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Bartrand when all the new expedition hires are just hot men that his brother met in bars and alleys and such:

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I saw a sign at a nearby village advertising a "veillée", a storytelling evening, which sounded intriguing, so I went out of curiosity—it turned out to be an old lady who had arranged a circle of chairs in her garden and prepared drinks, and who wanted to tell folk tales and stories from her youth. Apparently she was telling someone at the market the other day that she missed the ritual of the "veillée" from pre-television days, when people would gather in the evening and tell stories, and the people she was talking to were like, well let's do a veillée! And then she put up the sign.

About 15 people came, and she sat down and started telling us stories—I loved the way she made everything sound like it had happened just yesterday and she was there, even tales she'd got from her grandmother, and the way she continually assumed we knew all the people she mentioned, and everyone spontaneously played along; she'd be like "And Martin, the bonesetter—you know Martin," (everyone nods—of course, Martin) "We never liked him much" and everyone nodded harder, our collective distaste for Martin now a shared cultural heritage of our tiny microcosm. She started with telling us the story of the communal bread oven in the village. The original oven was destroyed during the Revolution; people used to pay to use the local aristocrat's oven, but of course around 1789 both the aristocrat and his oven were disposed of in a glorious blaze of liberty, equality, and complete lack of foresight.

Then the villagers felt really daft for having destroyed a perfectly serviceable oven that they could have now started using for free. "But you know what things were like during the revolution." (Everyone nodded sagely—who among us hasn't demolished our one and only source of bread-baking equipment in a fit of revolutionary zeal?)

The village didn't have a bread oven for decades, people travelled to another village to make bread; and then in the 19th century the village council finally voted to build a new oven. It was a communal endeavour, everyone pitched in with some stones or tools or labour, and the oven was built—but it collapsed immediately after the construction was finished. Consternation. Not to be deterred, people re-built the oven, with even more effort and care—and the second one also collapsed.

People realised that something was amiss, and the village council convened. After a lot of serious discussion, during which no one so much as mentioned the possibility of a structural flaw, people reached the only logical conclusion: the drac had sabotaged their oven. Twice. (The drac, in these parts, is the son of the devil.) The logic here, I suppose, was that no one but the devil's own child would dare to stand between French people and their bread.

The next step was even more obvious: they passed around a hat to raise money, assuming the devil’s son was after a cash donation. But (and I'm skipping a few twists and turns of the story here) the son of the devil did not want money, he wanted half of every batch of bread, for as long as the village oven stood. Consternation.

People simply could not afford to give away half of their bread, and were about to abandon the idea of having their own oven altogether—but then Saint Peter came to the rescue. (In case you didn't know, Saint Peter happens to regularly visit this one tiny village in the French countryside to check that its inhabitants are doing okay and are not encountering oven issues.) Saint Peter reminded them of one precious piece of information they had overlooked: holy water burns the devil.

People re-built the oven, for the third time. The son of the devil returned, to destroy it and/or claim his half of the first batch—but on that day, the villagers had organised a grand communal spring cleaning, dousing every street and alley in the village with copious amounts of holy water. The poor drac simply could not access the oven; every possible path scorched his feet for reasons he couldn't quite explain. So he was standing there, smouldering gently and wondering what was going on, when some passing tramp seemed to take pity on him, pointed at his satchel and told him to turn himself into a rat and jump in there, and the tramp would carry him where he wished to go. The devil's son, probably a bit frazzled at this point, agreed without much thought, became a rat and jumped in the satchel, and of course that's the point when everyone in the village sprang from the shadows, wielding sticks, shovels, pans, and started beating the devil's son senseless. (Old lady, calmly: "You could hear his bones crack.") So the son of Satan slithered back to Hell and never returned to destroy the village oven again—and the spring cleaning tradition endured; the streets were washed with holy water once a year after that, both to commemorate this glorious day of civic resistance when the village absolutely bodied the devil's offspring and to maintain basic oven safety standards. (Old lady: "But we don't bother anymore… That's too bad.")

She told us five stories, most of them artfully blending actual local events or anecdotes from her youth with folk tale elements, it was so delightful. She thanked us for coming and said she'd love to do this again sometime. I went home reflecting that listening to an old lady happily tell stories of dubious historical veracity involving the Revolution, property damage, demonic mischief and baffling municipal decision-making is literally my ideal Saturday night activity.

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First, see what random superpower you get.

Second, see the other half of your powerset.

Lastly, see what character archetype you'll be.

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today I used the phrase "breasting boobily" in casual real life conversation and everyone was shocked asking how I came up with that and I had to explain it. ive been at the devil's sacrament so long that I forgot he wasn't god

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Enough about favorite books. What’s a book you read and absolutely hated? The book you’ve got a bone to pick with.

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idril — the silmarillion

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Writing period dramas in the discord, lads

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being the local slut is so funny 2 me every time someone tries to somehow criticize me. someone recently said to me in an obvious attempt to make me feel shame “it’s like you just think sex is some random activity to do” and i was like yeah. i’m autistic and asexual and i love fun. you are correct.

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(options include all shades of said color)

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Hello! Would you like to annoy an asshole Republican U.S. House Representative? Because in addition to not allowing one of my relatives to unsubscribe from his little propaganda newsletters, he doesn't know how to lock down a survey:

Go ahead and vote! You don't need to submit an email address :)

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Genies can only grant wishes that are things that an ordinary person could do, just better and faster. The jinn are the creations of a divine being, and so they are part of the divine plan and cannot defy the natural order of things; a wish granted by a jinni can’t turn the day into night or the sea into yogurt, but if you wish for a temple to be built, a jinni will build it by hand, the way men do, and have it done in a day.

If you need a wish granted that defies the natural order you gotta catch a leprechaun, because no god was involved in their creation whatsoever. They just kinda showed up one day in the nineteenth century. The Aos Sí have no idea what their deal is

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"When you're trying to have a hot girl summer, but the governments decide to start WWIII😭😭"

Location: Bumfuck, Oklahoma

"Dying in WWIII wasn't on my 2025 bucketlist 💀🫣"

Location: Sydney, Australia

"Look at the strawberry varenyky I made"

Location: Kyiv, Ukraine

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"panthera onca"

image description: a ceramic jaguar with black markings under a translucent sea-green glaze, stalking intently forward.

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One thing I think comic books are missing is the collection of vaguely weird student and professional artists that would be sending polite but occasionally unhinged requests to every super-powered human known to the public.

"Hey, Superman, I wrote seven secrets on this, can you quick compress it between these two bits of metal so it's hidden forever?"

"Hey Spider-Man, would you be down to just like, web the hell out of the inside of this cardboard box? I've been gathering your stuff from crime scenes but it'd be awesome to have some clean samples." "Hey Batman, can you... you know what, never mind. Hey Robin could you stick this to the highest point in Gotham? I swear it's biodegradable."

"Hey Wonder Woman, I know the Greeks don't *technically* do holy water but can you do some kind of blessing on this bottle? It's for a project." "Hey Flash, can you vibrate for me in the studio so I can cut the sounds into a track?"

"Hey, Green Lantern, you don't happen to know the Pantone shade of your ring, do you?" I am sure someone's going to point me at some kind of existing example but I really feel like this should literally be happening constantly.