#[‘it is a long road to mastery.’] (threads)

[pridelessdaydreamer]

"Hey, Linhardt. Do you dream a lot when you sleep? Bad dreams, sometimes?"

Caspar pokes at the remnants of his dinner with his fork. Usually he'd be headed to the kitchen for a second helping by now, but he can't quite find his appetite today. It's weird, how a troubled mind can affect the body. He doesn't like it much.

"Do they ever...keep coming back? Some of the worst bits?" He pushes his plate aside, making room to fold his arms over the table and pillow his head atop them, head turned so he can look up at his friend. "You sleep a lot, so I thought—I dunno. Maybe you'd know some tricks to make 'em go away or something. If someone else were dealing with something like that."

It isn’t difficult to tell when something is off with Caspar von Bergliez.

He’s a loud little thing, filled with joy and righteous pride. He overflowed with justice and the determination to make right—there was never really an instance in which that spirit of his quieted down, tempering for the sake of that which was unjust. He roared with unabated passion, and that poured into everything he did.

So Linhardt notices when he is quiet. (He notices when he is stilled.)

“Not always,” they answer briefly, though it’s clear that their friend’s words carry a deeper meaning. “If I dreamt every time I fell asleep, I’d get rather exhausted—more so than usual, that is.”

“But…” (On the topic of bad dreams…) “I do.”

“…I do.”

Why do you ask? (It’s bitten down—knowing to give the boy space.) Caspar was nothing if not honest, nothing if not true. (He would give himself away—and indeed, it is in his final remarks that Linhardt confirms their suspicions.)

“Well… There aren't really any tricks, I would say, to just… ‘make them go away.’ It takes time for something like that—something that haunts you so deeply—to really ease, you know?”

Taking a sip of water—she had finished eating a while ago—she continues:

“But if this someone wanted to make it easier, they could talk to a friend about it. Get it out their system.”

[pridelessdaydreamer]

She hadn’t meant to scare her on purpose—though, Lin was also aware that sometimes it was part of the course. Mage didn’t exactly make a habit of making herself known before entering or exiting locations (mostly for the ease of leaving, if desired), and to one who’d been successfully avoiding human interaction for who knew how long, perhaps Bernadetta had simply forgotten to keep her ears open?

Or she just startled easily; it could be either or. (Or both.)

All the same, Linhardt is… “‘A sneaky garden snake, but fluffier.’” (So Bernadetta had described.) “Huh,” is all they reply with. A moment passes to ponder what was said.

Then, a nod. If she means my hair, then green isn’t an uncommon color for a snake, even if it’s typically not this precise shade. At the least, it would certainly elaborate what she meant by ‘fluffier.’ “I see.” Moving on:

“Anyways, I’m not going to tell the professors or anything—since nothing bad has happened to you, I don’t see why I should.” Stepping forth to squat down next to the plants, they look over the collection Bernadetta has been caring for, noting each of the various species and their types. “I’m not exactly fond of going to class either, or talking to others all too much.”

(A gentle poke at one of the safer plants.) “I must say, I never expected you to be a gardener though.” A closer look is granted to the closer ones, checking for signs of good care or poor health. “From the looks of it, you’ve done a good job too.”

Then the boy stands up, then finding a spot against the wall and laying against it. With a stretch, he continues: “Don’t mind me though. I’m just here for a nap.”

[ 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 ] : sender has just found the receiver who's been missing for weeks.

“Hello again, Bernadetta.” (Though they do not smile, there is a hint of amusement in their voice.) “I imagine your sudden disappearance was on purpose?”

Lin wouldn’t be surprised if so—with how often Bernadetta took to her lonesome, it was only a matter of time until she vanished without a word. (Or maybe there was a word—just not to the masses of Garreg Mach.)

Of course, it also could’ve been that she was kidnapped and just recently rescued. Linhardt wouldn’t know.

“So, how was your time in perfect isolation?” he continues, hardly taking a moment to pause. “Find any new hobbies? Sculpting, perhaps?”

* for you i would.

i'm learning to become all the space i need.

"more water for you, less water for you—a cute little bug for you, and a sprinkle of fertilizer for your neighbor! wow, that stuff's stinky. almost as stinky as that owen dart guy." and bernadetta gets professor dark's name wrong on purpose just because, a jolly little hmph and hum in tow as she tends to her plant children. so caught up in herself she is that linhardt's presence sneaks up on her like an afternoon shadow.

"eep! lin, li-linhardt!" she sputters, watering pail fumbling in her hands; it jostles between her grasp a few times before she finally catches ahold of it, both arms crushing the tool to her chest with a heavy slosh. bernadetta spins around to him with puffed cheeks and a tiny stomp of her foot.

"bernie almost had a heart attack! how are you so quiet, huh? like a sneaky garden snake, but fluffier!" all huffed without any real bite—if anything she's more embarrassed that he might have overheard her gibberish.

come to think of it, though, linhardt is probably the first person she's really had to speak to in... how many skipped lectures was it now? probably longer than what was socially acceptable. simmering down some, bernadetta sets down the watering pail and fiddles with her thumbs behind her back, swaying in place while avoiding his gaze.

"well, um," she starts, miles gentler and with a tinge of shame, "yes? uh-oh, you're not here to tell me our professors are upset, are you? and instead of new hobbies, it's more like bernie's been hiding with old ones..."

like gardening, an arm meekly gestures. "... but you found me, so now what?"

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Magnus & Musings

Greetings to you all. You may call me the Mysterious Hermit, and I am the human behind the blog. I think I've procrastinated long enough on making a proper pinned post, so allow me to do so now.

If you follow this account, know you will see more than just rp threads. You will most likely see artwork and writing, the occasional lore post, or just some banter. I am a mostly-rp account. Not every post is or will be in character.

The contents of this post will be as follows: > RP Expectations/Rules >My Portrayal of Magnus the Red >Side Muses Bios

RP Expectations/Rules What I do not rp/answer to:

I do not do NSFW rp of any kind, nor do I entertain NSFW asks of any kind.

I prefer mostly-serious threads. I do not mind the occasional banter, but PLEASE do not come spamming old TTS memes/recycled grimdank memes in my ask box.

What I would like as a thread/expectations you should have when starting a thread with me:

I do not mind doing crossovers! If I am not familiar with the original property/your OCs backstory/etc., I may ask about it.

I am willing to do threads during the Crusade/Heresy and the modern 40k era. If you do not specify which you would like, I'll most likely assume 40k.

I am sometimes very, very slow to respond. Please be patient, or hit me up if it's been a while and you want to continue a thread I might've dropped.

I try to match length in responses as best I can, but please do not feel pressured to do the same. All that I ask is multi-para replies do not get one singular sentence.

The Portrayal of Magnus the Red:

I try to stay as close to canon as I can, though occasionally I may deviate. I enjoy playing him as a complicated "road to hell paved with good intentions" kind of character, with all the hallmarks of his famous arrogance and gigantamax-brain-ness on display.

In the modern day, I have him currently focusing on his New Kingdom project, where he is trying to terramorph Prospero so that it is decently inhabitable again while training the human psykers who are being drawn to Sortiarius in droves. Instead of Prospero being a gunshop, I am instead running it as the future home of the human population, while Sortiarius stays for the Legion. There will still be industry on Prospero's surface, but to a lesser extent than to what has been described, since I just find it way more interesting.

Side Muses:

Kazakh, Daemon of Tzeentch

Kazakh is a small, brightly-colored daemonic bird who has been given the order of keeping an eye on Magnus. He generally acts as his small daemonic messenger and sometimes emotional support daemon if the time requires. He has a penchant for hoarding shiny objects within the fluff of his chest, and usually takes shiny things as payment for being a messenger or to get him to screw off. Though sometimes in response to the latter, he'll show off his very shiny knives. He has once tried to cut Fulgrim himself for not coughing up a shiny bauble for him.

Zikar-Sin, Master of Possession

Zikar-Sin is a former Thousand Son returning to the Legion for the first time in millennia. He still considers himself a Word Bearer, having been attached to a Host for these past few thousand years, but is happy to be returning to his parent Legion. His role in the creation of the New Kingdom has largely involved him aiding in the reconstruction of a viable biosphere, or helping to integrate the inbound humans to the teachings of the Legion. His sorcerous mastery mostly lies within diabolism, but he was an Athaenean in the ages long since past, and his telekinetic mastery has also improved. He can also be found accompanied by his tutelary, Sepa, who joins him in the form of small twin screamers.

[pridelessdaydreamer]

“Well obviously you aren’t dead,” Lin replies with a light shrug. “If you were, you’d successfully fooled quite a few people—and by ‘quite a few,’ I mean ‘a lot.’”

Because the professor seemed to be very much alive, which was a part of the reason Linhardt was only mostly confident in his theory. The forces that would be necessary to undo history—or (if somehow, the king of Faerghus had survived) cloak the survival of the Kingdom’s ruler—would be utterly unheard of, save for the scale of feats achieved by Pasithee and her allies; perhaps the Projectionist also, though this didn’t seem her type of thing.

The boy then opens his mouth to continue—to assert that, yes, it is the crest of Blaiddyd—but then the man admits to not knowing (as a blanket statement of things, non-specific), and a rare sense of self-awareness suddenly takes over them.

“…”

What exactly is the appropriate response for a social circumstance such as this? (Their insides feel like scratching at the surface, unearthing more and more details until mostly confident could become entirely so.)

…At the same time, Lambert—the professor, the man right before them—seemed to lack the ability to look them in the eye at present, and in most situations, that was a sign for one to back off.

“…” (She sighs.) “Then…”

If Lambert was the risen dead, memory loss didn’t seem too out of the question, did it? (Whether one followed theological death—that the soul possessed one’s character and memories, and when death comes, the body is left behind—or sought a more empirical approach—that it is all in one’s skull and the mystery of its function; dying was the end of the human condition.) Undoing death, therefore, would have some sort of consequence, would it not? If magic can restore life, why couldn’t the cost be memories?

Linhardt is not too well-versed in dark magic—black magic, like Fire and Wind are incapable of such a feat, and it is too unholy to be Faith, she reasons—but that is what stories speak of its miracles. Great outcome at an even greater cost.

But Lin feels she probably shouldn’t say that.

“…Do the staff get charms?” (An awkward change of topic, but it is not often Lin does that sort of thing anyway.) A black feather is produced, and the student feels a retroactive relief the ball had been given such a side task.

“We can exchange them, if you’d like.”

Lambert chose to hear the kid out, even though everything in his being begged for him to get out of the room as soon as he could. It was so stupid to feel this way, all because a literal teenager was standing before him and asking odd questions, but there was just something about it that filled him with unease. Like walking through a quiet forest, but knowing that there are eyes on your back. They could be from a prey evaluating if you are a threat, or from a predator considering their next meal.

Linhardt’s demeanor was seemingly gentle, lazy, harmless. Even the tone of their voice seemed uninterested in keeping up with the energy around, instead choosing to mirror the frequency of the wind gently blowing from incoming winters. Nothing in them could even suggest a threat to Lambert, or at least not at first glance.

But those eyes, those eyes of cobalt that stared through his very being.

The fact that Lambert saw no malice in those eyes or on their voice tone, that this youngster’s mere curiosity felt more intense and burned more than any attack they could’ve attempted to unleash against him- that was horrifying.

And so, the professor heard what they had to say. Arms crossed, patient, expression unchanged.

A blink. He shook his head. “Hold on- hold on.”

“What in the blazing flames are you talking about?” Dead king of Faerghus? An usurper? What did all of this even mean? “I do not wish to usurp anything, and I am quite sure that I am not dead either. Where did you even get those theories from?” His brain was spinning in place, Lambert almost wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all. That he was somehow a secret member of the royal family of all things, or even better- a dead king who managed to drag himself out of the grave. It was utterly ridiculous, Fódlan didn’t even practice necromancy. The dead sadly stayed dead, it had no return.

He really, really wanted to believe in his own words, but the moment he realized he didn’t even possess conviction in his denial, his heart began to race.

“...I…I have a crest, I do not know which one it is. And I am not dead, okay? I am just-” What was he?

He couldn’t remember. Sure, teacher of the Ashen Wolves- but that was just the new persona he created to fill a void. He couldn't meet Linhardt in the eye.

"...I just do not remember."

No, he couldn’t understand. He just couldn’t accept any of this. The Goddess gives and takes, but she doesn’t grant second chances at life.

…right?

@pridelessdaydreamer

[thecelestiallegacies]

Rose Colored Twilight 2: The Spellcaster's Apprentice [ Return of the Prince ] Read Part 1 Start This Short Start This Gen Simmers for St. Jude

After a dream vacation in Sulani turned into a nightmare, the prince of vampires, Devin Soriano, met his end—swallowed whole by a cowplant. But death, it seemed, was not the end.

Devin’s ghost rose in Forgotten Hollow, the misty cradle of his former life. As if tugged by some unseen thread, he drifted through the crooked streets, drawn irresistibly back to the Vampire Council Mansion.

The house was empty, its vaulted ceilings hollow and silent. Devin passed through walls and floors with spectral ease, descending deeper until he reached the basement—the forgotten archives. Once, a young vampire hunter had lived and worked here. Now, it stood frozen in time, dust motes spinning in every direction as Devin disturbed the stale air.

The basement was as silent as the grave he’d clawed back from.

Devin rifled through yellowed files and crumbling books, searching for something he couldn’t yet place. His fingers brushed a name—Nemo Vatore.

She had been born mundane, then moved under the protection of the goddess Salem. Using her mastery of mixology, Nemo had taken down the monster that once preyed upon the vampires of the Venus Age.

Finding the report of her death hit Devin harder than he expected, a deep sorrow settling over his incorporeal form. But nestled among her notes, he stumbled upon something else: Nemo’s Recipe for Immortality.

Devin drew a thick, leather-bound tome from the shelf, penned in Nemo Vatore’s hand. Though she was long gone, her work in Salem’s name lived on—a map, perhaps, to a second chance.

Rhea sat before the seance table, brow furrowed in concentration. Under Varsana’s guidance, her skills were growing sharper every day. A ring of teal fire flickered in the dim room. The rain tapped against the window.

Then came the voice.

Strange. Tinny. Sharp with sarcasm.

Unknown Ghost: "I’ve been looking for you for some time and I gotta say… I’m not impressed. Could you at least work on trying next time?"

Rhea jolted upright, blinking in confusion.

The voice was silent for a beat. Then, casually:

Unknown Ghost: "…Y'know what? I'll just come by."

Rhea frowned, unsettled. Surely she hadn’t summoned someone so strongly they could… show up? Right?

Back in Forgotten Hollow, Devin felt the connection—a pulse, a thread yanking him forward. He abandoned the archives, pulled across worlds toward a modest apartment in San Myshuno, a place bright with magic and potential.

The room grew icy. Rhea’s breath hitched. Goosebumps danced along her skin as the mirror across from her shimmered and warped.

Something was coming through.

She watched, frozen in terror, as a figure pushed his way out of the mirror—tall, lean, and very much not alive.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She stumbled back and fell onto her rump, staring wide-eyed as the ghost straightened his coat and dusted himself off casually.

Devin offered her his hand with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Devin: "Prince Devin Soriano, at your service."

Rhea: (breathless) "Prince?"

The ghost flashed his spectral fangs with a rakish grin.

Devin: "Prince of vampires. Friends call me Beedle."

Rhea blinked at his outstretched hand, still too stunned to take it.

Rhea: "Beedle…? You’re… dead."

Devin chuckled, withdrawing his hand.

Devin: "Temporarily. My current condition is… in progress." (He gave a little bow.) "And you, heir of Nebula, if I’m not mistaken… You and I are betrothed."

Rhea: "How... do you know who I am?"

Devin: "Because when you've spent your life searching for something, you don't question the form it takes when it calls you into its apartment... I must apologize for the form I've arrived in. A bump in the road."

Rhea: "You're trying to resurrect yourself?"

Devin: "In so few words... I know that it's possible, but I've never seen it happen, nor have I met anyone who did it successfully. Usually, one would need the grace of the gods to do it, but I have reason to believe there are other methods with... less praying. You're a medium, would you help me get my body back?"

Rhea's stare was intense, and she quickly nodded her agreement.

[dev1lsadvocate]

@darkdevoured has an intruder in her class

The Blackstaff Academy stood as a beacon of arcane mastery in Waterdeep, its reputation echoing through the annals of magical history. Legends like Elminster Aumar and Vajra Safahr had — and still — walked its halls, their names etched into the very fabric of the Weave. It was whispered that even Halaster Blackcloak, the Mad Mage himself, had once been nurtured within these walls, his mind unraveling under the weight of boundless power.

Mizora moved among the Academy's students, her infernal nature hidden beneath layers and layers of carefully crafted sigils that rendered her human disguise flawless, exuding an allure that turned heads and sparked curiosity. This tower was a crucible where raw magical talent was forged into legend. While ensnaring luminaries like Elminster or Vajra were beyond ambition, the corridors brimmed with potential. Each student was a flickering ember, waiting for the right breath to ignite into a blaze.

She observed them in the libraries, their eyes alight with the hunger for knowledge; in the laboratories, where the air crackled with nascent spells and the scent of singed reagents. Among them, she looked for the perfect candidate — someone whose ambition outstripped their caution, whose desire for power made them susceptible to the subtle art of persuasion.

The game had begun, and in this tower of prodigies and prodigals, she would take her very first step in the long, tortuous road to freedom. The threads of destiny were hers to weave, and soon, a new legend would rise — one bound to her will.

The classroom smelled faintly of old parchmentand fresh ink. Stone walls hummed faintly with wards etched long before any of the current occupants had been born, and the lofty arched windows gave way to a view of the glittering Sword Coast, the sea stretching endlessly into the horizon.

Mizora took her seat before the others began to trickle in, her form now bearing the Academy's uniform to complete the youthful, harmless façade. Her hair was tied into a thick braid that traced her scalp, elegant and tight. She sat at the far corner, near the window, of course. A perfect spot. Isolated, quiet, with just enough shadow and sunlight to make her look ethereal — if anyone happened to glance her way. But more importantly, she could see the sea from here, and the slow churn of the waves did much to stave off the mind-numbing drone she expected from today’s lecture on "interplanar resonances and harmonic disruptions in extraplanar casting." Hells take her.

The cambion rested her chin lightly on her hand, elbow propped on the desk, her blue eyes half-lidded but alert. Her gaze flicked over the arriving students, cataloguing mannerisms, hesitations, little bursts of power escaping from enchanted rings or bracelets hastily hidden.

So many minds. So many hearts. So many opportunities.

All she had to do was wait.

The door creaked open with a groan of ancient wood, and Mizora didn’t bother to glance up — at first. She had already imagined the professor: a wrinkled old man, tweed-robed, probably smelling faintly of pipe smoke and disappointment.

But then the air shifted.

Not magically, no. Something subtler. A change in presence. The cadence of the room seemed to still as the figure stepped across the threshold, boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

Mizora lifted her gaze, and blinked.

Not an old man.

The professor was a young woman, no older than her mortal guise, with raven-black hair cascading in long, effortless waves down her back. Her robes were immaculate and crisp, edged with starlight thread and stitched with runes. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught the devil’s eye. It was the way she moved.

Back straight. Chin high. Each motion filled with the certainty of someone who knew her worth and didn’t need to prove it.

She took her place at the front of the room like a sovereign returning to her court, not a guest in it. And when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t rise, didn’t bark — but it filled the space effortlessly.

The classroom rustled with furious scraps of quills in parchment as the professor continued her lecture. Mizora leaned an elbow against the window’s edge, one finger idly twisting her braid while she listened. The sea outside was calm, but inside the room, a storm was brewing.

It came from the opposite corner of the class, where a squat, red-faced man with more beard than chin leaned back in his chair with a snort.

"Beggin' your pardon, Professor," he said, his tone dripping with false civility. "But are we really expected to take instruction from someone who wasn't even born when most of us began our studies? I've boots older than you."

The room went still. Even Mizora’s smirk faltered for a moment — oh, this would be good.

The professor calmly capped her ink bottle, set down her quill, and looked the man dead in the eyes.

"And yet," she said, her voice cool silk. "Here I am, getting paid really well to teach people of which some are quite talented..."

The professor’s smile was sweet and surgical.

"And some who might want to consider befriending a devil and becoming a warlock instead. You're one of those. Clearly, your studies aren't going well if you're twice my age and still not actually a wizard."

The class chuckled — nervously at first, then openly. Mizora bit her lip, trying not to let her delight show too plainly.

The student’s face turned the colour of boiled beetroot. He opened his mouth, found nothing to day, and snapped it shut again.

Mizora nearly applauded. Instead, she sank lower in her seat, grinning like a cat that just caught a bird.

Oh yes, she thought, eyes gleaming. This one might just be worth the effort.

Not just another bookworm fumbling towards power, no. This one had command. Fire, sharp and hot, wrapped in elegance.

She had walked in expecting to find her next warlock among the desperate.

But now she wondered…

Would it be so terrible to court a wizard who didn’t need her?

Or better yet — to convince her she did?

"Excuse me, Professor?" Mizora lifted a delicate hand, her head tilted just so, voice as sweet and lilting as honeyed tea. "Now that you've mentioned devils," she began once the attention was on her, lashes batting with weaponized innocence, "I was just wondering… I thought the Blackstaff Tower had wards in place? Strict protections against fiendish presences, especially devils. Shouldn't it be… Impossible for one to get in?"

She delivered the question with a perfectly puzzled blink, as if the thought had just occurred to her. As if she weren’t the very embodiment of the subject she’d so innocently raised. Then, after a pause just brief enough to deliver the punchline, a smirk. "Sounds like our poor friend here might have a harder time than most becoming a warlock..."

Another ripple of amusement spread through the class.

But certainly no one was having more fun than Mizora.

[asfsfguyhjh]

Feet Orthotics Near Me: A Journey to Ease

The Quiet Burden of Every Step

Our feet, the steady companions of every path we tread, carry us through life’s tapestry with little fanfare—until a whisper of pain or a sigh of fatigue betrays their toil. These humble foundations often endure in silence, bearing the scars of long days, uneven strides, or time’s slow wear. This is where feet orthotics near me weave their magic, a local lifeline that transforms each step from a struggle into a stride. They’re more than supports; they’re a gentle revolution, bringing comfort within reach.

The clamor for such relief swells as we ask more of our feet—rushing through urban sprawl, standing firm at work, or chasing the horizon. Aches from flat soles or nagging heel pain signal a need, one answered by skilled hands nearby. Seeking orthotics isn’t just about quelling discomfort; it’s about rekindling the spark of movement, a chance to walk with the lightness you deserve. In their tender hold, feet find renewal, and every journey feels a little brighter.

Mapping the Road to Relief

The creation of feet orthotics begins with a delicate exploration, a local expert peeling back the layers of your foot’s tale. They might start by watching your gait, noting the sway of your step, or pressing softly to unearth hidden soreness. Advanced tools—think pressure sensors or digital molds—might come into play, sketching the unique landscape of your soles, from high arches to subtle tilts. It’s a conversation with your feet, voiced through touch and technology.

From this portrait, the craft takes flight: inserts are shaped—perhaps from plush foam, rigid plastic, or soothing gel—tailored to bolster where you falter or pad where you hurt. For those hunting feet orthotics near me, it’s the nearness that enchants—a specialist who knows the streets you roam, molding aid that fits your shoes and your soul. The process might unfold over a visit or two, but the result is a custom cradle, a silent ally in every step. It’s artistry grounded in care, precision fused with peace.

Why Feet Seek This Sanctuary

The pull of feet orthotics lies in their quiet power to mend more than just soles—they restore the body’s balance. Unseen foot flaws ripple outward—knees creak, hips grumble, backs bend—turning a small hitch into a chain of strain. Orthotics step in as gentle healers, lifting arches, softening shocks, and easing the jolt of each landing. They’re a haven for nurses on endless shifts, joggers chasing dawn, or anyone whose feet yearn for rest.

In a world that keeps us on our toes, this local care offers more than respite—it offers release. Pain that once tethered you to stillness fades, giving way to a spring in your step. It’s a remedy born from hands close by, who see your weariness and meet it with mastery. For feet that bear the weight of your days, orthotics are a tribute, a way to move forward without faltering.

A Ripple of Renewal

The gifts of feet orthotics near me reach beyond mere comfort, touching the edges of your daily dance. They can refine your stance, easing the sag of long hours and lending a taller, surer air. Energy flows freer too—less ache means more vigor, fueling the moments that light your life. For those who push their pace, they sharpen each stride, balancing power and poise with every bound.

There’s a practical gleam as well. Shoes endure longer when feet land right, stretching your wear further. Some feel a lift in spirit too—a steadier gait can shift how you face the day. This isn’t just a fix—it’s a wave, a local solution that reshapes your rhythm from the soles up. It’s support that doesn’t just ease; it elevates, threading strength into every motion you make.

A Path to Brighter Days

Choosing feet orthotics near me is more than a solution—it’s a stride into a gentler way of being. These inserts are a bridge from today’s twinges to tomorrow’s triumphs, a local craft that keeps your pace unbroken. Specialists nearby don’t just shape relief—they shape possibility, ensuring your feet can carry your hopes without stumbling. It’s a quiet uprising, one sole at a time.

As life rolls on, the need for this care only deepens—feet don’t pause, and neither should their solace. They’re a vow—of days unshaded by pain, of walks that don’t waver. Feet orthotics near me aren’t just about now—they’re about a future where every step feels like a grace, forged by hands that know your trail. In their subtle lift, you find not just comfort, but a melody of resilience.

[pridelessdaydreamer]

“I suppose that’s always an option, but it’s not very easy to fall asleep when you’ve just been beaten senseless.” (As Linhardt speaks, light smites the professor from above.)

Well. That’s unfortunate for him, he supposes.

Seeing him prepare a strike back, Linhardt awkwardly lifts his arm, only to see it wasn’t aimed for him at all but for his partner—Sara. It makes sense in hindsight—wasn’t like Lin had done anything to him after all.

The swordswoman doesn’t seem to agree with the notion however, instead striking at Linhardt again. Sure, it doesn’t cut as deep as last time, but still–

“Could you not?” the mage asks plainly. “You and Sara know each other, right? Why not make this a friendly spar or something?”

Linhardt attacks Nanna with [Assault]! [Roll 1d20]: 13 + 0 = 13. Hit! Nanna HP: 2/7

Magic arcs from his staff once more—after all, he wasn’t going to just stand there and take it—aimed for the swordswoman who seemed so determined to take him down. (Perhaps if he was fearsome enough, she’d back down and go after Sara instead.)

He hopes he doesn’t have to be much more aggressive than this—it was honestly kind of tiring.

@shadoll

She clicked her tongue, understanding the grounds against her were treacherous, at best. She'd have to be pliable. She'd have to work with what she had, even if her opponents kept her within range. It was near impossible to dodge them, and unless she simply spirited herself away, the next round was made to test her endurance. Gritting her teeth, she watched the first prong of fingers rise from the sleepy-eyed fellow. In an instant, his sigil emerges, boiling through the air and bursting over on her end, her sides catching the heat.

"...Ha..." If that shot was made alone, she'd have brushed it off like it was nothing. But next came the lull of a voice she's known for much of her life. Sara thrummed her own magic to life, imbuing her space with light. It arched prettily—menacingly— and sent a painful wave across Nanna's chest. She felt her torso prang, lungs stuttering as she lost the tone in her voice.

"..."

It's good practice. Her brows furrowed, allowing the lick of pain to pass over her in echoes. This sort of training wasn't going to kill her. And if anything, it was a testament to how well her classmates were coming along in their own training.

She was given just a moments reprieve, as the instructors arrow buzzed right past her. Nicking Sara cleanly—a hunter to complement her songbird.

"She left the Deer on her own terms, I'm sure."

Why was Nanna replying for Sara? It's not like the girl ever really explained why she left. And it's not like Lord Leif ever really cared to mention how he felt about the whole ordeal.

Was this supposed to be fun?

Maybe.

Nanna rushed out from behind Python, dashing to the man who had his trigger aimed on her last time. All this talk about napping....

"Allow me to show you some shade, then."

She thrusted her arm up, cutting just slim of his arm.

Nanna 3.5/7HP barely hits Linhardt 5/8.5 HP with Red Sword [Roll 5; -0.5 HP,Linhardt 4.5/8.5 HP]

Tsk. She could only grit her teeth into a sorry smile—having missed a full swing in lieu of only half her strength.

@pridelessdaydreamer , @shadoll

[abelkalpinandprasad]

Moving Forward: The Case Against Dwelling on the Past

Human life is a journey, constantly propelled forward by the winds of time. However, amid the hustle and bustle of existence, it's common for individuals to glance over their shoulders, contemplating the roads they've already traversed. While reflection can be constructive, fixating on the past can impede progress. This essay argues against dwelling on the past, emphasizing that our paths lie ahead, not behind.

Stagnation in Nostalgia: Nostalgia, with its rose-tinted glasses, often entices individuals to linger in the past, reminiscing about the "good old days." Yet, while reminiscence can be comforting, it can also breed complacency. Dwelling too long on past achievements or relationships may blind us to the opportunities awaiting in the present and future. It's akin to attempting to drive forward while constantly gazing in the rear-view mirror – a recipe for stagnation.

The Burden of Regret: Regret, a formidable specter, haunts many who dwell on their past actions. Whether it's missed opportunities, wrong decisions, or broken relationships, regret can weigh heavily on the human psyche. However, fixating on regret serves little purpose beyond fostering feelings of helplessness and despondency. Instead of lamenting what could have been, energy is better invested in shaping what can be.

Illusion of Control: Human nature often inclines towards seeking control over our lives, and revisiting the past can provide a false sense of mastery. Yet, the past is immutable – a fixed point in the annals of time. No amount of reflection or remorse can alter its course. By fixating on what has already transpired, individuals may squander precious resources that could be channeled towards influencing the present and future.

Embracing the Present: The present moment, though fleeting, is where life unfolds. It's a canvas upon which we paint our aspirations, dreams, and ambitions. By anchoring ourselves in the present, we harness the power to shape our destinies. Whether through learning from past mistakes, seizing present opportunities, or nurturing meaningful relationships, the present offers boundless potential for growth and fulfillment.

Forging Ahead: The adage, "You aren't going back that way," serves as a poignant reminder of the inevitability of forward motion. Life is a journey, and our paths lie ahead, beckoning us towards new horizons. While the past may inform our present, it should not shackle our future. By embracing forward momentum, we empower ourselves to chart a course towards personal and collective flourishing.

In the grand tapestry of existence, the past serves as but a thread, woven into the fabric of our being. While reflection on past experiences can offer valuable insights, dwelling on them excessively stifles growth and progress. The future beckons with infinite possibilities, and our paths lie ahead, waiting to be traversed. Let us cast off the shackles of the past and stride boldly into the embrace of the unknown, for therein lies the essence of life's journey.

[akki106]

Cost Factors for Derma Roller and Thread Lift Procedures

-Proficient Ability and Experience

With regards to derma roller and thread lift methods, it's pivotal to place your face in capable hands (in a real sense). The expense can shift contingent upon the mastery and experience of the expert carrying out the method. Keep in mind, you would rather not end up with a Picasso-motivated face when you were going for Michelangelo.

-Sort and Nature of Materials Utilized

Not all derma roller treatment in Bangalore and thread lift materials are made equivalent. The expense can be affected by the kind and nature of the materials utilized in the strategy. It resembles the contrast between purchasing a planner tote or a knockoff from an obscure road seller. The end product will usually reflect its price, so pick admirably.

-Topographical Area

In all honesty, the expense of derma roller and thread lift methods can change contingent upon where you reside. Significant urban communities or regions with a greater expense of living could charge a premium for these medicines. Thus, on the off chance that you're enticed to move to a rustic town to save a few bucks, simply ensure you have a decent wireless association for those video discussions.

Comparing the Average Cost Range

-Normal Expense of Derma Roller

The typical expense of a derma roller meeting goes somewhere in the range of ₹1000 to ₹3000 per treatment. It might seem like a lavish expenditure, however consider it an interest in smooth, energetic skin. Furthermore, it's a ton less expensive than purchasing a time machine.

-Normal Expense of thread Lift

thread lift methods ordinarily accompany a heftier sticker price, starting from ₹15000. Be that as it may, hello, lifting your face without going through a medical procedure doesn't come modest. Simply consider all the cash you'll save on the enemy of maturing creams and mixtures over the long haul.

So that's it, the expense of derma roller and thread lift in Bangalore. Whether you're rolling or threading, these medicines can make all the difference for your skin. Simply make sure to investigate as needs be, view as a legitimate proficient, and embrace your freshly discovered young shine. Cheerful rolling and lifting!

[growwmorepedia]

Mindful Saving: Your Road to Financial Empowerment - Growwmorepedia

In a world dominated by instant gratification, the concept of mindful saving emerges as a powerful counterbalance. Saving transcends mere accumulation of money; it involves cultivating a mindset that empowers you to steer your financial destiny. Embark on a transformative journey of mindful saving to unlock a realm of unprecedented financial possibilities.

1. The Mindful Paradigm Shift: From Consumer to Curator Envision your life as an art gallery where your financial choices are the exhibited masterpieces. Mindful saving invites you to transcend consumerism and embrace a role akin to that of a curator. Amid a cacophony of advertisements and impulses, this mindset urges you to pause, reflect, and transform your spending decisions into deliberate choices aligned with your values and aspirations. Before any purchase, contemplate: Does this decision echo my inner vision? By curating your financial choices, you craft a tapestry of purposeful living.

2. The Resilience of Delayed Gratification In a world accustomed to instant results, delayed gratification might appear antiquated. However, it remains an invaluable tenet of mindful saving. This principle involves deferring immediate satisfaction for long-term rewards. The act of delaying the acquisition of that trendy gadget or fashionable attire imparts patience and self-discipline. The true reward lies not merely in the item itself, but in the sense of accomplishment derived from realizing your financial goals. Each instance of delaying gratification fortifies your resolve and nurtures resilience.

3. The Essence of Minimalism: Quality Supersedes Quantity Minimalism and mindful saving share a symbiotic relationship. Minimalism advocates valuing quality over quantity—prioritizing possessions that genuinely enrich life. This philosophy harmonizes with mindful saving. Instead of succumbing to consumerism, embrace purchases that align with enduring goals. Investing in items that endure and mirror aspirations reduces both material and financial clutter, creating space for what truly matters.

4. Embracing Imperfect Progress Mindful saving isn't synonymous with perfection; it embodies progress. Similar to an artist refining their opus, you refine saving habits through experience. Anticipate setbacks and unforeseen expenses as threads woven into life's fabric. These setbacks are occasions to learn, evolve, and reinforce commitment to financial journey. Transform these challenges into opportunities, reminiscent of an artist incorporating "mistakes" into their masterpiece, enhancing its uniqueness.

5. Experiences Enrich Lives More Than Possessions When reminiscing cherished memories, experiences overshadow possessions. Mindful saving prompts prioritizing experiences fostering lasting memories. Allocate resources to travel, skill acquisition, and moments shared with loved ones. Redirecting funds from transient trends to meaningful experiences underscores the marriage of mindfulness and financial prudence. Such investments yield enduring happiness and fulfillment.

6. Sustainability Synchronizes with Finances Mindful saving transcends personal finance, encompassing environmental stewardship. Embrace eco-friendly choices, reducing waste and supporting sustainable products. Eco-conscious decisions often dovetail with budget-friendliness. This harmony between sustainability and financial mindfulness highlights the interconnectedness of our choices, impacting both wallets and the world.

7. The Legacy of Learning: Investing in Knowledge Education stands as a premier investment. Knowledge acquisition broadens horizons and opens doors to opportunities. Allocate resources to intellectual growth, whether through higher education or skill mastery. Analogous to artists honing their craft, invest in personal development, enriching prospects and carving a path to a brighter future.

Conclusion: Mindful saving transcends financial strategy, constituting a philosophy shaping your rapport with finances and life. By adopting intentional choices, delayed gratification, and the wisdom of minimalism, you fashion a future wherein financial freedom harmonizes with values and aspirations. Each stride on this path manifests as brushstrokes on the canvas of financial empowerment. With every deliberate choice, you weave a narrative of purpose, forging a legacy resonating throughout existence and echoing a masterpiece of mindful saving. Read More On Growwmorepedia.

[pridelessdaydreamer]

One of the biggest things about departing from Fódlan was that Linhardt could no longer rely on the same fountain of knowledge he always had. Yes, he knew his magic worked (well, not in the books, but as they fell apart his abilities came back to him), and people, while coming from different backgrounds, generally had the same primitive functions, but across many lands and many peoples, there was so much that was different. There were lands to be learned, people to be met, histories to be told.

He listens as Lukas explains the gist of it all—twin gods who opposed each other, coexisted, and then ceased to—and listens to the others’ remarks. From Leanne, he supposes dragons existed (and perhaps still do) in her homeland, but perhaps not of the same divine status. The archbishop supplies her own knowledge and expertise, noting explicitly that belief is power.

There are dragons in Fódlan, and there’s reason to believe they may yet still roam. There are Agarthans in Fódlan as well, and even if Linhardt was first shocked to hear of them, they existed all the same. He supposes that’s just the thing about the truth. Your own belief is unnecessary.

“That’s true,” he begins, mainly in agreement with the arcane note. “I’m certain the Agarthans have their own beliefs as well, and you can see what they’ve done over the years.” Saying it aloud, a thought occurs to him.

Not now, Linhardt. (You can always ask her later.)

“I’m personally curious about the magical capabilities of just one person. Several moons ago, students were filling hallways and the like with perilous terrain—spikes, traps, fire—all citing their inspiration as Valentia’s sages. The faithful ones, I mean.” He had not had a fun time leaving his dorm room that morning. (Less fun than usual, that is. It’s one thing to be tired, but it’s another entirely to be tired and in pain.)

“How many of them do you imagine it would take to resurrect a dead god?”

Rhea had been silent for much of the trip, deep in thought, though as soon as Sir Lukas offered more context for them all she made sure to show her appreciation, nodding thoughtfully at each new insight.

The sea breeze cascades through her hair and Rhea tightens the long braid she has it in, unused to feeling of being without her crown (though the central heart piece remains upon her forehead); still, this was for the best for while she had not given up the white and gold colors of her station she could hardly go to another land with other gods in her usual attire.

Dragon gods, as Leanne points out. Hm.

“Though I only have experience with Fodlan’s theology I personally have never heard of a god coming back to life. Still…”

She thinks back to what she knows of Valentia’s magic, so similar to her own goddess and smiles sadly.

“Perhaps it is not the just gods' return but the great effort their followers have taken in their attempt to achieve this we must consider? No matter the land belief is power particularly when it comes to the arcane… so we must not let our guards down. There is no telling what their believers may have already created.”

She nods to Leanne and turns back to Lukas, pondering on his words of a kingdom made by man for man.

“Do we know yet whether each god’s cult might be working with one another? It seems doubtful based on the relationship you described existing between Zofia and Rigel but if it a kingdom ruled by the human rather than the divine these people oppose it may be possible.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Spinner, Dolpo, Nepal

* * * *

A thread is now a line of conversation via email or other electronic means, but thread must have been even more compelling a metaphor when most people witnessed or did the women’s work that is spinning. It is a mesmerizing art, the spindle revolving below the strong thread that the fingers twist out of the mass of fiber held on an arm or a distaff. The gesture turns the cloudy mass of flax or wool into lines with which the world can be tied together. Likewise the spinning wheel turns, cyclical time revolving to draw out the linear time of a thread. The verb to spin first meant just this act of making, then evolved to mean anything turning rapidly, and then it came to mean telling a tale.

Strands a few inches long twine together into a thread or yarn that can go forever, like words becoming stories. The fairytale heroines spin cobwebs, straw, nettles into whatever is necessary to survive. Scheharazade forestalls her death by telling a story that is like a thread that cannot be cut; she keeps spinning and spinning, incorporating new fragments, characters, incidents, into her unbroken, unbreakable narrative thread. Penelope at the other end of the story archive prevents her wedding to any one of her suitors by unweaving at night what she weaves by day on her father-in-law’s funeral garment. By spinning, weaving, and unraveling, these women master time itself, and though master is a masculine word, this mastery is feminine. 

Women were spinsters before the word became pejorative, when distaff meant the female side of the family. In Greek mythology, the three Moirae, or Fates, spin each human life as a thread, measure and cut it. With Rumpelstilskin’s help, the unnamed girl spins straw into gold but the wonder is that every spinner takes the amorphous mass before her and makes a thread appear, from which comes the stuff that contains the world, from a fishing net to a nightgown. She makes form out of formlessness, continuity out of fragments, narrative and meaning out of scattered incidents, for the storyteller is also a spinner or weaver and a story is a thread that meanders through our lives to connect us each to each and to the purpose and meaning that appear like roads we must travel. As we did on that midnight walk on the beach, trailing footprints behind like stitches. 

“The ‘I’ is a needle some find useful, though/the thread, of course, is shadow,” writes Brenda Hillman in her poem “String Theory Sutra.” The English and Latin word suture has the same root as Sanscrit sutra or Pali sutta. They both have to do with sewing. The sutras, the most sacred texts of Buddhism, were named for the fact that they were originally sewn. The flat blades of palm leaves were strung together by two lines of thread that tied together the stiff, narrow pages like accordian blinds. The books were copied by hand over and over again in that climate of decay. Thus leaf became book, and knowledge was held together and transmitted in a thread, a line, a lineage. 

The term sutra, as in the Platform Sutra, the Heart Sutra, or the Lotus Sutra, generally means a teaching by the Buddha himself or one close to him, as distinguished from the scholarly and philosophical texts that piled up afterward. The word is said to have arisen from the actual sewing or binding of these old palm-leaf books, but it must have had some more metaphorical sense, as though the sutras’ words and meanings run throughout all things and bind them together, as though the threads are paths you can follow and veins through which life flows. When you take the precepts or are ordained in the Soto school of Zen Buddhism, you are given a piece of paper on which is written the lineage to which your name has just been added. Written and drawn, since the names are inscribed on a long red thread that loops back and forth so that so much lineage can fit on a single large sheet. 

It’s a kind of family tree that traces the teachings from student to teacher and to the teacher’s teacher and so on, following the Japanese Soto Zen masters back to Dogen, who brought Soto Zen from China in the thirteenth century and tracing the Chinese ancestry back to the First Chinese Ancestor, Bodhidharma in the fifth century, and then through the Indian teachers back to the Buddha himself (though some older parts of it must be mythological). 

It’s called the blood lineage, as though you had been sutured to a new family whose ties are as strong and red as blood, been sewn into a new set of associations, or given a transfusion. Or become the newest page of a book that continues being written, or sewn. It’s a way of saying that Buddhism is nothing more and nothing less than a conversation that has gone on from generation to generation, not by palm leaves but face to face, a thread of ideas and efforts unbroken over 2500 years. It makes the recipient of the blood lineage only the latest stitch as the flashing needle keeps working its way through the fabric of this existence. 

Spinner, Dolpo, Nepal. Excerpt from The Faraway Nearby (2013)

[Rebecca Solnit]

[pridelessdaydreamer]

It is only now that Linhardt realizes just how strange his companions are—or, more specifically, how weird their resident axe girl was.

‘Deader than dead next time?’ (They suppose she must be pretty happy to be… hitting… people?) Lin never was the greatest at understanding others. (She and Caspar would probably get along.)

At the very minimum, she was distracting the lance guy for him, so instead, Lin could focus his attention on: the flaming axe girl, the wind sword user, or Professor Deirdre, hm?

“Yeah, I’m not beating either of these two,” she remarks matter-of-factly. (Even if she did land a hit on them, there wasn’t any guarantee it’d do something—and she’d probably get a nasty hit in return.) Similarly, she could already feel her exhaustion kicking back in; to that end, there was no point not actually trying this time, was there?

Linhardt heals Deirdre with [Heal]: Roll [d20]: 15. Great Heal! Deirdre HP: 5/5

Maybe it’d be better spent on the child they were fighting with, but Linhardt had the sense they probably shouldn’t interfere with… whatever was going on over there. As such, light dawns with the same ease and purpose as would be befitting a proper battlefield, and Lin tosses their hands up.

“That’s about it for me, I think. I’m starting to get tired again, and I would very much like a nap right around now.”

*incredibly loud incorrect buzzer noise* - BOEL Round 1 Battle 13

[and-there-were-words]

A Spider Life: Webbed Thoughts (Chapter 02)

Setting up some HCs for the future, as well as giving some insight to our favorite scientist spider.

---

Taking place during “Revenge of the Spider Queen”, pretty much at the end of it.

With the Arachnoid Base gone and the town mostly in shambles due to the massive explosion, the Spider Demons were scattered all around town. Syntax takes it upon himself to find the other two, while wandering foreign, yet familiar streets. (Wordcount: around 1800)

---

Having almost all of his Spiderbots deactivated, was a huge setback for certain. It’ll take days to reconfigure them, and who even knew if they had enough of the special venom to get back to the count they had previously. It was near impossible to draw any numbers if the extent of the destruction was still unknown to him.

At least, there were a few things that survived. For one, the Spiderbot on his back. The cool metal resting comfortable against his spine, while the robot was feeding him a constant flow of information from the remaining units. It was a soft background buzz, a reminder that he was indeed part of this clan. The other ‘survivor’ being the head of their Arachnoid Base, certainly the most complex part of the mech. Given some time and work, he was certain he could rebuild it.

Syntax’s mouth drew into a hard line, reminiscing the events of the last few hours. It looked like the Queen… no, his Queen, had everything under control. The so-called-heroes caught, powerless against her might. The scientist had redrawn himself to continue working. Just because the battle was already won, didn’t meant there were no projects to finish up and to maintain. There were victory celebrations to be had afterall, and nobody else took it up to plan those. Syntax only had noticed the earth rumble above him when everything went down, and a moment later he had to witness his Queen on the ground, defeated. He wisely decided not to become a potential target of her fury, and excused himself to immediately go back to work.

As much as he hated to admit it, he really had to find the other two. For the sole reason to move the Arachnoid Base head back underground into the lair, of course. The remaining Spiderbots were not enough to stem this feat and he did not even have a fraction of the required strength to do it by himself. He would not allow his Queen to do any of this work, even if she was more than capable of moving the apparatus. No, if he could do something against it, he will not let the lady steep any lower, she was supposed to rest.

Goliath and Huntsman.

The scientist inhaled in trough the nose and let out a mildly annoyed sigh. The very moment these two had awaken, he was able to feel their gazes constantly lingering on him. Moreso from the hunter than the strong spider. Actually, it was a little surprising that the big one was… rather gentle in a way. Goliath barely ever spoke, and seemed content to just be part of whatever was going on. Doing what he was told to do, he certainly was the more reasonable compared to the gnarly spider that was Huntsman.

The older spider had made it apparently his goal to infuriate Syntax in any way possible. Always trying to shove himself in the spotlight when the scientist wanted to inform his Queen, always throwing little nitpicks and snarky remarks here and there – and by far the most annoying thing; always wrinkling his nose when he came too close to Syntax. ‘Close’ of course being several feet away, there was no way he’d allow that pelt wearing asshole anywhere near himself. More an unconcious act while having this trail of thought, Syntax lifted his wrist to his own nose, trying to catch any scent. He couldn’t detect anything odd, just metal, cold earth and the faintly sweet fragrance of his lady’s venom. Huntsman certainly was only doing this to irritate him. And frustratingly enough, it was slowly getting to him.

The scientist scoffed, looking up to check his surroundings. He was in the middle of a street, in some part of the city that didn’t get completely leveled during the fight. Some signs and advertisement screens still flickered with life, hanging in there with all might. The occasional spark and the scuttling of a critter were all the noises he could hear otherwise. Remarkable how fast the local population was able to evacuate from their homes once the Spider Demons had attacked. Something in the back of his brain clawed to the surface, images of a giant bull stomping and blasting entire blocks away. Having to leave ‘someplace important’ to be safe. A taste of bitterness of potentially losing all ‘progress’.

Progress of what? Syntax halted in his steps for a moment, trying to make sense of this rabid influx of images and emotions that… were his? Weren’t his? He could, for the life of his, not consciously remember any of what his mind was spouting out. It didn’t take long for the buzzing of the Spiderbot and the soothing warmth of the venom to calm his nerves again. What was he thinking about again? The scientist unchlenched his teeth, uncurling his fists. There was no apparent reason to be tense. With a shake of his head, Syntax continued down the streets.

He didn’t even question it that he could navigate throughout the city without a second guess. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, there was a subtle note that any corner he passed, and any road sign he read was completely new information. Yet he could feel it in his fingertips that he had seen these places before.

...most certainly the marvel of the Spiderbots, always here to bring him up to date! At a crossroad, his gaze subconsciously wandered down to his right, the word ‘Work’ coming to his mind. But before he could delve anymore on this random fact, a red flash signaled the scientist that he was close to his target. Completely ignoring the jumbled webbing of his mind, that tried to lure him somewhere, he turned to his left and followed the call of the machines.

It didn’t take long to find the hulking figure of Goliath. The strong spider was not within the crater that was left when crashing into the concrete, but instead was sitting a little to the side. Remarkable, that the guy barely had a scratch, Syntax wasn’t sure if he could shake off such an impact as easily. Goliath was looking somewhat exhausted, and for the first time since he knew him, mildly annoyed. It was clear that the henchman was already aware what must have had happen after he got blasted into the sky, the destroyed mech could not be overlooked easily. Though when he noticed the scientist approaching, his features softened, brows slightly raised in a silent question. For someone who could easily be one of the most intimidating creatures Syntax knew about (he didn’t knew many, DBK was certainly on this list though), he surely often made an expression like a lost puppy. In a way, it was endearing, giving this giant an aura he could relax in, at least somewhat.

Syntax looked around, searching for a second crater. Without needing to raise the question, Goliath shook his head. “He ain’t here, think he fell somewhere further to the east.”, a silent groan escaped the big guy as he got up, stretching his arms a little and dusting off some dirt. “Shall we?”

The scientist just nodded, stuffing hands in pockets and following the other’s lead. Finding himself mulling over threads of thoughts again as he watched the large back of the spider demon. In a way, it was… fascinating, how different they all were. Goliath, clearly strong and powerful, didn’t seem to make much use out of venom and webs. He was capable of both, no question, but either his mastery in these skills weren’t the greatest, or he simply didn’t want to use either for whatever reason. Syntax put a pin into that, maybe a question for another day.

Now Huntsman was almost the opposite. Even if he didn’t like to admit it, Syntax had to give tribute where it was due. The older spider’s ability of web manipulation was astounding, and maybe there was more to the hunter than one would give him credit for. He obviously was a traditional kind of guy, annoyingly so, but he still had picked up on Syntax’s gadgets and tools surprisingly quick. It did not take him more than a hour to figure out the spider trackers and the communication earbuds, he even had taken an animated liking over the tech-heavy binoculars that fed him instant information about anything he looked at. Of course, he immediately claimed that he would not need any of these, that his natural skills were enough. To no one’s surprise, Syntax noticed that said gadgets had mysteriously disappeared an hour later. He was smart enough to not bring this topic up.

Now the Queen… Syntax hummed contently as the Spiderbot buzzed in approvement. She was the Queen of Spiders for obvious reasons. While Goliath and Huntsman seemed to have specialized in one thing, the lady was quite powerful in all aspects. Her webs were strong and could be enchanted with all kinds of abilities. They were able to trap the Demon Bull King, and even the supposedly all-mighty Monkey King! That alone was a feat in itself. Syntax had noted with great pleasure that his lady was quite well versed in technology too, and up-to-date with society, in opposite to the other two. The giant spider bot that was basically just an extension of her true might? Her own creation! And don’t even get him started on her powerful venom! It had endless potential as both a power source and as an ingredient for mixtures and magics yet to be discovered.

And he, Syntax himself? For a moment, the scientist stopped in his track. He had his smarts and knowledge for sure. Basically a library of all things technology within his noggin. And his Queen already made it clear that he was an important part in all of her plans. Venom, webbing, physical strength on the other hand… The claws on his back twitched slightly agitated, a sudden spike of an incoming migrain stopping all tracks of thoughts. When Syntax looked forwards again, he could see that Goliath was glancing at him with mild worry, patiently waiting to continue their way to find the gnarly spider. The scientist shook his head, reminding himself that he was part of this clan, there was no place in doubting his Queen.

In comfortable silence, the two walked down the empty streets, neither feeling any need of smalltalk. As ironic and bitter as it was, Syntax found himself in a moment of peace, just a moment he could relax his shoulders and sort the rest of his thoughts calmly. Things certainly were going to get tense again once they picked up Huntsman, that fact was clear. The Spider Demons had a lot of tasks ahead of them as well, going off by the words of the little Miss Mystery. Not something he was particularly looking forward for, but serving his Queen was his sole purpose. And nothing will distract him from that.

[docholligay]

"Hmm someone remind me of this whole cars thread tomorrow if you would, I Have Thoughts" - Docholligay, Jet's Discord

Yes, thank you! 

So there was some crosstalk on Jetty’s Discord about cars in Utena (both the show and the movie) and what they might represent, and I wanted to throw my hat in the ring, so far as I’ve thought about it. 

Someone pointed out that within the movie, it’s a really obvious idea of vehicles to freedom and Utena as Anthy’s vehicle to freedom, and I do think that’s the straightforward answer, and I think you’d be hardpressed to argue with it. Not every symbol has to be difficult to understand in order to be valid--I think it’s just fine the way it is. And I say, as I always do, that I adore Ikuhara’s refusal to explain shit. More people should be like you, kudos. Symbolism and media is more fun when there’s no Word of God answer. Creativity can thrive more. 

ANYWAY, so I think the take as vehicles to freedom is good, but I also think, especially if we take into account the anime itself and the interplay with Touga and Akio and the car (a GREAT car) has a few other implications as well. 

Someone brought up that cars represent the time and wealth to care for them, and I don’t think that’s WRONG, exactly, but there’s a reason that cars are used here and not other markers of wealth and leisure time, like meticulous gardens, large wardrobes, huge collections of any kind, I mean, basically shit that has no use other than the aesthetic. 

Cars, like horses before them (and make no mistake, horses are still very very expensive to care for. Probably more than a classic car.) are a mark of POWER, and I think that’s a lot of what’s going on here, is power and control. Control comes into it especially when we consider that the entire final scene of Utena’s movie has the context of a race. Racing is about power and mastery, control and danger, and I think so much of what it’s doing with cars is about that. 

If we go back to the anime, we know that Akio has a car that, while not particularly fast, really*, but very much has the look of a muscle car, the visual symbol of what the anime is going for with this object of Akio’s. That, combined with the speed he’s driving at, shows the level of power under his control and that he can manage it even while the road is telling him it’s literally too fast. He is showing his mastery and control of the power underneath him. 

So then why does he often jump off the fucking thing onto the hood, Doc? Because he actually isn’t in control at all! Without Anthy, the entire world he’s the ‘master’ of crumbles. He jumps because he was never really the driver in the first place except by consent of the driven, and the way he abdicates that power so easily in jumping off is a signal of that long before we ever really learn it. Before I think even Akio learns it, though it should have been intensely obvious to him. 

This helps explain the presence of the car within the dueling arena, because with the idea that every girl can be a rose bride is the idea that power can be grasped by anyone, and power is what so many of the duelists are seeking, power over themselves, power over others, so much of what they seek can come down to the ideas of power and control. 

Cars as imagery of this extends back into the movie, too. Utena being a supercar-style, though not in an easy straight across way like Akio’s car, shows the immense amount of power underneath her, but also allows for she and Anthy to be a team in a way that I don’t think happened in the anime (Full disclosure though: I VASTLY prefer the anime’s ending in general). If you think of the great races, the car is part of the equation, but so is the driver, and the way they end up intertwined after breaking out of the Ohtori race shows them to truly be equals, both car and driver, at the very end of it all, and that was the only way it could ever leave. 

This is, I think, part of showing Shiori as a driverless car--she doesn’t have any kind of partnership, any kind of something that can really allow her to leave. Does that imply that you need another person to leave situations like Ohtori, and do you like that? I’m not sure! But it feels right to me in this moment, whether I like it or not, as an explanation. And then of course the group in the jeep, a car not yet ready for the show of power it will require to leave the track, but the kind of car that was built to provide aid and support in battle**. It’s a step for the car and the occupants, even if they can’t leave. 

I don’t really have a good way of ending this essay, as it’s more a collection of my thoughts on cars and Utena, but I hope you enjoyed it anyhow ahahah

*It’s a ‘57 Chevrolet Corvette, or the anime version of such, and while it would have been fast for the time it came out, it no longer would be even considered in those ranks. 

**This may be very basic trivia and if so I apologize, but Jeep is based on slang for the “General Purpose” vehicle that was built for the US military. It wasn’t a civilian car (and I still would prefer an unfancy military build, GOD I would love to get my hands on one, I’m ALWAYS looking at the military destash auctions.) for many many years until after its creation.