud enough for isagi to hear. 

you stared at your boyfriend for a long moment, finally piecing it together. you could practically see the wheels turning in his pretty little head. “… wait.” you blinked. “are you…” your lips parted in disbelief. “are you jealous?” 

kaiser scoffed. actually scoffed. “jealous?” he repeated, eyes wide with mock innocence. “pfft. of isagi?” he waved a hand dismissively. “please. i don’t even know who that is.” 

you deadpanned. “you call him your ‘rival’ at least seventeen times a week.” 

kaiser’s eye twitched slightly. “do i? huh. weird.” 

you crossed your arms over your chest, giving him a flat look. “you’re totally jealous.” 

his eye twitched again. “am not.” 

“you are.” 

he shot you a side-eye glare. “you’re not funny.” 

you grinned wickedly, leaning up slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. “should i go back and talk to him again?” 

kaiser’s grip on your waist instantly tightened like a damn vice. his eyes narrowed into a deadly glare, voice low and dangerous. “don’t you fucking dare.” 

you burst out laughing, placing a hand over his chest. “schatz, relax. you’re my one and only.” 

his eyes softened slightly at the sound of your voice, but he was still glaring daggers at isagi’s retreating back, muttering under his breath. “he should be lucky i’m feeling generous today.” 

you snorted, poking his cheek. “what, you gonna fight him?” you teased. “what are you gonna do? step on him with your gucci sneakers?” 

kaiser’s eyes narrowed. “don’t tempt me.” 

you were still giggling as you pressed a kiss to his cheek, and despite himself, kaiser finally cracked a small smile. but as you walked off, he glanced over his shoulder, locking eyes with isagi one last time. 

and with the pettiest, most smug smirk he could muster, he mouthed two words: 

she’s mine. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[unma]

What worked for me was using lantern don to solo it. You get staggered after killing the first gondala, the mass attack erases your stagger thresholds, and then you can heal to full and simply rupture the boss.

someone please give me tips for phase two of canto vii’s final boss please. please . pleas

[facioleeknow]

The art of pleasure ch.8

Company ° I.N.

When one girl in your class makes fun of you for being a virgin at a party, you are left distraught. It's only natural that you decide to whine about it to your best friend, Bang Chan; but he does more than lending a shoulder to cry on, he comes up with a solution. He and his 7 friends will help you and teach you all about the pleasure of the flesh. What could go wrong?

Genre: College AU, SMUT 18+ ONLY Wc: 2k+

TW: aftercare, threesome, consent is behind the scenes they are really into it and it's all consensual, pussy slapping, name calling, mean jeongin, oral (m rec), throat fucking, cumshots,creampie, let me know if I missed anything

AN: thank you for following and reading this series, I hope you all liked it! Please do leave feedback <3

The moments after your activities with Seungmin were a blur in your mind. Everything mixed together and nonsensical. You only remembered the world's softer tissue wiping away at your skin, Seungmin talking to the owner of the karaoke rooms and then his car. When you came to, you were safely tucked into bed with your clothes still on. Seungmin laid at your side on top of the bed, completely ruptured by something on his phone. His right hand slowly massaged your scalp.

“Minnie?” your voice was rough and hoarse.

Seungmin whipped his head so fast that for a moment he saw double. His phone flew to the other side of the room and in a second he was crowding you.

“How are you feeling? Everything okay?” His hand had moved from your hair to your face and was now drawing circles on your warm cheek. You just hummed and nodded, your limbs were so heavy and tired.

“Did you particularly like or dislike something?” 

“I liked that we could get caught but I wanted more of your attention,” you pouted. If it had been any other moment in any other state of mind you would've been embarrassed but now you were just so content and tired that you didn't care.

“My attention was already on you, puppy, but if you want more I shall give you more,” he smiled and beamed at you. With a few stretches and pulls he got under the covers as well and promptly took you in his arms. It was weird with both of you fully clothed but you were grateful for the warmth that was seeping into you.

“Why didn't you take off my clothes?”

“You didn't give me permission, I can't take your clothes off without permission.”

Your heart warmed, he was a golden boy. Truly the perfect boyfriend anyone could have.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty, would you like to go out?” Seungmin had showed you his soft side once again and you couldn't help but be ecstatic about it.

“I was about to ask you, I was just thinking you were one of the nicest guys I've ever met.”

Seungmin hummed. His soft petal pink lips came in contact with your skin and fireworks erupted underneath it. Your head turned swiftly and you pressed a sweet and chaste kiss to his lips.

Ping. Ping.

Your phone interrupted your lovesick moment and you almost wanted to throw it away. 

“I put your phone on the nightstand, you should answer it,”  Seungmin spurred you on, his hands around you loosened.

Unknown number:

Hey noona, it's Innie, when are you free? I thought we could go to a cafe before our lesson. Just you and I :)

Chrispy boy <3:

Baby, how was the lesson with seungmin? We should talk about the next one, I remember you had some doubts

“It's Chan hyung, isn't it? He really likes you.” 

You offered him an apologetic look, you had to go.

“Go, you can make it up to me on our date,” Seungmin pressed another feather light kiss on your cheek as goodbye and then walked you to his door after you had collected your things. The short walk from Seungmin's room to Chan's seemed even shorter that day. Knocking wasn't even an option at this point in your relationship, so you just swung the door open. Chan was laying in the bed, only in his boxers, typing something on his phone.

“Baby,” he beamed, “ I was about to text you again, come here.” You didn't even hesitate for a second before throwing yourself in his arms; you didn't care that your clothes would get wrinkly, you needed that Bang-hug.

“It went well with Seungmin.”

“Just well? Nothing else?” 

“Yeah, I'm honestly just a bit worried about the next lesson, Chan. A threesome is a lot.” 

“You don't have to do it if you don't want to,” his grip tightened on you and he squeezed you against his chest.

“It's not that I don't want to but I need to be sure about that other person. Do I know him? Does Innie know him? I just need to know,” you were clearly frustrated.

“What if that other person was me? Would you do it?”

You pushed yourself away from his chest to look him in the eyes.

“Are you serious?” Chan just nodded.

A threesome with your college best friend who had always treated you like you were royalty and a cute junior with dimples, a killer smile and a charming personality. That sounded like something out of your deepest fantasies.

“Okay, let's do it.”

Jeongin had insisted you two had a date alone, no Chan, just you two. ‘Its because hyung makes everything awkward,’ he had said in front of him but you hardly believed him. Chan wasn't awkward at all in front of girls, he was flirty and charming. 

A cup placed in front of you snapped you out of your thoughts. 

“Thank you, Innie. This place is really nice.” 

The cafe was spectacular, you had never seen a place with such a balance of chic and cozy and the beverages looked delicious as did the food.

“I came here with Seungmin hyung once, I wanted to take you here. Alone.” 

So that was why Jeongin didn't want Chan around, he wanted to go on a date. With you. The thought made your head spin a little, he was one of the hottest freshmen on campus and he wanted you? Luck must have been really on your side.

“You wanted to come here with me? Why?” 

He was cute, unbelievably so. His ears and cheeks were completely red and his gaze was on his mug.

“I think you're nice and pretty, and I’ve wanted to go out with you for a while.”

His sudden confession left you flabbergasted. THE Yang Jeongin wanted to go out with you.

“You don't have to answer right now, noona, take your time.”

“You're so cute Innie, thank you,” you got up from your chair and leaned across the table. Your lips pressed a light kiss on Jeongin’s cheek. You were so close now, you could feel his breath on you and heard him gulp loudly. His face was almost buried in your tits, you chose a low cut shirt for the occasion and you didn't care that he could see everything you had to offer, you wanted him to see. 

I.N. stood abruptly and grabbed your wrist, with a sharp tug you were at his side.

“We've talked enough, noona, let's go.”

Jeongin's thumb swiped at your folds for what felt like the thousandth time. As soon as he had gotten you in Chan's room, he had removed your clothes hastily and pushed you back into Chan's arms. Your legs had been opened roughly and a pair of arms, a pair that you knew very very well had circled your middle to keep you in place. Jeongin had taken his place between them, a scowl on his pretty face. 

Jeongin's thumb caught on your clit and your back arched, finally glad for some real stimulation but retreated as soon as it appeared. 

“Are you a whore, noona?” 

All you could do in response was pant and wriggle in Chan's grasp. The boys were both fully naked and you could feel Chan's cock against your backside and see Jeongin's drooling precum and looking painfully hard. You wanted to put your mouth around him and suck until his soul came out of it. At the thought a few drops of sleek dropped on the covers beneath you.

“Our baby has a mouth on him doesn't he?” Chan’s voice was supposed to be comforting compared to Jeongin's harshness but the contrast made you drip even more.

A sharp slap was delivered to your pussy.

“Answer me.” Jeongin was completely different in and outside of the bedroom, now you knew why girls came out of his room with shaky legs and a bewildered look in their eyes.

“N-no, I'm not,” you managed to stutter out. 

“C'mon Innie, I'm sure she only wanted to show you, not the others,” Chan argued. His thumb slowly circled your flushed cheek and you leaned into his touch with a whimper.

“Shut her up, hyung, and you whore don't you dare cum.” Chan's lips were on yours in an instant, it was an awkward position, your neck would hurt like hell after, but just the thought of Chan's plush doll lips made everything better. Your best friend was an exceptional kisser, he wasn't rushed but not too slow either and he poured just enough passion into it. As ruptured as you were, you didn't notice Jeongin gathering your wetness on his fingers and then slamming them into you. Your back arched off Chan's chest so much that he had to wrap his arms tighter and pull you towards him again. Little whimpers and moans came out of you, the pleasure was so intense after all that teasing that you couldn't even lift your head up from Chan's shoulder.

“I said shut her up, hyung,” Jeongin spoke nonchalantly like he wasn't pistoning his fingers into your g spot and abusing your already sensitive pussy. If he had kept that up, it would've taken you mere seconds to cum.

“No, I wanna hear her,” Jeongin tsked at his answer but didn't say anything; yes everybody was whipped for the baby and let him get away with murder but that didn't mean that he didn't have to respect the eldest authority. Chan lowered his head to the shell of your ear and whispered: “ keep up the pretty noises, baby.”

“Channie, I'm close,” your voice and your legs shaky. Jeongin pulled his fingers out and stuck them in your mouth.

“Mh, best I’ve ever had.” Your face felt like you caught on fire. Baby bread was nasty.

“Hyung put her down with her head dangling from the edge, I want to fuck her mouth.”

Chan's muscly arms picked you up and threw you down on the bed, your thighs slicked at the show of strength. With your head upside down, you could see and feel Jeongin's presence above you even more intensely than before.

“Open up,” his tip prodded your lips and without a second thought you opened. He was big, longer than Changbin but less thick, you didn't doubt you could take him. At the first roll of his hips, a tear rolled down your face. Your eyes focused on his heavy balls slapping on your forehead, you wanted those in your mouth too. Jeongin's continued fucking your face with fluid and deep thrusts, his face was thrown back and scrunched up. He was pretty, really pretty. 

Suddenly you felt something breach your entrance and soon Chan's tick and long cock was entering you.

“Hey baby, I'm sorry, I'm so worked up, I have to make you cum quickly,” his breath fanned over your collarbone and he pressed a soft kiss on your skin before he sent you back on Jeongin's cock with a sharp, quick thrust. His thumb pushed on your clit and relentlessly circled the poor swollen bud.

“Fuck, you're so wet baby,” Chan paired his words with another few heavy thrusts. His pace was frantic and almost animalistic, you wouldn't mind coming back to him after the whole ordeal to let him take his time with you.

Your attention snapped to the other boy when he squished your face in his hand, forcing you to open up your mouth.

“I wanna cum on your tits,” his voice was strained and sexy and so was his face. Jeongin pulled out of your wet and warm mouth and started quickly jerking his cock until white ropes of cum were cascading all over your chest. In the meantime Chan was still pounding into you with brute force. Your breath was erratic, your hands fisted your sheets; your orgasm was imminent but you didn't want all that to end.

“It's okay baby, let it go, I'm right behind you,” Chan leaned to once again kiss your skin, not caring if his friend's cum was staining his lips. The extremely erotic sight sent you barreling over the edge, your pussy gushed and pulsed around him. You felt your body go lax and you didn't even notice when Chan came inside you with the most sensual moan of all. When you came back to the land of the living, Jeongin was laying on your chest, fast asleep; his cute cheek completely squished. You cooed at the sight, baby bread was back being a baby.

“Are you okay, baby?” Chan sat next to you, his eyes, completely focused on your face, were sparkling as you had hung the moon and the stars personally. You just hummed in approval, there wasn't any energy in you left for more.

“You know what I was thinking, Channie? I wouldn't mind letting you take your time with me. Next time that is.”

Chris showed you that beautiful dimpled smile that he only reserved for a certain group of people.

“I wouldn't mind that either, I'm buying you food before tho, you're gonna need energy for what I'll do to you.”

@kflixnet

[snowlithills]

Theses on Monsters, China Mieville

1.

The history of all hitherto-existing societies is the history of monsters. Homo sapiens is a bringer-forth of monsters as reason’s dream. They are not pathologies but symptoms, diagnoses, glories, games, and terrors.

2.

To insist that an element of the impossible and fantastic is a sine qua non of monstrousness is not mere nerd hankering (though it is that too). Monsters must be creature forms and corpuscles of the unknowable, the bad numinous. A monster is somaticized sublime, delegate from a baleful pleroma. The telos of monstrous quiddity is godhead.

3.

There is a countervailing tendency in the monstrous corpus. It is evident in Pokémon’s injunction to “catch ’em all,” in the Monster Manual’s exhaustive taxonomies, in Hollywood’s fetishized “Monster Shot.” A thing so evasive of categories provokes—and surrenders to—ravenous desire for specificity, for an itemization of its impossible body, for a genealogy, for an illustration. The telos of monstrous quiddity is specimen.

4.

Ghosts are not monsters.

5.

It is pointed out, regularly and endlessly, that the word “monster” shares roots with “monstrum,” “monstrare,” “monere“—”that which teaches,” “to show,” “to warn.” This is true but no longer of any help at all, if it ever was.

6.

Epochs throw up the monsters they need. History can be written of monsters, and in them. We experience the conjunctions of certain werewolves and crisis-gnawed feudalism, of Cthulhu and rupturing modernity, of Frankenstein’s and Moreau’s made things and a variably troubled Enlightenment, of vampires and tediously everything, of zombies and mummies and aliens and golems/robots/clockwork constructs and their own anxieties. We pass also through the endless shifts of such monstrous germs and antigens into new wounds. All our moments are monstrous moments.

7.

Monsters demand decoding, but to be worthy of their own monstrosity, they avoid final capitulation to that demand. Monsters mean something, and/but they mean everything, and/but they are themselves and irreducible. They are too concretely fanged, toothed, scaled, fire-breathing, on the one hand, and too doorlike, polysemic, fecund, rebuking of closure, on the other, merely to signify, let alone to signify one thing.

Any bugbear that can be completely parsed was never a monster, but some rubber-mask-wearing Scooby-Doo villain, a semiotic banality in fatuous disguise. It is a solution without a problem.

8.

Our sympathy for the monster is notorious. We weep for King Kong and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, no matter what they’ve done. We root for Lucifer and ache for Grendel.

It is a trace of skepticism that the given order is a desideratum that lies behind our tears for its antagonists, our troubled empathy with the invader of Hrothgar’s hall.

9.

Such sympathy for the monster is a known factor, a small problem, a minor complication for those who, in drab reaction, deploy an accusation of monstrousness against designated social enemies.

10.

When those same powers who enmonster their scapegoats reach a tipping point, a critical mass, of political ire, they abruptly and with bullying swagger enmonster themselves. The shock troops of reaction embrace their own supposed monstrousness. (From this investment emerged, for example, the Nazi Werwolf program.) Such are by far more dreadful than any monster because, their own aggrandizements notwithstanding, they are not monsters. They are more banal and more evil.

11.

The saw that We Have Seen the Real Monsters and They Are Us is neither revelation, nor clever, nor interesting, nor true. It is a betrayal of the monstrous, and of humanity.

[lounesdarbois]

« Ça va péter »

Une menace imminente, lorsqu’elle est brandie pendant quatre-vingts ans sans exécution, n'effraie plus personne. Elle devient une fable, le refrain d'une comptine. « Est-ce-que ça va péter ? » n’est plus un sujet de conversation, c’est un sujet de plaisanterie. Au lieu de rêver à la grande explosion examinons l'un des possibles détonateurs. La principale rupture à redouter pour la stabilité d'un pays est la panne électrique. Si l'approvisionnement de courant s'interrompait, si les fusibles sautaient, si le réseau pétait les plombs, nous serions d'un coup renvoyés au 18ème siècle sans que l'endurance physique des hommes de cette époque ne puisse prêter main-forte à la fée électricité enfuie. Demain tous robots en panne égarés dans la jungle ?

Le moteur électrique et ses clients

D'Emmanuelle à Manuel

Sociologie du dealeur

Chacun connaît le plat resservi, réchauffé cent fois, du scénario catastrophe. Effort d'imagination nouveau comme Ravage de René Barjavel (1943) où des peuplades de sauvages fanatisés contre un Occident abêti font exploser les centrales électriques, plongeant la Civilisation dans le chaos. Barjavel admirait Céline, cela est vrai. Robert Crumb auteur de When the goddam **** take over America l'admirait certainement aussi.

Qu'importent ces vieilles lunes direz-vous. L'innovation technologique permettant de fabriquer soi-même le courant électrique par énergie solaire, éolienne, gazeuse, nous disposons d'une ressource à la fois gratuite et inépuisable. Possible. Faisons escale chez le camarade Richard qui est un fidèle d'E&R. L'évolution du monde selon Richard est déterminée par l'innovation technologique militaire. Chaque innovation défensive (bouclier, palissade, muraille, béton armé, abri souterrain de plus en plus profond) excite une innovation offensive symétrique (lance puis catapulte, puis canon, puis schrapnel, puis bombe perforante etc). L'électricité décentralisée vous protège du pouvoir mais pas de tous les pouvoirs. Le film Goldeneye (1995), de la série James Bond, table sur une coupure de courant de vaste ampleur causée par une arme stratégique désactivant tout objet émetteur ou récepteur d'électricité, depuis la pile d'une montre au centre de données informatiques, dans un rayon de plusieurs dizaines de kilomètres. Qui demain pourrait actionner cette arme? Pour quel motif?

Photo de gauche: vue satellite de l’Espagne le 28 Avril. Comment cela, vous n’y voyez rien ? Nous fonçons dans le tout-électrique renouvelable, certains de nous prémunir pour toujours d'une défaillance du réseau général. Croyant être libérés d'une dépendance à la distribution externe de l'électricité nous nous jetons pieds et poings liés dans un autre réseau sans vérifier si l'énergie propre et décentralisée pourrait nous rendre dépendant d'un autre pouvoir plus central encore, et plus malpropre.

Jérôme Halzan est docteur en physique. François Roby est diplômé de l'INSA. Ces deux scientifiques sont enseignants dans le supérieur. Tous deux ont tôt levé le lièvre du basculement vers l'électrique. Dès 2006 François Roby fit la prédiction que cette technologie rendrait obsolète à moyen terme le moteur à explosion. Jérôme Halzan a étudié les solutions alternatives aux hydrocarbures et les conclusions qu'il en tire sont fort éloignées de la doxa écologiste. Messieurs Roby et Halzan nous aident à déduire en quoi, depuis l'année 2000 (l'année Al Gore), les choix énergétiques de la CEE (ou un sigle approchant) sont contraires aux intérêts français.

Les batteries semblent connaître quelques ratés, l'électronique embarqué aussi, mais pas le traçage par balise intégrée. Dans le même temps la propagande de masse, la fréquence des publicités Youtube, radio, affichage, pour les produits électriques sonnent parfois comme les relances d'un forceur. Quand les clients n'ont pas confiance il faut les assommer d’un argument de vente final, d'une idée-force, d’un déclencheur d'achat.

L’argument sécuritaire et l'argument écologique on le voit, sont les masques grossiers d'un faux berger qui emmène les vaches regarder passer les trains électriques de l'Histoire. Connaissons-nous suffisamment la notion de guerre économique? Par exemple savons-nous que le lobby de l'eau en bouteille et le lobby de l'eau du robinet s'affrontent au-dessus de nos têtes depuis 15 ans par propagation interposée de résultats d'études alarmistes sur la présence d'œstrogènes chez l'un et de microplastique chez l'autre, dans le but commun de montée du stress hydrique ? Nous faudra-t-il à cause de ces chamailleries aller à la source des glaciers boire l'eau de ruisseau pieusement recueillie en nos mains jointes ?

La guerre économique a lieu parfois sous des modalités triangulaires et non plus frontales, analogues à celles qu'avait percé à jour Otto Weininger. Comment soumettre la petite Europe ? Qui vraiment aurait intérêt à la montée du stress énergétique ? Les Américains, les pays émergeants et la Chine ne sont-ils pas le troisième sommet d'un triangle qu'emploie, disons, Ashdod pour agresser Athènes ?

Pourquoi cette marche forcée au tout-électrique ? Bitcoin, voiture, chauffage, verrouillage de porte d'entrée, climatiseur, cuisinière... Mettre ses œufs dans le même panier est un choix imprudent. Un choix coûteux depuis les restrictions du nucléaire. Avec du recul, la marche forcée au Green Deal depuis 10 ans, et celle de l'anti-carbone depuis 25 ans, semblent orienter chaque aspect du mode de vie vers l'électrique et le « connecté », d'une manière tellement extensive que nous n'en voyons plus le ridicule. Un chauffe-eau connecté. Une friteuse connectée. Une voiture connectée qui tombe pour l’instant en panne deux fois plus souvent que la 205 GTI. Ce mouvement forcené ne correspond à aucune demande réelle. Le thermique et le nucléaire, plus fiables, étaient meilleur marché. Le prétendu progrès technologique, la prétendue urgence climatique, sont-ils les arguments d’un pouvoir supra-national pour décreter un cas de force majeur ? En quoi ce « progrès » soulage-il notre quotidien ? Le temps passé à programmer, vérifier, ajuster, réviser, réparer, mettre à jour, remplacer cette quincaillerie électro-plastifiée peut laisser songeur. Un comble, nous n'avons plus le Concorde et croyons encore au Progrès.

Face à un tableau de commandes mécaniques vous êtes le conducteur. Vous enfoncez des boutons poussoirs, actionnez des loquets, manœuvrez des leviers, palonniers, curseurs, vous surveillez des jauges et des aiguilles que vous réveillez d'une pichenette quand elles dorment. La Technique est un outil palpable en votre main. Face à un écran digital vous êtes le singe captif d'une parcelle du super-ordinateur mondial, il vous conduit, vous jauge. Les conducteurs de voitures électriques "folles" n'ont su que trop tard qu'ils étaient les outils dans la main de la Technique insaisissable. Saurons-nous un jour s'ils étaient les pionniers malheureux d'une entreprise plus funeste et plus vaste? 

Les enfants élevés dans l'asepsie, au gel "désinfectant", à la turbine à vent, ne connaîtront pas le charme du ronronnement, du vrombissement de la Golf VR6 (pneus qui crissent), l'odeur d'essence des stations-service la nuit, celle de la fumée du tabac qui s'en va par la fenêtre ouverte pendant que l'autoradio passe Killed by death. L'existence de millions de gens se rapproche chaque jour davantage des règles de sécurité d'un avion (elles-mêmes frôlant celles de la prison). L'avion où l'on pouvait jadis fumer pépère, aujourd'hui plus lent, plus cher, plus chargé... Cette prise directe avec les odeurs, les sons et les choses n'a rien à voir avec la vie par prise électrique, par médias, médiations, identifiants et mots de passe, encodage de numéro et musculation climatisée, chambres étanches, isolation aux normes, programme rationnel, project management et nourriture pesée. Nous savons tant de choses et savons à peine vivre. Journées sans musique ni entraînement, ni massage, ni danseuse, ni baignade, ni prière. Journées vides, d'où le constant succès des psychotropes depuis maintenant 60 ans chez une part croissante de la population. Les accélérateurs le jour (coke, caféine, Redbull, crack, ritaline, qualude), les ralentisseurs le soir (shit, alcool, anxiolytiques, héroïne). Et la pornographie.

Le seul mérite d'une coupure d'électricité serait l'extinction de la pompe à pornographie. Céline expliquait l'invasion de la Grèce par la soudaine propagation du vin, « le pompage vinassier », chez ces gens qui étaient la santé faite peuple. La transplantation des vignes venues de l'Asie maudite, tournant de l’Antiquité ? « Quand vous avez un poison pareil à portée de main, et autant que vous en voulez, alors tout est fini ». Les heures d'images très pornos et très graphiques absorbées par des générations entières d'adolescents sont autant de poison venu d'Asie injecté dans la santé de leur esprit. Le pays de la Pompadour réduit à l'état de pompe à merde, raison de plus pour faire péter la république ?

D'Emmanuelle à Manuel.

Écouter Woodman hurler ses insultes habituelles aide à visualiser la minceur de la frontière entre la poussée libertaire de Mai 68 et la possession totale de la très belle jeune femme soumise par la pornographie des années VHS. « Sa*** de p** de ch** de p*** ça y est je vais encore jwouèèèr comme une ordüüüre », textuel, demeure l'une des expressions les plus châtiées de la gamme woodmanienne, disponible en MP3, que certaines bandes d'amis quarantenaires hilares infiltrés dans une soirée comme-il-faut passent incognito sur les enceintes connectées en guise de blague de potache. Ainsi en deux générations sommes-nous passés du jouir sans entrave au jouir comme une ordure et cherchons encore les causes de la dénatalité des peine-à-jouir contemporains.

Cette auto-proclamée « ordure », donc, a prospéré sur la décomposition des pays slaves de l'ex-URSS, lorsqu'il ameutait à ses castings les postulantes des pays devenus libres, promettant aux dames un avenir plus libre encore, et plus digne.  La carrière de Woodman constitue un objet d'étude d'une portée immense sur l'après-communisme, sur le destin collectif d'une certaine culture caucasienne tranquille. Identitaires européens qu'avez-vous fait de la solidarité longtemps imaginée, jamais pratiquée ? Il aurait suffi de trianguler un seul petit renseignement à quelque patriote Voryvzakone entre 1992 et 2000 pour ramener à la raison le hurleur Woodman. « Toi pas faire saletés dans pays moi », et tout serait rentré dans l'ordre. Nul n'en a rien fait et ce sont des milliers de jeunes slaves qui sont parties sur écran instruire le dossier « Les Blanches font les p* au lieu d'être mères », refrain qui a électrisé la racaille des années 1990, rendue sûre de ses droits sur nous. La rue est une rumeur qui répète ce que lui chante le balcon des riches (sérénade inversée). Sous l'apparence du voyou pas commode, la rue est profondément femelle, conformiste, obéissante au pouvoir.

Pourquoi avoir écrit Sociologie du hardeur? Parce qu'à 11 ans lorsque les camarades de classe s'échangeaient des cassettes vidéos de films pornos de Canal + je leur disais qu'il fallait « tuer les gens qui propagent la pornographie ». Il est possible que d'autres aient accompli ce rêve d’enfant naïf à ma place dans des conditions mystérieuses. Au hasard, étudions la mort de Michel Ricaud (28 Juin 1993). Étrange affaire. Ce boss de la pornographie marchait sur la plage. Une vague imprévisible a déferlé, sa tête s'est fracassée contre un rocher. Ces détails furent rendus publics par le seul témoin de la scène, qui heureusement put reprendre le poste vacant pour perpétuer l'entreprise en déshérence.

Ça va péter, vous allez fuir. L'allusion à l'expatriation en Russie on le voit, était habilement glissée. À quoi bon partir si c'est pour trouver ailleurs le même rap, le même shit, la même pornographie, le même marasme organisé ? Ce n'est pas la seule détestation des racailles qui doit nous guider vers une vie nouvelle c'est le goût des lieux gratuits, de l'esprit et des tablées communes, de l'effort payé et des hauts standards. « Nous habitons l'absence » disait Houellebecq.

Ce monde carencé en érotisme croule de pornographie. Les producteurs parient sur le besoin de la foule de s'identifier à des winners pour s'évader de sa condition médiocre. Dans une société réduite aux deux critères de l'argent et de la baise, un banquier comblé de bonus annuel n'est qu'un demi-winner. L'acteur pornographique seul occupe objectivement le sommet de la compétition mondiale. Le punir est inutile: moralisme excite transgression accrue. Le tourner en dérision donne de meilleurs résultats pour moins d'effort: on trouvera le terrain tout prêt pour cela. Woodman est ridicule. Ferrara est ridicule. Les singes de Californie qui ont baisé la femme de Ferrara étaient ridicules, tout ce panthéon des priapes est ridicule. Se branler est ridicule. Même la baise est ridicule, au plan chorégraphique. Tous ces gens sont drôles sans le savoir, à leur dépens. Leur mentalité, leur accent américain, leur compétition qui ne va nulle part, leurs KPIs par nombre de coups de reins/minute et volume de liquide expulsé, leur zéro conscience de soi, font de bons sujets de rigolade.

Pourquoi Jeanin dit Ferrara n'a jamais risqué un mot sur la hiérarchie du porno, lui "le mieux payé", que peut-il craindre? Pourquoi n'a-t-il jamais confié une seule petite indiscrétion sur la sociologie du porno, sur les producteurs qu'il connaissait mais qui n'apparaissaient pas à l'écran, sur tous ces gens payés mieux que lui, payés sur lui, sur Ferrara? Les gens de Redlight et de Digital Playground jetaient à ce vassal quelques miettes de leurs empires certes, mais d'où sortaient-ils exactement? Et ceux de Bangbros, Evil Angel, et de toute cette pompe à solitude du monde? Et le violeur Bryan Rothstein, dit Sevilla, et les MST transmises aux actrices par des acteurs à 90% coutumiers de pratiques à risque entre hommes ?

Félix Niesche date les prodromes de la castration mentale des Blancs l'année du grand Thermidor  féministe de 1974. De nouveaux mots d'ordre se répandaient dans les groupuscules révolutionnaires et soudain les hommes se firent bluffer par l'injonction au « savoir-faire-jouir » la femelle, concept indicible et hors d'atteinte sur lequel il fallait « réfléchir ». Ferrara, Woodman et quelques autres nés autour de 1974 ont eu par exception la palme concrète. L'argent, les femmes, les honneurs. Il y avait un prix à payer pour cela dont nul ne parle jamais. Ce prix le voici. Le mode de vie le plus élevé au plan mondain obligeait à ne fréquenter que des demi-mondaines au plan conjugal. Ces hommes lassés de baiser inutile ont fini par engrosser quelques bonnes femmes de leur milieu. Des actrices. C'est à dire des dames baisées par tous les trous avant, pendant, après leur grossesse, par d'autres types. Messieurs les winneurs, vos enfants seront à vie des filles et fils de... de quoi? La rue le leur dira bientôt. Alors « que sert à un homme de gagner le monde entier, s'il vient à perdre son âme? » (Mt 26 :16). La plus prestigieuse place mondaine produit la plus honteuse place spirituelle. Miracle de la dialectique (et de l'Evangile).

« De toute façon quel est le destin des jeunes d'aujourd'hui ? C'est de se branler sur internet ou de se mettre en cou-couple ». Félix Niesche

Sociologie du dealeur

L’escroquerie à la Taxe Carbone, au photovoltaïque, l’affaire du stade toulousain, l’affaire des frères Elmaleh, et tant d’autres affaires distinctes, semblent toutes illustrées par les mêmes cartes traversées des mêmes flèches. La canaille communautaire passe les ordres depuis un lieu éloigné. En-dessous d'eux la racaille exécute le travail de terrain dangereux : transporter, stocker, vendre. En-dessous encore se trouvent...  les yenclis dociles en file indienne, indo-européenne, venus par exemple acheter leur shit dans les cités. Non, monsieur François Bousquet, les Blancs ne se taisent pas par peur comme vous le dites, mais par honte. Loi du silence hiérarchisé, verrouillé. Canaille en haut, racaille en bas, yenclis tout en bas. Un monde de dealeurs et de daleux.

Descendre au rang de yencli est une passion d'inverti. Consommer c'est subir l'action, c'est engraisser la canaille, c'est acheter leurs théories écologiques, leurs injections expérimentales. Il n'est pas de déchéance plus infamante que la condition de clientèle. Peuple français, peuple d'artisans. Nous sommes faits pour produire, pour inventer, arranger, façonner, ordonner, nous sommes faits pour faire.

Drogue de masse, pornographie de masse, immigration de masse, vaccin de masse, une seule sociologie. Taxe carbone universelle ? Idem. Et le halal ? Même sociologie. La première minute de Bernard Boutboul chez Farid Booster (allitération en b) suffit pour tout comprendre, c'est dire combien Jeunesse Identitaire au Quick de Villeurbanne en 2009 s'était faite enrouter... La vérité de notre monde gît dans les prédictions de Bagatelles Pour un Massacre. Que dire d'autre ?

L'épitaphe du monde actuel c'est Martin Scorsese qui l'a publiée dans Les Infiltrés (2006). Un officier de police corrompu par le chef de la mafia découvre après quinze années que ce dernier travaille comme indicateur pour la police des polices. Tout au bout des retournements d'alliance, des triangulations subtiles et des échafaudages de plans complexes, le monde retourne à des schémas simples. Le chef de la mafia admet être l'informateur du FBI mais clame qu'il n'aurait jamais balancé son protégé, parce qu'il le considérait comme son...

- Comme ton fils? Alors tous ces meurtres? Alors tout ce sexe? Et pas de fils?

Un jour ça va péter

J'entendais ça depuis des années

Et maintenant que j'y suis

J'aimerais savoir quand tout finit.

[dakusan]

Daku!!

Your ask dump was such a rollercoaster! Angst and fluff and smut and everything all in one! I was so not prepared! I really loved the super angsty one where vampire skz lose control and hurt their doll. Read it four times in one sitting. D E L I C I O U S.

The one about Chan made me wonder though, how would blood transfusions work for a blood doll? Because technically, it isn't their blood, right? And we know that to a large degree, the blood also tells the story of the person. So if a doll needed transfusion, what would it entail for skz who they are bonded to? Or would stored blood lose the memory of the person it belonged to once it is removed from the body? I mean, blood cells do replenish(?)/regenerate(?) every three months.

About the werewolf lore, there is a lot. I'm wondering if I should put it on my profile or if I should just send it to via asks. I mean, my profile is blank right now because at the moment, I only use tumblr for book recs and for your delicious part of this website! What do you suggest?

-Penguin Anon

you rang, Penguin Anon? good. because you just tapped into premium-grade blood science and you’re absolutely right — it’s not just crimson. it’s code.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧛‍♂️ 💉 B L O O D T R A N S F U S I O N S I N B L O O D D O L L ( a k a : w h a t h a p p e n s w h e n s h i t g e t s m e d i c a l l y c o m p l i c a t e d )

❗️The Core Principle:

In this universe, blood isn’t just biological — it’s biographical. It holds:

memory (psychic + sensory echoes),

scent markers (soul-encoded identity),

magical frequency (unique to species, bond, and emotion).

So yeah. Swapping blood? Not simple.

🔁 WHAT HAPPENS IF A BLOOD DOLL NEEDS A TRANSFUSION?

🥀 1. Stored Blood = Dead Data

Once blood is drawn and removed from the living system, it begins to degrade metaphysically within hours.

After ~48 hours (give or take), it’s emotionally inert—like a USB stick with corrupted files.

Yes, the red cells still “work” medically... but to a vampire? It smells like dust and static.

🧪 2. Human-to-Human Transfusion = Identity Interference

A doll receiving another human’s blood? Risky.

The bonded vampire will smell someone else inside their mate.

It causes psychic dissonance: rage, confusion, territorial panic.

Especially if it’s unfamiliar blood. Their instincts scream “she’s been touched.”

May lead to blood rejection episodes or violence unless the vamp is warned and stabilized.

💉 3. Ideal Solution: Synthblood Imprinted with Doll’s Bio-Code

Chan’s empire (LUXE HEALTH or NOCTE LABS) likely created custom blood-mimic transfusions.

Grown from the doll’s own bloodline, enriched with her frequency and psychic markers.

Like cloning her blood to preserve the bond — science meets sorcery.

⚠️ 4. Worst Case: Emergency Transfusion from Another Vampire

This is basically a soul slap.

Not recommended unless you want a mate-bond rupture.

The bonded vampire will feel it — as if someone else fed her, marked her.

Would trigger jealousy, bloodlust, and a need to reassert dominance immediately.

🧠 BONUS BIOLOGY NERD NOTE:

You’re right — red blood cells replace themselves roughly every 120 days. BUT: in this lore, the blood’s “imprint” exists beyond the cell’s lifespan. The magic-memory lives in the bloodstream like an aura. So even with fully regenerated blood, the soul’s pattern remains embedded unless disrupted by trauma, ritual, or external influence.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

As for the werewolf lore... God, yes. Send it. Whether it’s DMs, asks, or carrier pigeon — go feral with it.

🖤 thank you for the brain candy, Penguin Anon. you get a gold star 🌟💋🦇

[maitreretouaffectif]

Puissant Maitre Marabout Safari Tidiane expert pour retour sentimental

Quand l’amour s’éteint, que les promesses sont brisées, que les souvenirs deviennent douloureux et que le silence s’installe… tout semble perdu. Mais parfois, une simple décision peut changer le cours de votre vie : faire appel à un véritable expert du retour sentimental, comme le Maître Marabout Safari Tidiane, peut vous aider à renouer avec l’être que vous aimez profondément.Depuis plus de 30…

[jals-stuff]

Hihi! First of all I LOVE your writing and thank you for feeding us hungry Orter fans with your work (I have been STRAVING for his fic) so if you don't mind, I have a little request! So I imagine in a what if Orter has a crush on someone (aka us and ofc we gotta like the sandman back) who's always on a dangerous mission due to how strong they are who is ALSO his partner time to time and one day, they just went into a coma from overusing their magic. MAYBE when they woke up, the two will confess to each other or?? Idk I will let you cook 🧑‍🍳

(Sorry if my wording is a little confusing!)

good day/evening anon! your wording is just fine no worries

first of all, thank you SO much, this brightened my day by a lot, you have absolutely no clue what kind of serotonin torrent you have unleashed. I am glad at least some people like my writings, that's why I'm doing it.

I don't think this is 100% close to what you described, but I hope you'll like it regardless-

Should be gn!reader if I didn't mess it up...

warnings: SLIGHT SPOILIES, bit dark, mentions of death, bit of despair... not proofread I am so sorry.

word count: 2.8k

note: I apologise for any dumb mistakes because I physically cannot proofread myself at 6am but if I don't post it now I won't do it ever. please don't hate me anon

What if...

As much as he hates to admit it (to himself, of course), Orter had grown a little bit too fond of you. The way you greet him whenever you come back from a mission, or the way you always make sure to respect the rules and act logically while also protecting everyone around you when the two of you would go on missions together. 

The way you whine when your legs are tired after walking long distances, the way you always bring him a little something to eat when you know it’s going to be a long trip. You’ve always been good to everyone, much opposed to the cold man; but it wasn’t the only difference between the two of you.

Everyone has their own logic and, as much as you respected your own, his was quite different. While you wanted to take every single possibility into consideration, he preferred not to overload his mind with useless statistics and just think of a solution when the time comes.

However, a lot of things aren’t affected by logic, such as feelings, and how could the dense sandman guess that you were absolutely enamoured with him? These were variables he would’ve never imagined, even though he was painfully into you as well. 

Of course, he was your top priority, and protecting him from harm even though he was a rather powerful mage was of the utmost importance. He should’ve known that when the two of you recklessly charged into enemy territory in an attempt to weaken the devil’s quintuplets before they would be on the move.

Orter was a man of many things, but “what if''s were not part of his usual reasoning, and that was the biggest mistake of his life. However he only realised it too late when you had to break your own limits to make sure he’d go back safely. It was time to retreat, but the two of you had been completely cornered. 

Having a dormant god inside of your wand had many benefits, but Psyche was not an entity to be trifled with. The Soul Goddess would, each time you requested even a fraction of her power, take a huge toll on your stamina and sanity, and this time it was more than critical.

You were already exhausted from using so much of your mana, and now you were completely surrounded by Innocent Zero's sons. Unleashing your Psyche Inclination and ordering all of the quintuplets to sleep immediately surpassed your own boundaries.

You knew what would happen if you pushed beyond your limits with your personal magic, but it was completely worth it. After all, what was the point of living anymore if the only person you loved was dead? 

All of them were immensely powerful, and neutralising such strong enemies was not a meagre task. As soon as the last one fell to the ground in blissful slumber, you felt something rupture inside of you; like a used rope that suddenly lets go, your breath hitched and you collapsed to the floor. 

It was all pitch black, and your consciousness kept you company just long enough to let you hear Orter’s panicked voice calling out for you. Yet somehow, despite the fact that you were falling into the pitch-black abyss, you felt relieved that he, above everything and everyone, was safe.

But anything beyond the confines of your darkened mind was unknown to you and despite your multiple attempts to open your eyes and wake up, everything went silent.

“No, no no…”

Had you been awake, you would’ve been astonished at how Orter had never been that distressed before, at least not in front of you. The loss of his dear friend Alex Elliot had taught him a painful lesson not to get attached to anyone and to simply stick to the rules, but he had let himself fall for you, and now he was experiencing the trauma once more.

“Please, no… not them…” 

Not only were you unconscious, you had done this to yourself for his sake. He was aware of that fact; had you not decided to literally put yourself through such an ordeal, the two of you would be dead already.

But unlike his deceased junior, your heart was still beating and there was still time to save you. He had never run so fast in his entire life, carrying you carefully in his arms to bring you back to the Bureau’s infirmary, laying you down as gently as he could as the nurses rushed to assess your state.

You weren’t hurt, so to say, but the abusive usage of your personal magic had plunged you into a coma, and it was unsure if you would ever wake up from it. 

It looked like you were peacefully asleep, maybe dreaming of a better place you would possibly join soon; unmoving and slowly breathing, as if nothing had happened. Orter knew you could possibly open your eyes anytime, and it kept him distracted every time he would fill his paperwork or go on a mission.

Whenever he had free time, he would rush to the infirmary to check on you, make sure you’re still breathing, or even talk to you. It could help you come back to your senses, or so the nurses said, and as ridiculous as he felt when he talked to your inert body, he would’ve done anything in his power to bring you back, as slim as the chances were.

But then it suddenly hit him. What could he possibly tell you if you ever woke up? He would for sure apologise, but other than that? How could he face you after you had quite literally sacrificed yourself for him? He wasn’t even sure he could look into your eyes again.

Did you resent him for this?

Would you forgive his recklessness?

Would you give him this warm smile he had gotten so used to?

And would it be time for him to finally admit his feelings? You were right here, in front of him, yet you weren’t there. He missed you so dearly, the sound of your voice, the shit eating grin you’d give him whenever he was wrong and you were right, the way you’d laugh at his disgruntled expression afterwards…

All of these interactions he thought annoyed him were now severely missed and he would’ve given anything to even just see the colour of your eyes one more time. 

And see he didn’t, for what seemed to be an eternity. Everyday, when he’d come to visit you, a small part of him hoped your eyes would be open and you’d greet him the way you always did, but every time, he was met with your inanimate form, comfortably laid in the infirmary bed. 

His hope of hearing your voice ever again gradually vanished with every one-sided conversation he had with your unconscious figure, swallowing down his emotions with every word he said. He was slowly accepting the fact that you might just never open your eyes again.

The more this thought settled into his mind, the more desperate he grew, and suddenly, his usual mindset faded away and his brain filled with “what if”s. 

What if he had taken some time to listen to your suggestions, what if he had thought of a plan B like you always had? What if he had ever told you about his feelings, what if you loved him back? What if you didn't? What if you never woke up?

Dread took over on his other emotions and suddenly, it wasn’t hope that drove him to visit you everyday; it was despair. What if you never opened your eyes again? How could he ever live with your presence replaced by this horrifying feeling of guilt for letting you die in his place? 

You were surely powerful enough that you could’ve ran away on your own, and left him behind if needed; it would’ve been the logical, reasonable thing to do. But the heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of. Of course, he should’ve known that you would never leave him behind, but precisely because it was completely illogical, it never occurred to him that you would willingly let yourself be hurt if he had a chance to make it out alive.

Now he was sitting at your bedside and kept hoping you’d wake up, just open your eyes and talk to him, greet him and say everything was going to be fine, just the way it was before… it seemed like he hadn’t heard your voice in an eternity, and it was weighing on him the whole time. Like a burden he would have to carry forever if you didn’t wake up from this coma you had put yourself into for his own sake.

His eyes never left your figure as he spoke to you kindly, as if you were still awake. Of course, occasional visitors would look at him like he was a lunatic, talking to someone who was obviously not here to answer, but it didn’t matter to him anymore.

Orter was ready to abandon his image for your sake, sometimes even skipping work and breaking his own principles so he could hold your hand for another minute before going on yet another perilous mission. 

The thought of you dying peacefully in your sleep haunted his mind every single day, and his sorrow was great enough that, more than once, he did consider exhausting himself enough so he would be defenceless enough for an enemy to just take him out of his misery.

For weeks, months, his mind was plagued with the thought of you leaving him forever, of not being able to tell you about these feelings he thought were completely unnecessary. Shame and rejection didn’t even matter to him anymore and he just longed for the day you’d wake up and even just look at him. 

He was on a mission, the day he heard that one of your fingers had merely twitched. Breaking protocol was far from his usual behaviour, but he needed to see you. That is how he accidentally drowned an entire area in sand, catching both enemies and harmless monsters in his Antlion’s Nest. 

The rules didn’t matter to him anymore, it was a physical need to see if you were okay and to maybe, just maybe hear your voice. 

However, he walked in on something completely different. Many of the other Divine Visionaries were gathered around you in religious silence, observing you. He had to push through the crowd and his heart stopped for a second when he saw you. 

You were sitting up in your bed, slightly confused as to why everyone was staring like this. For you, mere seconds had passed but in reality it had been literal months. As your eyes travelled amongst the crowd, you saw Orter, who was also staring at you in utter disbelief. 

The infirmary was completely silent, and no one was moving, as if time had suddenly stopped. Ryoh threw a glance at the others and they just silently left. Now it was just you and Orter, looking at each other in both confusion and shock. He stumbled towards the chair that was resting near your bed and he slowly took a seat.

“Well… you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Upon hearing your voice, he let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding. It was like all of his burdens were suddenly lifted off his shoulders and his head and arms simply collapsed against the mattress, much to your confusion. You raised your hand to reach for his hair and upon seeing how your nails had grown so much, you realised something probably happened.

“It’s been months! I thought you’d never wake up! I thought I wouldn’t hear your voice ever again. Why on Earth would you do such a thing? No, no... it was all my fault. I'm sorry, (Y/N), I'm so, so sorry.” 

He sounded angry, but he really wasn’t. You started connecting the dots and it took you a bit of time to understand that you had been unconscious for the past few months, worrying the poor sandman to death, though right now it didn’t matter at all. 

“I’m glad you’re alive, Orter.”

Although you had been unconscious for literal months, seeing the Desert Cane unharmed was such a huge relief for you. However, not everything was swell inside his mind. He still felt extremely guilty that you nearly died for him, and nothing could possibly pay back this humongous debt he thought he owed you. 

But seeing his relieved expression when he looked at you was enough of a payback. He had watched you wither away for months and now you were finally back to the world of the living, eyes focused on him and him only. 

You tried to stand up but as soon as your arms attempted to lift your form, they gave out and you started losing balance. Orter immediately stood up from his chair to catch you, wrapping his arms around your now weak body to support you, but even after you were back to your spot, he wouldn’t let go. He simply sat on your bed next to you, not letting go. 

Almost out of instinct, you rested your head on his shoulder and let out a long sigh, your arms raising up slightly.

“Please, just rest, you must be really exhausted.”

But his words just didn’t reach you, you needed this. After a while and a lot of effort, you managed to rest these weak arms of yours against his shoulders, on the sides of his neck, and he fell silent. You had no strength at all but he could feel you use all of your willpower to embrace him, and you also seemed like you wouldn’t let go.

He seemed fine with it as he slightly nuzzled your neck and closed his eyes, finally relaxing a little after this emotional rollercoaster. It felt so comfortable to finally be in his arms after such a long time spent longing for him, as if you were finally where you belonged. 

“I missed you.” Orter said quietly, close to your ear. His arms tightened around and you would've probably cried hadn't you been so exhausted. Your words were stuck in your throat and you could only nod and hum softly, your voice cutting inside your throat. 

His arms tightened around you further, holding you into a comforting hug, one of his hands gently going through your hair and keeping your head close to him. You exhaled again, wanting nothing more than to keep holding him. 

“Just don't let go. Please.”

Your voice was muffled by his embrace but you were close enough to his ear for him to understand your words, and you could've sworn you heard his breath hitch for a second as his arms tightened even harder around you.

“I won't.” He sighs into your neck, comfortably seated on the side of your bed, and you wanted nothing more than to lay back down and have him hold you, but you were still in the infirmary and it would've been very problematic to be seen like this.

“I won't, ever. I can't.” He held you even closer now, like he was trying to merge with you, your chest and his pressed against each other as if to share your heartbeats.

Although you had never seen Orter being this close with anyone before, it all felt very natural. Just like the way his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, like the way he moved away from you slowly, his usually cold gaze now soft and filled with something you weren't quite used to.

Just like the way he couldn't take it any longer and gave in to the physical urge to softly press his lips to yours. You didn't pull away, of course; the moment too precious to let surprise ruin it. 

You returned the kiss, your eyes now closed to take in the pleasant, wholesome warmth his embrace brought to you, after you'd been so cold for literal months. 

As nothing lasts forever, your lips and his slowly separated, but his eyes were now on yours again. 

“I won't let you fall again, (Y/N), I promise.”

You couldn't help but give a soft chuckle and his expression turned slightly puzzled. Of course, you two didn't share the same braincells.

“I've already fallen too hard.” You breathed out.

His eyes widened for a second before he regained his composure and brushed a few hairs away from your face to place them behind your ear.

“Then I guess we’re both down now.” he finally admitted, his expression just a little softer and his lips almost curved into a smile. 

You were suddenly thankful for Orter holding you so close, lest your heart would've jumped out of your chest. 

“I love you, just… in case it wasn't clear enough.” He awkwardly added, and you thought it was just adorable. Another chuckle escaped you with a nod.

“I know. I love you too.”

He hummed softly and sighed deeply in relief. 

That was one “what if” finally satisfied, and probably the first of a long list.

[unma]

I'm not going to be able to write my typical long rambles for a bit (need to catch up on important work), but here's a short list of things I wanna talk about with the latest canto.

Spoilers, of course.

The entire Canto taking place after the ending of Don Quixote (the first Don, I will not call him the Actual Don because our Don is as much Don Quixote as he is) is not something I expected, but makes so much sense and made for a wonderful story. There are themes of identity, struggling to live under a broken system and GOD THE FAMILIAL TIES. THE FIGHT AGAINST THE TWO MIDBOSSES + THE PRIEST HAD SUCH MAGNIFICENT STORY BUILD UP. AND THE PRIEST'S ENTIRE MOVESET. UGGGH I WANNA TALK ABOTU IT

Hey. Outis. What did you mean by that. We all know what I'm talking about, right? This is the first time I know of that she's actually given even a smidge of info about herself somewhat directly. Somewhat. Everything else is just in how she knows things and acts. Here she is asking a very specific question and god, I need to know more about her now.

Good job Sinclair. And everyone else. But good job Sinclair.

Vergilius with Sanson's face/mask is cursed.

I continue to feel so so bad for the Bloodfiends. They did the best they could in a world that gave them only two horrible options. I couldn't help but compare La Manchaland to the Tokyo Ghoul:RE ending, because the hemobars reminded me of the artificial meat, except in TG:RE it worked and here, well. We saw how that went. I think it's a great idea to start with the after of their solution; this isn't a situation with a possible solution, they tried that and failed. Who knows if there is one that works? Does it matter now that they're all dead?

I'm going to be very weird about Camille once this is all said and done, but I do want to note that the pretty boy being turned into a flower and having a name very clearly gotten from Carmilla the flower (and maybe the book? Haven't read it yet so idk if he's taken from there) is very cheeky. I still wish I could've besting him up myself. This isn't me critiquing the writing, this is me being weird.

The QTE in the ending cutscene of the boss fight was cool and really added to the feeling of fighting against and overcoming a clearly superior foe.

I wanna hug Don Quixote the First. He's such a ray of sunshine and deserved better. Even if he was somewhat delusional, at least he genuinely cared for his family.

What happened to Hong Lu's sister? Did she just vanish? I didn't notice until later on, so I'll probably need to go back and check myself.

Bari is the Librarian of Death (edit: Nameless Bookhunter, thanks for the correction AE)? Idfk and idc for now. If Bari ends up showing up again or a moot of mine decides they wanna talk about it, maybe I'll look into it.

The familial themes here are most certainly also going to be related to Hong Lu's story, which once more is a reason I really should get to reading all the books for this game.

Ryoshu accepting death from the possibility of fighting Don Qui the second was really funny.

The abno fights here are really good, and I love how Limbus is making unbreakable coins the standard from now on. Makes it so you can't just blaze through fights taking no damage, and these battles genuinely feel difficult. That's good. Their designs and mechanics are also pretty easy to understand and match with their ego gifts pretty well. God I wish we had more Rupture ids that could stack as much count as the Lasso abno.

Sancho fight was cool as hell. The clashable 10 speed skill was so good and made it feel like a massive improvement on the Cassetti fight. So good. On use coin power did mess me up a little given it doesn't show up in the clash numbers, but that was on me for not reading tbh.

Fun fact: final boss can be Meatlantern soloed really easily. So easy in fact that that's how I cleared it. Doing it with a full team didn't end well for me. The solo's also really consistent, which is nice.

Mili song is really good. As usual. I need to go listen to it again. I need an in-game mix. I need it. The childishness of Sancho's side of the tune compared with the seriousness of first Don's side is lovely.

Also. Please, in the final clash where you use Don's base ego. I hope you looked at the name of the ego and the name of Don the First's attack. Please. It's such a good detail. And it's so much better when you remember that Sancho was always the one making weapons for Don. He calls Sancho's lances much more graceful than his. It's so lovely. You can tell these two genuinely love each other. It's so good.

Also the fact that basically every fixer we went in with got wiped out by weakened Bloodfiends really shows just how powerful these bloodfiends are. Camille had to resort to using ego gear to survive. Sheesh.

That'll be all for now. Expect a long ramble on any of these points when I'm more free, aka never.

[hope-to-hell]

Electric (when you’re near) part four: no place like home (painkiller). Agent Stone x Ivo Robotnik. Discussion of old wounds. When faced with an impossible situation, try breaking it down into its component parts. Story masterlist here.

—————

Interior: Ivo Robotnik’s apartment, on the tenth floor of a pretty nice building. It’s all concrete and plate glass, aggressively modern and cold. From up here, the city spreads across the landscape like so much dirty linen, lashed by lightning and scoured with thick heavy rain. The weather reports all say the same thing: it’s the storm of the century. Deathbot 9000 settles into its charging station as Ivo sinks down on the sofa, reaching for a mustache that’s no longer there; he rolls empty air between his thumb and index finger. Everything hurts.

I’m sure it’ll pass, you just need some rest—

No. I mean, everything. hurts. How the hell do you do this? Oh. Now Stone understands.

Honestly? Most of the time it’s not so bad. Barometric pressure drops bring out the worst of it, though. Old breaks. You know.

I most certainly fucking do not know. This isn’t my normal. Nor is this Stone’s, if he’s being honest. It’s strange seeing the storm rage outside and not feel those aches: left humerus shattered and rebuilt, marble-sized knots of bone strengthening the old break; spiral fracture of the right tibia, memento of a childhood lacrosse injury; cracks along right anterior ribs 5-8. But right now he’s strangely light, his body merely existing in the background instead of making its thousand subtle complaints. All he has to deal with are the remnants of a headache.

Apologies, Doctor. I’ll find something to help. He’s been in Robotnik’s apartment dozens of times, mainly chivvying him into bed after a long night of overwork; he’s left warm towels beside the bathroom sink while Ivo sings in the shower— never peeking, mind, even though he’d dearly love to see what Ivo looks like underneath it all— and set the Doctor’s clothes out on the bed. So the general layout is not unfamiliar, but the angle of approach is. Everything is just a little farther away than it used to be; he nearly breaks a water glass trying to set it down on a counter that’s suddenly lower than it ought to be. This will take some getting used to. Being two inches taller is much more disorienting than he’d thought. It’s not as bad as rupturing his eardrum, at least. That’d been a rough couple weeks: his balance completely shot, sitting through hour after hour of interviews, while his superiors looked for somewhere to place blame: tell us everything you saw, everything you heard. You won’t be punished; you have our word. The Governor has asked us to let the matter lie; enough blood has been spilled. That was a lie; there is always a need for more blood to oil the gears of the great government machine. Now, we know you want to prove yourself. We have a very special assignment for you.

Okay, Agent. Remember: medicine cabinet, bottom left behind the antacids. There’s a little tub of topical analgesic that should do the trick while Ivo waits for the painkillers to start working. Doctor? I have something that will help. I can apply it, but— um. You’ll have to take your shirt off.

I’m not incapacitated, Agent. I’ll be fine.

I know, but I need to help. Please? Distraction, that’s the ticket. Focus on something else to block out the strangeness of the situation. Get through this, and later you can focus on finding a solution. Across the living area, Ivo sighs and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Fine.

There’s a peculiar disconnect between the way you see yourself and the way others see you. Your own voice on a recording, your face in photographs: there’s something undeniably off about it. Now imagine seeing your real live self from a distance, not filtered through film or audio recording. Every movement, every breath, every freckle and scar and hair are suddenly present, commanding your attention whereas before they faded into the background of awareness. Imagine seeing yourself as an outsider might. Have you always sounded like that?

This is so fucking weird, Ivo mutters.

Stone dips long thin fingers into the tub of ointment and sets to work. First the arm: it seems safest, somehow. I’m going to touch you now. Slowly, carefully, like reaching for a skittish colt, Stone begins rubbing Ivo’s bicep; his fingertips move in small circles. It’ll feel warm in a moment. If it’s uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll stop. He can see the exact moment when the analgesic hits; Ivo’s muscles relax and he lets out a long breath. Better, right?

Ribs are next, ointment smoothed on in short flat strokes. Gah! Ivo flinches away.

Doctor? Are you alright? Was I too rough?

It tickles. Ugh. Right. The ticklishness.

Sorry. I can stop— but Ivo’s scowling, working his mouth like he’s chewing on something unsavory.

No. Keep going. It’s helping, damn it. It makes Stone’s head swim, seeing Ivo’s hand moving over his ribs, Ivo’s fingers stroking over his skin. He’s dreamed about something like this, being under the Doctor’s hands, giving him access to every part of himself. The thought has kept him warm on long dreary nights alone, with only his own hand for company. If only this was under better circumstances. Stone. Head out of the clouds and back into my body. You can go woolgathering on your own time. Right. Stone rubs a few more perfunctory circles over the Doctor’s ribs, then withdraws.

I’ll leave this here. For the leg. If it bothers you. Turning away, he doesn’t see the Doctor’s frown.

Okay. Time to work out some of the practicalities of this whole fiasco. Make a plan. That’ll help keep the weirdness at bay. They’re generally seen in each other’s company anyway, so that’s a plus. Less chance for one of them to be seen in the wrong location. Definitely don’t let anyone find out about this. We’d better keep this a secret. It’s exactly the sort of fucked up situation that’ll land them in a holding tank at some black site.

Somehow, I find myself agreeing with you. Plenty of pale imitations out there who’d be dying to get their hands on the contents of that sweet sweet cranium. So I’ll be you, and you try your best to be me. What could possibly go wrong?

We’ll have to figure something out. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be coming and going from my place all the time. If I’ve got your face, I’m a target. There are a lot of people out there who might want to get a hold of your genius. I know how to take care of myself, but I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s too risky.

We’ll both just have to stay here, then.

People will talk.

They already talk. So go get your things. And Stone?

Yes, Doctor?

You’re sleeping on the couch. Fair enough.

Of course people talk; Doctor Robotnik has rarely been seen without Agent Stone for, well, years— not since his higher-ups decided the Doctor’s big brain was too valuable to be wandering around unattended. (It’s been three years to be precise, but who’s counting?) Stone’s been there through thick and thin, through the Doctor’s meltdowns and explosive outbursts, through his moping grey “my genius is wasted on boring-ass government drivel” episodes, and up to the exhilarating aha! moments of discovery. He’s outlasted the previous minders ten times over, so there has to be something more to the pair of them, right?

It’s just that the two of them are so goddamned weird about it.

Ivo tends to treat Stone as his own personal punching bag, throwing elbows and grabbing various body parts— and on one memorable occasion, biting; Stone’s finger was bruised for a week, but he never quite regretted reaching out to brush that bagel crumb from Ivo’s lip— and Stone just kind of… takes it. Stone’s heard rumors floating around the Agency: he’s a glorified rent boy. A double agent tasked with extracting the Doctor’s greatest secrets. The guy who was last in line on assignment day. And so on and so on. But Stone’s drawing decent pay and great benefits; it beats the hell out of his previous assignments. And besides— he likes this job. He likes the Doctor’s razor-sharp wit and total absence of tact. He likes learning about circuitry and absorbing jabs from Ivo’s fist. He likes undressing at the end of each day and running his hands over his collection of bruises; he likes standing under blistering hot shower spray and feeling the water stab into his skin like so many needles.

But how to get in and out of his own apartment undetected? Ivo never goes there. It’d be suspicious, and the last thing they need is anyone getting wise to their…situation… before they’ve had a chance to figure it out. But Stone’s bike is parked in the garage, and with the helmet on he should be mostly indistinguishable from his regular self, even if the sleeves of his leather jacket do stop higher than they should. Are you sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone?

Agent. I am a grown ass adult. I can sit on the couch in my own apartment for an hour. Just don’t wreck my body while you’re out.

[zedecksiew]

How To Play The Revolution

So: I do not like the idea of TTRPGs making formal mechanics designed to incentivise ethical play.

But, to be honest, I do not like the idea of any single game pushing any particular formal mechanics about ethical play at all.

So here I am, trying to think through the reasons why, and proposing a solution. (Sort of. A procedure, really.)

+

Assumptions:

1.

Some genres of game resist ethical play. A grand strategy game dehumanises people into census data. The fun of a shooter is violence. This is truest in videogames, but applies to tabletop games also.

Games can question their own ethics, to an extent. Terra Nil is an anti-city-builder. But it is a management game at heart, so may elide critiques of "efficiency = virtue".

Not all games should try to design for ethical play. I believe games that incentivise "bad" behaviour have a lot to teach us about those behaviours, if you approach them with eyes open.

2.

The systems that currently govern our real lives are terrible: oligarchy, profit motive; patriarchy, nation-states, ethno-centrisms. They fuel our problems: class and sectarian strife, destruction of climate and people, spiritual desertification.

They are so total that the aspiration to ethical behaviour is subsumed by their logics. See: social enterprise; corpos and occupying forces flying rainbow flags; etc.

Nowadays, when I hear "ethical", I don't hear "we remember to be decent". I hear "we must work to be better". Good ethics is radical transformation.

3.

If a videogame shooter crosses a line for you, your only real response is to stop playing. This is true for other mechanically-bounded games, like CCGs or boardgames.

In TTRPGs, players have the innate capability to act as their own referees. (even in GM-ed games adjudications are / should be by consensus.) If you don't like certain aspects of a game, you could avoid it---but also you could change it.

Only in TTRPGs can you ditch basic rules of the game and keep playing.

+

So:

D&D's rules are an engine for accumulation: more levels, more power, more stuff, more numbers going up.

If you build a subsystem in D&D for egalitarian action, but have to quantify it in ways legible to the game's other mechanical parts---what does that mean? Is your radical aspiration feeding into / providing cover for the game's underlying logics of accumulation?

At the very least it feels unsatisfactory---"non-representative of what critique / revolution entails as a rupture," to quote Marcia, in conversations we've been having around this subject, over on Discord.

How do we imagine and represent rupture, to the extent that the word "revolution" evokes?

My proposal: we rupture the game.

+++

How To Play The Revolution

Over the course of play, your player-characters have decided to begin a revolution:

An armed struggle against an invader; overturning a feudal hierarchy; a community-wide decision to abandon the silver standard.

So:

Toss out your rule book and sheets.

And then:

Keep playing.

You already know who your characters are: how they prefer to act; what they are capable of; how well they might do at certain tasks; what their context is. You and your group are quite capable of improv-ing what happens next.

Of course, this might be unsatisfactory; you are here to play a TTRPG, after all. Structures are fun. Therefore:

Decide what the rules of your game will be, going forward.

Which rules you want to keep. Which you want to discard. Jury-rig different bits from different games. Shoe-horn a tarot deck into a map-making game---play that. Be as comprehensive or as freeform as you like. Patchwork and house-rule the mechanics of your new reality.

The god designer will not lead you to the revolution. You broke the tyranny of their design. You will lead yourself. You, as a group, together. The revolution is DIY.

+++

Notes:

This is mostly a thought experiment into a personal obsession. I am genuinely tempted to write a ruleset just so I can stick the above bit into it as a codified procedure.

I am tickled to imagine how the way this works may mirror the ways revolutions have played out in history.

A group might already have alternative ruleset in mind, that they want to replace the old ruleset with wholesale. A vanguard for their preferred system.

Things could happen piecemeal, progressively. Abandon fiat currency and a game's equipment price list. Adopt pacifism and replace the combat system with an alternative resolution mechanic. As contradictions pile up, do you continue, or revert?

Discover that the shift is too uncomfortable, too unpredictable, and default back to more familiar rules. The old order reacting, reasserting itself.

+

I keep returning to this damn idea, of players crossing thresholds between rulesets through the course of play. The Revolution is a rupture of ethical reality like Faerie or the Zone is a rupture in geography.

But writing all this down is primarily spurred by this post from Sofinho talking about his game PARIAH and the idea that "switching games/systems mid-session" is an opportunity to explore different lives and ethics:

Granted this is not an original conceit (I'm not claiming to have done anything not already explored by Plato or Zhuangzi) but I think it's a fun possibility to present to your players: dropping into a parallel nightmare realm where their characters can lead different lives and chase different goals.

+

Jay Dragon tells me she is already exploring this idea in a new game, Seven Part Pact:

"the game mechanics are downright oppressive but also present the capacity to sunder them utterly, so the only way to behave ethically is to reject the rules of the game and build something new."

VINDICATION! If other designers are also thinking along these lines this means the idea isn't dumb and I'm not alone!

+++

( Images:

https://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/developer-diary/victoria-3-dev-diary-23-fronts-and-generals.1497106/

https://www.thestranger.com/race/2017/04/05/25059127/if-you-give-a-cop-a-pepsi

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WarGames

https://nobonzo.com/

https://pangroksulap.com/about/ )

[galedekarios]

Hi!! Hope I am not bothering you (if so please feel free to ignore!) with a Gale lore question, but I figured you're the person on tumblr who would most likely know given all the cool shit you've been posting, but do we have any idea *where* gale was when he got snatched by the mindflayers? I can't seem to find a straight answer about most of the companions, but there seems to be a fairly straight forward answer for most of them except Gale (and Astarion to some extent) I know he had his year of solitude that he seemed to have left willingly and from what Tara says about Waterdeep it doesnt seem like they had a massive nautiloid attack the city a la the opening. I figured he either left Waterdeep in search of more items to sate the orb/protect the city in case of rupturing and was taken there or he was just maybe beaten over the head and abducted in the city by one of the few Absolutists that are in Waterdeep.

thank you for your message! i really appreciate your words.

sadly, there is no indication at all where precisely gale was before the events of the game take place.

i've collected some pieces of the puzzle, however, that i thought are relevant to at least paint a broad picture of what likely happened:

gale is well aware of how unstable the orb is. when he escapes the nautiloid, his first thought is that the illithid tadpole is very likely to have adverse effects on it:

he has lived with the orb for about a year or longer, knowing well what its effect might be. i have wondered often just why gale would know so much about ceremorphosis before the game starts. perhaps the devs just needed another exposition machine, which is likely, too, of course.

but considering the very real and very present danger of the orb, i think it's also likely that in his desperation to find a way to heal himself, reading up as much as he could on everything that even resembled some sort of solution, gale perhaps even read up on ceremorphosis, before deciding that it's just not viable, that it would do more harm to than good.

i think it might be in line with the same reasoning as to why the player can bring up the nightsong to gale as a possible solution to the orb.

2. gale is aware just catastrophic the consequences of the orb being unleashed are. when gale goes to rest in his origin playthrough, sleep will not find him and once more, his thoughts turn towards the orb first:

it's likely that this is why we find him staring into the flames playing a custom protag. these two scenes seem to mirror each other.

3. we also learn from the same dialogue two important things: that gale made tara promise to stay in waterdeep, concerned for her safety. we also learn from his conversation with tara that he is not only concerned about her safety, but his mother's as well and that he left her behind in waterdeep as well:

morena isn't aware of what her son tried to do. he kept it from her. not only had he disappointed her faith in him and his talents, now, with the orb, he was actively putting her in mortal peril. along with everyone else in the city.

from a later dialogue we also learn that gale is afraid of bringing shame to his family name:

player: So, your last name is Dekarios? gale: It is. Courtesy of my mother, the inimitable, dare I say it sometimes unavoidable, Morena Dekarios. It's been so long since I've used it. 'Gale Dekarios' cuts a poor figure next to the wizarding prowess of 'Gale of Waterdeep.' player: You're right. Just 'Gale' is better. gale: I agree. And on the plus side, if I get myself into any truly cataclysmic straits during the remainder of our journey, my family name will go untarnished.

we also learn that while news of the absolute seems to have reached waterdeep, tara doesn't seem to think that they have infiltrated waterdeep yet. which in turn means that waterdeep wasn't affected in the same way baldur's gate and other cities and regions were.

4. the next morning, gale can have the following conversation with tara:

"you left the tower in such a hurry you didn't leave an address." is what stands out to me here.

what exactly did make gale leave so suddenly?

was it a particularly bad flare-up of the orb? i think it might be likely because i also found this line in the files:

player: i fail to see why you need me to help you this. you've done fine without me so far. gale: A fair point - however, until recently I was able to rely on a supply of artefacts stored in my tower in Waterdeep. A supply that has now run dry. The reality of the matter is that a lone wizard with a chronic impairment such as my own is not in the most ideal of situations with regards to self-defence. The manner of artefacts I need are not often found waiting patiently on a shop-keep's shelf. One usually has to lift them delicately from trap-filled tombs or prise them from the hands of violent ne'erdowells.

so not only does this validate the fact that gale indeed suffers from chronic pain due to his condition even more, it also clearly states that he had nothing left in his possession to treat his condition anymore.

(as an aside, larian really did the seriousness of his condition a grave disservice here on a multitude at levels and this is another point where the narrative is at odds with the game mechanics of the full release. in ea, it truly required great artefacts (the sword of justice blessed by tyr or even the idol of silvanus) to soothe the orb.)

so to bring all of these points together, this is what i believe:

i think gale left waterdeep in a hurry after he felt the orb destabilising.

having no artefacts great power left, staying was no longer an option, lest he puts his mother (and waterdeep itself even) at great risk. he hurriedly packed what he could.

i assume tara was there and that it was then that he made her promise to stay because he didn't want to put his longest (and now only) friend at risk, too. perhaps he also felt better knowing that tara would be there for morena.

i think he was abducted while on the road, trying to find information about artefacts of great power and perhaps even setting out himself to acquire them.

[aus-wnt]

Matildas star Steph Catley was at a training camp for club side Arsenal when a nutritionist blurted out the news: Sam Kerr had ruptured her ACL while at a Chelsea training camp in Morocco.

“I literally felt like someone had stabbed me in the stomach,” Catley said.

“My stomach fell. I just felt really emotional really quickly just because I felt really removed from it and I couldn’t go and see her and I couldn’t speak to her in that moment.”

Women’s soccer is booming. Before her injury, Kerr, the Matildas captain, and Catley, the vice captain, were part of an Australian side that captured the nation’s attention in the Women’s World Cup in 2023. The Arsenal defender then flew back to London where she played in front of record crowds in the Women’s Super League, including 59,042 at the Emirates Stadium against Kerr’s Chelsea in December.

But that boom is hiding a serious issue.

As a female athlete, Catley is no stranger to serious injuries among her peers. As well as Kerr’s injury, Holly McNamara was called up for the Matildas last year but did her ACL. At Arsenal alone, four stars suffered ACL injuries in the space of just six months: Lionesses captain Leah Williamson, WSL’s record goalscorer Vivianne Miedema, European Championship Golden Boot winner Beth Mead and Austrian international Laura Wienroither.

Catley says the foundations of women’s soccer are not developing fast enough to keep pace with the product.

“Obviously it’s what we absolutely love doing, but I think now that the game is at a point where the standard is so, so high and the games are so challenging and physically demanding [that] a lot of teams and a lot of clubs don’t have facilities and don’t have the right calibre of staff that can keep players healthy and strong,” she said.

“They don’t have the facilities to cater for the amount of demand and the pressures that are on the women’s game now.”

On the eve of Williamson’s return to the playing squad late last month, the 26-year-old defender said the current calendar and demands on female footballers were unsustainable.

“We’re not bred for this. We get to October and girls are saying ‘I’m tired’ because you’re carrying so much from the previous season,” Williamson told UK’s The Telegraph.

“We are driving ourselves into the ground, so some sort of solution needs to be found soon, in terms of the schedule, otherwise it’s not sustainable.”

ACL ruptures disproportionately affect female athletes at a rate 3-6 times greater than their male counterparts.

Research into ACL injury prevention and causation is ongoing and newer reports suggest an intersection of risk factors of intrinsic (anatomy, physiology, biomechanics and hormones) and extrinsic factors (training, conditioning, preparation, facilities and resources).

While Catley was hesitant to speak on the causation of ACL ruptures as she was not an injury expert, she said there was no room to properly switch off mentally or physically on the merry-go-round of the calendar year, putting a lot of strain on the resources available.

“I don’t know if A, B and C leads to this. But yeah, it does logically make sense that if there’s that much demand and not enough support and not enough foundations underneath that people break down mentally, physically, in every way possible,” said Catley.

“I think that’s human and that’s the way bodies work.”

Some English clubs can play as many as three games a week during the height of the season when the WSL, Champions League, FA Cup and League Cup calendars are running concurrently. The additional travel, plus the demands of national camps and tournaments, can further complicate schedules. Major tournaments occur in most WSL off-seasons, including a rotation of Olympics, World Cup and regional championships such as the Asian Cup, meaning most players will get one off-season free every four years.

When Matildas defender Ellie Carpenter ruptured her ACL just over a year out from the World Cup during Lyon’s Women’s Champions League final win over Barcelona, she referred to it months later as a “blessing in disguise”.

“I really needed this break. I was very fatigued, I’ve played a lot – a lot – of football in the last year and a half. I was just on the verge of [being] burnt out, really,” she told Forbes last March.

“The injury came, and, obviously, it was disappointing but at the same time, it was the perfect time for me to reset, get stronger, have a rest, have an off-season that I never really have had.”

In Kerr’s absence, Catley will captain the Matildas for the final Olympic qualifiers in Melbourne on February 24 and 28 against Uzbekistan and, if they progress, again at the Olympics in July. Catley did the same in Kerr’s absence for the first half of the World Cup.

Catley said as a kid, she never thought captaining a women’s team at the Olympics would even be possible. But now it is, it’s a “pinch me” moment.

“To be honest, even having that honour at the World Cup was extremely special and something that I’ll remember for the rest of my life, and cherish for the rest of my life, because it’s stuff that you dream of, really.”

But before she flies to Melbourne, for a 48-hour stop to play the first qualifier, she is deep in the thick of an Arsenal campaign for the title.

The club is looking almost back to full strength after regaining Mead, Miedema and Williamson this season, and sit third on the table, below Chelsea and Manchester City.

Catley said the title race was heating up. And while in the past seasons her side has struggled in those bigger games, this year they’ve done well against top opponents – but let others slip that they’d usually win. This is best summed up by their 4-1 win over Chelsea in December and then a 1-0 loss to Tottenham the following week. On Sunday, they lost to relegation-threatened West Ham.

“You’ve got some incredible teams that are also in form and if anyone drops points at any point, it’s like sharks,” said Catley.

“It’s just so, so close.”