abysmal83

[abysmal83]

Switching between these every day

[abysmal83]

99% of mathematicians quit staring intensely at the problem right before it solves itself

[abysmal83]

math articles i found on wikipedia rated.

0/10 - didnt know they had 4chan brainrot in ancient greece

5/10 - although my taste in men/men adjescent entities is notoriously horrible

7/10 - who doesn't love a bit of tendriil perversion

9/10 - i want to put it in my mouth, great shape, great name

5/10 - great name for a disappointing shape

2/10 - no actual gnomes

3/10 - i respect the dedication but why

1/10 - not only does it not look like a rabbit they perturbed my boy

10/10 no notes

[abysmal83]

"contrapositives are for cowards"

[abysmal83]

Grains of Time: Chapter One

Word count: 1.3k

In a far corner of the cosmos, a planet filled with uncountably many grains of sand—the hourglass of the universe—waits for no one. It floats in an ocean of black, a lone beige speck amidst the ink of the page of outer space. Violent zephyrs drag across the desert landscape, bringing an entire history of dust with them. The ravaging winds seem to tear the planet in twain, and the terrain shifts, never staying the same.

Abstract, crimson formations of oxidized metals meld into the sand. Their original purpose has long since faded into obscurity. For all anyone had known, they have been here since antiquity. These inorganic corpses are as much a piece of the planet as the infinite sands themselves.

In the far distance, almost beyond the horizon, a behemoth of steel dominates the landscape. Its savage triangles stand out in a sea of gold. A single beacon of stasis among the entropic fields of sand.

Any hope of a surface civilization had long been abandoned, along with the world itself. There was only one. Amidst the oxidized metal and rustwork was a lone sentinel, a poorly built and barely functioning droid designated PT73.

It was almost noon. The savage star scorches the shifting sands, transforming unconstrained silica into crystalized quartz. Rust bakes deeper into the discarded iron. Useless and crumpled copper wiring ages a fair shade of green. Any living creature, had there been any, would rust away, leaving only a brittle husk. Despite the hellish temperatures, the world moves on. PT73 does not notice, its circuits unrelenting and its concentration unbroken.

The droid resides in a hollowed dune with walls made primarily of the very same crystal that this planet ever so generously produces. A mix of hardened sand and reddened iron alloys compose the rest. The dunes protect it well, and the flaming world outside is of little concern here. A fortunate position, one well-suited to the needs of a tinkerer.

Deeper inside, a slate grey switchboard blinks scarlet, the only source of light in the sandstone bunker. It softly hums and whirs, a sublime sound in stark contrast to the extinguishing intensity of the desert winds. It was a wonder how anything could still function in this place. An interface gleams with green numbers—70GHz, 200GHz—frequencies. The terminal seems to whisper the secrets of the universe to anyone who dares listen.

PT73 holds up a splintered terracotta tablet; it is only a small piece of a larger, missing mural. It had become a passion project to investigate the remnants of the past. Civilizations were a thing of the past here. How distant, it could not be known. A single sandstorm is all it takes to erase any trace of that which is known. It seemed almost an insurmountable task to uncover these mysteries, but there wasn’t much else to do.

Surely the planet couldn’t have always been like this? It is so evidenced by the fragments of ruined construction, that there was at one time something here. Something. Now there is only nothing.

Replacing the tablet on its pedestal, PT73 has found its purpose.

The sieging winds outside languish. Burning embers fall silently to the sand, signaling a temporary retreat of the weather. A world-shattering quake blares in every frequency, threatening to rip the planet apart, and nearby, a thick wrought-iron case soars down from the sky, tumbling for a few persistent meters before coming to equilibrium. Its rusted door screeches open, falling from its hinges. An empty compartment.

~~~

Everything is just an empty compartment. Unfathomable distances separate anything of significance. Even the very grains of sand which comprise the planet are empty. Electrons have never once met a nucleus. The universe seems to depend fundamentally on the interactions of two strangers.

~~~

Lights flicker on a familiar mechanism on the other side of the universe. A current of static flows through a single channel and fluorescent orange nixie tubes display an array of numbers like a waterfall of information. Steel pans clamber to the ground in an adjacent room, and an electric voice can be heard muttering.

It speaks in much the same way that stones do not.

Thousands of books littered the walls and floor. Whatever this entity was, it was quite familiar with inquiry.

Inundated by a ceaseless static, it concerns itself with solutions. A radio tower in the distance, no doubt long dead, might hold a viable transmitter.

It pushed aside some metal scraps—working components for the nearby machinery—and set out towards the towering steelwork preserved by the absence of time.

Outside, the air is frozen solid. It chokes the terrain in thick sheets of suspended ice. A world forever unchanging, unvisited by time. It waits patiently for something, something that will never come.

Everything that once was is everything that will be. The constructions of an extinct civilization assault the pure white backdrop, unaltered from their time of prosperity. Thousands of polychromatic parallelograms serve as a constant reminder of the past. At such extreme distances, one could blissfully pretend as if life still thrived. The vibrance of it all was certainly convincing.

It was like gazing into the sky, looking thousands, if not millions of years into the past with every insignificant dot. A cosmic graveyard.

There is no star here. The planet drifts without orbit, a mysterious interloper disregarding other lifeforms. Explanations are the quandary of society, while objects of this size dabble in uncertainty.

And though uncertain of what might lie ahead, the entity set out, drifting between crowds of people frozen in time, not so unlike the planet it inhabits.

~~~

The container’s purpose unclear, PT73 pulled it along back to the only permanent location on the planet, and lazily pushed it into an unoccupied corner of the bunker. Its rust-coated door remained open, revealing only an infinite emptiness within.

The droid made to retreat outside—discovery awaits—but a strong gust from outside reminded it of the harsh reality that awaits. Ever still, PT73’s desire would not falter, and these ceaseless storms cannot extinguish its hope for this planet.

Preparing to wait out the storm, it turned to face its collections again, and that was when it noticed—there, beside the meaningless container, was an unfamiliar dark and metallic sphere.

PT73 is exceptionally aware of all of its artifacts, as it keeps a strict record of them all, yet this object was nowhere to be found in its lists. Undeterred, it approached the curious ball, holding fast in its stride until a sudden click reverberated off the slate walls. The droid paused. Another click, followed by a rotary sort of sound, coincident with a small slot appearing on the sphere. A lanky, black rod appeared from the slot and indeed on the opposite side too. The appendages intended to rotate towards the ground and extended, lifting the being a decent radius. It made one last noise, a floaty beep, and then seemingly turned to face PT73. The droid only backed away, having never seen another entity in all its centuries of roaming. A pair of amber lights lit up, almost like eyes seeing for their first moment after several lifetimes, and it let out another singular beep. Hesitant to approach, PT73 produced its own noise in response, a kind of question to the entity, in order to gauge its understanding, and ball seemed to nod, transmitting a string which could only be its own name.

In the next few rotations of the planet, PT73 learned much about the ball’s origin—it had fallen from an unmanned freighter which crashed into this planet, and on board was a wide assortment of nonnative metals and alloys which could aid in getting off this planet. Purpose tugged at every wire in PT73’s chassis, and thus it prepared to embark on a long, long journey. It placed the alien droid into a steelen backpack, and it thereafter poked a round head out the top, its orange eyes beaming with the prospect of adventure.

———

Tag List:

@elentiyawhitethorn

[abysmal83]

🐄 i dream of cows

note: this was a collaborative poem composed spontaneously by myself & my good friend marzka.

i dreamed of cows, of cows so great, & great cows did there moo

although the cows i dreamed about seem only to be few :'(

in sleeping hours i sought them out, the cows that i had lost my journeying, it took me from the fires to the frost

and now i prowl most every hour to guard my now found flock until my dream is cut too short thanks to my ringing clock

alas that i should lack the time to sleepily return instead i must wait all the day till waking tasks adjourn

and yet i find the single thing that gets me through that bore is to imagine in my mind the cows i so adore

[abysmal83]

the merry man

i met a merry man whose ditties made the lanterns shine his lilting lyrics lead the tavern through his song’s design he carried them with rhyme and rhythm to a woodland glade where tall green grasses girded by fresh blooms by winds were swayed

but while his lovely tunes were playing likewise in my ears i did not join in songsewn astral daydreams with my peers for through his glee upon him both my gaze and thought were fixed because within his eyes the hues of highland pines were mixed

his fingers stroked his fiddle with a gentle kind of care and care was on his countenance as winters left their wear his traveled cloak did not conceal the fullness of his frame and though i tried to master it my mind i could not tame

at length his lines concluded & his fiddle was set down but then amidst the moving mob my vision seemed to drown the songs’ end signaled folks to scramble off to bed till dawn and by the time the dust had set, the merry man was gone

[abysmal83]

a visit to the wood

sitting in their office station· fighting with their care's deflation· waiting for their next vacation in the misty ancient wood· they continue in their labor· ever seek to help their neighbor· eagerly they did whatever favor that they thought they should· ever finishing whatever endless tasks they thought they could and at last go to the wood·

finally with every tissue readily from work they issue· pack their basket like a witch who gathers for some healing stew· mounting now their metal stallion they head off upon their galleon quickly from the gray battalion towering above their view· speedily they quit the angled towers high above their view now the woodland to pursue·

when they reach their destination in that cold and green location with the woodland population whispering its timber spell they can listen to the townsfolk talking seated bout the round oak· hear the wind stroke needles growing tall and green about the dell· they can walk absorbing wind and pinetree needles in the dell until they must say farewell·

[abysmal83]

If You Fell Any Harder: Chapter One

CW: language, death

Masterlist

Word count: 1.2k

Today was a day like any other. The arid, uncomfortable air of the underworld was a usual occurrence. A thin film of ash darkened the mood, driving away any possibility of cheer. He rose early, early enough to see the reticent ferryman Charon guiding the parted souls along their way. He walked through the narrow doorway of his solemn chambers with mortifying gracefulness.

“Thanatos. You are needed, boy,” an authoritative voice called out. Hades. The keeper of the underworld and Thanatos’ dear father.

He spoke swiftly, without hesitation, “What has happened? Is it urgent?”

The commanding voice boomed throughout the tall, dismal halls of the House of Hades, “There is an unreaped soul causing harm to my realm, deal with him.”

And with a snapping half-turn and a single flap of his ravenlike wings he was off.

Asphodel. The permanent residence of most of the passed. The vainglorious in Elysium and the wicked in Tartarus. The first place to search on the hunt for an interloper. Sharp flames licked his feet with every new step. The river Styx oozed scarlet blood, and it was hard to imagine how it had never coagulated. The wretches of the underworld, Hades’ humble servants, wandered without aim, as there were none brave, or perhaps stupid enough to attempt to leave this domain.

Except for one—Zagreus. Son of Hades and Persephone, he was only a half-brother to Thanatos.

“I told you, my mother is out there! I have to find her,” Zagreus would proclaim. His brother, while caring, had no concern for matters contained within the mortal realm. The surface never seemed to him interesting. He had read countless books from the greatest Greeks, but none had made him any more curious. Zagreus, however, had a goal. One that would change the House of Hades forever if he was successful.

Striding through the scorched fields of Asphodel, Thanatos could only think of his brother’s immeasurable failed escape attempts. Each time thwarted by some new obstacle—spikes meant to contain the Titans, a hot lava bath, even Hades himself on occasion. He would do anything to help him succeed.

A single sweep of a scythe had been enough for all other foes. It would not fail him this time. This is just like any other day, he was sure of that.

The shadows seemed to contort themselves independently of any source. Only the faint green of accursed candlelight lit the path. The unusually cold stone tiles, shattered and wet, felt strange on his feet. The Asphodel Meadows had never witnessed such circumstances.

Unphased, he treaded onward. Baring his overlarge scythe, Thanatos could slice a fly in twain. He had no reason to worry.

He passed through the land of flames without suspicion. He scraped his scythe along the icy stone, baring his teeth.

“Disgusting.” He eyed a hurrying shade, all that remains of a once human. “Filth, all of it.”

Cursing all of humankind, he dragged himself up the thousand steps at the end of the Meadows. Humans are the reason for his labor, he thought. Not once in his entire lifetime has he ever had a break.

Elysium, for being in the realm of the dead, was somehow pretty. Lush shades of green blanketed distant fields. A clear, white light was omnipresent, as if the whole realm was being hugged by the gods. It was reminiscent of Olympus, a sanctuary within the underworld. Thanatos couldn’t care less. Plants have no soul.

Thanatos could not bear the thought of maintenance. The perfection of Elysium was sickening.

He pushed onward, determined to execute his only purpose. A well-trodden path lies ahead, “Footprints,” he thought. He thinks aloud, “He’s here.”

The path followed conveniently against the flow of the river Styx. Up here, the river took on a serene white sort of color. It seemed almost less like a liquid, and more a collaboration of several thick sheets of fog. He could not stand it.

He could not help but disturb the tranquility. Skewering a fish on the end of his weapon, the calm white of the river turned a violent sanguine. Blood and darkness, the two primordial components of the underworld. Thanatos liked them both.

Sweeping through the irritatingly long blades of grass, blood sputtered, transforming the viridian into a wicked brown.

The path he had been so delicately following stopped abruptly. Footsteps disappeared. Any trace of unnatural force had ceased. Thanatos tipped his head.

He looked around, “Only those gods-damned wretches.” A brightspear clambered out of sight. Only the hideous whispers of shades and the sloshing of the now-crimson Styx filled Thanatos’ ears.

A voice, he thinks. Quiet, yet still distinctly familiar. “Zagreus,” he speaks to himself, “must be.”

Sure enough, he was on another of his attempts to seek out his mother. “Oh, hey Than!”

With a crack, Thanatos moved instantaneously to Zagreus’ position. “I had not been expecting you out here for a while, not after last time.” Zagreus’ blood surged. “You know nothing about that, I was so damn close.” Thanatos retorted harshly, “I know enough, you’ll never beat our father.”

“You don’t kn—” Zagreus stammered, but he was interrupted. A vital half of his head flew across the chamber, broken. His body fell stiffly to the ground, the sound unmistakeable. The blood of a god runs thicker than molasses. Thanatos’ eyes dilated. Shock. Then rage. The human was here.

“Fucking sack of flesh!” Thanatos was not worried, after all Zagreus would come back. This is the way of all immortals. All he needed was one cut from his razorsharp blade and this would be over. He steadied himself.

The human attacked first. It was closer than it should have been, Thanatos thought. He analyzed his combatant. He held a small weapon. It was a simple shortsword and it gleamed a purplish sort of silver. Thanatos was not an expert in metals, but he knew this was a worrying sight. However, he had no time for questions, and his focus shifted back to the enemy.

Sweeping a large area in front of him, the crisp air was cut, as if the very dimensions had been torn asunder by his blade. A blow from such a weapon had always spelled doom. The harbinger of death. The Grim Reaper. His opponent was good, unnervingly so. A swift strafe to the left and he was out of Thanatos’ reach.

The antagonist lunged forward, aiming for the abdomen. Narrowly, he escaped upwards; only a single drop of blood melted through the tip of the sword. Vertical mobility gave him a significant advantage. This human was surely marked for death.

Thanatos struck down with tremendous force, and the earth shattered before him, yet there was no contact with anything alive. A piercing white-hot pain exploded in every part of his nervous system. His ears rang, a deafening silence. He looked down, a sore sight—he had been impaled.

“How?” he choked, coughing up a dark, viscous blood. The vibrance of the Elysian plains seemed to mock him at this moment. Blood seeped into the soil. Detritus was a welcome change, he thought. The grass darkened into pygmalion. The light mist condensed, embracing the realm in a stifling, thick fog. All the light had retreated, and death was at its doorstep.

“Stygian Iron,” he realized. Capable of slaying a god. He shook with rage—no, wrath. This was a fury no mortal had ever seen before. His brother had been murdered, and he was about to be.

[abysmal83]

If You Fell Any Harder Masterlist

Summary: Thanatos must search for a wretched human causing trouble in the underworld. He loses something important to him.

I’m not really sure how much I want to write for this, as it is my first work, but I‘m looking forward to many chapters!

CW: language, death, eventual smut

•••

Chapter One

Chapter Two

•••

[abysmal83]

i really loved these descriptions and enjoyed them a lot! the imagery of the scenery is exceptional

Familiar Stranger

written for @throneofglassmicrofics using the prompts "Morning," "Fracture," and "Rain"

Word count: 706

Warnings: mild(ish) angst ;)

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shades of gray blurred the sky at five-thirty in the morning, the clouds softened by a film of foggy mist as if some divine artist had smudged charcoal across the heavens. Aelin kicked off her shoes, tied them together, slung them over her shoulder as she jogged through the cool, shifting sand, the grains chilly against the bare skin of her feet. Early June at the Pacific Northwest coast was still cool, the days not yet bursting with sweltering sun, but she loved the misty silence.

The tongues of silvery fog that blanketed the forested hills in the distance reminded her of something, of someone. Pine trees and cool breezes and green eyes, soft words and warm skin and sweet love--first love. Her first love.

She came to this tiny town on the coast every summer to stay with her family in the place she'd grown up. And every summer that she continued not to encounter Rowan Whitethorn made the twinge in her heart get a little less strong. All for the best; she had no reason to see the man other than the lingering ties to the years they had grown up side by side until she had run away to college as far away from home as she could.

Because she had bared her fragile heart, and he had fractured it with three simple words.

We're just friends.

Aelin skirted the edge of the mighty Pacific, her strides leaving faint prints in the springy wet sand at the ocean's edge. Every year when she visited, she walked alongside the ocean early in the morning, soaking up the solitary peace that she'd only ever found beside the rush of the waves. Nobody ever came out to the beach that early, allowing her to drink in the much-needed snatch of alone time before she had to face another day full of family, friends, and random old acquaintances whose endless stream of questions about her life were well-meaning but incessantly irritating.

The mist thickened to a drizzle, and Aelin turned around, slowly heading back towards her house. A ways off, she spotted the shadow of another person, the blurry outline of a figure moving through the fog. She glanced at her watch--almost seven now, about time for the smattering of early-morning joggers to appear on the beach. She ignored the other person, certain she would reach the trail that led up towards her family home before her path could cross with anyone else's.

As she paused to tug her shoes back on, she felt a shiver that wasn't from the rain dance down her spine, and she glanced up to find an incredulous pair of pine-forest eyes locked onto her.

"Holy gods," Rowan breathed, his chest heaving beneath the athletic tank top that was plastered to his skin with rain and sweat, "Ae?"

Cracks splintered through her chest at that achingly familiar nickname. "It's Aelin."

"Aelin." Her heart fractured all over again with the mere sound of her name in his voice. "It's been so long--"

"Long enough to forget?" She broke through his polite words.

Regret, pure and true, washed over his face like the tide lapping over the shore. "I could never forget you, or how much of an idiot I was."

She laughed, the sound clipped, caustic. "An idiot would have at least texted, probably called. An idiot would have tried to apologize." The raw agony of his last words from seven years ago spilled over her, drenching her more thoroughly than the misty rain. "You trampled my heart and never looked back, Ro." His nickname slipped out before she could think twice about it.

"And I'm so, so godsdamn sorry," he pleaded. "I've spent the last seven years--"

"Doing nothing." Shoes secured, she turned away from Rowan and veered onto the path that led towards her house. "We're strangers now, Rowan. Goodbye."

Foggy mists of gray swallowed his plea, the broken cry of her name that pierced her ears. Blinking back the film of misty tears from her eyes, Aelin strode towards the safety of her home, away from the familiar stranger she hadn't expected to see.

Away from the heart-stirring truth in his words that her unsteady heart couldn't bear to face.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@aelinschild

[abysmal83]

Me

[abysmal83]

someone should write a fanfic about Achilles getting killed and reincarnated into modern world with his memory and big ego. But now in this world, he is the son who is casted away, Patroclus is the son of very important figure, and Patroclus takes Achilles as a body guard or assistance. For the first time in his life, Achilles learns to be a follower. What’s worse, Patroclus doesn’t seem to remember him at all.

[abysmal83]

REBLOG if you have amazing, talented WRITER friends.

Because I certainly do, and I love every single one of them and their work.

[abysmal83]

there needs to be more visible food in strategy games. Stronghold let you watch your cheese stockpiles grow and this needs to become standard. i gotta have a little guy on the field distributing mead and chicken haunches to my troops

[abysmal83]

i luv my gurlfriend