#Alchemical writings

[blueheartbooks]

"Unlocking the Esoteric Tapestry: A Journey Through 'The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly'"

"The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" invites readers into the mystical realm of alchemy through the eyes and pen of the enigmatic Edward Kelly, a figure deeply intertwined with the alchemical pursuits of the Renaissance. This collection, skillfully compiled and annotated, unveils the arcane wisdom and esoteric insights of a man whose contributions to the Hermetic arts have long been shrouded in mystery.

Kelly's writings, presented with meticulous attention to historical context, offer a profound glimpse into the spiritual and transformative aspects of alchemy. The editor's annotations guide readers through the labyrinth of alchemical symbolism, providing clarity without diminishing the mystique. From the famed Enochian system to the allegorical language of transmutation, Kelly's words resonate with seekers of hidden truths.

The anthology captures Kelly's alchemical opus, showcasing the intricacies of his experiments, the symbolism embedded in his writings, and the quest for spiritual enlightenment. It serves as a key to decoding the cryptic language of alchemy, making it accessible to both seasoned practitioners and curious minds.

(The illustration presented in the book: a black rock, on which stand, hand in hand, the planets: 1, Black Saturn, falling down; 2, Jupiter; 3, Mars; 4, Mercury of many colours; 5, Venus, with green robe, and the Sun and Moon. Lower down, on the black rock, stands an old man with a pick-axe, cutting a piece out of the rock, whence Saturn falls, and near him lie, as if dead, Jupiter and Saturn.)

As the pages unfold, readers are immersed in the alchemical laboratory of Kelly's mind. The author's profound understanding of the mystical journey, coupled with his ability to articulate complex concepts, makes this collection a valuable resource for those exploring the intersections of spirituality, philosophy, and the arcane sciences.

In conclusion, "The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" is a captivating odyssey into the depths of alchemical thought. Whether you are a seasoned alchemist or a curious soul embarking on the quest for inner transformation, this anthology is a beacon of enlightenment. Prepare to be entranced by Kelly's alchemical tapestry—a rich weave of symbols, insights, and secrets that beckon the daring to unlock the mysteries of the alchemical tradition.

"The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" is available in Amazon in paperback 12.99$ and hardcover 18.99$ editions.

Number of pages: 143

Language: English

Rating: 10/10                                           

Link of the book!

Review By: King's Cat

[blueheartbookclub]

"Unlocking the Esoteric Tapestry: A Journey Through 'The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly'"

"The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" invites readers into the mystical realm of alchemy through the eyes and pen of the enigmatic Edward Kelly, a figure deeply intertwined with the alchemical pursuits of the Renaissance. This collection, skillfully compiled and annotated, unveils the arcane wisdom and esoteric insights of a man whose contributions to the Hermetic arts have long been shrouded in mystery.

Kelly's writings, presented with meticulous attention to historical context, offer a profound glimpse into the spiritual and transformative aspects of alchemy. The editor's annotations guide readers through the labyrinth of alchemical symbolism, providing clarity without diminishing the mystique. From the famed Enochian system to the allegorical language of transmutation, Kelly's words resonate with seekers of hidden truths.

The anthology captures Kelly's alchemical opus, showcasing the intricacies of his experiments, the symbolism embedded in his writings, and the quest for spiritual enlightenment. It serves as a key to decoding the cryptic language of alchemy, making it accessible to both seasoned practitioners and curious minds.

(The illustration presented in the book: a black rock, on which stand, hand in hand, the planets: 1, Black Saturn, falling down; 2, Jupiter; 3, Mars; 4, Mercury of many colours; 5, Venus, with green robe, and the Sun and Moon. Lower down, on the black rock, stands an old man with a pick-axe, cutting a piece out of the rock, whence Saturn falls, and near him lie, as if dead, Jupiter and Saturn.)

As the pages unfold, readers are immersed in the alchemical laboratory of Kelly's mind. The author's profound understanding of the mystical journey, coupled with his ability to articulate complex concepts, makes this collection a valuable resource for those exploring the intersections of spirituality, philosophy, and the arcane sciences.

In conclusion, "The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" is a captivating odyssey into the depths of alchemical thought. Whether you are a seasoned alchemist or a curious soul embarking on the quest for inner transformation, this anthology is a beacon of enlightenment. Prepare to be entranced by Kelly's alchemical tapestry—a rich weave of symbols, insights, and secrets that beckon the daring to unlock the mysteries of the alchemical tradition.

"The Alchemical Writings of Edward Kelly" is available in Amazon in paperback 12.99$ and hardcover 18.99$ editions.

Number of pages: 143

Language: English

Rating: 10/10                                           

Link of the book!

Review By: King's Cat

[alchemicallymoon]

Random question for fic writers

Bonus points: in the tags, has anyone IRL told you that they write fanfiction?

[hamliet]

What do you think about the claim that any relationship Jaune could have with Weiss or anyone else her age is creepy now because of his age? A lot of people are trying to say that it doesn't matter that Jaune has his young body back, he's still a 40 year old in a 20 year old's body. I think that's giving those 20 years of his that he spent on his own and stuck in a cycle too much importance and that it takes his aging process too literally to begin with when it was more of a tool to explore a theme - but I dunno, maybe I'm biased because I DO ship him with Weiss.

I'm not surprised people would say this, but I honestly think people who say that are majorly misreading everything and this is without having anything to do with ships.

The point of Jaune aging is precisely that he did not develop the entire time. All those years, he stayed the same mentally. He went to extreme lengths to make sure everything and everyone around him stayed the same as well.

I think I said it in the anima/animus meta, but regardless of shipping, the point is that Jaune is not a 40 year old in a teen's body now, but that he was, in the Ever After, a teen in a 40 year old's body.

Jaune being young again was him being fixed. Jaune got to return to his true self in a parallel to Ruby--and that means being a teenager.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Alchemy

Content warnings: Abuse, emotional abuse, unhealthy power dynamics (takes place when Majexatli was 18/19, snapshot of their relationship with Althyran)

//

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t care about you, Asha,” 

Althyran’s tired frown was just visible in the small looking glass in front of Majexatli. Majexatli bit their tongue, stopping themselves from saying something rash, holding back a whimper as Althyran’s comb snagged on a knot in their hair.

“I know,” Majexatli said eventually.

“You have so much potential, you’ve come so far by my side, look at all that I’ve helped you accomplish. Where you be without me? What would you have without me? Who would look out for you if I wasn’t there?” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Majexatli winced as his comb once again pulled harshly at a knot.

Whether the apology or their pain, something made Althyran pause for a moment. After a beat of silence, Althyran untangled their hair now with a sudden gentleness.

He sighed.

“It’s alright, darling, I don’t mean to be harsh on you. I love you, you know that, right?”

“I know, it’s alright,”

“No, no, it’s not, I know you’re only doing your best, you just didn’t know. I’ve just been so stressed, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. Let me make it up to you?” 

Althyran set down the comb on the table and wrapped his arms around Majexatli, pressing a gentle kiss to their shoulder.

“You don’t have to—” 

“I want to, Asha, here,” Althyran pulled back, reaching into his satchel and pulling out something Majexatli couldn’t see, “I was hoping to wait for a special occasion, but I got you something. Put out your hands,” 

 Into Majexatli’s open hands, Althyran placed a beautiful silver hair stick, one of ornate elven design set with a piece of polished turquoise. It looked like it cost more gold than Majexatli had ever seen in their life.

“I— I can’t accept this—” 

“Of course you can, you deserve it,” Majexatli could see the way he smiled as he wrapped his arms around them again, “Plus, it’s magical. The stone will let me find you wherever you are, so you never have to be alone,”

Never having to be alone again… it was all Majexatli wanted. Althyran’s honeyed words pushed the pain and anxiety out of their mind.

Majexatli held the hair stick close to their chest, “Thank you…” 

Althyran kissed their bruised temple before standing up.

“Did you extract the swarming toadstool?”

“Yes,” 

Majexatli nodded to their bag. They moved to grab it, but Althyran beat them to it, pulling out the small glass jar filled with a pale yellow-green dust. 

“Excellent work, it’s perfect. You’ve come so far since we first started,” 

The praise warmed something in Majexatli’s chest, they could even feel tears welling up in their eyes.

“No one saw you with it, right? Or knew you went to the Underdark?” 

“No, no one saw. I did everything like you said,” 

“Good,”

Althyran placed the jar down on the table after another moment looking it over.

“What do you need the swarming toadstool for?” Majexatli asked, hoping to help, take initiative, to get him in a good mood, “You’ve just said, I’ve gotten really good with my herbalism, maybe I can help—” 

Majexatli cut themselves off as they looked up at Althyran and saw something flicker across his face, a dark, grave expression that seemed to suck all of the air and warmth from the tent.

“You don’t need to worry about it, it’s not for you to know. It is a dangerous thing, curiosity,” 

“I’m sorry,” Majexatli’s voice was small, trembling.

Althyran’s face softened slightly, but he didn’t speak, didn’t reassure them or comfort them. He simply nodded, grabbing the jar of swarming toadstool essence and placing it in his satchel. 

The silence was heavy, tense. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, they had practiced what they were going to say, practiced how they would speak up—

“I was, um, I was going to go to the infirmary later,” Majexatli started, trying to cling to a confidence they had already lost.

Althyran paused, narrowing his eyes.

“Why?”

Tell him. He should be happy, right? Just tell him.

“I, um, nothing really. Just. My leg, and um, I thought maybe—I mean. It’s just my leg, it’s just my leg” 

The lie hurt to say, each word like pulling teeth. Majexatli wasn’t even sure why they were lying, they shouldn’t need to lie.

“If that’s the case, I can save you the trouble and talk to Lysaia or her apprentice myself and get you something for the pain,” 

“Okay, yeah, thank you,” Majexatli nodded, looking down at the floor, “Are you going to stay for the night?”

“Oakfather willing. Believe me, there’s no place I’d rather be, but I have something important I need to get to first. I’ll be back before you fall asleep,” Althyran smiled gently in a way that did nothing to comfort Majexatli.

“Okay, I'll see you when you come back,” 

After Althyran left, Majexatli blew out the candles in their tent and crawled into their cot. Curling up on their side, they once again held the hair stick to their chest, tracing the intricate curves with their thumb as they tried to lull themselves to sleep.

They left a spot on the cot for Althyran when he would return. 

Majexatli knew, though, that come morning, they would still be alone.

[alchemicalwerewolf]

If you were to write for a different fandom (first of all, would you?) second of all, what fandom would it be?

I absolutely would, and I would say probably Spider-Man. Though I will absolutely write for anything I stumble across and say, “ooh, shiny new fic idea!”

[jennifer-hamilton-wb]

Thinking of designing a magic system, based around Linguistic pseudoscience and folk etymology. I don't have most of the details hammered out but i'm imagining some Altaic like language family where all the words have these stupid "intuitive to modern language speakers" etymologies, and the change in semantics and phonology can induce physical alchemical changes to matter. I'm envisioning it where the closer to the origin point of this language superfamily, the more powerful the magic is, but it's very one-trick type magic. and then as you get farther out it's less powerful but more differentiated. Existing natural languages all have some very specific and nigh imperceptible ability, like an ethnolinguistic group that's very slightly better at raising cattle or something. When you're doing magic close to or with words from the proto-world language, you can turn lead to gold and create degenerate matter. The folk etymology would have some effect on what the magic does, what is being changed to what, for most magic being an alchemical reaction. The distance in time or semantic/phonemic drift between two words or parts of speech would have some effect, but i'm not sure what.

[triflesandparsnips]

Mad scientist(s) for the au ask game.

Five fun facts that would happen in the story (which I'm gonna do with OFMD, unless/until someone asks me otherwise):

In this AU the mad-scientist profession usually runs in families, but both Ed and Stede are outliers. Ed ran away from home as a child and was taken in by a childless widower who claimed himself to be the great-grandson of Johann Faust (which may or may not have been true, but Hornigold certainly had enough tricks up his sleeve with regard to the alchemical arts that it might very well have been so). Ed, under his nom de science Blackbeard, rose to acclaim for his ability to conjure spirits, his medical acumen, and his likely deal with the devil. Stede, on the other hand, was the son of landed gentry and had no connection whatsoever to the grand history of mad science-- but he collected the treatises, had more than enough money to buy himself a tower and a water wheel for the electrical experiments, and styled himself the Gentleman Philosopher without any real knowledge of what he was getting himself into. He may or may not have had some mystical robes specifically tailored for this purpose. There may or may not be quite a few alchemical symbols for Mars stitched on them.

Rather than a single ghoul to help source his Dread Necessities (as Ed has Igor Izzy), Stede has an entire crew of down-and-outs who are more than happy to find him "very definitely real philosopher's stone, absolutely" and "the hand of a hanged murderer buried at a crossroads, which always very definitely look like slightly moldy turnips after a while" and "yes it's an authentic black cockerel, but don't touch it or wipe its feather or anything, they, uh, don't like that". This may seem like they are taking advantage of Stede's naivety, and that's because they absolutely are. On the other hand, though, they do their (admittedly, not great) best to let it be known throughout the nearby countryside that the Gentleman Philosopher does not represent any particular harm to the bodies or souls of the local townsfolk, being as he's just a rich idiot with a hobby and perhaps too much faith in the honesty of others-- so no pitchforks or anything necessary, yeah? Just let the man have a nice time. And if you have a particularly funny looking turnip, let them know.

It should be stated, though, that Buttons is absolutely the son of a long and storied family of mad scientists. He will on occasion try to help Stede with his Great Works, but Stede keeps trying to add more style to the proceedings than is strictly necessary. All you really need, Buttons knows, is some auspicious moon dates and the right ingredients from trustworthy sources (and here he might look very fondly at Karl, who will in turn preen smugly), and Bob's your uncle, you've got gold or good health or a shambling creature risen from the dead, whatever suits your fancy. Buttons mostly uses his family's gifts making Aqua Vitae in less time than it ought, and for this reason, the others ignore the bird and try not to mention pitchforks too often.

Mad scientists tend to stay in one spot in general -- hence Stede's insistence on the tower, even though it necessitated more ladders and dizzying spiral staircases than he'd really anticipated -- but this will often lead to local mobs and witchfinders knowing exactly where you are at any given time, which is not conducive to scientific study. Ed had long ago taken his show on the road to avoid this very outcome, and had crafted himself a very clever caravan that could be stopped and set up whenever he found himself needing to do a little work. The itinerant life was a necessity but... it wasn't fun like it used to be. And these days, he tended to leave the majority of the work for Izzy-- cooking up simples to sell to farmfolk kept Iz busy so Ed could do the important things like sit around contemplating the universe and also maybe wonder if that whole "base metal into gold" thing was just as much of a fuckery as everything else Ed had done to gain his reputation. But Ed didn't know how to be anything other than a mad scientist. So... so maybe he needed to be looking at some other options. Really study up on that "deal with the devil" thing his detractors kept rattling on about. Maybe do some work toward the life after death thing, see if there was anything he could... prepare for. And it's as the caravan rattles down the road to the next town and he's gloomily considering whether he would rather leave his caravan to Izzy or require its immolation with his own corpse (strongly favoring the latter)... that the road bends, and he sees the tower.

The Gentleman Philosopher's tower is ridiculous. It's got at least five floors, and the top has a widow's walk, crenellations, and a pole with half a dozen flags of questionable alchemical meaning strung up it. The stones appear to be made of some kind of glittery granite, nothing like the local rocks, and the mortar joining them has either been painted or, somehow, imbued with an absolute fuckton of chrysocolla to make it look fucking teal. There's a babbling brook nearby that pushes a water wheel attached to the side of the tower, except the proportions are all wrong for any of the really big ticket experiments you can do with that kind of energy -- and moreover, it looks like it's made out of some kind of cherry wood that's absolutely going to warp all to fuck in the water sooner rather than later. There's a stable out the back with what look like half a dozen exotic creatures just bleating happily to themselves -- a grove of goddamn orange trees where any sensible person would have their vegetable garden -- and what appears to be a motherfucking koi pond by the front door. Ed is fuckin' enchanted. He is, in fact, going to go up to that tower and find out everything he can about the beautiful, genius madman running the place-- --the very second he gets done rescuing the guy from the enormous mob of torch-wielding locals currently trying to set fire to his pasty-looking corpse.

...And a bonus:

Once the smoke is cleared and the townsfolk appropriately terrified of what the mad scientist Blackbeard might summon upon them for their temerity, Ed can take his own sweet time getting the unconscious and probably-not-actually-dead Gentleman Philosopher situated in his incredibly comfy-looking bed-- there to watch him, bleed him as necessary, and come up with a thousand and one questions about the guy's whole, like, deal.

Izzy, meanwhile, has been left outside to stare in horror at the large sign affixed above the tower's door. The sign, somewhat smoke-stained now, reads:

The Gentle-man Philoſofer

Behold the True Glaſs of Alchymaie!

☞ Myſteries & Wonders ☜

Galenical & Chymical Phyſick

Some Cookerie of a Moſt Delightfful Variety

Many Excellent Remedys for Scurvy Alſo

DO NOT TOUCH THE BIRDS

"What," says Izzy, "the fuck."

[waelahst]

imagine giving birth to your little baby boy & you name him the French word for “lizard” . what was wrong with the Valeth parents .

[shredsandpatches]

A few days ago I got into it on twitter with a Shakespeare truther whose main argument was "Shakespeare couldn't have written the plays attributed to him because the author of the plays was clearly an absolute expert in the law, hawking, and the specific layout of Windsor Forest as well as fluent in French and Italian, and there is no way Shakespeare could have picked up that expertise anywhere because they don't teach those things in grammar school and of course he was a real expert and not someone who knew enough terminology to bullshit his way through a couple of lines of dialogue convincingly."

Anyway I'm writing some fic now that is apparently going to convince someone I am an experienced alchemist.

[kirbyddd]

one thing that's just one of my weird little personal wishes, i really wish gandalf used more of his Hobbit style alchemical "magic" in LoTR, he really only uses it for fireworks at the very beginning then he mainly just uses his ring and divine authority

[ehlnofay]

19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

[alchemicallymoon]

Yellow

Eight continued trudging through the white wasteland. The lack of color has started getting to them. Every so often, they would stop everything just to remind themself of what color looked like, though that was becoming less and less useful. Acht's green skin and blue ink were a welcome sight, and they didn't seem to mind being stared at. Pearlbot's pale pink body wasn't too different than the coral, but at least she was friendly face. Eight's own ink was becoming less colorful, almost like they couldn't think of colors anymore. The only other color was red. Red meant an enemy was looking at Eight. As they fought through yet another wave of red eyes, one of them made Eight do a double take. Eight has seen every color already, and there are only two familiar faces. So why is their friend standing in front of them with that bright yellow hoodie, and glowing red eyes?

[ratskal]

Diversity win! The war criminal that destroyed your home is transgender!

I just think he has transmasc "I'm like a boy if a boy was a girl" vibes. Real gendercreative. Sun & moon type of bitch.

[alchemicalwerewolf]

How wrong you are

were you there when she was at her lowest? Were you there at her highest? How about when she felt nothing at all? Everything too much? No?

How about when you caused her pain? Were you there then? What about when I caused her pain? When no one in particular caused her pain, it was all just too much to handle?

No? Really?

Let me ask you this. When were you there? When she was happy? When she was in a good place? Were you there when you felt like it?

Well I was there every single day. I was there through the best, the worst, and everything in between. I was there. And where were you?

If you were there in her darkest hour, when she couldn’t see through the sickening black of pain, could she recognize how you feel? Could she sense your presence without seeing your face? Would she recognize you even if she saw you?

If you saw her with tears spilling down her cheeks would you even turn to say you’re sorry? Would you stay by her side until river turns to desert and the light shines her way?

If you knew the pain you’ve caused you wouldn’t be saying you’re her best friend. Because that’s me. It’s always been me. You? You’re the bane of my existence in which I can’t hope to survive. You’re not her best friend, you’re her worst enemy in disguise.

[bretongirlwrites]

‘The supposition is perfectly reasonable,’ said I: ‘there is no reason it should not work; save that, –’

‘Save that the Nirnroot,’ said Tara, ‘has evaded knowledge for a thousand years. That it glows whilst alive, means nothing, –’

‘That is the sort of attitude,’ said I, – quite undeterred, put the leaf in my mortar, – ‘that has ignored things for a thousand years.’ 

I detached the roots from it; shook it a bit; crushed it a bit; and wondered at last if there was anything which might be done to stop the damnable ringing, which Sinderion after all had warned me about. – ‘I shan’t be deterred by that,’ I had told him. – ‘Could you speak up?’ he had replied: ‘I cannot hear you over the tinnitus.’ – Leastways it would not stop: and to my left, a poor scholar gave up on his own work, and departed. I mashed the thing a little more; and invited Tara to prepare the milk-thistle.

‘There are much easier ways,’ said Tara, whose skirt-hems were still damp with lake-water, ‘to make a potion of light.’

‘Oh!’ said I: ‘I do not believe the Arcane University has ever done something easily, which might be done more interestingly.’ 

‘No,’ said Tara, – mashed the thistle with good-humoured resignation: ‘no, we haven’t.’

The materials prepared, I got a flask of water on the boil; set up our calcinator; and began to hum, a vain reattempt to drown out the ringing. – Absently nibbled a bit of milk thistle: was most startled when the whole room lit up. – All was in place: we had only to boil the thing, and then test it.

‘Anyway,’ said Tara at length: ‘if you and Sinderion keep pulling up nirnroots, we shall have none left by the end of the era.’

‘That is a long way off,’ said I, ‘we are hardly four hundred years into it. Oh! there’ll be droves of them somewhere we can’t get to them. – Is that nirnroot charred enough yet? It is still ringing.’

‘Only very faintly,’ said she: ‘it must be your ears;’ but she passed it over regardless; along with the thistle-pulp. I became most delighted by it even before we had finished: for the ingredients were perfectly prepared; and Sinderion and I being pioneers in nirnroot experimentation, we must take the utmost care over it. 

‘Well!’ said I: ‘you do the honour of the thistle; and then I shall, –’

The milk-thistle is so-named, because its pulp is white: and when put into a potion, it so resembles milk, that one is fooled until one tastes it, and gets all the sentiment of having consumed a liquified hedgerow. The water became cloudy, but had no bits in it: we had done well so far. 

‘The honour of the nirnroot,’ said Tara, ‘is all yours:’ and quite to my consternation, she took two steps back. 

‘You will want to watch this,’ said I: ‘whatever happens, it will be novel.’

‘That is one way,’ said Tara, ‘of describing all of your experiments.’

I dismissed the barb; drew myself up; and already imagining the quill in my hand, to write up my tribulations and victories, I collected up the nirnroot from the calcinator, and poured it into our funnel. At once the water became not dirtied, but a wonderful glowing sort of dark green, – began to fizz, – I took out the funnel, and waited in triumphant anticipation.

The mixture settled for a moment; but quite as if to spite me, when I had just leaned over, redoubled its fizzing, and without warning shot up from the flask, and in a bright pillar almost to the ceiling. Tara, who would later suggest the addition of buckets to the Lustratorium, rushed forwards by instinct, and caught enough of it on her robes, that she could see them a little in the dark for ever afterwards. There had not been very much water in the flask; yet infinities of it poured out, and faintly ringing all the while; and when it had done, I was left to look in dismay over a table quite drenched, and an afternoon of ingredients spent in disaster.

‘If you say: I told you so, –’ said I at last, – 

‘Well,’ said Tara, ‘I did say that I did not believe it would work. If you had meant to create a potion of levitation, perhaps, – but light, –’

‘Did you see that!’ I cried: ‘we illuminated the whole room!’

‘And so might we have done,’ said Tara wringing out her robes, ‘with a potted nirnroot on the corner of the desk.’

I opened my mouth to disagree; but could say only something about utilitarianism and novelty; and becoming glad that if there was one thing that might be done easily and without exciting novelty, it was cleaning, – went laughing for the towels.

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thanks to @druidx for the prompt ‘a magical experiment gone awry’ for julianne!