caperingcryptid

[caperingcryptid]

Sayak miki

[caperingcryptid]

[caperingcryptid]

There's a saying my dad taught me, that I've found is very true in life:

The antidote to anxiety is action.

If you're like me, you're probably anxious right now. And scared. And quite probably angry. About climate change, about the Palestinian genocide, about Donald fucking Trump.

That only makes sense. It hurts to find out that people aren't as good as you thought, or hoped. It hurts to know how much better we could be doing, and then see all the ways in which we aren't doing that. It hurts to know that people are going to die.

This is something I've been grappling with myself since the US election. I had hopes that were higher than this, and I had reasons for those hopes, but in several spheres, those hopes have been disappointed.

That's not a reason to give up, though. It's not a reason to give up on the world, on yourself, on your life, or on hope.

The antidote to anxiety is action.

(Nobody is allowed to interpret this statement as being about/against psych meds btw. Meds are great and help a lot of people. But this isn't about them.)

Fear and anxiety exist for a reason: to warn us when there is a threat. And to motivate us to do something about that threat.

That's why, the more you push anxiety down down down, the worse it tends to get.

Your brain - your self - is telling you that something is wrong, and that you need to do something about it.

So listen. And find something you can do to help. Anything.

It will make you feel better, I promise. Maybe not right away, but it will.

And the more you do to help, the more you'll see the difference it can make. The more you're surrounded by people who are also helping, who also care. The more you'll see more and more ways to help.

Look up organizations near you - especially organizations that help protect the groups that are most vulnerable right now: undocumented people, immigrants, trans people, BIPOC, queer people, Muslims, Jewish people, disabled people, unhoused people.

Find someone who is helping, and find a way to help them.

The more we do to help each other, the more we organize, the more we resist fascism and work to beat climate change and make those fuckers pay for every. last. fucking. inch...

The more we will change. The more people we will protect and save.

We're stronger together. So find something you can do. And do it.

[caperingcryptid]

Would anyone in the FL community happen to have some Poor Edward quotes pinned to their account? I'm tempted to write a fanfic about him again but it's been a while, so I need a refresher on his voice.

[caperingcryptid]

The Clothes-Surgeon of Polythreme

This is my fic for 2024's @fallenlondonficswap! My secret swap for this year was @the-clay-quarters. I saw "Polythreme", "Clay Man", and "fashion", and my head immediately went to The Clay Tailor's. Unfortunately there's not much info about him and his socially ambitious scarf, so I had to take some creative liberties. Hope you enjoy! Total word count: 1710 ___

The streets of Polythreme were lively today, as they had always been since their inception. Clay Men trundled to and fro- some with arms full of boxes or wailing ship parts, others bringing only themselves. Zailors weaved through the crowds, trying to scrounge up a moment of peace in a city that had very little of it...though compared to the zees, the scowling brickwork might as well be painted cherubs. 

The streets of Polythreme themselves were as lively as ever too, of course. They chattered and gossiped amongst themselves like giddy schoolgirls. 

Mulch had heard zailors complain about that and the rest of Polythreme in the past. Too noisy, they said. Too overwhelming. London was, apparently, far quieter, but he wouldn't know anything of that. Polythreme was everything that Mulch had ever known, and as much as he might yearn otherwise, the idea of going under the yoke like so many of his brethren didn't sit right with him.

His hands, while broad and strong, were nimble, often busying themselves with work more delicate than hefting boxes. In fact, that was what he was doing now: weaving a needle in and out of the blouse perched on his knee, muttering the occasional apology when it jerked and squirmed in discomfort.

“Just one more patch,” he murmured in a voice like gravel, “and you'll be good as new. We're almost there.”

“Oh, good,” said the blouse. “And it doesn't stand out too much, does it? If I can't put myself back on the market-“

“You look lovely.” Mulch gave one last firm tug of the thread, then let the blouse slip onto the floor. “There's a mirror against the back wall. If my work isn't satisfactory, we can continue.” 

The blouse slid before the mirror and flattened itself out. It turned this way and that, flipping itself over a few times, all the while the mirror offered quiet words of praise. Eventually, the blouse turned back, preening. 

“Why, you wouldn't even know anything'd happened!” It gushed. “I look beautiful. Better than ever, even- thank you so much. I can see why all the skirts up north were talking about you.” 

Mulch nodded without comment, tucking his supplies neatly back into their kit. The blouse tossed him a few coins from its sleeve- coins that immediately hissed their displeasure at him- which found a home in his front pocket. 

He waited until his client had left, then rose from his stool with a grinding of stone. He hadn't had the chance to sweep this morning, between picking up cloth from the market and seeing one client after the other. Now was as good a time as any.

Or so he thought. He had just started cleaning when shouting caught his ear from outside. Mulch set the broom carefully against the counter, brushed his hands against the front of his apron, and poked his head out the door. 

The sight that awaited him wasn't an unfamiliar one: a clothes colony (you could tell them apart from people by that shuffling, boneless gait of theirs) forcing one of their articles out to fend for itself. There were many reasons why a colony might exile one of its own. There might be a heated argument between the different components, with the offender getting evicted to keep the peace. The colony might decide they needed to be coordinated in a way that one or two pieces didn’t fit. So it went.

In this case, it looked like a little of column A and a little of column B. The scarf that tumbled onto the streets was in poor shape: dirtied, frayed, and riddled with holes. A much sorrier state than the polished ensemble it had been a part of. It shouted and cursed and kicked up dust, all the while the colony continued unhindered down the street.

“I’ll show you who’s a ‘pity case’! I would’ve taken all of us far, but now you can all rot for all I care!” It spat a tangle of thread onto the cobble, kicked up some more dirt, and slithered in the opposite direction, fabric pulled into the rough approximation of a scowl. 

Now, if there was one thing Mulch had learned in his lifetime on Polythreme, it was to mind your business. Poking your nose into matters that weren’t yours was how you got into trouble, and the last thing you’d want was to get an entire block rallied against you. He’d seen how vicious the fountains could get and wanted no part of it, thank you very much.

Still, sewing and patch jobs were in his nature, and this scarf looked in desperate need of a friendly hand. So instead of waiting for it to find his shop on its own terms, Mulch took the initiative. He stepped outside, wringing a hand into the folds of his apron and bringing the other to his mouth. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon me,” he said. The scarf’s front snapped up in his direction, “glaring” at him with all the malice a mangled strip of fabric could possibly muster.

“What?” It snapped. “You get your kicks watching that just now, huh? You wanting to rub it in, big guy?

Mulch lifted his hands in the universal “I bring no harm” gesture. “No,” he said. “I…run a clothes clinic. I saw what happened with your colony, and I thought that I would…”

“Oh, so you’re after my money. I see how it is. Real opportunists ‘round here.” The scarf sniffed, despite having no nose to do it with. “Well, you’re out of luck. I’m all out.”

Mulch hastily shook his head. “No. The offer was-”

“Charity?”

“...A favor. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to patronize you.” He wrang his hands in his apron. “I only wished to help.”

The scarf “stared” at him for a moment, sizing him up, then relented. “Aw, alright. Fine. If you end up tearing me even worse, though, I’m dragging you to the docks myself.” It slid over, brushing past Mulch into the store.

Mulch felt a little pleased when it coiled in surprise, glancing around his abode. It wasn’t much, but it was tidy, and it was professional. Baskets loaded with fabric rolls of different color, pattern, and material were tucked into the corners, ready to be browsed by his clients. The wall, while stone, was made a little more striking by the design sketches carefully framed there. Then there was, of course, his workstation: a desk and stool set atop a placid rug.

“Nice place you got here,” the scarf commented. “Those sketches- they yours?”

He nodded, lowering himself down on the stool and beckoning the scarf over. It complied, climbing up on and sprawling across Mulch’s lap like a lazy cat.

“Huh.” The scarf quieted. It allowed Mulch to gather his tools without comment, and, outside of the occasional squirming and soft complaint when the needle dug deep, was much calmer a patient than he’d expected.

As Mulch worked, something he had noticed at first sight of the scarf became more and more clear. Its fabric was too plush for Polythreme, its style too strange. He couldn’t keep the question from his lips once the last stitch was made. 

“You’re London-made, aren’t you?” 

The scarf turned away from the mirror. “Yeah, I am. Was it that obvious?” It looked back. “Used to be a merchant’s. Got kicked out here when I started moving a little too much for ‘em.” 

A common story. Many Londoners didn’t take kindly to their things acting out. 

The scarf went on. “I’ve been trying to get back for months. To the city, I mean- that merchant can rot for all I care. Can’t stand this place.”

“Why join a colony, then? Why not take a ship?” “Tried that. Zailors kept catching on and booting me off. Since a colony looks more like a person, I was thinking we’d have better odds of getting a ticket, maybe. Have people take us more seriously.” It shrugged. “You saw how well that worked out.”

Mulch decided not to point out the flaws of its plan. The scarf, meanwhile, took his polite silence as an invitation to go on. It straightened, gesturing excitedly at him.

“Though- I’ve been thinking. Your designs’re real classy stuff. Nothing anyone’d expect from a Clay Man. Avant-garde, but not avant-garde like the way the devils are. Y’know?”

“...Thank…you?”

“You’d make it big in London,” said the scarf. “I’ve seen what they wear back there. I am what they wear back there. A lot of them’d buy from you just for the novelty of it, too. You ever thought about…I don’t know. Going abroad?”

Mulch shifted uncomfortably. “I have spent my whole life here,” he said. “I enjoy my work. In London, they make us labor at the docks.”

“Not all of them!” The scarf waggled a tassel. “Not all of them. Listen- just book a passenger ticket instead of a cargo ticket. Dress up all nice. If you act like you’re the top tailor you are, everyone’ll think so, too.”

It came up to his shoe. “You just need a…a local guide! An advisor, even. Someone who can get you set up.”

He hesitated. Mulch did enjoy his work here, yes. However, there was always something…claustrophobic about Polythreme. There were times he wished he could experiment with fabrics that didn’t cry out in protest, times when he fantasized about the mysterious materials he’d heard rumors of.

“I could…have a shop?”

“With me? You could have an empire. Like I said, I was a merchant’s. I know what I’m talking about.”

The scarf offered a slip of itself. “C’mon, pal. You help me, I help you. Whaddaya say?”

Mulch had always been very careful about his hopes. Even now, he was cautious. It was very rare that Clay Men were ever allowed to dream. But the scarf seemed confident, and if he never took the chance (however impossible it might be)...what then? Would he be happy here?

He looked out into the screaming streets, then back to the scarf. Then, he tentatively offered his hand, flexing his fingers around the freshly fixed fabric.

“A deal,” said the scarf, pleased.

“A deal,” echoed the Clay Tailor.”

[caperingcryptid]

I'm certain this is on Tumblr somewhere, but I haven't seen it around, so I'm sharing it myself

[caperingcryptid]

I'm going to drink a tall mug of cool water, get some stretches in, and listen to some music I like. If I have the time, I'm going to play some Baldur's Gate 3, or maybe even draw some. If not, that's okay, too. If you're reading this, I'd love for you to do something a little kind for yourself, and I'd love for you to share it. It doesn't have to be anything major or grand. We're all in this together, for better or worse.

So I don't really like to talk politics or get into much personal on this blog. I haven't really actively posted in a while generally, because between juggling multiple jobs and some other issues I won't get into, I haven't had much energy (plus, again, I tend to be very private). Times are very scary right now. If you're anything like me, you're having a hard time tearing your eyes away from the news. You check again and again, because checking is the one thing you have control over right now. It's okay to be in that boat with everyone else who does that. It's possible things might turn out even scarier in the future. I wish I could say that everything will turn out for the best, but it's not a guarantee. I just wanted to come on and say that regardless of how bleak things might be, things aren't helpless or hopeless. If you have the money, you can consider donating to organizations like women's shelters, local or nonlocal groups supporting domestic abuse victims, and the Trevor Project. If you don't have the money, you can always volunteer, and if you don't have the time or transportation or energy, you can just keep on talking about these issues and don't let them rest. If you don't have the energy for that either, then please, just be kind and forgiving to yourself through all this. It's hard to keep passion through everything that's going on, and it's hard not to let bleakness take over. I spent today feeling like a deer in the headlights, so you all aren't alone. I once read somewhere that everyone has that little bit of "I want to save the world" in them. Even in the face of hopelessness, I think we should all try our best to hold onto that.

Take care of yourselves, everyone. Be good to yourselves.

[caperingcryptid]

So I don't really like to talk politics or get into much personal on this blog. I haven't really actively posted in a while generally, because between juggling multiple jobs and some other issues I won't get into, I haven't had much energy (plus, again, I tend to be very private). Times are very scary right now. If you're anything like me, you're having a hard time tearing your eyes away from the news. You check again and again, because checking is the one thing you have control over right now. It's okay to be in that boat with everyone else who does that. It's possible things might turn out even scarier in the future. I wish I could say that everything will turn out for the best, but it's not a guarantee. I just wanted to come on and say that regardless of how bleak things might be, things aren't helpless or hopeless. If you have the money, you can consider donating to organizations like women's shelters, local or nonlocal groups supporting domestic abuse victims, and the Trevor Project. If you don't have the money, you can always volunteer, and if you don't have the time or transportation or energy, you can just keep on talking about these issues and don't let them rest. If you don't have the energy for that either, then please, just be kind and forgiving to yourself through all this. It's hard to keep passion through everything that's going on, and it's hard not to let bleakness take over. I spent today feeling like a deer in the headlights, so you all aren't alone. I once read somewhere that everyone has that little bit of "I want to save the world" in them. Even in the face of hopelessness, I think we should all try our best to hold onto that.

Take care of yourselves, everyone. Be good to yourselves.

[caperingcryptid]

Surely nothing out of the ordinary tonight

[caperingcryptid]

I think that there's a feeling that, if you start writing something and don't finish it, it's a failure.

As someone who has far more unfinished pieces than finished pieces (sorry to anyone who reads my stuff on AO3), here are a few good things about doing this:

First, all writing is practice. Just like there are reasons to sketch and do practice drawings, writing even unfinished pieces builds your skills in drafting sentences, characterization, voice, tone, and even working in a variety of styles. If you start a story in a new style, even if you never finish it, you have some experience in that style now.

It can also tell you what you love or hate about something. Sometimes you don't finish something because you realize you don't like it. That knowledge is also valuable.

Second, you can always go back to unfinished work. The main novel that I'm querying right now is one where I wrote the first couple thousand words and then didn't touch it again for probably at least a year and a half. It's now a finished novel.

Sometimes you need space away from a story to make it work. Sometimes you need to improve your writing skills to be able to accomplish whatever you were trying to accomplish then. Sometimes you need a mental or physical health break or you just need more time in the day before you can finish something.

Third, writing is fun and you shouldn't hold yourself or your sense of success at writing to how many stories you finish. Did you enjoy yourself even for the period of time that you wrote whatever you wrote? Did you end up with something cool, interesting, fun, exciting, weird, or different? Great, that's all a victory.

[caperingcryptid]

A dubious little creature, getting up to mischief

[caperingcryptid]

Blood and Water

My blood is a timebomb. My legacy, my lineage is haunted by our hearts and bent to our bodies. My blood is a timebomb. The women of my family, they bear babies young to men that eat them alive. My blood is a timebomb. It's part of growing up. The worst part is that I don't know when it'll go My blood is a timebomb. What is my legacy, my lineage? Will I be haunted by my heart? Will I be eaten alive? My blood is a timebomb. My bones are fireworks and my heart yearns to haunt. Yet I know that My blood is a timebomb. But right now, I'm Alive Alive Alive! My blood is a timebomb and it is mine.

[caperingcryptid]

The club:

IN THE CLUB STRAIGHT UP FORGETTING 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

[caperingcryptid]

Fires and Fabric

@fallenlondonficswap @the-insouciant-scientist @artisanoftheredscience @finerandbonnier @sparingiscaring (Notes: This is, unsurprisingly, for the group event, and for a couple people I saw on the list with a Veils or BaL interest. Hope you all enjoy!

(Additional Notes: It's my first time writing the Masters, so they may be a bit OOC.)

Fires and Fabric

Mr Veils, Mr Fires, other Masters mentioned, Vake/BaL content, brief and off-handed reference to a certain betrayal

(1,016 Words)

Veils was not so often satisfied, but tonight, its bottomless hunger had ebbed...if only, again, for tonight. It was no matter, of course. Tales of the Vake and promises of the fortune placed upon its head drew aspiring hunters in like flies to honey, and as the number of Echoes climbed ever higher, so did Veils' prospects of returning to the Bazaar well-fed and well-amused. 

It picked its teeth with a shard of bone as it ascended the steps, working some of the sinew out from between its fangs. Its latest catch had been some poor, hopeful fool with dreams too big for his head: not unique in the slightest, but still a nice little morsel to feast on until something more fascinating came along.

A hunter was only as good as the prey that they sought, after all. Someone with more gumption would make a fine meal for the Vake, indeed. 

It was ready to return to its lodgings in a good mood (as good a mood as Veils could ever be in, at least) when it sensed, rather than heard, a presence join it on the stairwell. It turned in a whirl of velvet, eyes burning a hole into the creature that had dared disturbed what was otherwise a lovely night.

And that creature was-

“Fires.” Veils glowered, teeth glinting like needles beneath its robe. “What purpose?”

“Temper, temper. I am not so easily frightened as your pet seamstresses.” It held in its hand a lantern, which cast harsh, flickering shadows on the walls around them. It was not so bright that it lit the face beneath the hood, but that was of no interest to Veils anyway. There were far fewer secrets between them than the rest of the city.

“I wanted,” Fires went on, in that strange, honeyed voice. “To have a word about your little...amusements. You were out hunting again, weren't you?”

“Foolish question.”

Fires sighed. ”Perhaps. No, no. It was. But I needed to hear the answer from you. Perhaps I thought there was a chance otherwise, which would be quite foolish of me, indeed.“

”To the point.“

”Never one for small talk, were you? It makes me wonder, sometimes, where that spark of plotting in you came from. Words are what pluck the strings of man, after all, and you are of few.

”And yet, here you are.“ Then, somewhat mockingly, Fires added, ”Veils, the Intriguer.“

Veils scowled. It wasn't in the mood for whatever this was, and already it could feel the sweetness of the night souring. It wanted to return to its chambers, curl up, and sleep away the weight of its meal. It had no interest in hanging around a stairwell like some shifty-eyed urchin while Fires relished in the sound of its own voice.

When it replied, it wasn't in the debasing and irksome words of man. It was somewhere between a snarl and a lick of Correspondence, a fusion that, though brief, was still enough to make the sigils in the walls alight and the tiles shudder beneath them. The closest translation to human tongue, for those curious, would be a particularly colorful suggestion as to exactly where Fires could take its commentary.

Fires calmly adjusted its footing, then raised a single claw in a gesture of peace. ”I'll be on with it now,“ it said. ”The others and I have come to share an opinion: you are getting out of hand. We could forgive your little excursions when they were occasional. But now? Nearly every night? Do you have no self-control?“

Veils puffed up. ”I do not meddle in your affairs, Fires,“ it hissed, begrudgingly picking up speech once more. “You have no right to meddle in mine.” 

“I think we do. I think it is in our best interests to ensure that we're all behaving ourselves. To an extent, of course.”

“I fill my role. My trade is flourishing.” Then, pointedly, “Can you say the same of yours? I have heard word of the Docks.”

Fires didn't rise to the bait as Veils hoped it would. Instead, it went on. “There are less of us than before, when we first came to this place. You know this fact better than anyone.”

It did. 

“Your hunger could very well become your ruin one day, Veils. If not, then it could lead trouble to our doorstep, and none of us are interested in spending our time cleaning up your messes.”

“It's handled.” Veils bristled up. How dare Fires and the rest make such accusations? How dare they think so lowly of it that they think a human could harm it? Humans, with their dull teeth and their flat faces and their stubby little fingers. It was a born hunter. The humans were the soft and succulent prey. London, the city, was its hinterland. 

“It's handled,” Veils spit again. “It is Wines that agrees with you. I know how it thinks. I know its softness. Tell it what I told you: to keep out of my affairs.”

“It worries.”

“Then it is weak.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, Veils' eyes seething and furious, Fires' unreadable. It was Veils who ultimately broke their stand-off, snarling as it turned away from the other Master.

“I am older and stronger and sharper than any little rabbit that could hop to my door,” said Veils. “If they dare, I shall feast on them, and leave their bones as my message. These cities have poisoned you all with softness. I am the only one that remembers what we are.”

Veils ascended a few steps towards its lodgings, paused, then turned again, brushing past Fires in a whirlwind of silks and spite. It needed to shed blood. It would hunt again, and again, and perhaps when it had glutted itself on all it could stomach, it would drop whatever was left of its latest play-hunter through the roof of one of Fires' workshops. 

In its haze of fury and bloodlust, it didn't notice- or care to notice- the somber, knowing way that Fires watched it go.

[caperingcryptid]

Burn

I have so much burning inside me that I don't know what to do with. I have the desire to do so much, to create, to put out into the world, but I feel incapable of it. My hands are clumsy, my fingers too slow and stiff to create the beautiful works of art I wish I should've trained to do since the urge struck me to do it. My vision slowly ebbs away as I get older, something I took for granted. My joints ache and burn though I'm still as young as they tell me I am. My hands are clumsy. They cannot weave these stories as cleanly or with as much beauty as the greats. I read and hear tales that come from the heart, and I read my own that feels so wooden and I mourn, sometimes, that my work and my ideas bear the stamp of my imagination. It's a common urge among artists, I think, to tear away all the flaws and the novice mistakes and do more, be better, be anyone else but the artist you've wound up being. There's the idea, of leaving behind a legacy worth leaving. I pull my fingers through the mud and wonder if it'll outlive me. My work isn't perfect, and yet that desire to create and do and make burns. I tell myself that even the act of creating is an artistry itself. I've written about this, before. Even if I burn away before I can shine as bright as I hope, even if I never shine with the light I've always wished, I burn anyway. Art for art's sake is art, and I am an artist, and you are, too. Your hands might be clumsy, and that's okay. I'm sorry that we are our own worst critics. We're all artists, and I hope that you can get as much of that burning in you out into the world as you need and want to.

[caperingcryptid]

Years ago, Kagerou Daze changed something irreparably in my young teenager brain, and Ayano’s Theory of Happiness broke me.

[caperingcryptid]

The title of this one is “A comic about a discord message my girlfriend wrote to me at 4:32 AM on a Saturday”