arusewallace

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Started yet another BG3 run.

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"constantly changing and shifting architectural landscape" really is one of my favourite settings for a story because it encompasses two similar but distinct niches of existential horror

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Sorry Ryan creamer works at dropout?????

This Ryan creamer??????

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When I was younger and researching the autism diagnosis criteria and symptoms, I thought “oh I couldn’t POSSIBLY be autistic.” Because when I read “takes everything literally” I thought it literally meant EVERYTHING and I was like “I don’t take EVERYTHING literally, just most things!” And I just realized the other day that it didn’t actually mean EVERYTHING and that was an overstatement.

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wish we had more internal organ emojis

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Opening lines for a book?

History is filled with the broken wreckages of many a great exploit. The broken bones of castles litter countless countryside's, networks of roads overgrown by nature show the arteries of once great cities, reduce to lines visible only from miles above. Every great deed is one day cast aside under the brutal onslaught of time.

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The Dancer and The Poet

Synn smiled as he exited the room into the hallway, spotting the source of the voice that called him out. Around six feet, thin, with messy auburn locks that fell down over his shoulders and armour that was worth more than the building they both stood in now. Even with the shadows covering his face, it was obvious who had come for Synn’s head. “Dorian, my dear friend. Come to sing a song of forgiveness?” “I’ve come to write your funeral dirge, Synn. This has gone on long enough.” “Ah, so you’ve finally dropped the lyre and picked up a blade then? All that talk of lovers and there's a fighter in you after all. Let’s hope you’re a better swordsman than poet” The hall was long but narrow, barely ten feet across, and lit only by the orange hues of the rising sun reflecting through the murky window panes. Bar the door Synn had just left from, and the door that Dorian now blocked, there was little else of note. “Well then” Synn said in a dismissive tone as he drew his rapier, “Come at me” And he did. Heavy steps on aged wood, as Synn stood patiently still, blade low but ready The poet rushed down, blade held high but clumsily, a lack of knowledge clear Synn spun on his heel, letting the fool stumble by, and taking his shot Piercing through the gaps, into flesh and lung and heart, and pulling back quick It took mere moments, a gasp of shock, then of fear, then no gasp at all Dorian fell to his knees, and stayed there, motionless, his blade, dug into the wooden boards, acting as a tripod to stabilise the lifeless form of the prince of poets like a poignant statue. “A waste of an artist. This was never your craft"

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Character Introduction: Kierian Letourneau

Name: Kierian Theodoric Letourneau Age: 27 Gender: Male (He/Him) Concept: Kier is a cold hearted killer with a conmans feigned charisma, honed from a young age. He seeks answers for life's great mysteries, and pleasures that few would find appealing.

TW: Murder, Child Abuse, Sadism, Implied cruelty to animals, Gore.

Description: Kierian's looks almost fae like in his presentation. Standing at 6ft 4in and weighing in at 145lbs, He is rail thin, almost gaunt in appearance. Adding to his striking appearance is his albinism, giving his waist length hair its stark white colour and his blue eyes the red tinge traditionally associated with the disability. He feels most comfortable in a loose fitting white dress shit, tucked into a pair of high waisted fitted slacks in the traditional black. His black leather brogues are always shined to a near mirror finish as well, presenting their owner as a controlled and orderly soul. His face is framed by high cheekbones, his nubian nose and sharp, almost pointed jawline presenting a face that is both beautiful and alien, both aspects of which he wields in social situations. Personality: Kier is intelligent, cold and calculating, though hides it well with a sociopaths understanding of social cues and through using the training he was given under his aristocratic fathers attempts to bring him to heel. He has little understanding of morals, though does try and follow the few he deems worthy. He is quick to action, though rather than being ill thought out or impulsive, these moves are usually thought of well ahead of time and presented as sudden to build an air of chaotic competence. While being very intelligent, he is prone to making mistakes due to his lack of understanding of others, though he rarely faces a comeuppance for such mistakes and shrugs off those who attempt to use them against him. He is either annoyingly likeable or easy to hate, depending on your temperament.

History: Kier grew up in an agricultural village in the highlands under a single mother. From a young age, he exhibited tendencies of cruelty, though his mother was quick to turn his darker impulses into more productive endeavours like butchering and hunting. As he grew older, he fell for a farmboy name Aaron from a neighbouring village and, later, for that boys girlfriend Siobhan. The three had the beginnings of a relationship together and Kier could have lived a somewhat normal productive life, if not for his father showing up. His father was a politician, an aristocrat, and a businessman. Getting up there in age, he found he had no heir to leave the business to. Due to his wild younger years however, he knew he had to have a son out there somewhere. He eventually chose Kier, seeing him as a blank slate that would be more than willing to leave a drab life in the country behind for a life of wealth and power. How right he was. Now around fourteen, Kier took to his new life well. Home schooled by the best tutors money could buy, they all agreed he was clearly intelligent, though cared little for any traditional academics bar history and even less for the traditions of aristocracy, bar the hunting. He did the bare minimum in hopes to keep his father happy, but it did not take long for him to find where he inherited his cruel streak from. Any perceived slight was met with a strike from his fathers cane, any actual slight met with a beating. His father had been in the special forces, so he knew ways to hurt his child that most did not, and would not, dare to use.

However, Kier took these as lessons too, first in how to tolerate pain, and then in how to fight back. Of course, the beatings got worse when he did, but that didn't matter, neither did the fact that he could never beat his father in such fights. Experience and earned strength would always beat youthful tenacity, especially when that youth was constantly nursing injuries from the fight before, but that did not matter to kier. It was all a lesson, and it was the one lesson he always put the most effort into. Eventually, partially sick of his sons disobedience and partially because his son was beginning to get a few good hits in, his father sent him on a gap year. It would be here that Kier picked up his final, most important tool, as well as one of his most beloved vices... Murder. It started innocently enough. Having recently turned 18, Kier was indulging in what all young aristocratic men of drinking age do; sex, drugs and alcohol. It was indulging in the latter that he met an older man who took particular interest in him. They had a week long affair, which was enjoyable enough, but when Kier wished to move on, the man got cruel. When the man got cruel, Kier got violent. The torture lasted a day, Kier taking the opportunity to vent all of the frustrations of his life out onto his "victim". As it turned out, the man was hardly a victim at all, as he planned to do something quite similar to Kier. The young man just got there first. There was an artistry to Kier's horrors. He wielded the knife like a paintbrush at first, then as a chisel. He cut flesh from tendon, tendon from bone. Portions of the mans flayed skin were folded delicately aside so as to carve away at the musculature within. Kier learned more about biology in this twenty four hours than he had in four years of schooling. By the end, the thing in front of him was no longer fit to be called a man, most of his skin wrapped around the wooden chair he was tied to, the muscles and tendons beneath pulled aside to reveal the bone which had been intricately, almost expertly, carved into. worst of all, the man was still alive for the majority of it, the mix of opium and cocaine that the pair had indulged in keeping him awake and the pain almost bearable. Eventually he died of shock, and this apparently was when Kier got bored.

He would call it art. The people who found it would call it a grotesque tragedy.

Soon after, he returned home. Soon after that his father went missing . And then, so did he, along with a sizeable chunk of his fortune. People still hunt him in his home country to this day.