#( ✦ a nameless black of a name : musings

[frmina]

Bound by the Red Thread.

You should have never caught his eye.

The world had long since forgotten his name, erased from Irminsul’s pages like ink washed away by the rain. He had severed himself from the past, a phantom lingering between what was and what could be. But you—oh, you—were the one tether he had never let go of.

Even before he became the nameless Wanderer, he had known you. You were the one constant in his storm, the lone star in his pitch-black sky. A cruel twist of fate had placed you in his path when he was still him, when his name was whispered with fear—Scaramouche, the Balladeer, the Sixth Harbinger.

And he had loved you in his own terrible, possessive way.

Perhaps you had once been a friend, a confidante. Someone who saw the cracks in his porcelain mask and didn’t flinch. Or perhaps you had simply been unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, ensnared by the threads of fate he so desperately sought to control.

When he carved himself out of history, the world forgot. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

His love for you festered, unchecked, untainted by time or consequence. You were his last tether to the past—a past he had rewritten, yet still, you remained. A cruel joke, an anomaly he refused to let go of.

So he came for you.

Not as Scaramouche, the cruel and unfeeling puppet. But as something far worse—something untethered, unbound by reason or restraint.

You awoke in an unfamiliar place, silk and shadows weaving a prison you could not escape. The scent of sakura and rain clung to the air, a deceptive lull that masked the reality of your captivity. He was there before you even had the chance to scream, his violet gaze drinking you in like a man starved.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he mused, voice soft as the wind outside, yet carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “No one does. Except me.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, fingers tracing the curve of your wrist with something akin to reverence. Like he was touching a dream he was afraid to wake from.

“I erased myself from the world,” he murmured, lips quirking in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But I never erased you from me.”

His grip tightened—just enough to remind you that you weren’t going anywhere.

“You were mine before you even knew it,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss against your pulse, feeling it race beneath his lips. “And you’ll be mine long after you forget there was ever a life before me.”

Fate had given him a second chance.

And this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away.

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep8 Musings - Lestat & Gender: "I am she, she is me."

Scrolling the tags and sighing, cuz I just KNEW people were gonna take this line out of context, as proof that Lestat's the woman/wife/mother/femme-fatale (which @dwreader had to explain cuz folks just don't get it X X), blahblahblah. I've already said my whole bit on Lestat as the patriarchal father/husband, and the dandified matador/killer (a la Bruce). But I just wanna remind y'all that THE SAINT IS NOT A CITY.

Either the fandom's got a bunch of new Lestans posting who missed the discourse from S1 about the meaning behind Les's monologues from the books; or y'all just have frightfully short memories.

He's NOT talking about stupid effing New Orleans; and he's NOT calling himself a woman. He's talking about LOUIS. Louis' motherland! Louis' culture! Louis' ancestor's bones! Louis' grave soil! Louis's HOME--Louis' back at home, and Louis IS his home.

But here y'all go, always centering everything on Lestat's yaasification, and ignoring the Louis-shaped elephant in the room.

Lestat's been talking about Louis to his nameless Millennial Fledgling this whole time. Everyone knows who Louis is--and what he means to Lestat. This is CRUCIAL for Loustat going forward in TVC, when Lou's held as collateral against Lest by Akasha and Rhoshamandes.

But for some reason Lestans are hella quick to separate Lestat's identity from Louis every chance y'all get, then wanna whine & complain about the QotD movie pairing Lestat with Jesse, or AR tryna pair Les with Tom, Dick & Harry.

And YES, I will die on the hill that this whole anti-feminine discourse about AMC!Louis is couched in racial prejudice and biases--a trap that even Black fans who are pro-Louis fall into, while ignoring the struggles of effeminate/feminized gay Black men in their own effing community (X X X X).

But this is BY FAR more endemic in spaces predominately occupied by straight white women, who utterly fail to relate to their direct antithesis: gay Black men (X X). So of course they'll leap on every chance they get to glom onto long-haired blonde white drama queen Lestat as their spirit animal, even when he's LITERALLY TELLING Y'ALL that he himself identifies himself with LOUIS.

(Lestat's toxic color blindness is a whole 'nother conversation, omg. X X X)

Lestat says "she" because it's conventional speech to refer to places--especially continents, countries, and cities--as female, denoting motherhood and wives--places as people that take care of their own, as a mother would her children and/or spouse; a la the Statue of Liberty, personified virtues, and most abstract concepts we've inherited from Greco-Roman gender inequality about women as home-makers (HOUSEWIVES) being barefoot & pregnant in the kitchen. It's not even an exclusively English phenomenon. NOLA, like any city, is referred to as a "she."

So yes, to an extent, Lestat is channeling LOUIS; waiting at home for his spouse to come back and TAKE CARE OF HIM again. But Lestat is NOT a home-maker. He's living in a nasty AF shack, with only his music for company (and we know his tour's all about TVL & Akasha & Marius & Claudia & Louis). He treats his own Millennial Fledgling (his BLOOD CHILD) like trash; setting him on fire "IN LOUIS' HONOR" and not even knowing his name--he's NOT tryna be no one's MOTHER. He couldn't even bring himself to be Claudia's effing FATHER when she was literally burning alive two feet away from him, FFS.

But it's not about the brick & mortar or the PLACE itself--it's about the PERSON it's attached to--cuz Lestat always knew that Louis would eventually come back to NOLA--come back HOME--and FIND LESTAT WAITING FOR HIM THERE.

EVERYTHING & ANYTHING FOR LOUIS.

But AMC leaves it deliberately open-ended and ambiguous what Louis says to Lestat during their hug, and we don't see Lestat in Dubai, or any implication that Loustat is remarried/a couple again. Louis' putting down the torch, to stop accepting everyone's effing dregs; "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses...the wretched refuse of your teeming shore." Cuz Lou's decided to finally start learning how to live on his own for the first time in his entire life; for himself, not other people--AND realize that he doesn't need to rely on his husbands to fight his battles for him. "I own the night!"

[tianasficrecs168]

The Sandman Fic Recs

Magnolia35: Moonflower (Hob/Dream) �� "Hob has to do a double take because Dream is crying; big, ugly, hiccuping sobs that wrack his skeletal frame to the point where Dream looks like a leaf in the wind. The raven that’d been following the man the last time they met— Mike or Martin or Matthew or something— pecks at the guys shoes. The story of how Hob Gadling starts a pub, beats up a god, stares down Death, falls in love with Dream of the Endless, and amasses a small army of fidget cubes. Not necessarily in that order.

TinyButFierce: "Into Darkness and Howling (I'll Keep Him From Drowning)" (Hob/Dream) It was beginning to sound like Roderick Burgess had something or someone trapped in his basement. Hob was starting to wonder if he should do something about that.

MonstrousRegiment: “The Uses of Adversity” (Hob/Dream) What led Hob Gadling — at the time known as Robert Stranger, because he’d been in a permanent state of pettiness from 1889 to about 1904 and now he was stuck with it — to the dank, cold, and dark basement of the Burgess house on March of 1957 was not so much coincidence or fate as it was curiosity. Yeah. Cats isn’t the only thing it kills. Alright, wait. Back up. Let’s start from the beginning. It was 1957 and Hob Gadling was, by no action or choice of his own, sort of — it’s a bit embarrassing — a criminal master. Not mastermind! He hadn’t planned any of it. Honestly.

CeruleanHeart: - “Darker, Still” (...) (Hob/Dream) When Dream doesn't show up for their appointment in 1989, Hob decides to devote a part of his immortality to looking for his mysterious friend. He is dedicated not to wait and hope for another century for the slim chance of seeing him again. Even if he has to bribe, lie and steal, use every trick in the book he's learned in the past 600 years, he will find him. After over a century, Dream has almost given up on the hope of ever escaping his prison when help finally shows up in the form of someone least expected, compelling him to re-evaluate the nature of his interest in an old acquaintance.

Snits: - “Country Roads (Take Me Home)” (Hob/Dream) • Hob and Dream go back to Hob's for a nightcap. While they're there, they address some trauma, and Hob finally learns the name of the man(-shaped being) he's known for seven hundred years.

Sonhoedestrazao: “These days of dust” (Hob/Dream) There is something different about him, though his appearance is identical. The curious part of Hob Gadling, the one that ensures that his wish to live persists through the ages, can’t wait to figure out what it is exactly. (Or: the New Inn encounter continued.)

Sonhoedestrazao: “Stuck in a season” (…) (Hob/Dream) Hob Gadling opens his eyes in the year of our Lord of 1889, in a tavern that he somehow knows no longer exists, among people long dead. Alone at a table for two, he leans over and says to no one in particular, “He’ll be back. You’ll see.” (Or: how to deal when your nameless friends keeps appearing in dreams and a talking bird approaches you with dating advice.)

Majestickasztan: “Painted by sorrow” (Hob/Dream) • When Hob looked up and found his oldest friend looking back, he was, one could say, taken aback. But when you're immortal and things go according to your expectations, life gets very boring very quickly, so he couldn't bring himself to complain. Not that he wanted to. He was pining for this guy since 1489, after all.

KatieKat527: “Perchance to” (Dream/Hob) • Hob Gadling muses on modern advancements. Only as they pertain to a sleepy morning in bed with his “stranger.”

Newfandomnewpseud (Broodthaers): “A Mug’s Game” (Dream/Hob) Hob Gadling teaches history, flirts with Death, gets a boyfriend, and accidentally breaks the laws of the universe.

Brackets (…) means it's still being updated/not done/WIP – and I'm paying close attention to it

Zeros with a strikethrough (000) Disappeared off the net (I still have a doc of it saved somewhere)

A black dot • means it's a one-shot

Ship with + means it's either time travel or dimension hopping – something along those lines

A heart ♡ means it's focused on Sexy times (it's pure filth PWP)

[kipsels]

Cross-Pollination

Dan Heng x Stelle

ft. Dan Feng

There is a great level of expertise required to safely navigate the galaxy. There were things like wormholes and neutron stars and black holes that skewed charted courses, plus a bunch of other things Stelle didn’t really understand.

But what she did know was that when Himeko and Mr Yang started talking about the nuances of the Astral Express’s flight through space, her brain started to go all fuzzy like it had been filled with the static sound of white noise.

She regretted not listening to them more, sure. But even if she had she doubted it could have explained this.

A man who looked suspiciously like Dan Heng was standing in her bedroom, casually perusing his surroundings like he belonged there. Except Stelle was pretty sure he wasn’t Dan Heng, and he definitely did not belong there.

“Who are you?” She blurted out, unable to comprehend the fact that there was a strange Vidyadhara man staring back at her.

“I see someone has decided to redecorate The Express,” He said in lieu of an answer.

“Uh? Wha-?” She intelligently replied, her jaw lost somewhere on the floor from the shock.

Some small part in the back of her mind that wasn’t paralysed by the strange situation politely pointed out that his regal clothing looked like that of a high elder. Except he also wasn’t Bailu.

At least, she didn’t think that was Bailu.

She watched as he combed the lengths of his black hair behind one pointed ear, a small smile lighting up his handsome features.

“You must be a new member of The Nameless,” He said as he approached, picking up her limp hand from where it hung by her side. “My name is Dan Feng, I'm the High Elder of the Xianzhou Luofu. And… Baiheng’s friend.”

Dan Feng… High Elder of the Xianzhou Luofu….

Huh!?

Stelle gaped at him as he bowed low before her, his lips brushing against the back of her knuckles. She’d barely recovered when he straightened, his bright aquamarine eyes idly perusing her from head to toe.

What in the ever living space-time continuum was happening right now?

“And what is your name, my fair lady?”

“Uhh… Dan Heng?” Stelle called out loudly.

Dan Feng blinked at her, his eyebrows raising in surprise, “Your… name is Dan Heng?”

“N-no my name is Stelle– Wait, no! What am I doing? DAN HENG!?”

“Stelle,” He mused, unfazed by her flustered cries, “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am disappointed Baiheng has not seen fit to introduce us beforehand.”

Stelle stumbled backwards, Dan Feng’s grip on her hand the only thing keeping her upright. Her mind raced as it tried to reconcile the fact that Dan Heng’s predecessor was standing before her, very real and very alive.

And very forward.

“Your scent, it’s rather beguiling… I’d like to get better acquainted with it,” He purred, and a squeak escaped Stelle’s mouth.

“Dan Heeennng!?”

“It’s Dan Feng, my dear.” He pulled her closer, Stelle’s hands coming up to press up against his firm chest to keep him away.

“Stelle? Is everything okay? I thought I heard you calling my n–”

Dan Heng appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, his eyes bulging out of his head in shock.

“You did not tell me there was another Vidyadhara male aboard this ship,” Den Feng spoke tersely, his arm wrapping around her waist.

“Save me,” Stelle mouthed silently to Dan Heng, who looked like his sleep paralysis demons had come to life before him.

The analogy was probably not all that far off.

Dan Heng shook himself out of his stupor, his hands raised as he cautiously approached. “How is this even possible? How are you even here?”

“I am here at the invitation of The Nameless, while you are…”

Dan Feng seemed to pause, his eyes running over Dan Heng in consideration. Time seemed to slow as he registered the mirror image reflecting back at him, the youth in Dan Heng’s features unable to hide the truth.

“A temporal paradox…” Stelle heard the two of them mutter in unison.

“I did not think I would ever be presented with the opportunity to look my own reincarnation in the eye, but such blessed opportunities should not be overlooked,” Dan Feng continued, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

“Tell me, boy. Did I find a solution to the Vidyadhara’s plight in my time?”

Dan Heng’s eyes hardened, barely biting back a scowl. Stelle's heart panged with sympathy, unable to stop herself from reaching out to him for comfort, only to be tugged back into place by her High Elder captor.

“It could cause irreparable damage to tell you the future, you know that,” He growled.

Dan Feng’s eyebrow quirked, “So I failed.”

Dan Heng screwed his mouth shut, opting to simply glare at Dan Feng in silence.

Stelle remained frozen in place by the bizarre reality of the situation while wishing she’d taken more time to learn about the laws of physics.

“And you? Have you continued my endeavour?”

“I am not the High Elder. It’s not my problem.” Dan Heng bit back.

Stelle flushed as she felt Dan Feng’s chest press against her back, his hands stroking down the length of her forearms before threading his fingers through her own. Her stomach fluttered as he nosed at her hairline, breathing in her scent like a fine perfume.

“Then, if you are not willing to fulfil your duty to the Vidyadhara and seek the longevity of the draconic bloodline, I shall do it for you.”

Stelle squeaked.

Dan Heng gasped.

And Dan Feng pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, faint laughter brushing against her skin.

-Fin-

[adleryoung]

As often as I could, I would take breaks from the Albric Tor cleanup and go visit Kelly. Posing as her eccentric uncle, I taught her all the ballads and lore that I knew, as well as dropping hints on how magick worked.

Meanwhile, work on the Plague of Battle field proceeded slowly, with Burnside occasionally theorizing on how some of the corpses had died, and Rebecca begging her to shut up. This would have been much faster and easier with more people. As Emperor I theoretically had the power to order more elves to help clean up, but I wasn't sure where I could find them. Plus, it would be very awkward if they refused. Irenaeus when he started out had a gang of bloodthirsty tribeskunks backing him up. I had an amateur witch and one bloodthirsty assassin. Burnside could probably intimidate well enough, but I needed people alive and intact enough to work. No, it was best to clean up the capital ourselves, so when I did finally summon elves here, it would be presentable. No need for my subjects to see the corpse mountain I had made. Unless … perhaps I should keep part of it intact so I could show it to my enemies and make them quake in fear.

We had cleared a swath from the scry tower to the city wall when my musings were cut short by cackling laughter coming from an entrance to the underworks.

"What was that?" Rebecca asked, turning toward the black archway with interest.

"Fuma have mercy," I gasped. "It's still here?" I had almost forgotten about the terrifying experience I'd had here … or maybe I was subconsciously hoping it had been a bad dream.

"What's still here?" Rebecca asked, suddenly fascinated.

"The ghost," I whispered in dread.

"Was you still loopy when you seen this here 'ghost'?" Burnside inquired. "It's prob'ly a grave robber."

"A grave robber?" I repeated incredulously. "This isn't a grave - not a proper one - and even if he found some way in other than through the Gate, what in Fuma's name would he be laughing at surrounded by these grim relics of death??"

"Maybe he found a funny bone?"

"Be serious!" I snapped. "I didn't want to believe it. I hoped otherwise, but that sepulchral laughter proves the ghost is real! I saw it with my own eyes! Its ghastly visage was a skull floating in darkness!"

"You seen a skull in a place strewn with bones?" Burnside retorted with mock surprise.

"A ghost!" Rebecca squealed with excitement as she strode toward the underworks entrance. "I've always wanted to commune with the restless dead! It's so witchy! This will be a much needed break from shoveling all these horrible old corpses."

"Don't go!" I beseeched.

"Don't worry, my lord," she called back over her shoulder. "I'll sort this spirit out for you. It's probably just a lost soul that needs help finding the way."

"No! Come back! That ghost is not to be trifled with!" I pleaded desperately, but Rebecca walked into the archway and was quickly swallowed up in darkness. I wanted to run in after my pupil, but the mad laughter echoing in the darkness and the memory of my last encounter with the nameless ghoul had me frozen in abject terror. "Burnside, quick, bring her back! Hurry, before the powers that lie beyond drag her soul into the endless abyss!!!"

Burnside looked at me and raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and casually sauntered into the darkness.

Time passed as I stood there biting my nails and listening to ominous sounds coming from the tunnel. Scraping, clattering, an occasional chuckle from the spectre … then my blood ran cold as I heard Rebecca's and Burnside's voices join in the mad laughter filling the dark passageway. Oh no! How horrible! The ghost had them, and was even now destroying their sanity! This was all my fault! I should have acted, but my fear froze me like a scared little elflet! Even without his gang of tribeskunks, Irenaeus wouldn't fear a ghost! He wouldn't have let two (well, one and a half) beautiful femmes go alone to their doom! NO! I had to save them! I wrenched a sword loose from the pile of mingled bones and equipment, and holding the weapon high I let out a fierce battle cry: "WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!" I charged into the darkness like a force of nature! "WAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaa-"

After about 100 yards of mad rushing, I came to a stop and stood still, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Deep in these tunnels of endless gloom, Rebecca and Burnside were sitting at a small, low table complete with a tea party set up and they were both laughing jovially.

"Grab a seat, Adler honey!" Burnside exclaimed with a grin. "An' just LOOK who it is! I finally got somebody to talk to bout my Unseelie hobbies again!"

"And she knows a lot of funny stories," Rebecca tittered.

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Surely it couldn't be… How could she have survived? It was simply unbelievable, and yet, sitting there in a tattered bathrobe and pouring tea…

"One lump or two, Mr. Calaveras?" Ms. Thomson asked, in the same hollow voice that I had heard laughing earlier.

[katsona-the-katsequel]

Assumptions and Headcanons - Pre-Canon Timeline

Consider this the intro before I finish the actual timeline. This section focuses on clarifications and ideas that enrich the Persona Timeline, specifically the Pre-Canon one.

Who created the Sea of Souls? Who lives there?

It's unknown who created the Sea. It either created on its own, or the Great Will had something to do. Every timeline is connected by the Sea, so this is your only chance to realistically crossover with FeMC. There might or not be a whale that lives there, depending on how canon you consider Trinity Soul to be. Its in the deepest part of the Sea where the Seal locking Nyx is located. The guy in charge (or closest thing in charge) is Chronos.

It isn't all that impressive when a higher being claims to come from the Sea. Every soul came from it and will return one day. They're probably taking advantage of the fact that humans don't know of the Sea to sound more important than they are.

This is why I consider PQ to be semi-canon, since otherwise Chronos wouldn't have been okay with the Velvet Assistants holding a dancing competition in the Sea of Souls.

That's right SMT fans, the Sea is the same as the River Styx.

Why couldn't Erebus reach Nyx' psyche before P3?

As mentioned in the timeline, Nyx' psyche was still scattered across the Collective Unconscious. Erebus could try all he wanted, but he would never find enough of her to call her physical body down to Earth. During P3, enough of Nyx' psyche was finally gathered into one single being: the Nyx Avatar (aka Ryoji). This caused Ryoji to be the literal embodiment of Death, since that's their entire purpose. I wonder what would happen if they met Chronos...

So, P3 happens and the Nyx Avatar is sealed by Minato/Minako before they can finish calling down Nyx' physical body. Erebus now knows where to find Nyx' psyche. There's a specific place now. However, the Seal prevents him from ever reaching it. Elizabeth thus comes annually to kick his ass and the Fall never comes.

I like to believe that a part of Ryoji is still fully aware in the Nyx Avatar after everything that happened, so Minato/Minako is not alone while being the Seal.

Neither may speak (one is being a Seal and the other one is being sealed away), but there is an understanding that they will never be truly alone. Just like when Ryoji was Pharos.

Did the rumors that became true during Eternal Punishment stay true after Nyarly's defeat?

I don't think so. The power to rewrite reality using word-of-mouth is really potent, but was only being powered by Nyarly. I believe the moment he was weakened, all rumors that came true dissolved into simple rumors once again. So, Kiyotada Sumaru stayed a fictional figure.

That was a low blow, Nyarly.

Where did the first Velvet Room attendants come from?

We know Igor was a doll, but if you ask me, Nameless, Belladonna, and the Demon Painter used to be human. Their exceptional and otherwordly talents in the arts made them stand out to Philemon to make them the "Muses" of the Velvet Room. Nameless was probably a German pianist (as a reference to a certain composer who also lost one of his senses), Belladonna was an Italian opera singer, and the Demon Painter was a painter from Sumaru City. It seems only Belladonna kept her human name. It also seems like you can leave your post whenever you want. It was confirmed that Nameless and Belladonna were still in the Velvet Room by P5, but no such reference was made for the Demon Painter.

Igor is almost impossible to pin down since his name is really old and dolls have existed everywhere since almost forever. Since he is sometimes referenced as powering the Velvet Room, I just placed the creation of velvet itself as a possible start for the timeframe of his creation. Can't have the Velvet Room without velvet being a thing.

Now, is the Velvet Room the same as the Black Lodge? Nah. But for fun we can imagine that Mark Frost and David Lynch have been to the Velvet Room.

If Tsumi to Batsu isn't canon, what happened to the Red and Black Books?

I believe the fun part lies in their unknown whereabouts, which serves as fuel for fanfics and other stories. For all we know they're in the hands of an unknown Persona User and/or another mysterious organization. Who knows? I mostly included them to fully connect Jung to Philemon and explain why he seems like such an important human to the latter. Igor may have begun to interact with humans under his master's orders and in part to look for the potential owners of the Books, but he ended up growing fond of his guests and attendants.

On a side note, can you imagine Philemon's heart attack when "The Red Book: Liber Novus" was published and mass produced in 2009? Before realizing, "Ah, this is just Jung's diary, not the magic book". Then again, the publisher was called Philemon Foundation, so we might have a case of ghost company in our hands.

Why did Stephen upload the Demon Summoning Program to a single high school instead of sending mass e-mails like in SMT?

I have a few theories: The first one is that there wasn't an urgency to gather Demon Summoners for an upcoming apocalypse. According to semi-canon sources, Thorman and Gotou existed at some point in the Persona Universe, but either due to Kandori's capitalist machinations or as a consequence between Phil and Nyarly's bet, they were never able to truly gain power. Adding this to my second theory, that Stephen used to attend Karukozaka high school, would explain why he tentatively only uploaded it to his old school's servers. Less desperation and more indirect experimentation, one might say. This would also explain why he became more of an offscreen mentor to Tamaki once she gained the program, since Stephen would have more time to continue developing and experimenting with it. One successful user was enough for now.

Personally, I believe he ended up working for the Nanjo Group after P1, who sponsored this and any future projects he had until his death. Considering he is apparently a trascendent entity, this cushy existence would have been a nice break from the other universes.

Wouldn't it be fun if Stephen was the original creator of beta Evokers but set aside the project due to the lack of a "supernatural power source"? And this project ended up in hands of the Kirijo Group after they split from the Nanjo Group? And then Kouetsu Kirijo only had to finish it by adding the Plumes of Dusk?

What was Nyx doing at St. Hermelin, anyway?

This is something I struggled with. In the end, I settled for someone finding a large Plume of Dusk, thinking it was a pretty rock, and getting the Snow Queen Mask made out of it. A Plume of Dusk this big ended up attracting a lot of Nyx' psyche, which made a mess when combined with Drama Club teenage girls as seen in the number of victims. In the end, it evolved into the Snow Queen Curse. For all we know, the Mask was trying to use the girls as puppets to help bring the Fall, but Nyx' psyche always got to them and they committed suicide soon after.

Personally, I would have stopped producing the Snow Queen at my school after the first two deaths, but to each their own.

Which war did Masataka Amano die in?

This is a huge supposition on my part since even the dates are approximates. I have four contenders: the Falklands War, the 1982 Lebanon War, the Second Sudanese Civil War, or the Sri Lankan Civil War. Pick your poison.

The game says that Gekkoukan was founded after the Kirijo Group laboratory exploded around 1999. The school logo says that Gekkoukan was founded in 1982. What is the truth?

The way I made this work was by making the original founding of Gekkoukan in 1982, like in the logo. Maybe it started as an actual learning insitution, where the graduates would have a possible career in the Kirijo Group. After the entire Death ordeal, they decided to hide the old labs by building a better state-of-the-art school building on top and relocating Gekkoukan there.

[j1g-s4w]

Do Something About It.

By j1g-s4w

A/N: I wrote this in like 5 hours while sitting in class and doing absolutely nothing at all. I kept thinking about what Adam must’ve felt and what he went through in those few days alone. Hope yall enjoy, it’s not my best work but it’s content 🌀

Word count: 3,680

Character count: 19,025

‼️WARNING‼️

This content is a little graphic. Talk of rotting bodies, pee and poo. If you are uncomfortable with reading about those sorts of things, either do I not read or read with discretion.

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Day 1

“Game over.”

The man looming in the now dimly lit doorway pulled the heavy door shut, leaving Adam completely swallowed in darkness. His ankle strained against the metal chain binding him to the rusty wall pipe, his right arm outstretched, reaching out to the hope he once had, and his throat raw from his screamed out sobs. His body went limp after a moment of begging and wailing for mercy. The shot wound in his shoulder was inflamed and swelling. As he lay on the now blood stained tile, he brought his hand up to his shoulder and grasped it tightly, hoping to stop some of the bleeding. The pain was like a sharp burn. It reminded him of his 6th birthday party, when Scott Tibbs, his best friend at the time, had stabbed him with a rusty nail. It was the same burning sensation in his new wound that he had felt once before. The same burning sensation filled in his throat, another feeling that he was all too familiar with. His mind drifted to the man who had left him that wound. His eyes began to pool, and he wept as he still held his shoulder. The pain was almost unbearable, but it was all he left to remember that man by.

“Lawrence..”

Adam continued to sob and his mind was left racing with thoughts of where Lawrence could be or if he was really coming back.

A few minutes passed, his sobs came to a gradual stop. He remained on the floor, staring up at the ceiling to allow his eyes to adjust to the pitch black bathroom. Lying in the dark like this reminded him of the many nights he’d lose power and would have to navigate through his dark and cluttered apartment. Adam was often exhausted from his ‘day job’ so the dark never bothered him much. Come to think of it now, he never really used that much electricity anyways. All of the bill always went to the damn dark room equipment. It was like a loop. Process the photos, make money off of those photos, and use that money to pay the bill to make more photos. He had forgotten to pay the electric bill quite a few times, and he had forgotten again about a week ago. Last night, when he had come home to process his newest pictures, he had fallen asleep at his desk, which he did often. Waking up a few hours later in complete darkness wasn’t a shock, but it was certainly annoying. He remembered grabbing his flashlight.. no batteries. He remembered hearing something. Grabbing his camera. That doll. And he remembered opening that closet. If he had just swung his bat as soon as he opened it, this could’ve all been avoided. He could’ve gone on with his life. The little life he had anyways.

Adam had always wanted to be a vet growing up, but he was never really good in school. Maybe if he had swung that bat, he would’ve still had a chance. Then this bathroom would’ve remained empty, painless, and quiet. But Adam knew he wouldn’t become a vet. He would’ve remained himself; pathetic, poor, and a voyeur. And that man. The blonde man who once stood at the opposite side of the room. He would’ve remained a nameless man who stood as Adam’s muse. His model and his work of art. His source of financial income and a secret he kept to himself. But that man did have a name. And he had a job, a wife, a child, and a secret of his own. Adam didn’t care though, at least not before. Lawrence may have only been a project to him, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. The 6 hours that were spent together with him showed Adam that he was in fact a human, too. He may have been cold, maybe even condescending at times, but he knew Lawrence cared about his family. Adam had family too, but seeing someone act out of pure desperation and insanity just to see their family again made him question things. He knew he needed to reach out to his mom again. He thought about it a lot. But now, he meant it. He kept telling himself that once he got out, once he was free, he’d call his mom and apologize. Maybe he’d even apply to vet school.

There was a stray cat that would hang out in the stairwell of his apartment building. Every day and every night, anytime he’d see the cat, he’d give it a gentle stroke and then be on his way. In his head, he had named the cat Flash, but he knew that if he ever said it out loud, he’d grow too attached to the thing and he couldn’t afford a cat anyways. Now, he’d do anything to see that cat again.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he crooked his head up to look over to the door. How he wished that door would open to reveal Lawrence back with help, or someone who had just stumbled upon the place. Or even the damn cat. But the door stayed shut and the air remained stale and still. The pain in his shoulder hadn’t fully subsided, but he was now used to the pulsing and the sting. He sat up from the floor and his eyes were instantly planted on the corpse in front of him. The man that he had beaten to death. Panic had set it once again and he used all of the leg strength he had to push it as far from him as he could. The metal chain dragging and scraping the floor made him cringe and he could feel himself becoming angry again. He reached up the wall and rose to his feet to try and get a better grasp on what to do, if he could even do anything. His eyes were squinted, not a single drop of light anywhere, and the room was too dark to make out any real details. He raised his hands to his head and began to sway and pace slightly to calm himself down. He felt hopeless. It felt like hours had passed when it had only been 20 minutes. Adam sat himself on the edge of the bathtub and cupped his head in his hands. They were filthy. One stained a slight yellowish brown color up to the elbow and both covered in dust, dirt, and blood. But it just looked like a black stain now in the darkness.

While sitting in the silence, any sound, drip, or creek made his eyes shoot open with hope. 20 minutes turned into 30, then 40, then an hour. He had sat himself back in the corner on the floor and rested his head against the broken wall tiles. He doesn’t remember when, or even how he fell asleep, but he had woken up feeling groggy after a few hours had passed. There was no telling in what time it was or how long it had been now. When his eyes fully opened, he was hit with realization that this wasn’t a bad dream. He sighed heavily and the deep breath he took in smelled of mildew and rot. It was enough to make him gag, but he was able to hold down the urge to vomit. That would only make things worse. His body felt sticky and hot. He reached to the hem of his blood soaked shirt and pulled it up and over his head. His shoulder ached, the bullet was still nested deep inside, but surely the doctor who put it there knew what he was doing. Adam knew that his body would be too weak to fight off any sort of infection. He tossed his ruined shirt off to the side and brought his hand up to the injured shoulder. His breathing was now heavy, and the pain was getting worse. It felt like a burning welt or blister. The bullet was practically begging to come out. He took a few shaky breaths and placed his fingers onto the entrance of the wound. He sucked the air through his teeth, his fingers felt like fire next to his new bodily trauma. He held his breath and slowly but firmly inched his fingers into the hole. His eyes filled with tears as he choked for air. He let out a suppressed scream as he inched in deeper, finally feeling where the bullet had been lodged. Taking a few seconds to regain some strength, he takes another deep breath, but this time is unaffected by the odorized air and is too focused on this agonizing self procedure. He grabs the bullet between his finger and thumb and starts to pull. The pain is like nothing he had ever experienced before. His face was wet with tears and spit as he continued to pull and scream to fight off the pain. Finally, his fingers and the bullet withdrew from the wound and he was brought a feeling of slight relief. The pain was still present, but now it felt empty. No more pressure, and a hope that it may start to heal normally now.

Adam held the bullet tightly in his hand, not really knowing why. He took a few slow breaths and closed his eyes. The room was still hot and he was covered in his own blood, tears, spit and sweat. He longed to take a shower or even a nice bath. As a kid, his mom would always run him a bath after a long day of playing outside. His eyes shot open and his gaze adverted to the dark and dingy bathtub.

“As if.”

He knew he would never take another bath again. The thought of being submerged in water in such a small space; it would be like waking up in here all over again. Adam reached over to his damp, balled up shirt and used the very few spots without blood to try and soak up some of his sweat. It was really no use, he’d just end up sweating more. But he did anything he could right now to pass the time. But it didn’t even feel like time was passing. He felt like he was waiting for nothing now, but he still sat and waited. What else was there to do?

Adam still had the bullet in his grip and he brought it closer to his face to try and get a good look at it. It was slightly sticky from the slow drying blood all over it, but he didn’t really register that. As he stared at it, his mind went back to that doctor. The look of his face when he was sprawled out in front of Adam and wailing about his wife and daughter. He wondered if Lawrence meant to shoot him in the shoulder, or if it was a ‘happy’ accident. Maybe Lawrence had been so far gone in that moment, he didn’t care if Adam lived or died. But he did live, and he didn’t understand why.

Adam was never very religious, but right now, he couldn’t help but look at that bullet and wonder. If God wasn’t real, then why did he survive? Was it out of pure coincidence, or was someone or something ensuring his survival? No. He knew there was no way that any god would allow any of this to happen. Even though he had survived, he still has to live with everything that happened. He wrapped his fist tightly around the bullet and considered chucking it across the room. But he couldn’t do it. In his hand, he held the only thing that kept him connected to that doctor. To Lawrence. His only hope for freedom and survival now.

He threw his head back and leaned against the wall once again, still holding the bullet tightly. His shoulder was still pulsing, his face red from tears, and his whole body stiff and sore. All he could do was wait.

Day 2

Adam opened his eyes once again to still find himself in the same spot. The hunger in his stomach had become too hard to ignore and his bladder felt like a balloon. He reached his hand up to search for a pipe to help lift him off the ground. His body started to feel weak and it ached all over. He shifted his way over to the tub and unbuttoned his jeans so he could at least take a piss. His head felt heavy and the darkness started to play into his disorientation. As he leaned over the tub, the piss hit loud against the rusty metal. The heat and lack of ventilation caused the smell of fresh urine to infect the air, but Adam was too desensitized to notice. Once he was finished, he dropped back down to the floor in front of the tub and sighed. His head was pounding. Probably from fear.

Was Lawrence even coming back? How long had it been? He brushed the hair out of his face with his hand. The room was getting hotter by the second and he was drenched in sweat. The smell of the room had caught up with him now and it filled his nostrils with stale, thick air. It smelled now like piss, rot and iron. He put his hand on his mouth, gagging again at the smell but repressing any sort of need to puke.

All the attention was now suddenly on the door. A clatter was heard from the other side. Could it be Lawrence? Was he finally back? Was he finally going to be able to experience freedom again?

He waited..

Silence.

He waited a little longer.

More silence.

He was able to call out.

“Hello..?”

His throat was dry and his voice was raspy. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had water, but now it was all he wanted. All he wanted was water, a shower, that stupid cat and that stupid fucking doctor.

He felt angry and annoyed when there was no response. He grabbed a small piece of the broken tile off the floor and threw it across the room. He felt betrayed. Abandoned. Deep down he knew he wasn’t getting out of there. He reached down to throw another peice of tile, but his hand landed back on the bullet. He picked it up and examined it in his fingers. And he felt the sadness and pain raise in his stomach. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. He wanted to get the hell out of that room. He clutched the bullet in his fist now and threw it. It made a clattering noise before it landed in its new permanent home, and the room fell completely silent once again.

As he sat there, now feeling helpless, he thought about the people who might look for him if they ever noticed. He wanted to believe that Lawrence would come back, but by the looks of it, he may have been dead. His body somewhere a few feet outside the door, decaying while Adam sits and waits for him. His savior who will never arrive.

His mother would probably never know. She’d continue on thinking her son just stopped calling. Stopped caring. The only person he could think of that might actually ‘care’ was Scott. He knew that Scott would only care though because he takes pictures for Scott’s band. One no-show and Scott would be livid. At least it meant a shot at hope.

Adam’s eyes felt heavy. There was nothing else to do in this room but sleep and think. And he couldn’t fight the mental exhaustion that pulled him back into slumber. His head was leaning on the bathtub edge and the hard floor started to hurt his ass. But he didn’t want to move. He could feel depression settling into him. His dreams were only a replay of the things that happened a day prior. Only in the dream, it was Adam that had sawed off his own foot. And it was Adam who had pointed that gun at Lawrence and pulled the trigger. Seeing Lawrence fall to the ground with a lifeless thud made Adam jump awake. The sudden movement sent a sharp pain to his shoulder, still agape and probably infected despite his makeshift extraction. His neck was stiff, but he tried to look around the room. Nothing had changed. The adrenaline in his chest died down and his mind was brought back to his bitter reality. Somehow though, the dream felt worse. At least in the room now, it’s quiet. And he’s alone.

Adam dragged himself along the floor and back into his corner, and sat with his knees now pressed against his bare chest. His mind was left wandering, constantly on the thought of what happened to Lawrence. He had made a promise that he would come back, so something had to have happened. As Adam thought about it, he thought that maybe the same nameless man who rose from the dead and locked him in this room, killed Lawrence too. But he could feel something in his gut telling him that Lawrence was okay. That he was alive. That feeling made him sick. He didn’t know how to truly feel towards that man now. He wanted to hate him. To resent him. But he still held onto that hope that maybe he’d walk through that door and maybe everything would be alright. Maybe.

Day 3

Adam had passed out with his head on his knees. When he woke, he was already used to the hazy sight and stink of the room. His neck and back were stiff, and the sweat that coated his body was thick and sticky. His felt dizzy, which helped distract him a bit from the pain everywhere else in his body. He let his legs fall down to the floor, and he sat there limp. Every now and then, he’d feel a sharp pain from his stomach. The man was starving. He rested his hands gently across his stomach and squeezed his eyes closed. Right then, Adam began to pray. He didn’t know who he was praying to, or what he was praying for. Tears started to seep from his eyes. All he could do was beg.

“Please please please please..please…please…”

His begging for mercy turned into sobs. He felt truly alone and afraid. He was afraid of dying alone. Being forgotten. It seemed as though he already had been. Lawrence wasn’t coming. No one was coming.

He felt useless. He thought about what that man on the tape said. Adam was ‘angry and apathetic. But mostly just pathetic’. Even now his anger was present, but had no energy to show for it. However his apathy had been changed forever. He had learned something from this so called ‘game’ and it was that everyone, no matter who, is a person. A human being with a life that must be cherished and taken care of. If he was able to learn, then why was he still being punished? Did Lawrence learn anything? No. But his game wasn’t about learning. That may have been the goal, but he did what he did out of desperation. He did what he did because he couldn’t handle losing. If he had learned something, then he would’ve come back for Adam.

The passing hours all blurred together. Adam had no clue how long he had been there now. He was ready to give up. His body was weakening and his sweat glaze caused him to start shivering. He grabbed for his shirt, still bunched up next to him and put it back over his head, aching. The blood was dry and caked into the shirt, but he didn’t care. His now cold body felt weaker than it ever had. He dropped his arms to his sides out of exhaustion and he let his head rest against the pipes behind him. He didn’t care to do anything else now. All he wanted was sleep.

Day 4

He hadn’t moved an inch since he had dozed off. His chest was barely moving as he breathed. He was still alive physically, but mentally he was already dead. He had let go of hope. In his half awake state, he thought he had heard someone open the door and maybe even a flash of light. But he convinced himself it wasn’t real. It was a dream.

But then he felt the touch of another human being. He tried to open his eyes, but the light from the flashlight was too bright for him now. He could hear the voice of a woman. Her voice felt familiar, but he couldn’t figure out how, and he didn’t care. He felt hope and happiness wash over him as she tried to move his body. He was far weaker than he had been previously, and wasn’t able to hold himself up well. He could still hear her talking, but wasn’t focusing on her words. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He was ready to be free again. He thought about his mother and how he would call her as soon as he could. He thought about that stupid cat- Flash. And how he’d take him in. For once, Adam felt excited about living.

It was all ripped away from him when he felt that plastic wrapping cover his face. It was like getting locked in that room again. He wanted to fight. He wanted to punch, hit, kick and scream. But he couldn’t. His body and mind were too far gone. He tried, but to no avail. In his last moments, the tape replayed in his head again. ‘You might be in the room that you die in. So are you going to watch yourself die today Adam? Or do something about it?’

He may have won his game, but he never did anything about it. He won because Lawrence cheated. And he lost for the very same reason.

-

-

-

🌀

[theres-nothing-to-be-scared-of]

INTRODUCING...

Igor v. Ivanovski

IGOR IS A BAD, IRREEMABLE PERSON. He is a MURDERER. He is PERVERSE + PREDATORY. please check triggers below his biography.

🎵 BASIC INFORMATION age ⁝ early or mid 20’s (25 by default) gender ⁝ cisgender male (he/him) sexuality ⁝ bisexual occupation ⁝ "soldier" / militarized weapon face-claim ⁝ Graf von Baphomet of Psychonaut 4 (I do not use gifs or icons, face-claim is just for reference)

🎶 PHYSICAL Hair ⁝ brown, long (down to his waist), often unwashed + stringy. Eyes ⁝ light green Body ⁝ 5'9" w/ lean muscle, protruding ribs. a little scrawny, sickly. blotchy, picked skin. dull complexion. acne + scars. tattoos up + down both arms.

🎶 MENTAL dermatillomania as a result of drug abuse. undiagnosed psychotic disorders (hallucinations, delusions). sexual trauma. meth + cocaine addict. sex addict.

🎶 BACKGROUND + REGENERATION / HEALING FACTOR CHECK BELOW THE CUT FOR THIS INFORMATION!

⚠️ WARNINGS

Perversion / inherent usfw/nsft themes;

Including potential non-con/dub-con + sexual assault;

Vulgar, derogatory language (including slurs);

alcohol, smoking, hard drugs (meth, cocaine, etc.);

Suicide / Suicidal ideation;

Extreme violence, torture, murder, gore;

Extreme (unnatural) masochism

Displays of toxic masculinity

I WANT TO BE CLEAR; Igor flirting or coming onto your character is not me pushing to ship, we can also always fade to black if you want our muses to interact that way but aren't comfortable going the full 9 yards.

Always having had a passion for music, Igor grew up wanting to be a musician or a songwriter. He wasn't much of a dreamer, but it's what he wanted and it's what he answered whenever his teachers or parents asked. He’s always liked metal, and rock & roll, and all the old school stuff like Metallica, and Queen, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC. And he probably would have been a musician or songwriter, but he's not normal. And when you're not normal, you end up the slave to a nameless, undisclosed organization that owns you. A corporate body, in charge of Your Body. Your Blood. Maybe your very soul. Using you like a militarized toy that can't break, their own little super soldier.

They taught him violent, unjust murder. They taught him not to ask questions. They taught him that he can live the life of a caged up animal. Something less than human, something that doesn’t have a face, or a name. Or that he can comply. So for the time, he complied.

He was abducted at about 13. In some universes his parents were killed, and he was told this fact, but in others it’s up in the air and he’s only to assume the worst. I usually play him as being in his early to mid 20’s, but I can play him younger or older.

In all universes, I play him as functionally immortal (technically not immortal, but you gotta be creative to get there) with regeneration that stems from genetics.

It’s been passed down to him, like a family heirloom. But it's rare. It skipped a couple generations, so he’s the first in his family to have it in over a hundred years.

While not technically immortal, Igor himself has no idea how he can fully die.

Igor's regeneration depends on the severity of the wound. If he's outright 'killed' --- he'll lose consciousness and wake up anywhere between thirty minutes later to several hours later. Sometimes he will wake up before his body has entirely recovered. Small wounds, like bruising, cuts and scrapes, burns, they will all be healed in a matter of minutes. His teeth come back, but they're all crooked and jagged and wrong. Like his teeth, his regenerated limbs may come back 'faulty' as well, undersized or oversized or disfigured. He's had problems with it before, but it's rarely major. Still, he's removed his own shoddy limbs in the past if they weren't functional enough, having them grow back different.

When his parents came to realize the condition he'd been born with, they tried to protect him. But the wrong people found out and it didn’t matter in the end.

Sometimes I play him as the caged up animal that’s only let off its leash when it’s told to kill. A lotta the times I play him as having escaped that life and being on his own. Doesn’t really matter, as long as we have fun! I can change his backstory and mesh it into something that makes more sense for a different universe – whatever gets our muses to interact.

[knightedgales]

@absentpublic asked: it's late, & she is listening, really; she's at the very least trying to. it isn't that annette isn't interested in what henry's saying -- it's just that she's awfully tired. this results in the druid leaned against his shoulder, eyes closed & breathing softly. asleep.

A sop might go and think these two dearly intwined. They might say he would know her by her pulse or the whisper of her footfalls as they shiver through the grass — and the roar of struck longswords to the hammer at the smithy? Well, by the song of it alone, she would know his name. Of course, with them being neither soppy nor scholars, such a fanciful connection isn't really quite there. And when she peters off to slumber and hunts her little musings? Henry stops. It's her weight upon his shoulder that stills his prattling.

Looking over, he can count the shadows of her lashes as they dust her cheeks.

It strikes him then, not quite like a suckerpunch, no, but more like waves in their numbers as the hightide nears. Safety's something she's spoken of in the likeness of some dark and shadowed stranger sat nameless over meals. She had scarcely felt at ease, back against the wall and her bedroom closing in, but evidently, in the trials of the elements with a vagabond from Skalitz? She counts sheep. Maybe beetles. Half-struck, Henry maneuvers her carefully in his arms like princess.

"Easy as anything." The little mouse.

He takes her to her bedroll. He slips off his great black coat -- fragrant, autumn sunshine, apple blossom, and adorned with her charm in its pocket -- to swaddle her like blanket.

[weight-of-a-thousand-skies]

Early This Morning, When You Knocked Upon My Door

{Me And The Devil - Soap & Skin}

And I say, "Hello Satan, I- I believe it is time to go"

Sing, O' Goddess, of the Titan Queen's Rage,

Black And Murderous, That Which Ran So Deep

It Poisoned Her Ancestors, And Brought

The Primordial To Rot Before Her.

Tell Me, O' Goddess-Muse, What Does Rhea Akmonides Have

That Kronos Ouranides Can't Take?

Context | Main RP Threads | Other Notes

↳ Weight Of A Thousand Skies - DnD Campaign Name, All Posts Relating To The Campaign

↳ DM: The Nameless One - Active RP Threads

↳ Not My Circus; Not My Monkeys - OOC Posts & Threads

[baleriontheblackkitten]

A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

Gorgeous chapter, I'm tempted to just copypaste pretty much everything.

Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

Oh, Catelyn, starting the series highlighting her Tully-ness, her preference for the godswood in Riverrun, her dislike of the things about the North that are most alien for her southern self. She starts out very un-Northern-like, un-Stark-like, but as winter approaches, literally and metaphorically, as circumstances grow darker around her, she muses about becoming more like a Stark, thinking more like a Stark, seeing the world from a Stark-like perspective.

It must be said, though, that despite her growing into her Stark-ness, she does stay also a Tully through and through. She dies and is reborn in a very Tully way, not only geographically closer to Riverrun than the North, but also symbolically, given to the river and being retrieved from it. But then again, it's Arya's direwolf (Arya herself inside the direwolf, one could say) who retrieves her, allowing her rebirth! Insane books for insane people.

Let's get back to this paragraph. It's all so heartbreaking with the hindsight of knowing what happens later - how she thinks of Riverrun, the beautiful and gentle image she has of it, knowing the fate that's awaiting the riverlands; how alien she finds the darkness of the Winterfell godswood, the gloominess of the castle, the hardness of the trees, and how she'll also turn into something dark and primal and gloomy, a creature of decay and deep silence and brooding shadows, first metaphorically/psychologically and then literally.

I find it strange how people seem to talk about Lady Stoneheart like she's a different person from Catelyn? That makes no sense. There would be no Lady Stoneheart without all the love Catelyn had for her family and all the pain she was forced to endure as she lost all the people she loved one by one until she broke. Her own death wasn't even the thing that changed her the most - it was the grief.

But this is early in the story for that …

Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept. For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest. At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea. In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.

Sorry for the long copypaste, but I love this bit. These first chapters are so good at brushing a painting of the world we're entering.

Gods that have faces but not names send your thoughts directly to Arya's journey, learning to have many faces and letting go of her name. Ironically, the Faceless Men are about having no faces (it's in the name) and worshipping one god. But I am sure that Arya will go through that journey subverting that, and reconnecting with a dimension where there are multiple gods with faces. Most likely in the Isle of Faces, where I'm sure many mysteries will be unveiled for us readers and for the characters.

Also, sight theme my beloved. The nameless gods of the North see. They watch. The faces on the trees were carved by the children of the forest - they gave the weirdwood trees their eyes. Were they the ones who created the possibility of seeing through them? Are the trees the eyes of the children of the forest, just like the risen dead seem to be the eyes of the Others? Is Bloodraven (and Bran) tapping into the "sight network" engineered by the children of the forest?

Did people in the South destroy the weirdwoods out of ignorance and negligence, or very much on purpose? Are the weirdwoods on the Isle of Faces kept for reasons that go beyond the religious or ritual, but are very strategic? "Their silent watch" Catelyn calls it - it suggests that it's very much a deliberate action, and more literally a watch than Catelyn probably intends. Not just a watch as in a ritual of worship, but a literal watch through the eyes of the weirdwoods.

Um. Guys? Guys?? Is it weird if I just realized that the Night's Watch is called the Night's Watch? Wasn't anyone going to tell me that the Night's Watch is called the Night's Watch or was I supposed to just realize on my own??

I promise I'm a well-adjusted individual. Mostly.

[…] The red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly. He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,” he said.

Oh, they're watching you. It's extremely likely that Bran is watching, right?

I love the detail of their conversation starting with their names, simple and essential. In a godswood where the gods have no names, they say each other's names. I saw what you did there, George.

She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them.

Yeah, I suppose it's kind of creepy.

“Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.” “Is he afraid?” Ned asked. “A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.” Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.” “Yes,” Catelyn agreed. The words gave her a chill, as they always did. The Stark words. Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these northerners were.

This section is so layered and there's also a layer that's downright funny.

But it also makes you think of a time where Rickon won't be three anymore, and when winter has come. Will Rickon be the thing that others ought to be scared of? I mean, by TWOW he'll be five, not exactly that much older, and I expect him to be used by the Northern lords for his claim on Robb's crown as the male Stark sibling next in line with Bran assumed dead, creating a rift between that side and the side that supports Sansa's claim as the next oldest sibling. (A parallel narrative to Aegon, supported by Doran Martell among others vs Dany, supported by Arianne Martell among others - I'll eat my hat if the "queenmaker" arc was not a misdirection/foreshadowing for a different queen. But I'm digressing agaiiin).

Anyway. I'm also sure that whatever has happened to Rickon will have shaped his personality, too, and that will also matter.

Anyway. Ah, the conversation between Ned and Cat about the Night's Watch and the things beyond the Wall … Even Catelyn, not even a northerner, has a sense of the dark things that are beyond the Wall.

“You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the children of the forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all.”

The women's wisdom and the men's rationalism. A classic trope, just like how the intellectuals' logic and knowledge through studies is wrong while the stories passed from woman to woman are right. Maybe this angle aged slightly badly in a time of raging anti-intellectualism, but it's a fantasy with magic and creatures. That's kind of its job to use the genre tropes.

(And it's possible the tropes will be subverted if it turns out the Maesters know exactly what's up and engineered the lack-of-magic pre-series on purpose, and the rationalistic logic is a constructed façade. And there's magic, in form of alchemy, among them too …)

Plot! Jon Arryn's death, Robert's coming. I am only noticing in my re-read that the mother direwolf was killed by a stag - Catelyn noticed, too.

Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs.

Chewing glass etc etc. Ned is so excited to see his friend … that will be the death of him.

Exposition about the Lannisters. It will be good to see the children - respectfully fuck you George :)

The chapter transitions are always thought out - this chapter literally ends with these joking words regarding Robert: “Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.” and bam. We switch to the very two people who have most reason to curse Robert for real …

[paradise-in-k4]

The Gap in the Evening, Entry 7: “Quest for One’s Purpose”

It’s commonly believed by people that everyone exists in the world for a reason, and that their purpose is explained through things that are unique to you like your name, abilities, and personality. But what if the first two details were intentionally left missing to time? That’s where our relations with Patchouli’s assistant resumed when she came to our doorstep one day, when the heads of her household were perceived asleep and her master was too engrossed in her books to ask her for anything. She asked us to help her come up with realistic explanations for why she didn’t have a true name and how she didn’t know what exactly her ability was. Here is what we gleaned from our surface research so far.

According to the responses she gave to a few surface questions we asked her, this girl is a little devil that responds to the name Koakuma. This is purely in relation to her species as a devil, and her name translates to English as “Little Devil” from Japanese. In terms of her abilities, she is in a similar position as someone else she mentioned who went by the name of Daiyousei. That being, she has her own perceptions of magic, but it’s a common sense shared with her species and the greater population within Gensokyo. She even admits that she was among the people who didn’t immediately create their own spell cards when the common rules were drafted into law following the Vampire Incident, but only several years later when she seemed to slip into obscurity. It could be assumed that her homeland of Makai did not receive news of these rules being passed, but cross-examinations with Marisa Kirisame’s ramblings about another person named Alice Margatroid suggest otherwise. When asked what she could do for us if we could help her define herself, Koakuma said that she’d help us with our own research to the best of her capabilities. It’s odd to think that this was a devil’s contract because of her species, even if it was for something simple as trading knowledge. But with an agreement being reached, it’s time to pry into the details in the devils.

-Maribel Hearn

——————————

Muse Notes: Koakuma

Title: Nameless Little Devil

Universe of Origin: L1

Size (headcanon): Considerably short, 3’5”

Species: Youkai, Devil

Pronouns: She/Her

Age (headcanon): Unknown, unwilling to disclose to anyone unfamiliar with her, but she’s younger than Yukari

Personality: Koakuma can be mischievous, as is common with all devils, but she still has a kind and caring nature in the eyes of Patchouli Knowledge. Likewise, she can be obedient to her superior(s) to a fault at times to a point where she can be a bit clumsy in fulfilling her tasks. At least, that’s the personality this Koakuma has. That’s what makes her special amongst the other devils. Although she is often called to Patchouli’s side, she still seems to fantasize about having a free-spirited future when she thinks nobody’s watching.

Occupation: Library Assistant, Patchouli’s Familiar

Home Region: Scarlet Devil Mansion

Ability: *Unknown* (Hold on, what? //Quick, make something up! mukyu!//) Capable of finding any book

Skills: Basic housework, cleaning skills, scholarly, well-organized

Magic: An innate specialty shared amongst devils. It’s unknown what this Koakuma’s magic specialty is and how her magical powers differ from those of Remilia, Flandre, and all the other devils. Despite this, Koakuma doesn’t feel like her magical powers are at their peak yet and still wants to learn more from other people. It’s unknown if this is her main ability.

Books: TBD

Possessions:

Black Dresses: A professional dress for professional library work. Some of them go all the way from her knees to her shoulders, while others start at the waist and go down to her knees. Some of them are black with a simple white pattern and places for bows, while others are just plain black. They last well in humidity, still air, the depths of Makai, and moldy atmospheres, and they also have magic imbued in them that lets Koakuma summon her wings through them to fly with no issues.

White Undershirts: A shirt for professional librarian work. Each one has long sleeves and a collar for wearing her ties and bows, making it a hybrid between a dress shirt and a polo. She makes sure her devil wings can fit through the back of each of her shirts.

Black Vest: A vest with buttons to wear over a nice shirt. She usually wears them when wearing one of her half-dresses with her usual white undershirt. Often seen with two embroidered openings in the back for her wings.

Red Ties & Bows: Accessories to wrap around the collar of her white shirt. The ties make her look IMMENSELY more professional, while the bows make her look more cute AND professional.

Long Socks & Stockings: Doesn’t really matter whether they’re black or white, they’re long socks that sometimes go up to her knees or cover her entire leg. She also has just as many short socks that are of average length.

Black Shoes: Koakuma’s work shoes. Functional, comfortable, and fashionable. She has a few different pairs she swaps out to wear depending on her mood or occasion.

Books: She always carries at least one book with her at all times, usually to answer Patchouli’s queries. Plenty of the library’s books are magic books or magician’s grimoires which she uses to cast her own magic, while just as many of them are standard prints from the outside world. She’s also got her collection of favorites that she keeps to herself. Sometimes it’s manga that she thinks Patchouli or the others living in the Scarlet Devil Mansion won’t understand or approve of. It’s unknown whether she utilizes such books for danmaku, but she’s definitely used them as melee weapons.

Short Cape: A short cape that attaches to the shirt collar and drapes down to her waist. She ensures that she can still use her wings while wearing it. She has one in black, and another one in white.

Dramatic White Shirts & Skirts: An intricately patterned white shirt and skirt combo worn for special occasions. She has more than one such combination in her wardrobe. They make her feel special or even like a heroic magical girl (which is why she named one such ensemble “White Magic Sigil” and another as “Compendium of Advanced Magic”) despite her nature as a devil. But because she is still a devil, she has measures taken to make sure she can summon her wings through them to fly at will.

Intricate Black Cape: A black cape with white and gold embroidery, complete with sleeves to double up as a jacket when she needs it. Just like all the other capes and such, she has measures taken for her wings.

Space Blue Shoes: Dark blue shoes with short heels and intricate brass-gold patterns, similar to those of orreries. They almost resemble the colors seen in an astronomer’s scale model of the solar system. She often wears them with her “Compendium of Advanced Magic” wardrobe with matching long white patterned socks.

Casual Outfit: A black long-sleeved sweater with two folds left in the back for any winged person to stretch their wings, and a comfortable skirt for comfortable strolling in warm weather. The combination was gifted to her by Flandre as a Christmas present in 2024.

Maid Uniform: A standard maid uniform created by Sakuya, personally tailored to her size and needs, such as ensuring Koakuma can still use her wings. The apron has a bat pattern embroidered towards the bottom of it. She wears it when she goes to assist the fairy maids and the heads of the mansion with more intensive tasks.

Muse-Specific Headcanons:

Despite having been called Koakuma commonly to match her species (since it literally translates as “little devil” in Japanese), Koakuma sometimes wishes for an actual name and ability to represent herself as an individual.

This one is Patchouli’s summoned familiar, who acts as a personal assistant for her, although she sometimes gets pulled into affairs regarding Makai against her wishes since she left.

Koakuma is one of the few residents of the mansion who knows about Patchouli’s hidden manga interests/collection.

Despite being a mischievous being that wields powerful magic with the potential to grant wishes at a price, she prefers to not be called anything close to the word “Kyubey” for reasons only known to herself and anyone who did their research with content that’s both seen in Patchouli’s manga collection in her library and in the outside world. It tends to really annoy her and may provoke her to Baka Slap™️ the provoker with whatever book(s) she’s holding.

On her off days, she makes efforts to stay in physical shape to maintain her health and appearance. She and Meiling are both trying to encourage Patchouli to do the same.

She is not a succubus. She prefers that other people don’t treat her like that, nor associate her with groups that are like that.

She can use magic to conceal or manifest the devil wings on her back at will.

Second only to Sakuya, Koakuma is the one who’s most likely to get directly involved with incident management on behalf of the mansion.

She’s either seen or heard the whole thing involving Flandre being held in her room for 495 years. It’s unknown which fact is true.

Koakuma can be a little camera shy, which somewhat explains her clumsiness, sometimes-flustered posture, and lack of appearances.

Koakuma is easily upset by amonojaku. Specifically Seija. She’ll join in if she can when someone like Daiyousei or Alice starts kicking her.

Her connections to magic through dimensions via her “Dreaming Necronomicon” Last Word-level spell allow her to tap into the magical abilities of other instances of her, although this variety of spells is still a catch-all situation.

Blog-Specific Lore Notes:

After meeting Renko and Maribel the first time, Koakuma sought them out again alone for a personal request: to delve deeper into several unknowns in her life and if their research into parallel worlds can help her with finding herself or furthering her preexisting abilities.

Marisa helped Koakuma make a healing potion to heal another Koakuma and taught her some of her own magic.

When a Christmas tree fell on Hieda no Akyuu on Christmas Eve, she was the first to discover it, and she tried teaming up with Reimu to resolve the mystery despite the Frozen Peak Incident still happening. The latter incident seemed to resolve itself as they took on this mystery.

Koakuma has taken in a fairy maid named Silver Selene as an apprentice to teach her magic to use on her guild’s adventures.

Koakuma’s journey between Makai and her job as Patchouli’s familiar has many unknowns across dimensions that only she knows.

Spell Cards:

I don’t think she had any…! Guess we’ll have to see what we can find from our Lost Word Files…

Pulverization “Pacifis Strike”

Sublimation “Magallanica Impact”

Magic Sign “Witchcraft” (A6)

Magic Sign “Devildom Come” (A6)

Magic Sign “Laplace’s Demon” (E1)

Magic Sign “Twin Paradox” (E1)

Magic Sign “Stardust Redemption” (Learned from Marisa)

Celestial Sublimation “Magallanica Orrery’s Solar Impact” (Combination Spell Card - Marisa)

Dreaming Necronomicon (Last Word, +10% power gained from Marisa)

First Elixir - Cinnabar (A6, Last Word)

Szilard’s Engine (E1, Last Word)

[phxtotaxis]

MUSE INFO

TW: mentions of self-harm

Name: Lyoka (real full name unknown)

Nickname/fighter alias: Moth

Age: ~21 (estimated, unknown)

Gender: Woman, she/her (by AGAB, actually gender apathetic)

Orientation: Ace (mildly repulsed), grayromantic

Species: Human (no magic, no anything)

Height: 5'3

Eye color: Amber

Hair: Brown (covered in cheap magenta dye)

Likes: Birds, sun, food, loud music (esp. metal and anything with a booming bass), good days

Dislikes: Cops, silence, judgemental pricks, feeling not in control, her episodes (bad days)

Lives in: In the poorest sector of a nameless city (not actually nameless). Said N city is broken into four sectors: A for the rich neon-lit center, B for the middle class, C for the poorer working class and those struggling by, and D for the ruined outskirts pronounced unlivable. It's populated by the homeless and rejected. That's where Lyoka lives, on a second floor of a crumbling building in an empty room with a hole in the wall.

Otherwise assume any ruined unlivable neighborhood that works for your character's world/location.

Legal status: None. She doesn't have an ID, she's not in the system, as far as officials are concerned she's just a cockroach.

Bio: It's short. She does not remember where she was born or who her parents were. One day she just appeared at the outskirts of the D sector, no more that 5 years old, wailing her heart out. The locals did their best to get her food and keep her warm, taught her to read and count, but other than that she mostly grew up like a weed. She sees D sector as her home and doesn't really feel any envy or regret — it's her turf, she knows it well, no one tells her what to do and she doesn't need much to be happy. The only shame she might feel is when shamed by others.

Has recently joined an underground fighting team, so you might've heard of her as Hyenas' new wildcard, but not too much.

ABILITIES:

Fighting. Fighting well, but chaotically, dirty if needed, no rulebook or particular style to follow.

Good at reading other people in a fight, due to sheer experience. Also good at estimating people's danger level. Says it's all in the eyes. (BAD at reading anything else about people.)

Stealing. Pickpocketing and shoplifting.

Climbing. She's not much of a free-runner, but vertical parkour elements are very much her thing.

Fighter specialty: The more damage she gets, the stronger and better she fights back. Where others become tired or lose focus due to the pain, she's the total opposite. To a point. Her body is still human and can't keep the pace up forever.

APPEARANCE:

A small, clearly malnourished woman in dirty clothes which often don't fit her very well. Her hair is colored with a cheap dye that makes it look magenta-ish, her brown roots are showing and the hair itself is messily cut and sticks out.

She's perpetually scuffed and bruised and tousled to a various degree — a shiner under one eye, a bloody nose, a busted lip, the list of what she might be sporting on any given day is endless.

Her knuckles are either bloody, or, on a rare occasion, healed but forever discolored from the constant scarring.

Her left ear is torn, there's a scar on the right side of her lower lip and she's visibly missing the left lateral incisor (the tooth right before the canine).

Doesn't own that many clothes, and her favorites include a big oversized black hoodie that she drowns in, short black bike shorts and neon green sneakers without any laces to speak off, or a slightly oversized gray t-shirt, ripped jeans, a very old leather jacket, red converse (with laces, wow) and an orange scarf.

PERSONALITY:

By default, Lyoka is a mix of chaotic and pretty indifferent.

Because of being a concrete jungle Mowgli who never really tried to enter the society of other city sectors, she seems to be more immature and ignorant than appropriate for her age. Stuff like history, biases and privileges, all those important nuances are lost on her, she lacks some of the emotional maturity and a lot of social skills.

She dislikes cops 'cause they're always on her ass — but they don't like anyone from the D-sec, so it's a given. Dislikes any person who gives her shit for her dirty look just as much. Zero political compass, zero care in the world — get food, get sleep, find some joy in the middle, who gives a shit about the rest.

Very self-confident, brash, no filter. Prone to dark humor. No real awareness of how fucked up her situation is — it's the only life she ever knew.

Curious by nature, likes climbing up to high places, loves people-watching.

Is very often confused and a lot of stuff whooshes over her head, but she's always willing to learn if you're willing to teach. As long as it's not something boring and she doesn't have to sit in one spot for too long.

Fidgety, trigger-happy (with her fists). Does not quickly trust people and values her independence a lot. ESPECIALLY her personal space. Touch-repulsed and WILL make it your problem. That being said, if you grow on her, you're basically gaining a scary dog privilege for life. Granted, the dog is very small — but indeed quite scary.

THE MENTAL CATCH:

Lyoka's big character trait is that she suffers from a mental condition I hesitate to slap an official name on. It's based on my own experiences with depersonalization, derealization and dissociation, but taken to an extreme for cathartic storytelling purposes.

On any given day, especially when she hadn't fought in a while, her brain flips out:

Sometimes she randomly stops recognizing her own body parts, instead seeing them as disgusting and/or mutilated, like something is wrong with them. It's not a delusion, she sees them properly, but it feels like they are alien and wrong.

Sometimes the world around her stops feeling real to the point of almost TV static, and then that static also starts swallowing her, and each time she's deadly afraid that it will consume her whole. Even if she doesn't exactly know what that would entail.

If her brain decides that it doesn't want to be in a particular situation, it fully checks out, leaving her body on autopilot, sometimes to the point of seeing herself in third person even. She does not like that loss of control.

As mentioned in all three cases, these episodes terrify her. Due to her living situation she's unable to afford any medication or other help, not that she would trust someone to mess with her head even more (not at this stage of her life anyway).

Which is why she figures her coping mechanisms herself, and the most efficient (and unhealthy) one is... you guessed it. Fighting.

If a body part gets hurt, it gets anchored to the reality (the pain makes her feel it at all times and reminds her of the shape, while the bruise marks it visually). The more she hurts, the more present she is. That's why she fights better after taking damage — her mind becomes clear.

Now, because of all that, depending on a day she can be either a funny chaotic gremlin or a pathetic wet rat who will try to take your eye out, so here's a handy guide:

BAD DAYS.

The worst of the worst. She's out of it, she's scared and panicking, she's self-harming by scratching herself and punching walls (or hitting her head on them, etc) in an attempt to ground herself, and she's looking for a fight, at any cost.

In this state she's mostly non-verbal (except for "fight me" and such), hunched over, eyes wild, looking for a target. She almost resembles a wild animal — ones she grew up among. Lot's of desperate animals in her sector, not just people.

NORMAL DAYS.

She's chilling. Not too talkative (although fully verbal), but curious, poking her nose everywhere. Loves observing — people, animals, especially birds. Down for vibing and parallel playing (aka just being in the vicinity while you do your thing).

Will definitely be grateful if you include her in some chill activity or give her something to fidget with.

GOOD DAYS (adrenaline edition)

A short-term alternative to pain — adrenaline. There's some big fight brewing, or some illegal activity, or simply something fun, anything that gets her blood pumping. She's hyped, she can't sit still, she's talkative and loud and ready to go go go.

This is why she's always down for some sketchy or dangerous shit. Self-preservation does not matter if there's fun to be had.

(Note: "fun" does not include alcohol and drugs, because they make her MORE disconnected from the reality and her body, which freaks her out. Not that she can't do that — but be prepared for a meltdown.)

A subset of this is when someone she cares about is hurt. That makes her blood boil in a different way and she gets clear-headed and focused.

GOOD DAYS

Everything is great. She got her dose, she's present, she's fully in control, the world is beautiful and people are cool. She's casually chatty, snarky, somewhat cocky. Always smiley and in a good mood (unless something significant ruins it).

Arguably her default personality, what she would've always been if she ever got help with her condition.

Note on roleplaying: unless we talk about it beforehand, I'm generally rolling a dice on how she's feeling at the moment of any given interaction — or decide on a whim/context. You're welcomed to request a specific "state" to interact with!

[imriccia]

In Search of The Muse

I have been sifting through these nameless roads disoriented by their blurry signs the red, orange, and greens faded into grays and I’m reeling from the scarcity of options. España was just another name to cross out from the list another dead end that won’t provide me pity I’m left to replay fleeting instances of what once was. Will I find you again? It’s been a decade since you stood in your studio of unfinished canvases with a pile of broken brushes in one corner and an amalgamation of acrylics and oil pastels on another. I turned to the street lights once, hand raised up high Did you reach for their glow too? Did you gaze upon the dirtied children with empty palms And painted the woes they held so close? Did you see the sleeping men clinging to their cardboards for warmth? Did you immortalize their longing on another white box? A hundred street lights illuminated my left cheek that I pressed lightly against the window it was all a blur past the glass But I knew what I saw I ran past the rows of seats and down I went onto the well-trodden pavement I left the cold and was engulfed in an ocean of stimulation. The idle chatter, the billboard signs, the smell of fishball, and the cramped sidewalks; it was so much to hear, so much to see, so much to smell, and so much to feel, and yet they all faded into nothing when my eyes landed on your oblivious frame blanketed by the headlights of passing cars the passersby held you with no regard but I saw you a worn brush lay snug in your right hand and a chaotic palette on the other my eyes blurred; my hands shook for I finally found you irises in the sky, black curls billowing in the polluted wind your parted feet stood underneath the street sign of Nicanor Reyes Street.

[queenlucythevaliant]

🪆

Here's one of my all-time favorites. For context, it's written from poet Marina Tsvetaeva to fellow poet Anna Akhmatova.

To Akhmatova I O muse of weeping, the most beautiful muse! O you the child of white night, ever mad and fierce! A black snowstorm over Russia you send And your cries our hearts like flying arrows pierce. And we tumble down and a deaf "Oh" — A hundred thousand people your name are calling: Anna Akhmatova! The name is a giant sigh, And she who is nameless into the abyss is falling. We're blessed that along with you we walk the same Earth, that the sky is the same overhead; And he, who is wounded with your mortal fate, As an immortal goes onto his deathbed. In my singing city the cupolas are aflame, And wandering blind man praises the Spassky light.. And I give to you my city that's full of bells, Akhmatova, and my heart I give to you beside.

--Marina Tsvetaeva

[tehuti88-art]

2/7/25: r/SketchDaily theme, "Free Draw Friday." This week's characters from my anthro WWII storyline are Jost Klaus and Karl Klaus. They're the sons of Major Konstantin Klaus and Emma Klaus; they're pretty minor characters who were nameless but I decided to give them names. The Klauses' marriage was an arranged one but they grow to love each other dearly and although often busy, Klaus dotes on his sons. There'll be more about them later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Regarding their design, Jost resembles his father and Karl his mother. They're around eight and nine years old.

TUMBLR EDIT: Konstantin Klaus and Emma are the rather unwilling participants in an SS-arranged marriage; Klaus is rather asocial and prefers his solitude, while the rather clumsy Emma has had poor luck attracting a husband. Still, the SS considers it ideal for their men to marry and have big families, and this is no exception. Their relatives and associates meet to discuss the situation and decide to pair them off. While Klaus agonizes over his impending loss of personal freedom, Emma attends a Bride Reich School to learn all those most important skills, such as preparing her new husband breakfast at like four in the morning, and shining his boots. Klaus is rather well off, has his own help staff to take care of his house located in the sprawling camp he oversees, so he really doesn't know what he'll do with a wife but here we are. The two of them meet for the first time on their wedding day, Klaus in his best black Totenkopfverbände uniform and dress sword, Emma in a pristine white dress and flowers adorning her braids, and nervously say their vows and listen to a selection from Mein Kampf and do all the other weird pseudo-pagan rites the SS insists on in place of Christian ones, then head off to Klaus's home, now husband and wife.

They're both practically ill at the thought of doing anything that first night, though their second day together is much better. They're strangers living under the same roof, but they quickly warm to each other. Klaus gets used to having a wife do his chores and Emma gets used to doing someone else's chores but most of all, they get used to no longer being on their own. Emma appreciates finally making herself useful, and Klaus realizes just how much he was missing out on as a bachelor. He no longer resents what once felt like an intrusion into his space; the very rare occasions when Emma isn't there to immediately greet him on his return home are the times he feels confused and utterly lost. The two of them complete each other.

The SS strongly urges their members to have big families, at least four children. Klaus and Emma never achieve that, though they do have two sons, in quick succession. Klaus had never considered himself a family man, a fatherly figure, yet the moment their first squirming, mewling baby is placed in his arms he's over the moon. "He looks like me! A tiny lil' me," he exclaims, holding the baby close. Emma suggests that he name his firstborn son; he seems at a complete loss. "Well...we could name him Konstantin, I suppose...?" Emma offers, but Klaus vehemently objects: "Herrgott, nein! You wouldn't believe all the taunts I got as a kid being named 'Konstantin'! Only thing worse would be 'Adolf,' may as well put a big 'Kick me!' on his back!" He mulls it over a bit longer (Klaus really isn't the mulling type, so this is rather challenging) and finally muses, "Well...how about...Jost?" "Jost...?" Emma asks, curious about the significance. Replies Klaus, "Is what my mother said she would've named me if she'd known 'Konstantin' would be so bothersome." "Jost," Emma says again, smiles, and hugs little Jost when Klaus hands him back.

Their second child is a bit more unexpected. Klaus has returned home for the night, finished dinner, and is contentedly cooing and bouncing Jost on his knee when Emma brings in a tray of pastries, halts, and vomits on the floor. "Em!" Klaus exclaims, setting Jost aside and hurrying to her. "Are you all right--?" Emma insists she's fine, just feels rather nauseated; Klaus refuses to listen to her insistent comments that she doesn't need help, it's just a stomach bug, he hurries off to call the camp physician. He and the doctor return shortly after and the doctor examines Emma as Klaus stands nearby, wringing his hands. "Everything seems all right," the doctor finally says, "how long have you felt sick?" "Maybe a few days," Emma says, then flinches--"Em!" Klaus cries, "You been sick days now?--why don't you tell me??" "I didn't want you getting upset--like this!" she says. "I'm fine! It's just a bug!" The doctor asks if she's had any other symptoms; she admits she's felt rather weepy and has been crying a lot. "When do you cry??" Klaus asks, confused; when he's at work, she says, and when he exclaims, "EM!" she retorts, "I don't want you getting all upset just like you're doing!!" The doctor asks if she's ever gone through anything like this before and Emma says, "Nein, not really, I usually feel just fine, I only ever felt something like this when--" And then cuts herself off, blinking. After a brief silence, she looks at Jost. Klaus blinks now too--"Em--?" Then furrows his brow. "So soon--?" Emma seems just as surprised; Jost isn't even half a year old yet.

The doctor replies that, while it's not recommended, such things are possible. "In the English countries they call them 'Irish twins,'" he explains, at which Klaus bristles and says, "Hey! My kids ain't Irish!" The doctor suggests that Emma just continue going about her usual routine to keep in shape, yet get plenty of sleep at night, and try saltines and ginger ale if her insides keep bothering her. There's no way to tell for sure so soon, but he'll check in on her in a while to see if she shows any other signs.

Klaus sees the doctor off, then proceeds to fetch crackers and ginger ale. He brings them to her on the tray she'd used for the pastries; Emma's face screws up--"I hate ginger ale"--and she breaks down weeping. "Em!" Klaus exclaims, "Don't cry, it's just ginger ale, you'll make me cry too," and he starts snuffling. "It's not the ginger ale!" Emma cries, "It's just you're being so nice to me!" "Why is that making you cry?!" Klaus wails, and husband and wife--and baby Jost--all start bawling their eyes out.

Klaus wakes every morning at four AM sharp, never needs a clock, he's just used to it. Emma is a light sleeper and always wakes when he does. The moment he sits up and gets out of bed, she climbs out too, albeit with a lot of grimacing and a green tint to her face; "Em," Klaus protests, "why you getting up?? Doc says you need your sleep." "But I need to make your breakfast and shine your boots," Emma says. Klaus throws his arms up--"Can just fetch some coffee! And doesn't matter if my boots ain't shiny, what'll happen, will I punish myself--?" Still, Emma insists, she's his wife, the school told her, she has chores she needs to do. She makes a quick breakfast, lays out his uniform, shines his boots--starts weeping as he's getting dressed--"What's wrong now?" he asks, to which she sniffles, "I just love you so much," and he replies, "Em, stop!--you CAN'T make me cry at work, they'll make fun of me forever!" and he gives her a hug--"I honestly don't remember you being this bad last time!--you sure you don't want me staying home?--keep an eye on you for a bit?"--Emma murmurs that she'll be fine, just don't stay too late, she loves him so, he's so good to her, and he lets her go and then lets out a startled noise when she starts kissing him rather quite passionately. He has to pry himself loose--"EM!--this is how we ended up here, you remember??"--yet promises to be home at a reasonable hour, and leaves, obviously flustered.

Emma is exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster by the time she reaches term--"I'm sorry, Konstantin, but I just want this kid out of me," she weeps--yet, oddly, the birth goes very quickly and smoothly, in fact it's over by the time the doctor arrives to check them out, and he declares that they have another healthy son. "He looks like you," Klaus exclaims, "a tiny lil' you...well...if you were a boy." He says she should name the child this time. "Karl," Emma says, and "Karl," Klaus repeats, peering upward. He asks what is the significance of Karl, frowning a bit when he sees her starting to giggle; "I just like how funny you say 'Karl,'" she admits, and when he asks, "What's funny about how I say 'Karrrl'--?" she bursts out cackling.

Klaus does what he can to make sure Emma doesn't get overwhelmed caring for two young children at once, though it's as if Karl's birth wiped the slate clean; her crying fits dissipate, she's all soft smiles and maternal love now, cuddling her babies close and humming lullabies. She feeds them, washes them, changes them, is up at their crib side at the first cry; Klaus tries to do his own chores for himself but she does those too, smiling and humming and glowing the whole time. He can't understand how she doesn't run herself into the ground, yet "I don't know what it is, Liebe, I just feel like I can be a mother forever!" Emma exclaims--then he lets out a startled sound again when she starts kissing him. "Emmmmm," he hisses to try to avoid waking the dozing babies, "this is how you DO end up being a mother forever!" "Sweet Konstantin," Emma murmurs, nibbling his ear and making him squirm, "there are lots of things you can do without ending up with another baby!" To which Klaus blinks and blushes furiously and exclaims, "What the f**k they teach you at that fancy school??"

The Klauses manage--mostly due to Klaus himself insisting that they tone things down for a while--to go without ending up with...well, Irish triplets? Jost and Karl end up being their only children; Emma sighs wistfully now and then, wishing they'd reached the preferred four children, or that she'd at least given him a daughter, but Klaus has no complaint; "They're the two perfectest kids one could ask for," he beams, and always shows off photos of them to his guards, visiting officials, anyone he comes in contact with, if the subject of children arises. Fellow SS major Ludolf Jäger and his wife Magda--herself constantly pregnant, and constantly in a whirlwind of weepy/rageful/horny--politely smile at the photos, though in private Jäger sniffs a bit, finding the middle-class, "woefully Austrian" Klaus rather beneath his own large family. Captain Otto Himmel, meanwhile, offers far more sincere smiles--"You're both so blessed!--such beautiful children"--though Klaus does end up putting his foot down when Emma flirts with Himmel (and immediately is remorseful). Of course, it's Himmel he tells to stop chatting up his wife, not Emma, for she's perfect and can do no wrong. (Himmel, completely innocent in the whole thing, is flustered but obeys until Klaus's wrath is forgotten...Klaus really isn't a wrathful sort, so this doesn't take too long.)

When the Allied forces begin approaching the city and the war is obviously lost for Germany, Klaus manages to warn Emma to take the boys and hide. He's not so fortunate himself; by this point, due to many guards and staff bailing out and resources being held up indefinitely, the camp has devolved into a horrible state, overcrowded and with the prisoners beginning to starve and disease running rampant. Klaus was never a particularly brutal commandant, yet he's still a Nazi running a camp. He tries keeping things going but even his skeleton crew of guards deserts, and the kapos finally turn, the rest of the prisoners who are healthy enough following their lead. One of them crushes Klaus's kneecap with his club and then everyone piles on. He only survives the beating due to American Allied troops entering the camp at that moment and pulling the prisoners off him (though they keep yelling for the soldiers to hand him back over and let them finish the job). Klaus is dragged to a military truck and removed from the camp. After some heated debate over what to do with him (more than a few of the soldiers suggest he should be returned to the camp), they decide to dump him on the Trench Rats, who stick him in a cell, where he sits in the dark and damp for a good long while, throbbing all over, hoping that Emma and the boys are all right.

The Trench Rat sergeant, calling himself Gold, shows up with a lance corporal to ask about the location of a prisoner of his. Klaus has no idea who they're talking about until the lance corporal gives his prisoner ID number from a ledger he's carrying. Klaus peers upward--he can see another of the SS ledgers, the one which correlated prisoner numbers with date of arrival, then the one which correlated date of arrival with whereabouts in the camp the prisoners were placed. He remembers every column, every row, every cell, every number. He gives the Rats the information they're seeking, though he warns Gold, as he leaves, that they better hurry, his sticks weren't in very good shape when he left them. He can barely see the disgusted look Gold gets on his way out.

A very long time passes next. Klaus sits and dozes fitfully, longing for word of his family. He snaps awake with a gasp when something touches his bruised cheek--just slightly, yet it feels like fire. Somebody asks him in his own tongue how many fingers they're holding up; he tries hard to see, but his eyes are swollen shut so he can hardly see anything anymore. The person asks if he knows English and he says yes; they carefully check him over so he assumes they're a doctor of some sort. They ask where he's injured and he mentions his knee; he was unable to walk on it when the soldiers dragged him out of the camp. He winces and hisses when they carefully palpate his knee; they tell the Rat guarding the cell to bring a stretcher to help carry him to the medical ward, needing to repeat themselves, a bit forcefully, when the guard hesitates. The stretcher is brought, the doctor attempts helping Klaus onto it, only for Klaus to cry out and press his arm to his side; the doctor exclaims that he'd asked him to point out his injuries, which Klaus insists he did. Some more prodding; the doctor says he may have a broken rib, and carefully helps him onto the stretcher. He's carried away from the cell, placed in a bed in the medical ward, and has his injuries tended to. The doctor sets his leg, but says that, due to his patella being crushed (Klaus has no idea what a patella is or where he got one), it's unlikely he'll ever be able to use his leg again. He's left again lying in his bed and aching and thinking of Em and the boys and wondering what they're thinking of him.

The swelling in his eyes has gone down somewhat by the time Gold and his assistant return. Gold says they found the prisoner they were looking for, and asks him what he knows of the camp's records. It turns out that the ledger the other Rat is carrying is one of only a few that survived an apparent purge by the camp's guards before they fled; Klaus confirms that they were only following protocol. As for what he knows of the records, "All of 'em," he says, and taps his head. "They're all in here, I never forget any of 'em." Gold requests that he help them identify the remaining prisoners, alive and dead, to bring closure to the families; when Klaus hesitates and says, "And what do I get out of it...?" Gold bluntly replies, "We found your wife and sons."

Klaus's eyes go wide. "Em--? My boys?" he exclaims; "Where are they? Are they all right?" "They're safe," Gold says. "If you want to see them, you'll help us with these records." Knowing how little he has left to bargain with, Klaus retorts, "You bring them here to see me first--then, I tell you whatever you want. Only then!" Gold hesitates, then says, "I'll bring your wife to see you. Then you tell us everything you know." Klaus agrees, and sits and waits in pure mental agony until Gold returns, which feels like forever.

Yet--"Konstantin!" Emma's voice cries, and his head pops up as she flies toward him--"Em!"--and they hug each other tight, he even ignores the stab of pain in his side. "Oh my poor Konstantin!" she says, eyes tearing up as she looks him over, "What did they do to you--?" "Was my sticks, not them," Klaus says; "Em, tell me, the boys, they all right?" Emma confirms that their sons are frightened, but just fine; the Allies found them all hiding just as he'd told them to, and took them into custody, but have so far treated them well. She asks him what's to become of them now? When Klaus says he's promised to give up what info he has in exchange for her and the boys' safety, Emma asks, "What about you?" Klaus shrugs, says, "They take me to trial, I guess?" Emma now protests: "Trial--? They'll kill you, you know!" Before he can answer she turns to Gold and demands, "You want him to help you, you make sure they don't kill him!" The Trench Rat sergeant just frowns--he can't speak German. The doctor interprets, as Klaus is too flustered, exclaiming, "Em!--don't worry about me, what you doing??" Gold listens to the doctor, nearly scowls, says, "I don't have the authority to promise that!" The doctor repeats in German, Emma retorts, "Find the authority! You want his help, you make sure he lives," Klaus nearly yells over her WHAT IS SHE DOING, the doctor interprets, and finally Gold glowers but relents: "No execution. They decide to sentence him to prison, though, then you have to live with it! I can't offer anything more. Now will you start talking...?"

The doctor interprets. Emma relents now too; Klaus has never seen her show such backbone, sweet-natured Em, speaking back so to American soldiers. She nods at the doctor--"That's...that's acceptable, danke, now he talks," and hugs and kisses Klaus. She's shaking and he can tell she's overwhelmed by her own audacity. They sort out a few more details; for now, Emma, Jost, and Karl will remain in Allied custody to ensure Klaus's compliance, but they'll be taken care of. Meanwhile, Klaus will share everything he knows from the camp records, and any other useful info, before facing a tribunal. Gold will pull what strings he can to keep him from being executed, though that's all he can do. "Don't care about me," Klaus says, "just keep Em and my boys safe, and I tell you everything you want."

Klaus keeps his promise. He and Gold's assistant, Mahogany, go over the surviving ledger, and Klaus identifies all the living and deceased prisoners he can...far more of the latter, to Gold's displeasure. He shares all other information he can think of regarding the SS itself; he doesn't care about them anymore, they bailed out on him, so he has to look out for his family first of all. After he's mostly recovered from his injuries, he's brought before a military tribunal where he doesn't bother disputing the charges; he just wants Em and the boys to be all right. The judge weighs in the fact that he's already helped the Allies and has promised to continue doing so as long as he's able; he seems displeased to remove the death penalty from the table, but honors the agreement, and sentences Klaus to twelve years in prison. If he backtracks on his promise, the judge warns him, they may revisit his sentence. Klaus, to be honest, is surprised to get off so easily. He's allowed to see Emma and his sons briefly before he's taken away, and hugs them all tight, tears in his eyes; "We'll wait for you," Emma promises, teary eyed herself, and "Be good, boys, take care of your mother for me," Klaus says, "We will, Papa," Jost and Karl say, Klaus kisses Emma's forehead--"Love you, Em," "Love you, Konstantin," Emma says with a quiver in her voice, and Klaus is wheeled away.

Military officials visit Klaus in prison. He always answers whatever questions he's asked. He's surprised to learn the female officer is Jewish; when she asks him why, he says the only Jews he's ever encountered are sticks. "Sticks...?" she asks, puzzled; "Ja, sticks," he says, "you know, prisoners...sticks." She doesn't really react to that, though she does start bringing him books to read...books that the SS had banned. Good obedient rule-following Klaus had never questioned why, never been interested in forbidden things, never even been much interested in reading, but he's curious now. He reads book after book as she brings them, and the books make him think for himself, and he finds this makes him incredibly uncomfortable. One day while discussing his sticks with her, it's as if a veil lifts, and it suddenly hits him--"Not sticks," he blurts out, realizing that he's talking about people, flesh-and-blood people like Emma and Jost and Karl--"So many not-sticks." He's too overwhelmed to talk further, though the next time she visits, he asks her why. Why does she come to talk to him? Why waste her time? She doesn't give him any answer other than to say, to her, it hasn't been a waste of time. A while after her visits stop, so Klaus is left wondering why she bothered with him, and why it bothers him so much. He's not used to so many thoughts and feelings but he's stuck with them now. It takes him a while to understand that he's feeling guilt.

Klaus keeps his promises, is eligible to be released early for good behavior. Vows that he has no interest in seeking out any fellow former SS, no interest in returning to that life, all he wants is his family. The officials declare him "denazified" (what an odd word, he thinks) and let him out. Outside the castle prison stand Emma and his boys--both nearly grown now. He embraces them and breaks down crying. "My Em, my boys." Emma wipes her eyes and wheels him to a waiting vehicle. They leave for a small cottage near the city's edge. Emma and the boys live here, now Klaus will too; they've started a new life, she's stopped teaching the boys SS ways, though if people were to find out who Klaus once was, she imagines things might get difficult. Klaus replies that it's fine, he has no interest in going out again (especially since he's now confined to a wheelchair), though he laments that she should have to be the breadwinner when he's supposed to care for her. Emma kisses him atop the head; "My Konstantin, you already cared for us, now we care for you."

Emma is the one who goes out to work every day now, and Klaus is the one who always welcomes her home. Jost and Karl also take jobs when they're old enough. Klaus rarely ever leaves the house--it's far too dangerous for him, and too much of a risk for his family--but it doesn't matter too much to him. Emma and Jost and Karl are all right and that's what counts.

See also Karl's entry.

[Jost Klaus 2025 [‎Friday, ‎February ‎7, ‎2025, ‏‎12:00:07 AM]]