#Discrete Element Modeling

[little-p-eng-engineering]

Little P.Eng. for Discrete Element Modeling (DEM) Services

In a world driven by technological advancements, the ability to understand granular systems at a particle level has never been more essential. This precise understanding has been made possible through a computational technique known as Discrete Element Modeling (DEM). While many entities offer DEM services, Little P.Eng. has carved a niche for itself as a front-runner in this specialized domain.

Understanding Discrete Element Modeling (DEM)

Before diving into the specifics of Little P.Eng.'s offerings, it's essential to demystify DEM:

DEM is Calculation-based Modeling: At the heart of DEM is mathematics. This method uses precise calculations to predict the behavior of individual particles within a system. By doing so, it can accurately predict the interactions and outcomes when these particles are subjected to various conditions.

DEM Allows for Visualizing Results: One of the standout features of DEM is its ability to provide visual results. Users can observe:

Particle Velocity: Understand the speed and direction of individual particles.

Forces: This includes shear (parallel to the surface) and normal (perpendicular to the surface) forces that the particles experience.

Moments: This refers to the bending and torsional (twisting) moments affecting the particles.

Acceleration and Material Scatter: Track how quickly particles move and the variations in their dispersion patterns.

DEM: More than just Flow Simulation: While DEM is instrumental in predicting the flow of bulk materials, its capabilities extend beyond this. It plays a crucial role in understanding:

Wear Patterns: Predict how equipment will fare over time by simulating particle interaction and the resultant wear.

Mixing: Understand how different particles mix, which is vital in industries like pharmaceuticals and food production.

Center Loading: This refers to the loading pattern where materials concentrate towards the center, crucial in industries like construction.

DEM Programs: The Power Behind the Predictions

Any tool is only as good as the software powering it. When it comes to DEM, numerous programs can be used to perform this intricate modeling:

EDEM: A market leader, renowned for its comprehensive modeling capabilities.

PFC (Particle Flow Code): Known for its versatility, offering both 2D and 3D simulations.

LIGGGHTS: An open-source powerhouse that's both versatile and widely accepted.

Rocky DEM: Its strength lies in simulating realistic particle shapes, crucial for specific industries.

Yade: An open-source tool prized for its extensibility.

Abaqus: A multi-faceted software that, beyond its renowned finite element analysis, offers DEM capabilities.

Ansys Rocky: Building on the Ansys platform's strengths, it focuses on granular flow simulations.

Barracuda Virtual Reactor: Ideal for energy sector applications, especially particle reactions.

Also there are some open sources:

Kratos Multiphysics is developed by CIMNE (International Center for Numerical Methods in Engineering) in Barcelona and covers all kinds of numerical simulations, including DEM/PEM and DEM/PEFM-FEM coupling.

YadeDEM is a DEM package that is specifically designed for geomechanics.

Woo is a fork of YadeDEM with a strong focus on parallel computing and portability.

LAMMPS is a general purpose DEM/PEM.

LIGGGHTS is a general purpose DEM software that includes heat transfer simulations and is based on LAMMPS.

ESyS Particle is developed at the University of Queensland, Australia, with a focus on geoscientic/geotechnical applications.

GranOO is a general purpose DEM.

MercuryDPM is a general purpose Discrete Particle Method (DPM) software.

Little P.Eng.: Setting the Gold Standard in DEM Services

In the expansive realm of DEM, Little P.Eng. shines brightly, and here's why:

Mastery Over Multiple Platforms: Their team is proficient in a diverse array of DEM programs, ensuring they always have the right tool for the job.

A Client-centric Approach: They tailor their solutions, ensuring that each client's unique needs and challenges are addressed.

In-depth Analysis: Beyond merely running simulations, they delve deep, integrating real-world measurements to enhance simulation accuracy.

Applications and Implications of DEM in Industries

The true power of DEM, as harnessed by Little P.Eng., lies in its diverse applications:

Equipment Design: Through DEM, companies can design equipment that's optimized for longevity and efficiency.

Optimizing Production Lines: By understanding how granular materials behave, industries can fine-tune their production lines for maximum efficiency.

Safety Protocols: Predicting particle behavior, especially in industries dealing with hazardous materials, can lead to enhanced safety protocols.

Challenges in DEM and How Little P.Eng. Overcomes Them

DEM, while powerful, isn't without its challenges. The accuracy of simulations is heavily reliant on input parameters. Additionally, the computational demands for large-scale simulations are immense.

Little P.Eng. rises above these challenges through a blend of rigorous experimental data collection and a deep understanding of the DEM software landscape. Their iterative approach ensures that simulations are continually refined for better accuracy.

Conclusion

Discrete Element Modeling (DEM) is transforming our understanding of granular systems. With its capability to provide in-depth insights at a particle level, its applications span a wide array of industries.

In this domain, Little P.Eng. emerges not just as a service provider, but as a trusted partner, guiding businesses towards better efficiency, safety, and innovation. As we venture further into an era where the micro informs the macro, the services of entities like Little P.Eng., underpinned by the power of DEM, will undoubtedly be invaluable.

Read more:

Little P.Eng. for Discrete Element Modeling (DEM) Services: Unveiling the Power of Simulation

The Importance of Discrete Element Modeling (DEM) Studies and What Problems It Can Solve

Tags:

Little P.Eng.

Discrete Element Modeling

Mixing

Granular systems

Particle behavior

EDEM

PFC (Particle Flow Code)

LIGGGHTS

Rocky DEM

Yade

Abaqus

Ansys Rocky

Barracuda Virtual Reactor

Calculation-based modeling

Particle velocity

Shear forces

Normal forces

Bending moments

Torsional moments

Acceleration

Material scatter

Flow simulation

Wear patterns

Center loading

Equipment design

Production line optimization

Safety protocols

Computational simulations

Input parameters

Simulation accuracy

Bulk Material Handling & Processing

Engineering Services

Located in Calgary, Alberta; Vancouver, BC; Toronto, Ontario; Edmonton, Alberta; Houston Texas; Torrance, California; El Segundo, CA; Manhattan Beach, CA; Concord, CA; We offer our engineering consultancy services across Canada and United States. Meena Rezkallah.

[sam-keeper]

Hey Look At This Comic: Smut Peddler Presents Pitch Black

I can't remember how we got on the subject of the comics that my friends Iris Jay and Nero Villagallos O'Reilly did for an old Iron Circus april fools bit. maybe we were chatting about Megan Delyani's blank frame comic Spaces, which I wrote a whole review of last year, but it might just as easily have been talking about comic structure generally. cause we're huge nerds. being a huge nerd, I was all over the premise of the joke: a fake kickstarter for a Smut Peddler volume full of comics with all blacked out panels.

it's a great gag, a full webpage duping the Kickstarter layout, with a fun tongue in cheek explanation: comics don't leave enough up to the imagination, there aren't enough interpretive gaps for the reader, so to fix that Smut Peddler will publish a bunch of Pitch Black comics where YOU have to provide the visuals. Joke, maybe, but it lends credence to frame-focused models of comics reading: it's not the images that make something a comic, but the breakdown of page space into discrete units. So goes one theory, anyway. How do these pages fare without their images?

Lin Visel deploys a regular grid of long, thin columns, with a kind of horizontal capital at the top. The speech bubbles drive a lot of the action here and there's a sense of simultaneous movement across the bottom, with the bubbles breaking the panel borders at the top and the sound effects flowing into each other below. So, there's an interesting division between the upper strip, which is relatively subdued, a moment of reassurance that exists almost in its own zone before the rush of the bottom. And, as we'll see with a bunch of the others, in the absence of images the style of the text, the shape of the word balloons, and the font colors all become more crucial to conveying what's happening (sex, to be clear). That's already a lot going on with a series of black panels.

I love how Iris's comic bakes an explanation for the blacked out panels into its narrative. The apparently dominant character gloats that her streaming site won't let her actually display the brutal force-fem pegging she's giving to some shitty gamer bro. Sure enough, at the bottom of that panel there's a black and white video control interface and LIVE signal. Text alone and the design of the speech bubbles transforms the whole diegesis of that second panel, from the floating omniscient "camera" of the other panels to a webcam. Which is crazy because don't forget, there is no diegesis at all. It's all black!

There's so many great touches in this. I love the fact that the tongue in cheek panel containing the "guy's" internal monologue ("I can feel my epic skills draining away with every thrust... along with my masculinity!") is not just a second panel on the upper strip but an inset, separating out this moment of more intimate first person experience from the more remote view of implied fucking. And look at the flowers in the final orgasmic speech bubble! This is a total tangent but I feel like a lot of older attempts at structuralist comics decomposition wanted a firm line between the panel, the image, the characters, the speech bubbles, and so on. But comic elements can constantly interpenetrate, with the apparent domain of text becoming more complex graphical elements. Also, what a cute way to depict orgasming so hard you get turned into a girl. Head full of flowers. :)

It's incredible what you can achieve without breaking Tumblr's draconian terms of service at all.

Robin Tess offers a more straightfoward humorous panel, which lets me catch my breath after Iris's hot and heavy speech bubbles. Yet, this could have been a straightfoward 2 x 3 grid, couldn't it? 6 panels? Instead, this joke about over-engineered jargon names for what could just as easily have been called a "fuckmachine" (left delightfully up to the imagination) gets its core pacing from an irregular panel format. The premise is introduced in a big splashy full-strip panel at the top, the elaboration takes up the middle row, and then the bottom, in two equal panels, displays the two part punchline. I like the subtle way the middle row panels get progressively smaller. It increases the tension as we move toward the release of the punchlines, in a way that could be easily obscured by the panel contents if the page wasn't all blacked out in this way. Like Delyani's work, it makes me want to see notable comics blacked out. It could offer a whole new perspective on the medium's language.

Speaking of which, Nero uses a series of tall regular panels that suddenly POP into one that seems to squirt across the page, the other panels moved to allow for the white negative space to show off the irregular splash of the panel edge. This could be the silhouette of literal fluid, but I also like the idea of a frame that just has this kind of irregular energy. The comic structure itself becoming unruly and fluid to highlight a climax is a staple of many comic genres, but I'd say that I see it deployed most consistently by adult creators, who seem more willing to throw page literalism to the wind in order to achieve heightened expressivity. And once again we've got this escalation to a climactic panel. Typing this up I actually realized I don't have a specific idea of what I think the visual for these panels is or should be. Part of the excitement comes from filling in the blanks, to be sure, but that's true of any comic, which requires us to engage in closure to make sense of the transition from panel to panel. No, it's the drama of the reveal of the vibe plug one character apparently has been hiding, the invitation to intimacy, and finally the release, all achieved through dialogue physically arranged on the page. I don't think this would really make sense at all without the visuals that ARE there--the buzzing sound effect that moves across panel borders and is simultaneous to rather than sequentially arranged between lines of dialogue, and the incredibly suggestive final panel shape. Even without apparent visuals, this is visual storytelling.

Abby Howard wraps things up with the most abstract of the pieces, one that doesn't use frames at all but implies panel contents simply through the convention of word balloon tails. The result is a disorienting dark mass. It's hard to know what exactly is happening here and actually I'm having a hard time imagining what the last visual is "supposed" to be. It sort of is what it is: groping claw marks raking a black void. It's part of the april fool's joke, but it's a creepy one, and it feeds into the final joke of the page: that all this overthinking, all this trying to make sense of black panels, has worn you out, made you vulnerable to the Dark. Well, looking at everything I typed up here, I can't deny the inevitability of this end. Time to get in the maw!

Actually I think this end uncovers the close relationship that comics and hypertext narratives or more experimentally formatted texts have to one another: the space on the page becomes, itself, a signifying element and a way to direct the flow of the story. It's a shame that this is, I think, still considered a bit gimmicky in the realm of professional publishing and criticism. We have all these tools we've barely employed for storytelling, made far more accessible than in the days of having to manually set type!

Well, maybe it'll all have its day in the sun, or I suppose night in its new moon, soon enough. With an increasingly puritanical treatment of sexuality in society and on the internet, maybe we'll ALL have to black the action out of our comics and leave the frames to imply what we socially no longer want to see.

Pitch Black: Comics Code Authority approved!

you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon at least until they get my ass for being an adult writing about comics for other adults.

[sevarchive]

the girl with the bow ༄.°

a blue lock zombie apocalypse au. 15k words

warning: contains elements of yandere behavior (rin), blood and gore (both implied and explicit), zombies, and loss of major characters. reader discretion is advised.

synopsis: in which a girl tries to survive the apocalypse; but survival is never just about the living, and some choices never stop bleeding.

the sky was the color of blood left too long to dry,

sickly, crusted over with ash and twilight. buildings leaned like wounded animals, their ribs exposed in shattered glass and crumbling steel. a billboard advertising a soft drink twisted in the wind, torn down the middle, the smiling model now a grimacing corpse with faded eyes.

y/n walked barefoot over the gravel of a long-abandoned road. her soles were callused, cracked open in places, but she didn’t flinch. she was numb now—to pain, to noise, to the stench of rot that clung to her like fog.

she hadn’t seen a single living soul in five days.

maybe it was tuesday. maybe the hundredth tuesday since everything ended. time didn’t matter anymore.

but she wasn’t dead.

not yet.

a low moan echoed from the ruins of a nearby church. one of them—the blind ones, she called them. the old infected, so decayed their eyes had collapsed inward, leaving only flesh-filled sockets that sniffed out heat and movement.

y/n kept walking.

she didn’t know what had become of the world. didn’t know if anyone else survived. didn’t know if she should hope.

all she knew was she had to keep moving.

she closed her eyes, and that’s when it hit her—like a bullet fired straight through her memories. the world hadn’t always been like this.

once, there was noise. music, laughter, the buzz of crowded streets. now, silence swallowed everything.

the virus had taken it all.

they called it the erebovirus. a name that sounded like something from a nightmare—because it was. the virus comes with a slow, cruel transformation. once infected, the body decayed even as the mind clawed to stay alive, twisting reason into hunger, love into violence.

it started with a fever, high and burning, followed by delirium and relentless coughing. then the eyes—eyes that turned milky, then hollow, until they were nothing but empty orbs that no longer saw the world but hunted for warmth and movement.

the infected lost their humanity piece by piece. their skin sloughed off in ragged patches, muscles stiffened, and their teeth sharpened into cruel points. they no longer felt pain or fatigue. only the endless drive to consume.

some said the virus whispered to them—the echo of memories, voices of the dead, and worst of all, the names of the people they had loved most.

that was the last thing you would hear before the end.

y/n swallowed hard, the taste of ash heavy on her tongue.

she had seen what the erebovirus could do. watched friends become monsters. watched the world burn.

and yet—

she kept moving.

because to stop was to surrender.

because to stop was to die.

the wind picked up, brushing ash off my shoulders like snow. it howled low through the skeletal remains of buildings, slipping between fractured bricks like a whisper threading through teeth. everything smelled like rust and old blood. the sky above was a dull, bruised red—the kind that made my stomach twist.

i squinted down the road at the gas station—it sagged under a collapsed roof, one side caved in like a ribcage stomped flat. the windows were dust-smeared, spiderwebbed with old cracks. a single flagpole leaned against the wind, the shredded remains of some patriotic banner twitching weakly. only one letter still clung to the store’s flickering sign: p.

“p for ‘please die here,’” i muttered. “lovely.”

my lips were cracked, my throat sandpaper dry. i hadn’t had clean water in two days—maybe more. time felt fake now. like a fever dream that forgot to end.

i eyed the building again.

okay. ten bucks says i die in there. but also, ten bucks isn’t real anymore. so.

i sighed and limped forward.

my foot crunched softly on broken glass. i paused and scanned the surrounding trees.

if i get eaten today, i swear to god it better be fast. like—bite my head off fast. none of that slow, screamy horror movie crap.

i pushed the door open, and it let out a high-pitched creak like it, too, had given up on life.

inside, the light dimmed instantly into a corpse-colored gray. shelves stood half-toppled and barren, metal frames rusted through at the joints. a soda fridge hummed weakly in the back, though its door hung open, buzzing flies orbiting the contents. the stench hit hard: rot, mold, something faintly metallic beneath.

“smells like satan’s armpit,” i muttered.

behind the counter, i spotted a few unopened cans—maybe peaches or beans, maybe dog food. at this point, i’d eat a sponge if it wasn’t actively trying to kill me. i crouched, fingers curling around one—

—and my heel knocked something over.

a tiny plastic bottle.

it rolled out from beneath the rack and struck the tile with a sound like a shot.

ting.

ting.

ting—

“oh, come on,” i whispered.

silence.

then—a breath.

my eyes darted to the back of the store.

figures.

four of them.

how did i not see them before?

their heads twitched toward me, necks cracking in unison like possessed pez dispensers. their skin hung in shreds, eyes empty, hunger oozing off them in waves.

my mouth opened in a tiny, whispered curse. “shit.”

i backed up. slowly.

and then, like the genius i am, i stepped on a can lid and skidded.

the infected screamed. shelves blurred past. my shoulder slammed into metal, toppling it with a crash. their snarls chased me like fire.

one lunged.

i dove over the counter. my knee cracked against something solid. white-hot pain screamed through my leg.

a hand grabbed my ankle.

“nope,” i shrieked, kicking like a maniac. “not today, zombie karen!”

it let go.

i scrambled forward. my hands splashed through something slick.

blood. definitely blood. love that for me.

then—

a weight slammed into my back.

i screamed. hot breath scorched my neck. i raised my arm just in time, teeth sank in—

and then—

crack.

the weight vanished.

the zombie was yanked off me like a ragdoll and slammed into a shelf. blood splattered the wall.

“what the fu—” i choked.

another infected flew into the freezer, skull cracking on glass. a third got dragged into the dark, the wet rip of tearing flesh making my stomach do somersaults.

and then—he stepped out.

dark clothes soaked in blood. a crowbar swinging low from one hand. his face was unreadable, calm like he hadn’t just murdered three horror-movie extras.

i blinked.

am i dead? is this what dying looks like?

the last infected ran at him.

he didn’t move.

crowbar. throat. crunch.

it dropped

he turned to me. boots splashed through blood. he crouched beside me.

“you’re lucky i was nearby,” he said, voice low.

i stared.

wow. so mysterious. very broody. ten outta ten serial killer vibes.

i stared at him, then blinked slowly. “uh-huh. and you just happened to be lurking around the corner, ready to go all mortal kombat?”

he reached out a hand.

i flinched so hard it almost knocked me back to the floor. “touch me and i will scream louder than those things, i swear.”

“i’m not gonna hurt you,” he added, voice calm. too calm.

“that’s what serial killers say,” i said. “right before they, you know, hurt people.”

still, my fingers twitched. he looked at me like i was already his. like he’d found something and wasn’t letting go.

“jesus,” i muttered. “fine. i’ll take your murderer hand.”

he helped me up and didn’t let go. i tried to tug my hand back. he held firm for just a beat too long before releasing it. outside, the wind shrieked.

and i followed the boy with dead eyes into the dark.

i smirked quietly to myself, half-joking, half-serious: “guess i owe you one for saving me. i’ll pay you back someday.”

days passed, and the guy, rin, i learned—took me into the shelter. it smelled like a cocktail of wet concrete, old smoke, and despair. like someone tried to bottle anxiety and market it as air freshener.

the walls were a frankenstein’s monster of scavenged materials: rusted metal sheets twisted into place, warped plywood nailed crookedly, and tarps so threadbare i could trace the star patterns in the sky through them. it was a diy fortress built by people who’d lost everything but their stubbornness to survive.

rin kept to himself mostly, but not the brooding loner type you’d expect. no, he was more like a predator quietly scanning the terrain, sizing up everyone—me included—as if we were all fragile game. his eyes never stopped moving, sharp and calculating, never settling long enough to relax. sometimes i caught him staring like i was some delicate antique ready to shatter at the slightest touch—and not in a “let me protect you” kind of way. more like “one wrong move and you’re toast.”

annoying as hell. i’m not some damsel in distress, thank you very much. i handled those zombies just fine without a knight in brooding armor showing up.

still, i had to admit he was efficient—checking barricades at odd hours, rationing food with military precision, cracking down hard on anyone slacking. overprotective? definitely.

the shelter’s inhabitants were a mixed bag. some lurked like ghosts, barely there; others were loud enough to make you miss the silence.

one night, we gathered around the fire pit at the shelter’s center. the flames roared and flickered, casting wild shadows on tired faces, catching on the damp strands of my hair. rin sat opposite me, hands wrapped tight around a chipped metal mug. the silence between us stretched thick, heavy with all the words we refused to say.

finally, he broke it. his voice low and gravelly, like years of holding back had scraped it raw.

“when everything fell apart… sae left me.” his words dropped like stones in my chest.

i studied him, curiosity prickling despite myself. “your brother?”

he nodded without looking up, eyes locked on the fire as if it held all the answers—and all the wounds.

“he just walked away. left me when the world started burning. i thought he’d protect me. thought he had my back. but when the apocalypse hit, he chose himself.”

i glanced sideways, smirking despite the weight settling between us. “lucky for you, you still have me. your new favorite pain in the ass.”

for a flicker of a second, his eyes softened—almost amused. “just don’t slow me down.”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” i shot back, biting my lip to keep the grin from spreading too wide.

inside, something flickered—a spark. yeah, rin was overbearing, brooding, and borderline insufferable. but he was the closest thing to an ally i had right now. and maybe, just maybe, behind all the rough edges was someone terrified of being left behind again.

the fire crackled, sending long, jittery shadows dancing across the shelter’s patchwork walls. two broken people thrown together in a world gone mad. neither ready to admit how much we might actually need each other.

and that thought? it scared me more than any zombie ever could.

the following weeks blurred into scavenging and fighting for survival. we became a team—checking barricades, gathering weapons, clearing infected. his sharp instincts saved me more than once. i kept my guard, reminding him i wasn’t helpless.

of course, i wasn’t about to let him think i was soft. i made sure to remind him that i wasn’t some helpless damsel. the apocalypse could eat its heart out; i was tougher than it gave me credit for. at least, that’s what i told myself in the dark when doubt crept in.

one night, after a brutal day scavenging a half-collapsed supermarket, we sat by the fire, exhausted and bruised. the fire crackled low between us, casting flickering shadows across rin’s face. i was stretching out a tight shoulder, my fingers sore from the day’s scavenge, when suddenly he shifted closer. closer than before. too close.

his hand brushed against mine—light at first, like testing the waters. my skin prickled. then his eyes caught mine, dark and intense, and before i could process what was happening, he leaned in.

his lips were rough—calloused from too many fights, too much survival. the kiss wasn’t slow or soft; it was urgent, desperate, like he was trying to claim something he thought might be ripped away at any moment. i could feel the heat of him, the slight tremble in his grip as if this moment meant more than he could say.

my breath hitched, heart pounding so loud i thought maybe the zombies outside would hear. i froze at first, the shock rooting me in place, every nerve screaming confusion and caution. but then, against my will, my body responded—leaning in just the slightest, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood and sweat on his lips.

when i finally pulled away, breathless and a little shaken, my eyes locked on his.

“what the hell was that?” i whispered, trying to keep my voice steady even though my insides were a mess.

his gaze didn’t waver. if anything, it grew fiercer—more vulnerable.

“i don’t want to lose you,”

he said quietly, like admitting something he’d buried deep.

after that, the apocalypse stripped away all our walls. exhaustion and fear twisted into a craving for touch—hands lingering too long, lips finding skin in stolen moments. the shelter faded away in those nights; only the heat between us remained. we never talked about it—didn’t need to. the world outside was a reminder that nothing was guaranteed anymore, and maybe that’s why we gave ourselves to each other so completely. because in those moments, the silence was broken by more than just words—it was broken by us.

days slipped by, but rin’s hold never loosened. he hovered near, tracing scars like precious relics, eyes burning with an intensity that unsettled me. he watched anyone near me with a hard, silent warning: stay away. once, as i scavenged alone, he appeared behind me, voice low and sharp:

“careful. you’re not alone.”

his protectiveness thickened—arms tight enough to bruise, breath hot in my ear, whispering, “don’t disappear on me.” sometimes his grip tightened suddenly, eyes flashing with something dangerous. i never asked what haunted him. part of me feared the answer.

the shelter's usual murmur—the low hum of whispers, shuffling feet, the occasional cough muffled by damp blankets—had vanished. it was too quiet.

i stood frozen, nerves stretched thin like piano wire. every creak of wood, every shift of tarp, rang out in my ears like thunder. i couldn’t stop scanning the room—waiting. stillness like this never lasted. not out here.

rin felt it too. i saw it in the rigid line of his shoulders, the slow, deliberate tilt of his head. his eyes swept every corner, every shadow, like a predator tracing the cage walls. again and again, he paced the barricades, checking the same weak points—as if repetition could delay the inevitable.

even from a distance, i felt the pull of him. that strange tension, like a string wrapped tight around my ribs and anchored to his spine.

don’t wander. don’t drift.

for me, it felt like it wasn’t care. it was possession. and i didn’t know how to feel about that.

then it happened.

a sharp crash split the silence—metal tearing, something heavy giving way. the walls groaned. wood splintered like bones.

then came the snarls.

my blood froze.

adrenaline surged, vision whitening at the edges. my chest seized like i’d forgotten how to breathe. the infected were here—closer than ever.

“they’re coming,” rin said—not shouted. calm. cold. like a blade drawn.

his hand locked around my arm, tight enough to bruise. not to steady. to claim. i wasn’t going anywhere. not that i could’ve moved even if i wanted to.

the barricade exploded—wood snapping like kindling as the front entrance gave way. a scream rang out, sharp and high, then died mid-breath.

the infected were inside.

i froze as they poured through—distorted shapes that once had names and families. people.

someone slammed into us—a survivor, wide-eyed, bloodied, incoherent. their shoulder clipped mine and i stumbled, my grip on rin slipping.

“wait—!” i gasped.

his head snapped toward me, eyes wide, hand outstretched—

but another body surged between us. i saw him shout my name, but his voice drowned in the rising flood of death.

then i was shoved back by the tide.

rin was gone.

no. no, no, no

i fought forward, but the crowd was chaos—bodies crashing together, trampling one another in blind panic. someone knocked me down. my knees cracked against concrete. pain shot up my spine like lightning.

get up. get up!

i scrambled to my feet, slipping on blood. my pipe was still in my hand—barely. i gripped it tighter, breath ragged.

“rin!” i screamed.

no answer.

just screams. blood. madness.

the shelter was unraveling. people screamed until they couldn't. blood flooded the floor. flesh tore. bones cracked. the infected didn’t just kill. they devoured.

there was no rin. no barricade. no plan. only survival. only me.

i ran.

my legs were lead, lungs on fire, but i ran—dodging overturned furniture, bodies, gore. the stench hit next—copper and rot and burning wood. i gagged. almost fell. hands grabbed at me—not infected. just survivors. desperate. dying.

i didn’t stop.

i couldn’t.

because behind me came the sounds that meant death—wet footsteps slapping concrete, breath bubbling from ruined throats. a name, whispered over and over again like a prayer. the infected always remembered the one they loved most.

that made it worse.

“rin,” i breathed, pushing through the corridor toward the back.

where are you? you promised.

my vision blurred. something brushed my ankle—too soft, too wrong. i looked down.

a girl. maybe fourteen. eyes wide and lifeless. her stomach torn open, intestines spilling like ribbons. her lips moved, but no sound came out.

i screamed.

and ran harder.

blood soaked my shoes. the screams behind me gave way to silence—one by one, snuffed like candles. that was worse than the noise.

because it meant there was no one left.

only me.

only the monsters.

only the hope that rin was still alive.

i hid in the storage room. time stopped making sense. minutes. hours. i didn’t know. just the sound of death scraping the walls, snarling through the cracks, slamming the barricade until even that went still.

dead silent.

then came the smell.

burnt flesh. smoke. blood. the air turned thick, unbreathable. i couldn’t stay.

i pushed aside a shelf, slipped through a gap in the wall, and crawled into the ventilation shaft. every breath shook. every heartbeat echoed. the shaft opened behind the shelter—behind the graveyard of the ones we couldn’t save.

the cold night air hit like a slap. then i ran—because if i stopped, i’d remember rin’s face when we were torn apart—his hand reaching for mine.

how i let go.

i sprinted through the trees until the shelter was nothing but a smoldering husk behind me. smoke clawed at the sky. the infected didn’t follow.

and then—

i heard something.

a sound tore through the night. not the howl of a monster. not the death rattle of the infected. no—worse.

rin.

his voice ripped through the smoke like a blade, raw and unrecognizable.

“where is she?!”

i stopped in my tracks, breath frozen in my throat.

another scream.

“y/n!!”

it wasn’t a plea. it felt more like a rage.

it sounded like he was tearing the world apart with his bare hands.

then the sound of a crowbar—slamming again and again into something soft. crack. squish. crack. more snarls. but only his voice carried. like the monsters were afraid of him now.

and maybe they should’ve been.

i stood there, hidden in the underbrush, clutching the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles went white.

i didn’t move.

i didn’t breathe.

because i realized—

that scream? it wasn’t him calling for me. it was him breaking without me.

rin was alive, yes.

but it was also not rin.

the final, guttural scream that echoed from the ruins was so raw—so utterly animalistic—it chilled my blood more than the moans of the infected ever had.

and even as my heart ached to go back—even as my soul begged to turn around—

i didn’t.

i kept walking.

faster.

farther.

because for the first time since this nightmare began, i realized something that terrified me more than the end of the world.

he was becoming something else.

something even the monsters might fear.

and i didn’t know if i’d survive him either.

i didn’t stop to count the days.

what was the point?

every time i blinked, i saw rin’s face—distorted by panic, rage, something animal. that final scream echoing behind me like it had torn straight from hell.

i didn’t look back.

god, i wanted to. but i didn’t. and now…

now i was here.

wherever here was.

alone. starving. caked in dried blood—some of it mine, most of it not. clothes shredded. hands blistered from gripping that stupid metal pipe like it was a lifeline. maybe it had been.

i sat beneath a tree, back pressed to the bark, blinking up at the overcast sky. clouds had rolled in—thick and gray, like even the sun was too afraid to look down anymore. good. coward.

my stomach growled so loudly it sounded like a dying animal. which, funny enough, was probably accurate.

“very cinematic,” i croaked to myself, voice cracked and barely there. “dying alone in the woods after narrowly surviving a shelter massacre. real final girl energy.”

god, i hated my voice. it sounded so small now.

i used to be louder. sharper. i used to laugh when i shouldn’t and snap back when i was scared. the last time i’d eaten was… what? a crushed protein bar two days ago? three? who cared. it hadn’t helped. my stomach had turned against me somewhere around hour forty. now i just felt empty. like a ghost in a bloodstained hoodie.

“maybe the infected’ll pity me,” i muttered. “come on, free buffet! girl’s already half-dead. real low effort.”

nothing answered. not even the wind.

i tilted my head back and closed my eyes.

maybe i could sleep. just for a bit. ten minutes.

a little nap never killed anyone, right?

…right?

my body slid sideways without meaning to. the grass felt warm, maybe too warm. i didn’t even realize i was crying until i tasted salt.

stupid. weak. useless.

i curled in on myself, arms over my head like i could pretend i was still in a bed somewhere, wrapped in blankets, not dirt and ash and memory.

until—

footsteps. crisp. fast. boots on dirt.

i blinked. thought i imagined it.

but then—voices. muffled. urgent. real.

“there!”

“she’s down—shit, is she breathing?”

hands on me. warm. steady. not clawed. not rotting.

someone knelt beside me. blurry face. black hair. sharp eyes. his voice cut through the fog—calm, clipped, like someone who never let panic show.

“she’s conscious. stay with me—hey. you hear me?”

more footsteps. more shadows.

“she needs water,” a softer voice said. gentle. hesitant.

“i’ve got it,” came another, light and careless. “and, uh… is it bad i’m relieved she’s a girl? we’re overdue for a little beauty around here.”

“oh my god,” the soft voice muttered. “seriously?”

“i’m just saying. even half-dead, she’s kinda cute. it’s like, tragic—but hot.”

“now’s not the time, idiot,” came a sharper voice—flat, cold. “we shouldn’t be stopping. she’s dead weight. we keep moving.”

“she’s not dead,” the first voice—the leader i assume—replied. his tone brooked no argument. “and we’re not leaving her.”

cool plastic touched my lips. i didn’t even have the strength to flinch. the water hit my tongue and i nearly cried. it tasted like heaven. like life.

i drank. desperate. messy. half of it spilled down my chin.

“whoa, easy there.” the flirty one again. “you’ve got time, sweetheart. you don’t have to inhale it.”

if i could lift my arm, i’d slap him.

“she’s dehydrated,” the leader said. “malnourished. could pass out again any second.”

“you sure she’s not bit?” the cold voice cut in. “she could turn. for all we know, she’s infected already.”

“no marks,” said the soft one again. “no blood at the usual spots. i checked—checked.”

i let my head fall forward, heavy and boneless, against someone’s chest. whoever it was held me steady—like they’d done this before. like they always carried the world and made it look effortless.

“who… are you?” i rasped.

then a soft hand brushed my hair back.

“it’s okay,” the gentle one murmured. “you’re safe now… safe now.”

safe.

god. i wanted to believe that.

but i didn’t know them.

all i knew was they weren’t infected. they didn’t try to eat me. and they weren’t rin.

that should’ve been enough.

but it wasn’t.

the last thing i felt was someone lifting me easily, like i was made of feathers. and then—darkness.

i blinked open my eyes to find four pairs of eyes boring into me like i was some kind of science experiment gone wrong.

perfect. because after nearly starving to death, i really wanted an audience.

the tallest one, with dark blue hair spiked up with purple tips gave me a look like he was solving a math problem. or deciding if i was edible. “i’m karasu. leader of this motley crew. and no—we don’t have snacks.”

well, that was disappointing.

a lanky guy with white hair streaked with dark green smirked. “otoya. i’m the chill one. but i might let you steal my snacks if you’re cute.”

cute? oh, buddy, you’re trying way too hard. inner me rolled my eyes so hard i swear i heard a pop.

“yeah, real original. heard that one a million times.”

before i could say more, a quiet, almost shy voice murmured, “kurona. i mostly keep to myself. i help… help.”

he said the last word twice like it was a magic spell or maybe because he was nervous. honestly, he reminded me of one of those friendly sharks in a nature documentary—sharp teeth and all, but trying not to bite.

off to the side, a short guy with dark curly hair covering one eye crossed his arms and grunted, “kiyora. that’s all you really need to know.”

he didn’t seem interested in chatting—like i was just another problem in his day.

i smirked. “what’s your deal? planning on ditching me at the first chance?”

he took a step closer, voice low. “don’t be a dead weight.”

i matched his glare. “or what? you’ll vanish me into thin air? newsflash mister, i’m tougher than i look.”

the tension hung thick for a moment—then karasu’s calm voice cut through.

“enough. save it for later.”

kiyora scoffed but backed off, muttering “kay”.

i rolled my eyes. perfect. just what i needed.

“well,” i croaked, my throat dry as the sahara, “thanks for the welcoming committee. didn’t expect the apocalypse to come with a greeting party.”

karasu raised a sharp brow. “what’s your name?”

uh-oh. the moment of truth. lie or truth? truth meant explaining the disaster behind me. lie meant digging a deeper hole if i got caught. i decided on the safest bet.

“name’s katniss,” i croaked, voice still rough but trying to sound confident. “yeah, like that katniss. you know, the one who’s really good with a bow.”

karasu’s sharp eyes flicked over me, and for a second i thought he’d roll his eyes. instead, he nodded slowly. “a bow’s a smart weapon. quiet, precise. good choice if you can actually use it.”

i smirked. “hey, i don’t just look cool holding one. i hit my target. most of the time.”

kiyora crossed his arms, giving me a skeptical look. “so, ‘katniss,’ huh? you sure you’re not just a wannabe with a stick?”

i cocked my head, flashing a grin. “wannabe? sweetheart, i could put your sorry butt down faster than you can say ‘dead weight.’”

he snorted. “keep dreaming, bow girl. last time i checked, you almost died of hunger before we found you.”

“hey, starving makes a girl sharp. unlike some people who look like they barely escaped a nap.”

he shot back. “don’t flatter yourself — your aim probably misses more than my patience.”

“oh please, my aim’s so good i could take you out from here without breaking a sweat—” 

kiyora narrowed his eyes. “i’m the one who’s gonna leave you behind the second this group moves. i don’t carry dead weight.”

i smirked, stepping closer. “is that a threat? because either way, i’m not the one scared of a little competition.”

he grunted, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh but refused. “’kay, bow girl, just don’t slow us down.”

“deal, as long as you don’t trip over your own ego.”

days passed in a blur of cautious quiet and restless nights. the group didn’t push me too hard—not yet—but i could feel their eyes on me, weighing me, guessing. i did the same. it was like an unspoken game of poker, each trying to read the other’s hand without giving away their own.

this ragtag crew wasn’t just survivors; there was something sharper in them, a fire that refused to die. it made me both nervous and strangely hopeful.

karasu—the tall, sharp-eyed guy who found me had this calm, calculating vibe, like someone who’s always thinking three steps ahead, but not in a scary way. more like… quietly confident. i wasn’t scared of him; if anything, i felt oddly steady around him. maybe it was how he never wasted words or how his eyes seemed to take in everything without blinking. he wasn’t the loud type, but you could tell he was the one keeping this whole mess together.

then there was otoya, the white-haired guy who never stopped teasing. flirty and loud, sure, but his endless banter somehow made the constant tension easier to bear. like, if the world was ending, at least someone was trying to make it fun.

kurona quickly became my favorite. he barely spoke, but when he did, it was always exactly what needed to be said. that shark-like grin of his was weirdly comforting—like he knew the chaos around us but wasn’t going to let it break him. i figured if i had to pick someone to watch my back, it’d be him.

and then there was kiyora. ugh. the grumpy guy with curly hair always hiding one eye. he acted like i was dead weight from day one—cold, blunt, and impossible to read. i wanted to roast him with every sarcastic thought in my head, but honestly? he was the kind of guy you didn’t want to poke. so, i kept quiet… for now.

as for me? i kept my secret close, like a shield. wrapped myself in the ‘katniss’ story i’d spun—quiet but capable, a survivor with a bow. funny, really, how much i’d learned from watching movies, pretending i was some kind of legend when all i was was terrified and desperate. if they knew the real me—the messy, broken parts—would they still look at me the same way? i doubted it.

karasu was the first to challenge me—no words, just a nod toward the clearing with that same calculating stare. “show me,” he said.

my throat tightened. hands trembling, i gripped the bow they’d scavenged like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. kiyora leaned over, his voice low and teasing. “don’t choke. you’ll embarrass us all.”

i rolled my eyes so hard they almost got stuck. embarrass them? please. if i mess this up, the only thing embarrassing is how i managed to hold this thing without accidentally shooting myself in the foot.

okay, how does this thing work again? pull the string? how far?

is there a “right” amount, or am i just supposed to eyeball it and hope for the best?

where does the arrow even go?

what if i accidentally shoot it backwards? or worse, sideways? imagine the disaster.

reader help me!

i’m supposed to be a “bow expert” and i can’t even figure out how to load it without looking like i’m wrestling a giant rubber band. great.

“just aim and shoot,” karasu said, calm as ever. yeah, thanks for that helpful advice. real comforting when i’m over here imagining the arrow ricocheting off a rock and hitting me in the face.

okay, deep breath. don’t be a total disaster. just… don’t embarrass everyone. right.

the string felt foreign under my fingers, the tension unfamiliar, but i forced myself to breathe and aimed at the target—a rusted tin can perched precariously on a rock.

the arrow flew.

click.

hit.

again.

and again.

karasu’s eyes narrowed, but this time, i thought i saw something like respect flicker in them.

“not bad,” he muttered.

kurona’s quiet nod came with a soft echo, “not bad. not bad.”

kiyora grunted from the side, probably unimpressed but saying nothing.

otoya whistled, a slow grin spreading. “looks like we’ve got ourselves a real bow hunter.”

it felt… good. almost too good. like i’d found a tiny crack in the armor i’d built around myself, and maybe, just maybe, it was safe to let someone peek through.

the next day, it was decided that kiyora, kurona, and i would go scavenging for food. honestly, the idea of wandering into zombie territory sounded less like a mission and more like a very bad idea—like, “why am i signing up to potentially become lunch?” but hey, starving wasn’t exactly appealing either, so off we went.

kurona was his usual quiet, smooth self—moving like he owned the place, eyes sharp and scanning. then there was kiyora, trailing behind with his trademark scowl, curly hair perpetually falling into his eyes like he was trying to hide from the whole world. honestly, he looked like a grumpy cat stuck in a human body, and i was half-expecting him to start hissing at me any second.

“we split up at the crossroads,” karasu had said the night before. “don’t get yourselves killed. don't die.”

easy to say when you’re not the one being sent off with two potential disasters.

as we approached the fork, kurona veered left without a word, and just like that, kiyora and i were alone.

kiyora grunted in response, folding his arms like he didn’t care if zombies ate us. honestly, that attitude was probably the closest thing to communication i’d get from him.

finally, i couldn’t take it. “you’re going to talk eventually, right? or are you saving all your energy for when a zombie eats me?”

kiyora didn’t even bother to look at me. “i only talk when necessary.”

“right. so, basically never.”

his arms folded across his chest like a fortress. i decided not to push my luck.

kiyora snorted. “don’t act like you’re some kind of hero. you’re one loose arrow away from disaster.”

i shot him a glare. “yeah, because you’re such a pro.”

the tension was broken when three groaning zombies shuffled into view, slow but relentless like the worst kind of party crashers.

kiyora stiffened immediately. “run?” he suggested, voice low and annoyed.

“nope. not happening on my watch,” i thought, heart racing but voice silent because obviously, talking to myself isn’t a great look.

one zombie lurched straight at kiyora, arms outstretched like it had plans for his hair.

i barely had time to think.

okay, bow. bow. how does a bow work again? pull string, aim, shoot? right? right.

my hands trembled as i nocked an arrow, feeling like i was defusing a bomb.

i let it fly. the arrow hit the zombie square in the forehead with a sickening crunch, and it collapsed.

kiyora blinked at me, eyes wide for a split second before the scowl came back full force. but i swear i caught a flicker of “okay, maybe you’re not useless” buried under all that grump.

on the other hand, kiyora was thinking of something entirely different.

she looked cool. not just cool, like “save-my-skin” cool. hot, even—damn it.

he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear, “thanks.”

“don’t let it go to your head,” i whispered back in my mind.

we didn’t get a chance to dwell on that because kurona caught up, looking calm as ever. “we should move,” he said quietly.

on the way back, i stole a glance at kiyora, who was quietly muttering under his breath—probably cursing me or the whole world. but maybe, just maybe, there was a little less distance between us now.

and honestly? that was more comforting than i expected.

the night pressed down like a weight, thick and choking, but sleep didn’t bring rest. instead, it dragged me deep into a nightmare, colder and darker than any waking fear.

there he was—rin. but not the rin i knew. his eyes burned with something feral, wild and unblinking, too close to my face. his smile was twisted—like a razor blade folding over itself—sharp and hungry. his voice slithered into my mind, a venomous whisper that made my skin crawl.

“you only need me,” he hissed, voice low and urgent, like a predator circling its prey. “no one else can have you. no one else will want you.”

his words seeped into my bones, cold and relentless:

“you’ll always be alone. just like before. always alone… except for me.”

the shadows around him writhed and darkened. his body stretched and warped, the edges jagged like broken glass, claws scraping the ground with a sickening, wet sound. his eyes glowed red, pulsing like a warning light, burning into me like a brand.

“only i can be yours,” he growled—voice deep and guttural, a monstrous echo that shook the air.

i tried to scream, to move, but my body was frozen, trapped in invisible chains. the darkness closed in, swallowing the world whole, smothering me, whispering that i’d never escape.

then,

i snapped awake, lungs heaving, heart pounding like a drum in a war zone. cold sweat drenched me, and the room felt suffocatingly silent—but the terror clung to my skin, heavy and real.

karasu was there—quiet and steady, watching from the shadows like he knew the nightmare was coming.

i closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing, but the weight inside me was too heavy to carry alone. years of building walls—brick by brick—to protect myself had left me stranded. when i finally needed someone, there was no one there. no family waiting, no hand to hold, no warm voice to remind me i wasn’t alone.

i was orphaned young, left to navigate the cold silence of the world on my own. i didn’t know what love was—never had the chance to learn. i only knew survival, and that meant pushing people away before they could hurt me.

but now… now the loneliness wasn’t something i could fight or ignore. it swallowed me whole.

“i don’t… i don’t know how to be scared like this,” i choked out, voice cracking under the weight of everything i’d bottled up. “i never needed anyone before… because i had to be enough. but i’m so tired. and i’m scared… scared that if i let anyone in, they’ll leave. or worse, that i’ll disappear and no one will notice.”

tears spilled down, the dam finally breaking. all the nights of silent solitude, the endless pretending—it all poured out in shaky gasps and sobs.

karasu didn’t speak. he just stepped closer, arms opening like a safe harbor in the storm. i didn’t hesitate. i collapsed into the hug, finally allowing myself to be small and fragile—something i hadn’t dared to be in years.

then he started singing.

okay, okay… it may not be as good as a singer, but hey, at least he’s trying.

his voice was soft and steady against the quiet room, a balm for my fractured soul:

“don’t you dare look out your window darling everything’s on fire the war outside our door keeps raging on hold on to this lullaby even when the music’s gone gone... just close your eyes the sun is going down you’ll be alright no one can hurt you now come morning light you and i’ll be safe and sound...”

his words weren’t just a song. they seemed like promise. for once, someone was here. someone who wouldn’t let me fall through the cracks.

and maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start healing the parts i thought were too broken to fix.

the next days felt different—less like survival and more like something human again. even in this hellscape, the bunker became a kind of refuge. not because the walls were strong, but because we were.

mornings were chaotic in a comforting way. otoya was the first to wake, blasting some offbeat music from a salvaged radio and dancing around like he owned the place.

otoya flopped down on the dusty floor, kicking an empty can away like he was the king of boredom.

“alright, random question: if you had to survive a zombie apocalypse but could only bring one snack, what would it be?

i rolled my eyes but played along.

“easy. instant noodles. cheap, filling, and if i’m lucky, some flavor. plus, no one’s gonna argue if i hoard them.”

otoya grinned.

“classic survivalist move. i’m bringing marshmallows. because if the world ends, at least i’ll die happy.”

kurona snorted.

“you’ll just attract more zombies with that sugar rush.”

otoya shrugged.

“worth it.”

then kiyora appeared from the shower, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, hair still dripping water like a storm cloud.

and that’s when my brain totally betrayed me.

whoa. hold up.

how is this guy such a grumpy statue of perfection?

those abs. holy hell.

if i were a zombie, i’d skip the brain and just—

—munch on him first, no hesitation. like, happy to be the monster in that scenario—wait what?

he caught me mid-stare and narrowed his eyes. “you’re literally staring.”

busted.

i panicked. “i—uh, i was... studying the physics of water droplets on hair. very important research.”

he rolled his eyes. “sure you were.”

inside, my heart was doing somersaults and my brain was screaming,

kiyora’s eyes narrowed playfully as he stepped closer, dripping water glistening on his skin. his gaze didn’t just scan my hunting gear—it lingered, like he was memorizing every curve.

“so,” he said, voice low and teasing, “you’re the one leading the hunt today?” he took a slow step forward, close enough that i could feel the heat radiating off him.

then, with that wicked grin, he reached out and pinched my waist—harder this time—just enough to make me gasp.

“pretty girls like you,” he murmured low and close, his voice a dangerous growl, “might find themselves chased before they know it.”

i tried to step back, but my legs felt like jelly.

i forced out, “you’re unbelievable.”

nightfall came and our  group gathered around the old fountain just outside—the soft murmur of running water masking our voices from the dangers lurking beyond.

karasu leaned on the cracked stone edge, eyes reflecting the shimmering water. kurona stood nearby, calm but attentive. otoya was restless as always, shooting a grin toward kiyora, who sat cross-legged, arms folded, trying to look uninterested but failing to hide the slight curve of a smile.

karasu broke the silence, voice low but sure.

“tonight, let’s say our dreams out loud. shout them if we have to. the water will drown our noise—no one out there will hear.”

otoya went first, smirking with a mischievous spark.

“i want girls. pretty ones. and not just any—girls who’ll actually stick around when this nightmare’s over.”

kurona chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“you’re such a hopeless romantic, otoya.”

karasu smiled faintly and said,

“i want to search for my family. to just sit with them—no words needed. just being together. that’s what i dream about.”

his voice softened, and for a moment, the fierce leader felt like a son missing home.

kurona was next, eyes gleaming with something wild and free.

“i want to swim with sharks. like, really swim with them.”

otoya made a face.

“you’re crazy. sharks don’t exactly make good swimming buddies.”

kurona grinned.

“exactly. that’s the point.”

kiyora, usually the quiet one, spoke next in his gruff but honest tone. “i want to be the best breakdancer out there. no more running from monsters, just spinning on the floor, lost in the music.”

kurona raised an eyebrow but nodded, silently approving.

when it was my turn, my throat tightened. the truth i’d hidden for so long suddenly felt raw and urgent.

“i want to be free,” i whispered, then found my voice growing stronger. “free from fear, from loneliness... from everything holding me back.”

the water swallowed my words, but inside, a fragile hope ignited—that maybe, just maybe, freedom was possible.

one by one, we shouted our dreams into the night—some silly, some deep, all painfully real. and in that moment, beneath the moonlight and the gentle song of running water, we were more than just survivors. we were people daring to dream again.

the laughter lingered in the air long after the last wish was shouted. we were still by the fountain, basking in the illusion of safety, our dreams dancing in the mist above the water. for a moment, the world felt far away.

but not far enough.

from the edge of the ruined buildings beyond the bunker walls—hidden in the crumbled remains of what was once a watchtower—someone watched. unmoving. silent. eyes burning like coals left too long in the dark.

rin.

his silhouette was barely visible, cloaked in black and shadow. his head was tilted, listening to every word we said. every laugh. every dream.

his lips curled into something that wasn’t a smile—too crooked, too strained. a sound left his throat, rough like gravel, low and warped like something human trying to remember how to feel.

“she wants to be free?” he whispered, his voice trembling with something between awe and fury. “free... from me?”

his fingers twitched, knuckles whitening around the rusted metal rail. blood caked his wrists like bracelets, but he didn’t feel it. he hadn’t felt anything in days—not since he lost her.

“you laughed,” he muttered. “you smiled for them. not me.”

the group’s laughter echoed faintly through the cracked stone, muffled by the water. but rin’s ears were trained only on her. her voice. her laughter.

“didn’t you say you had no one?” he whispered, eyes wide and glistening. “wasn’t i the only one who stayed? who saved you?”

he pressed his forehead against the cold metal beam, muttering like a prayer, like a curse.

“you don’t need them,” he breathed, each word heavier than the last. “they’ll leave. they’ll die. just like the rest.”

silence. then a low chuckle, broken and bitter.

“ i guess i’ll have to remind you.”

and with that, rin slipped into the darkness—quiet, but dragging death in his wake.

night fell like a warm blanket, and for once, it was quiet. most of the group was asleep, bodies curled on blankets and makeshift beds, their faces softened by rare peace. the stars blinked overhead through cracks in the bunker ceiling, like they were listening in.

karasu and i were the only ones still awake.

he sat cross-legged near the rusted crate we used as a table, a small solar lantern casting golden light on his profile. i sat across from him, knees pulled to my chest, arms hugging them loosely.

“you never told us your real name,” karasu said suddenly, voice gentle.

i blinked, then looked down. “didn’t think it mattered.”

“it does to me.”

i hesitated, then exhaled. “it’s y/n.”

karasu repeated it quietly. “y/n…” he smiled. “that suits you.”

silence lingered, but not the heavy kind. it was warm, tentative. curious.

“what about you?” i asked.

“tabito,” he said. “not just karasu. my full name is karasu tabito. but... my mom used to call me tabi.”

“tabi,” i echoed, laughing softly. “that’s cute.”

“don’t say that. i’m a hardened survivalist now,” he said, mock-proudly. then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded, worn photo. “wanna see what kind of demon child you’ve been bunking with?”

i took the photo with a grin—and laughed. a chubby-cheeked little boy, all crooked teeth and scrapes, sat in a sandbox holding a half-melted popsicle like it was gold. another one was of him in a kiddie pool, bowl-cut and all.

“no way this is you,” i teased.

he grinned. “was a real menace.”

then, as i flipped through another folded photo tucked behind it, my breath caught. a woman stood in front of a small house, smiling gently.

“that’s my mom,” karasu said, voice a bit quieter now. “she raised me alone after dad left. took my little sister with him in the divorce.”

he looked away, eyes fixed somewhere past the firelight.

“she never stopped looking for her, you know? even when we had to run. she still cried about it.”

his voice thinned like smoke.

“she died three years ago.”

the words slipped out like he hadn’t said them out loud before. maybe he hadn’t. maybe it hurt too much to speak of something so final.

“i—i held her hand,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “but she still looked at the door like someone was gonna come home. i think she was waiting for her.”

a silence settled over us—heavy now. different.

he let out a low laugh, no humor in it.

“i used to think if i got strong enough, smart enough… people would stop leaving.” his eyes flicked to mine, hollow and sharp all at once. “but i’m just… some guy, y/n. i’m not anything special. i just got really good at pretending i am. i point out everyone else’s weaknesses first so they don’t see mine.”

he smiled again—but this one was practiced. paper-thin.

“i guess it’s easier to be the guy who always has a comeback than the one who’s scared he’ll be forgotten next.”

my chest twisted. i hadn’t realized i’d been holding my breath.

“karasu…” i said, voice gentle.

his gaze dropped to the ground. “sorry. that got dark.”

“no, it’s okay,” i said quickly. “you shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”

he looked up at me. something vulnerable flickered in his eyes—unguarded, maybe even hopeful.

i shifted a little closer. my heart was loud in my ears.

“you’re not alone,” i said softly.

“i think…” my heart slammed in my chest. “i think i’m—"

sleep hadn’t come easy that night.

kiyora wasn’t sure why. maybe it was the faint buzz of restlessness under his skin, the kind that made his limbs twitch and his thoughts spiral. the others had dozed off quickly, the lull of safety and quiet making it easier to relax. but he’d stayed awake, eyes open in the dark, breathing slow and shallow.

he heard their voices before he saw anything.

just a soft murmur—familiar, intimate.

kiyora sat up slightly, his back pressed against the bunker wall. just around the corner, past the crates, he saw the flicker of light from karasu’s lantern. two silhouettes sat close. too close.

“…karasu…” it was her voice. quiet. shaky. breathless.

something in his chest pulled taut.

there was a pause.

“i think…” her voice trembled, thick with emotion. “i think i’m—”

kiyora stopped listening.

something twisted in his gut—hot and bitter. he stood quickly, blood rushing to his ears, blocking out everything else. he didn’t need to hear the rest. he didn’t want to. it felt like someone had jammed a fist into his ribs and was twisting hard, like they wanted to see how much it’d take before he cracked.

he stumbled out of the bunker, breathing hard, letting the night air slap against his face. the cold did nothing to cool him. his fists were clenched. his jaw tight.

she was going to say it. she was going to tell karasu.

he hated how stupid it made him feel. he hated that his chest ached like this. he hated that he’d let himself believe—for a second—that maybe the looks she gave him meant something. the bickering. the teasing. the way she blushed when he got too close.

guess she was just like the rest.

he kicked a piece of rubble hard, teeth clenched. the hurt burned too deep to swallow.

and then—

a sound.

not the wind. not the rats. something else.

a low hum of pressure. the kind that made the air feel heavier, like a storm was about to break.

kiyora turned.

a figure stood just at the treeline. half-shadow, half-madness.

blood on his coat. red eyes glowing faint in the dark.

rin.

the wall exploded inward with a thunderous crack, chunks of rusted metal and concrete raining into the room like shrapnel. dust choked the air. someone screamed.

the bunker lights flickered—once, twice—then dimmed to a dying hum, casting everything in flickering amber and shadow.

and from the smoke…

he stepped through.

slow. unhurried.

dragging something behind him.

it stumbled at his side—slack-jawed, twitching, eyes glassy and sunken. its clothes were torn, soaked in filth and dried blood. a piece of chain wrapped around its neck like a leash, held tight in rin’s hand.

kurona.

or… what was left of him.

rin stood pale and gaunt, like starvation had carved him hollow. his eyes—bloodshot, wild—held no sanity, only a hunger, a fury barely restrained. his boots squelched in the debris, crimson footprints trailing behind him like warnings.

but when he saw her…

he smiled.

crooked. shaking. the kind of smile stitched onto a corpse with trembling hands.

"y/n," he rasped, voice cracked like broken glass underfoot. "you're... alive."

she couldn’t breathe.

not from the dust. not from the cold.

from him.

his gaze devoured her like a man lost in the desert, crawling toward an oasis he wasn’t sure was real. he staggered forward and dropped to his knees with a heavy thud—glass crunched beneath him. his free hand reached for her, fingers trembling. the other kept a death grip on the chain, keeping the reanimated kurona just barely restrained.

“i thought you died,” rin whispered, voice quivering like a sob strangled halfway up his throat. “i held your sweater for days. i kept it close. i still smell you on it. i—i talked to it every night.”

she crawled backward, eyes locked on the corpse at his side. kurona twitched, a low groan gurgling in what remained of his throat. “rin—what the hell are you doing here?”

“you were supposed to stay,” he mumbled, head tilting with a jarring snap. “i kept you safe. you were mine.”

then his tone dropped—something sharp, something raw.

“and now you’re here… with them?”

he stood.

the leash clinked, the zombie jerking forward a step before rin yanked it back.

he scanned the room—karasu in front, standing between her and death.

“no,” rin said, more to himself than anyone else. “they can’t get you. can’t let that happen.”

his coat twitched.

and from inside, he drew a blade.

long. serrated. coated in something thick and black.

the metal caught the flickering light—gleamed like teeth.

“rin—please,” y/n gasped, heart clawing against her ribs. “don’t—”

he moved in, slow, deliberate. the blade kissed just beneath her chin. not cutting. just threatening.

a quiet promise of violence.

“everyone you meet dies,” he whispered, breath cold against her lips. “you know that, right? you're cursed. a walking death sentence. but me? i chose you anyway.”

he leaned closer—nose brushing hers, like a lover’s touch.

“you were made to be alone,” he whispered. “but i want it. i want you. i’ll kill for it. i’ll rot for it. i’ll stay, even when everyone else is screaming. i’m the only one who never left. doesn’t that count for something?”

his grip twitched on the blade.

her blood ran cold.

then—

the leash slipped.

karasu saw it first.

“move!”

the zombie lunged.

rin laughed—high, fractured, wild—as the chain fell from his fingers and kurona’s mangled body lunged toward her.

y/n screamed—

—but karasu moved faster.

he tackled the corpse midair, dragging it down. the two slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch, kurona snarling and clawing like a rabid dog.

a flash of silver.

a gunshot.

rin staggered back, clutching his thigh—karasu’s bullet lodged deep in his leg.

“you idiot,” rin hissed through clenched teeth, fury and something gleeful burning behind his eyes. “you actually thought you’d win?”

karasu tried to get up—he nearly did.

but the second bite sank in too fast.

a sick, wet crunch.

blood splattered across the floor.

y/n screamed his name. she lunged forward, desperate to help—but froze.

because the creature tearing into karasu wasn’t just any mindless thing.

it was kurona.

their old friend. her favorite out of the group.

and the thing—he—wasn’t even looking at her.

it hadn’t noticed her at all.

it only wanted karasu.

why?

a sharp, painful memory stabbed through y/n’s mind—kurona’s wild eyes shining bright, full of that reckless hope she’d never see again.

“i want to swim with sharks. like, really swim with them,” he’d said once, smiling that crooked smile, sharp teeth gleaming.

she swallowed hard.

she would never take him to the ocean.

she would never see him laugh like that again.

never feel his hands carefully braid her hair on slow, quiet mornings.

never share twisted bread and stolen smiles like they used to.

her chest tightened.

“to be honest, i was just kidding. by now, all the sharks have probably been munched by zombies anyway. so my real dream,” kurona whispered softer, “is that we all survive this nightmare together. together.”

but now the nightmare had won.

and she was losing him.

“go,” karasu rasped, pain in his voice, teeth clenched. “run.”

y/n’s heart shattered. her hands trembled, she forgot about him too.

tears blurred her vision.

karasu…

she couldn’t take this anymore.

rin, still bleeding, leaned against the wall, dragging himself upright.

he looked at her—grinning, crooked, dark.

“i’ll come back for you,” he said, laughing, breath ragged. “but first—i want you to taste it. just a little. just a bite of what i felt.”

he turned toward the smoke-filled corridor.

“by the way, this base is already gone,” he added, eyes wide, shining. “they’re inside. this is just the beginning.”

and then he was gone too, vanishing into the flames.

my breath caught in my throat. fear slammed into me, twisting my insides like a cruel, jagged knife. i wanted to scream—shout his name until my voice broke. i wanted to hunt him down, to make him pay for everything he’d done—but it wasn’t rin who needed me now.

because right in front of me—everything i loved was dying.

kurona. my best friend, the one who’d always been my rock, my laughter in the dark. his eyes, once bright and wild with dreams, were now empty pools of glass. the spark that made him him—gone.

i saw his sharp teeth, the grin that used to tease and joke with me — now twisted and lifeless, frozen in a cruel parody of the friend i knew.

and then there was karasu.

i dropped to my knees beside him, his body trembling, soaked in blood, his breaths shallow and ragged like the last flickers of a dying flame. i pressed my trembling hands to his wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. the bite was deep. too deep.

my voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, lost in the suffocating silence crushing my lungs.

“i… i finally figured it out.”

karasu’s eyes fluttered weakly, searching mine with a desperate hunger, as if clinging to me was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“the woman in that picture you showed me… the one you said was important?” my throat tightened, raw and burning. “she’s the same woman the orphanage showed me.”

his brow furrowed, confusion and pain twisting together in his fading gaze.

“they told me she was my mother,” i choked, tears spilling freely down my face, “the one who left me behind.”

my fingers clenched the photo, the sharp edges biting into my palm like the truth was a blade.

“but now… now i know.”

i grasped his trembling hand, squeezing as if i could pour all my strength into him.

“she wasn’t just anyone.”

“she was our mother.”

karasu’s lips quivered, and a ghost of a smile flickered—haunted and broken, a fragile thing caught between relief and regret.

“that’s why…” his voice was barely a breath, “that’s why i was so overprotective when i saw you in that tree.”

i swallowed hard, trying to hold back the sobs clawing at my throat, the crushing weight tightening my chest until i thought it would burst.

“i’m sorry,” he rasped, guilt dragging his voice down. “i couldn’t protect you. i couldn’t be the brother you deserved.”

“no!” i sobbed, my whole body shaking, tears burning down my cheeks like acid. “no, you are my brother. and you’re not leaving me—not like this. you can’t. you won’t.”

his trembling hand brushed my cheek, so fragile, so full of love, and it crushed me even more.

“don’t die,” he begged, voice breaking, fragile as cracked glass. “promise me.”

i clung to him with everything, desperation ripping through me like a living thing.

“please—you’re not allowed to die. not today. not like this. i swear—”

his eyelids fluttered, so faint.

“no,” i cried out, shaking him, tears pouring down my face like a storm breaking inside me. “please don’t close your eyes. stay with me. i just… i just found you. i found my family. i can’t lose you now. you can’t leave me. i’ll save you—i swear i will. you just have to hold on. please. please don’t go.”

his fingers twitched weakly against my shaking hands. he gave me a faint, tired smile — the kind that held a thousand quiet sorrows and infinite love.

“we’ll always look after you,” he whispered, voice soft, like a fragile promise on the wind. “me, kurona… and mom. even if we’re not here, we’re still with you. always.”

i shook my head, tears blurring everything. “no. no. i don’t want to be without you. not like this. i need you here. please don’t leave me alone!”

his breath hitched, shallow and ragged, and my chest shattered.

then—

he pulled out the battered gun, his hands trembling as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. a shaky breath escaped him, raw and heavy.

“no!” i screamed, trying to stop him, but—

two shots ripped through the air.

one for kurona. one for him.

they collapsed into each other’s arms, not with the warmth of life, but the cold, heavy stillness of finality.

their bodies, once vibrant and fierce, now slack and fragile—like broken dolls left to rest in a silent, endless night.

their faces softened, eerily peaceful—like they were just asleep, the way they used to be on quiet mornings before the world tore apart.

but this wasn’t sleep. it was death’s cruel embrace, a silence so loud it crushed my soul.

i reached out, desperate to feel something—anything—but their skin was cold, their breaths gone, and the hollow emptiness swallowed me whole.

the weight of losing them pressed down, suffocating, ripping through every piece of me.

they weren’t just gone. they were erased—taken from me before i even had the chance to say goodbye, to hold them, to tell them i loved them one last time.

and in that unbearable stillness, i shattered. because i knew—no matter how much i begged, how fiercely i wanted to save them—they were lost to me forever.

the silence shattered—like fragile glass cracking under a hammer’s blow—when the first heavy thud echoed through the bunker walls. they were coming. the dead, the lost, the monsters that had stolen everything from me, crashing through what was left of our sanctuary. i could hear their claws scraping, their ragged breaths like the wind scraping through dead trees.

rage bloomed inside me, a fire so fierce it scorched my lungs and blinded my tears. i didn’t hesitate. i couldn’t. my body moved on its own, fueled by a furious desperation. my fists became weapons forged in grief. every punch was raw, every kick an explosion of everything i couldn’t say out loud. but beneath the roar of my rage, the storm inside twisted even sharper.

this corner… i barely recognized the cracked walls now, stained with dust and blood. this was where kurona sat, braiding my hair on slow, quiet mornings. his fingers gentle, humming a tune only i could hear—like the sun rising just for us.

i caught a rotten hand lunging at me, fingers snapped beneath my grip with a sickening crack. the sound echoed in my ears, a death knell that tore open wounds i wasn’t ready to face.

and now it’s a graveyard. a tomb where dreams go to die. this home, soaked in blood and despair, broken beyond repair.

i swallowed hard, the bitter taste of bile rising, but i forced myself to hold back the tears. i could not break here. not yet.

more shambling horrors emerged from the dark hallway—the same hallway where my brother once stood watch, fierce and unwavering. his steady presence was supposed to be our shield.

i kicked one of the monsters with every ounce of strength i had, sending it crashing into the crumbling wall. my breath came ragged. the walls around me seemed to close in, suffocating.

safety? my mind sneered at the word. safety vanished the moment they were torn from me. safety also vanished with kurona’s fading smile. safety slipped away tonight when my brother’s voice became nothing more than a fragile whisper.

each strike was a scream against the silence, a desperate prayer that this nightmare wasn’t real. but it was.

then i heard it—a faint gasp, a tremble in the shadows. otoya and kiyora, cornered and vulnerable, eyes wide with terror. my heart shattered.

no. not them. not the few pieces left of this broken world.

i tore through the crowd, a whirlwind of fury and desperation. teeth snapped inches from my skin. claws scraped through my clothes, slashing my arms and legs. blood trickled, warm and sticky, but i didn’t falter.

i couldn’t falter.

you won’t take them. not today. not ever.

bodies fell like broken dolls beneath my feet. the roar of battle slowly faded into a haunting silence. i stood alone, trembling and bloodied. not just from the fight, but from the crushing weight of loss and fury suffocating my chest.

our home—our sanctuary—was no more. the walls that once held laughter, warmth, and fleeting moments of peace were now nothing but charred ruins. blackened beams. ash where names used to echo.

they were gone. taken by death and darkness.

my legs moved without will, slow and heavy, every step a scream from the shattered pieces of my heart. i was hollow, emptied out by loss and filled instead with fire. the girl i once was—she was gone. all that remained was this thing forged in death and agony.

ahead, i saw them—otoya and kiyora—faces bathed in the flicker of dying lantern light, eyes searching, uncertain. they looked at me like i was a ghost. and maybe i was. a ghost in bloodstained boots, walking on the bones of the people i loved.

i stopped a few feet away, unable to meet their eyes.

the silence grew dense.

otoya stepped forward. “y/n… what happened? where are they?”

my mouth opened.

closed.

my chest rose, hitched, fell.

“i…”

the word was like glass in my throat.

i couldn’t say it. not yet. not like this.

“i don’t know how to say this.”

otoya’s brow knit tighter. “say what?”

“they’re gone.”

my voice cracked like ice splitting underfoot. fragile. deadly.

otoya blinked rapidly. “what?”

“kurona and karasu,” i said, barely above a whisper, “they… they didn’t make it.”

“no.” otoya shook his head. “that can’t be right. they were right behind you, weren’t they? maybe they just got separated—maybe—”

“i saw them.” my voice broke. “they didn’t get separated. they were saving me.”

kiyora stood silent beside him, unmoving. but something passed through his expression—like a tremor cracking the foundation.

“they died protecting me,” i whispered. “and i couldn’t save them.”

a heavy silence followed.

but the worst part wasn’t over.

i looked up at them through a curtain of tears, and forced out the truth that still didn’t feel real.

“there’s something else,” i rasped. “karasu…was my brother.”

otoya’s face froze. kiyora blinked.

“i just found out today,” i continued, voice shaking. “he didn’t know either. not until i told him. we didn’t even have time to talk about it. he just smiled—and then he was gone.”

kiyora’s breath hitched.

his jaw clenched tight.

“i thought—” he started, then stopped, eyes wide, voice trembling like something cracked inside him. “earlier… i heard you two talking. and i thought you were about to confess to him.”

his words came out choked, disbelieving. “i thought you loved him.”

“no!” i blurted, voice too loud, too fast. “i wasn’t—i was trying to tell him the truth. that he was my brother.”

kiyora’s face went pale, like the blood had drained from it completely. his lips parted but no sound came out.

then it hit him.

like a wave. a landslide. a goddamn collapse.

his knees buckled as he staggered back a step, hand dragging down his face. “no, no, no—fuck. i didn’t—”

his voice cracked violently.

“i was so fucking upset,” he whispered, barely holding on. “i left the bunker door unlocked when i stormed out. i didn’t check it. i didn’t even think—”

he swore under his breath, voice rising in panic. “he must’ve been watching. rin must’ve been right there, waiting for a moment—and i gave it to him. i handed it to him.”

the air turned thick, suffocating.

“i let my goddamn feelings get in the way,” he rasped. “i made it personal. i got in my own head and i let everything slip. and because of that—”

he spun, facing the ruin behind us like he could still see their shadows. “because of me, they got in. he got in. rin killed them because i couldn’t keep my fucking emotions under control.”

otoya took a step forward, voice soft, steady. “kiyora—”

“no!” kiyora shouted, the word tearing from his throat. “don’t—don’t fucking say it wasn’t my fault!”

his breathing was ragged now, shoulders heaving.

“i wasn’t thinking. i wasn’t alert. i wasn’t a teammate—i was a goddamn liability. i let rin exploit me. i gave him the opening like a fool—like a fucking amateur—and now karasu and kurona are—!”

he broke off, his voice strangled.

he backed away like we were made of fire. like he didn’t deserve to be near us.

“this is all my fault,” he gasped. “all of it.”

“no,” i said, the word cutting sharp as glass. “he chose to do this. rin chose to kill them. you didn’t.”

but kiyora didn’t respond.

his guilt was louder than anything we could say. it rang in the silence like a siren, all-consuming and impossible to quiet.

otoya stood next to me, unmoving, eyes full of grief but calm—a weight beside my unsteady bones.

and kiyora—kiyora was coming apart in front of us.

and for the first time, the three of us stood in the ashes of everything we’d lost—together, but irreparably changed.

my brother. my best friend.

gone.

and i had only just learned the truth.

but rin had made a fatal mistake.

he thought killing them would break me.

but he didn’t realize that karasu’s death didn’t leave a hole.

it left a fire.

i would survive.

i would fight.

and i would make rin pay.

for tearing everything i loved away from me.

for destroying my family.

for using us like pieces on a board—thinking we wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

because now, nothing—no one—would stand in my way.

i don’t know how long i’d been standing there.

the air was thick with ash, swallowing the horizon. it didn’t feel like breathing anymore—just existing. surviving. my chest rose and fell, but there was no relief. no peace. only the crushing silence of a world that had already ended.

y/n stood a few feet away, her back to us. her figure—so steady, so still—looked carved out of the dust and grief we’d drowned in. the bow was slung across her back like a cross to bear, the strap wound tight in her hand. her knuckles were white.

she didn’t say a word.

but i knew.

i knew she was leaving.

and i didn’t blame her. how could i?

she had nothing left here. not with us. not with me.

“i’m going,” she finally said. her voice was low—too steady. too practiced. like she’d already rehearsed the line a thousand times in her head before speaking it out loud.

it didn’t shake.

but i did.

she turned only slightly, just enough for me to catch the corner of her face—stoic, unreadable. the girl i knew was buried under layers of pain i had helped carve into her.

she didn’t answer.

of course she didn’t.

why should she?

i stepped forward anyway, clutching the weapon in my hand like it was the last thing keeping me tethered. the one karasu always used. its surface was worn smooth where his fingers used to grip it. it smelled faintly like smoke and earth. like him.

i held it out, and my voice came out quieter than i meant it to. “this was his. he would’ve wanted you to have it.”

her eyes flicked down. she hesitated.

then, slowly, she reached out and took it. her fingers brushed against mine—warm and shaking.

i didn’t let go.

i couldn’t.

not yet.

i looked at her, and every part of me shattered all over again.

because i love her.

god, i love her.

and this was the closest i would ever be to her again.

i should’ve told her. i should’ve grabbed her hand, pulled her into my arms, begged her not to go. i should’ve screamed that i was sorry—that i’d do anything to fix it.

but i didn’t.

i just stood there, guilt wrapping itself around my lungs like a noose.

because this was my fault.

i’d walked away when i shouldn’t have. i let my stupid heart get in the way. i let rin slip through the crack i left behind, like a shadow creeping into our last safe place.

and he took everything from us.

from her.

karasu. kurona.

gone.

and she was leaving because she couldn’t bear to lose anything else.

i stepped closer—slow, uncertain. she didn’t move. i reached out and rested my forehead gently against hers.

she still didn’t pull away.

my heart cracked in my chest.

because this—this was the most she would ever let me have of her.

and it would never be enough.

she didn’t move. didn't flinch. and for a few stolen seconds, i let myself pretend.

pretend that this wasn’t goodbye. that we weren’t standing in the middle of ruins, surrounded by ghosts and grief. that there wasn’t a war outside and death inside.

i imagined her hands in mine. her real hands—not dirt-caked, not calloused from pulling bowstrings for days without sleep. just soft. warm. safe. i imagined her thumb brushing against my knuckles like she always did when she was trying to reassure me in that other life—the one we never got to live. in that world, the sky was blue. not this eternal smog-gray, not poisoned with ash. the wind smelled like spring. like cherry blossoms. she liked those, didn’t she? i think i remember her saying that. we lived in a house with wide windows and a messy garden we were always forgetting to water. her laugh filled every corner of it. i’d wake up to her voice calling me lazy, then feel her kiss against my jaw before i could even open my eyes. in that life, we argued over little things. whose turn it was to wash the dishes. which ramen flavor was better. she always picked spicy and won. and i let her, every single time. in that life, i wasn’t a coward. i didn’t stay quiet when she needed to hear the truth. i didn’t let fear chain my tongue. i told her every day—every single day—how much she meant to me. how i loved her. not in a crumbling bunker. not on the edge of losing everything. but freely. softly. without the weight of blood or guilt. in that life, karasu didn’t die. he stood beside us, rolling his eyes when we kissed like teenagers, teasing me for turning red when she touched me. he’d clap my back at our wedding, toss back a drink, and say something stupid like, “took you long enough, dumbass.” in that world, kurona still hummed lullabies when the nights got too long, always repeating the last word like a broken record, but never broken. never bleeding out in front of us. we were whole. i saw it. i felt it. i saw her lying beside me in bed, tracing circles on my chest as we talked about everything and nothing. i saw her curled up in my arms on cold mornings, hair in my face, fingers tangled in my shirt. i saw her smile in a way i hadn’t seen in years—not the kind built from survival, but joy. she looked at me like i was her whole world. and i loved her like she was mine.

but that world wasn’t ours.

not here. not now.

because here, the air stank of death and ash. because here, the bow slung across her back was a promise—not of life, but of vengeance. because here, i had stayed silent one second too long.

here, karasu was gone. kurona was gone. and she was leaving. and i… i was nothing but the boy who let her go.

the warmth of that dream faded like smoke between our foreheads. and when i opened my eyes, i was still here. still holding back everything i’d never say.

i pressed a trembling kiss to her cheek.

it wasn’t enough. it would never be enough. but it was all i had left to give.

she closed her eyes, just for a breath.

and then she stepped away.

that imagined life—the one where we were lovers, the one where i was brave, where karasu lived, where she smiled at me like i was her future—shattered.

gone.

the ash between us thickened. she became a silhouette, then a shadow, then a memory i wasn’t ready to have yet.

still, i stood there.

staring into the horizon like if i waited long enough, she’d turn around and run back to me.

she didn’t.

she never even looked back.

and i didn’t deserve it if she did.

because in this life, i had failed her.

and the only thing i could give her now was space. distance. freedom from me.

so i stayed silent. let her walk away.

in another life, i told myself—

maybe she could’ve loved me. maybe i would’ve been enough. maybe we wouldn’t have been surrounded by ruin and regret.

but in this life—this shattered, broken life— if fate dares to cross our paths again, if we are reborn, again and again, i pray she never even sees me.

i pray she walks right past me, like a stranger on a crowded street, so that she never has to carry the weight of me, never has to bear the scars i’ve left on her soul.

because the last thing i want— the very last thing i deserve— is to be the cause of her pain again.

not in this life. not in any life.

let her live without me. let her live without the darkness i bring.

because i love her too much to let her love me back.

the air hung thick with ash and the metallic scent of blood. the ruined street was a graveyard of broken dreams — twisted wreckage, scorched concrete, and the silent whispers of those long gone. shadows moved like ghosts between shattered buildings, the undead lurking, waiting, their guttural moans rising and falling like a dreadful tide.

y/n’s eyes burned bright in the dim light, her body coiled tight like a bowstring ready to snap. she had tracked him here — the monster who had haunted her nightmares and shattered everything she once held dear.

and now—here he was.

rin.

his form stumbled out from the shadows, ragged and torn, the infection eating him alive. his skin stretched tight over brittle bones like fragile parchment, veins blackened and pulsing with unnatural sickness. his hair hung matted, wild like a feral beast’s mane. but even in that grotesque decay, a spark flickered—raw, unyielding—of the man he once was. the man she had loved and who had betrayed her with every poisoned breath.

their eyes locked, and a twisted smile cracked across rin’s face, sharp and uneven, like broken glass.

“y/n…” his voice slithered through the silence — a cruel whisper, ragged and desperate, soaked with madness. “you came back to me. you always come back. you can’t leave me. you belong to me.”

a flicker of something dangerous flashed in his gaze. obsession. possession. rage wrapped in agony.

“you think you’re strong now,” he crooned, stumbling closer, hands twitching violently as if clawing at invisible chains. “but you’ll never be free. not from me. not from what we were—what we are. i saved you… i protected you. and you left me. left me to rot.”

his breath came ragged, labored, but the fire in his eyes only grew brighter, more manic.

“i needed you! i need you! without you, this world is nothing but ashes and blood.” his voice cracked, folding under the weight of his obsession, then snapped back sharp as a blade. “you’re mine, y/n. always. forever.”

the horde surrounding them stirred, sensing the explosion of violent energy, but rin paid them no mind — his entire world had shrunk down to the girl standing cold and unyielding before him.

y/n’s hand brushed the worn leather strap at her side, feeling the cold weight of karasu’s dagger—the last gift of a brother who died protecting her, sacrificed to the madness rin had unleashed.

“i’m done running,” she said, voice low and deadly calm. “done hoping.”

rin laughed then, a twisted, broken sound like a soul shattering. he lurched forward, unbalanced but terrifying, arms flailing like a madman reaching for the last thing tethering him to sanity.

“you can’t kill me! you can’t! because i’m the only one who sees you! the only one who knows you!” his eyes wild, glistening with tears and madness. “you’re everything to me—my curse, my salvation. without you, i’m nothing. without you, i’m lost.”

he lunged, claws scraping the cracked concrete as the infection writhed beneath his skin, distorting his form in grotesque spasms.

y/n’s eyes narrowed. the past was dead, she was no longer the girl who believed in broken promises.

the dagger flashed, cold and unforgiving,

and the reckoning began.

the dagger sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, aimed for rin’s chest — but he twisted away, a grotesque snarl ripping from his throat. his eyes gleamed with unhinged delight, the kind of madness only obsession breeds. he wasn’t just fighting to survive — he was fighting for possession. for love turned venomous and violent.

“did you think it would be that easy?” rin spat, voice thick with bile and desperation. his twitching fingers clawed toward her like grasping tendrils, desperate to choke away her resolve. “you’re mine, y/n. i’m the only one who can give you meaning. only i.”

his body jerked unnaturally, flesh bubbling and cracking like burned paper, his infection blossoming with every ragged breath. he convulsed as though the madness inside was clawing its way out, veins thrumming black and blue beneath skin torn and pulsing grotesquely. his distorted grin widened, teeth grinding in a horrific crescendo of insanity.

but y/n was unmoved. she stood like stone — cold, implacable, merciless. she wasn’t the scared girl from long ago. she was the storm. the hunter. the reckoning.

around them, the undead stirred. the horde was a living ocean of groans and grasping hands, yet when y/n’s gaze flicked to them, a sudden silence rippled like a pulse. the creature's vacant eyes fixed on rin, their groans sharpening to guttural snarls.

y/n raised her voice — a calm, unyielding command in the silence of ruin. “kill him.”

it was as if her words were chains tightening around the horde’s twisted minds. they surged forward, ravenous and relentless — but instead of lunging at her, their gnashing teeth and clawing hands descended upon rin.

he screamed, a broken sound of fury and terror, as the horde tore into him. but even as they dragged him down, thrashing and ripping at his mutilated flesh, rin’s eyes never left y/n’s.

rin thrashed under the crushing weight of the horde, the infection ravaging what was left of his broken body. his breath came in ragged gasps, each one shaky and fragile—like a frightened child clinging to a flicker of fading hope. tears streaked down his cracked, dirt-smudged face, raw and unguarded.

“y/n… please, don’t leave me,” he whimpered, voice cracking like brittle glass. “sae left me… everyone left me… i’m all alone. you can’t—can’t leave me too.”

his trembling hands reached out weakly, fingers curling as if desperate to clutch her—the one last tether to a world that had abandoned him. “i’m nothing without you. you’re everything… my reason to keep fighting, my curse, my only light. please… don’t go.”

but beneath the desperate pleadings, beneath the shattered soul begging for mercy, the truth remained unbroken. his madness—born from abandonment and loneliness—had turned to destruction. he had killed the brother she lost, the friends who stood by her side, the innocent lives she had sworn to protect.

his pain did not excuse the ruin he left behind.

y/n’s eyes softened—not with forgiveness, but with the sorrow of a heart forced to carry the weight of loss. she knew he was broken. but brokenness did not grant absolution.

she stepped back, the bitter ache of what was lost settling deep in her bones.

then, with a steady hand, she reached for her bow once more.

her fingers found the nocked arrow, silent and certain.

this time, there was no hesitation.

with a deep breath, she let the arrow fly.

it struck true—piercing the fractured heart of the man who had once been everything to her, now only a shadow twisted by darkness.

rin’s body went still, the last flicker of torment fading as peace finally claimed him.

y/n knelt beside him, the weight of all they’d lost pressing down on her chest like a silent storm. the boy who once saved her—the man consumed by shadows—was now a broken ghost, flickering on the edge of oblivion.

“i’m not gonna hurt you,” he added, voice calm. too calm.

“that’s what serial killers say,” i said. “right before they, you know, hurt people.”

still, my fingers twitched. he looked at me like i was already his. like he’d found something and wasn’t letting go.

“jesus,” i muttered. “fine. i’ll take your murderer hand.”

he helped me up and didn’t let go. i tried to tug my hand back. he held firm for just a beat too long before releasing it. outside, the wind shrieked.

her voice was barely more than a breath, trembling yet resolute: “well… i finally paid you back.”

there was no forgiveness in that moment. no absolution for the ruin he left behind, no grace for the lives torn apart by his madness. only mercy—the final kindness for a soul crushed beneath the weight of its own darkness.

because brokenness is not an excuse. because pain does not grant the right to destroy.

she had learned this truth through shattered memories and scars etched deep into her skin and soul.

mercy isn’t forgetting the wounds. it’s the strength to break the cycle without becoming the monster.

y/n rose slowly, her eyes fierce embers burning with quiet fury and fragile hope. the world around her was broken—scarred by loss, betrayal, and madness—but she would walk through it as something more than a victim.

she was the reckoning.

true courage isn’t vengeance. true courage is looking into the abyss and choosing to carry the light anyway.

and as rin’s final breath whispered away on the cold wind, she carried a lesson hard-earned and blood-bought—mercy and justice, though intertwined, were never the same.

but both were necessary to survive.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ© sevarchive ✦ masterlist

[vidavalor]

Mrs. Sandwich's Secret Side Door

See those stars by the door to Mrs. Sandwich's sandwich shop? They match the constellation of stars on a door inside Goldstone's next door:

The door inside Mutt's shop opens into Mrs. Sandwich's part of the building and can be locked and bolted shut from within Mutt's shop. Doors like this are common in businesses that require discretion due to their illegality at different times, like gambling dens, speakeasies during Prohibition, different types of queer gathering places, and bordellos like Mrs. Sandwich's "sandwich shop."

The doors are designed for two purposes: to provide protection and escape to the people engaging in the illegal activities and to provide discretion to those who are frequenting the businesses. If the police were ever to raid Mrs. Sandwich's business, her girls and clients could go through into Mutt's shop to evade arrest. The other use of the door, though, would likely be for the purpose of discretion for the clients of New Model.

Mrs. Sandwich and her Ladies of Come-a-Lot need a side door in order to offer more privacy for those who want to have their socks darned and their shirt mended without other people finding out.

The constellation of stars on Mrs. Sandwich's door is a visual cant similar to those that have been employed by illegal businesses forever. It's basically a breadcrumb trail that you follow to find the other door. People looking for a more private entry to New Model would know when they saw the stars on the door in the magic shop that matched the ones outside that they had found the more private entrance.

The stars silently say that the guy in the magic shop knows what's going on next door and you'll need him to get in that door, if you're not a Mrs. Sandwich-approved regular. There might even be a password you need to get past him, especially if the sandwich shop is serving up a whole other something (say, in the basement) that would also require a certain amount of screening for safety and discretion.

On Whickber Street, if you want to discreetly buy a trick from New Model, you go into the place that sells the other kind of tricks next door 😂 because of course you do... This all allows Mrs. Sandwich's clients to enter and exit her shop through Goldstone's so no one ever actually sees them going in and out of the front door of her shop.

What's extra-funny about this is that the scene that shows us Mrs. Sandwich's front door also visually emphasizes that New Model-- a business that is open all night-- is located across the tiny alleyway from the side door of The Nightingales' bookshop.

Mrs. Sandwich has had a front row seat to Mr. Fell's fella slipping discreetly outside the side door of the bookshop before dawn to avoid getting caught for awhile now.

I think all of this makes what products Mutt has on the door that leads to Mrs. Sandwich's shop amusing. It's mostly where he's keeping some magic-themed costuming. Bit of seamstress-related things on the door. Mrs. Sandwich didn't know it but the show definitely does know that a seamstress was 19th century slang for a sex worker.

On the top of the door, Mutt is selling a fake beard-- a term that has also long been slang for a person who poses as another's date or partner to cover up the fact that they're queer. Beneath the beard, there is a cape for sale. The word cape is related to head and so capes are, uh, also for sale at New Model lol... Caping/to cape as a verb has evolved to mean to defend and protect someone, particularly those who have been maligned by society, which the certain owner of a star-covered cape does very well.

At the bottom of the door is some kind of accessory related to dressing up as a vampire, based on that word being what is visible of the packaging. Vampire lore famously involves vampires needing to be let in through doors before they can feast. Not only does Good Omens whole doors obsession and the threshold in the bookshop contain vampiric elements, so did the scene of Aziraphale eating for the first time in the Job minisode.

Finally, speaking of Aziraphale? The other thing on the door and on the frame all around it are bow ties. Like, fifteen different bow ties 😂 just helping to underline even more these Mutt-Aziraphale parallels. Those magicians are both providing different kinds of safe escape routes. Just as the magic shop provides cover for secret sandwiches, so does the bookshop act as a front that provides Crowley and Aziraphale a private place to be alone together.

[serpentface]

What does medical theory look like in Wardi areas? There's a concept of diseases caused by dabi, but what about other causes? And what does becoming a doctor or healer look like?

Dagi are specifically evil spirits that are explanatory for ailments with clear or presumed external cause, and that are known to spread (either through the body or between people). They are thus considered the source of most infections and contagious diseases. They are sort of a proto-proto germ theory in that they are conceptualized as being tiny and/or invisible and entering the body through wounds and orifices, though this is conceptualized more along the lines of miasma theory (they are usually spread in the form of Bad Air). They're a pretty small part of the medical model as a whole, being a direct Cause of the disease but not what Enables it.

The broader medical model revolves around these core concepts:

-Blood is the living spirit. Every person has two souls, with living spirit being the one that animates and maintains the body. A body's healthy function is dependent upon blood flow being normal and uninhibited, and the blood not being polluted.

-All matter in the world is composed of a mix of essential properties of Sea (female/cold/wet/malleable) and Sky (male/hot/dry/transformative). In medical contexts, these essences are usually referred to as Hot or Cold as proper nouns. This does not usually refer to literal temperature, and rather describes an object's presumed interactive qualities.

-All non-human/animal matter in the world is also God's body and carries the flow of God's living spirit, with each discrete form of matter being imbued with an Essence that is a fundamental nature that defines its being. In the context of medicine, Essences are influenced by their Hot/Cold properties, and are the mechanism for medicinal effects ascribed to any given object. This is rooted in Wardi animism, and the concept of Essence is basically interchangeable with the notion that all natural objects have an interactive Spirit. The explicitness of this element and how much this Spirit is ascribed internal agency/personhood is more variable.

-The body/living spirit is metaphysically vulnerable to spiritual pollution. Forms of spiritual pollution first weaken the living spirit, thus becoming an avenue for ailments to develop. Curses can similarly weaken the body, as can attachment/inhabitation by evil spirits. An already weakened body is more vulnerable to this sort of outside harm by dagi/other evil spirits/curses, so the effects can be compounded.

-The totality of your wellbeing is dependent upon your connection to God, maintained on an individual day to day level by prayer and offerings, and by avoiding spiritual pollution. God's body and living spirit, while great on scales beyond imagining, is still a body, still susceptible to its natural flows being blocked or severed. Proper orthopraxy maintains your connection, which is the ultimate foundation for a good life, good fortune, and good health.

-The worldview in general doesn't distinguish a 'mundane' dimension from a 'spiritual' dimension. Most things are spiritual and mundane at the same time. Everyday ablution is cleansing yourself of spiritual pollution and it's also just washing your hands because they have dirt on them. There is no fundamental difference between physical health and spiritual health, even wholly physical injuries (ie a broken arm) affect the living spirit, even wholly spiritual injuries (ie a curse) affect the physical body.

---

So pretty much every possible ailment can be interpreted through this model. Contagious flu is dagi entering the body through orifices and spreading into the blood, causing the blood to become polluted and obstructing its proper flow, thus resulting in the flu's physical effects. Infection is dagi entering the body through wounds, obstructing the blood from healing the wound and causing inflammation and rot. A migraine is an excess of blood flow to the head that becomes too Hot, potentially caused by blockage of blood flow in other parts of the body. Erectile dysfunction might be because the testes or penis are too Cold and/or have obstructed blood flow and/or have localized polluted blood and/or you could be cursed, buddy. Intestinal parasites are small bugs that get inside your body and feed on blood (yeah), causing blockages and disruption of bloodflow to the affected parts and harming your health.

The medical system is built upon this model and attempts to address every dimension of these concerns.

At the most abstract end of things, heartbeat drums are used in healing contexts as a matter of belief they can influence the flow of living spirit. In almost all cases, this is supplemental, encouraging the blood to move in the necessary capacity while more direct treatments go to work. IE- your wounds have been cleaned and you've been given medicine, the healing is already in process but further encouraged via the healer drumming the medicine through your body. Their use is most critical in life-or-death circumstances- a midwife overseeing a childbirth will have an assistant to drum throughout as a matter of keeping both parties alive and strengthening their blood flow.

'Medicine' refers to any objects that encourage health or healing via their direct interaction with the physical body. Medicines that are Consumed or topically applied usually intend to be active treatments, medicines that are Worn usually intend to be preventative.

Every discrete object is believed to have a Hot or Cold property, and a more nuanced Essence. The former describes how it interacts with other matter on a fundamental level, the latter ascribes its actual effects. Everything that exists Could potentially be medicinal and the grand totality of Wardi medicinal knowledge includes plants, minerals, and animal parts, though the majority of common medicine is based around herbalism. This medicine system is built on centuries of accumulated knowledge and some more historically recent scholarly investigation. Some of it is ultimately Vibes Based (astoundingly, antlers/horns and animal penises/testes tend to be ascribed positive effects for virility and male fertility), some is actively damaging (lead is sometimes consumed medicinally), but a lot of the most central medicines have Become central for having very strong correlation with positive results.

For example, wounds are usually cleaned with vinegar (the acetic acid of which has actual antimicrobial functions). Some contraceptives definitely Reduce the chance of pregnancy via properties that actually block the cervix, reduce sperm motility, make vaginal PH more hostile to sperm, or contain spermicidal chemicals (ie inserting bandage soaked in a ground mix of olive oil, honey, and acacia- the latter is spermicidal, the liquids reduce motility, and blocking the cervix via a barrier is just intuitive). Honey and garlic figure heavily into a lot of medicines in general, largely due to their actual antimicrobial properties. Cumin is already central to the diet, and is the preeminent treatment for internal parasites (and has some positive effect). Etc.

Ailments are also in part addressed by general dietary changes. Everything you eat has Hot or Cold properties as well as more nuanced individual Essences, so your everyday diet can address some dimensions of health and be a supplement for more directed medical treatment.

Bloodletting is a response to more severe or resistant ailments, usually when the cause is regarded as polluted blood in a specific body part and/or evil spirits in the body. It attempts to treat ailments by removing polluted blood at the sources of pollution, allowing the body's natural defenses to replace it with clean blood. Bloodletting is not performed willy-nilly and is generally not the first resort- this is your living spirit, the soul that animates your body, and you should only intentionally shed it with great purpose.

Given the lack of distinction between physical and spiritual health, all these forms of medicine are supplemented with everyday religious practice. Your connection with God is also a source of maintaining your health, and most priesthoods can assist you with more complex physical-spiritual matters via blessings and sacrifices in your name.

---

DOCTORS:

There are two main bodies of physicians who receive formal educations and work as physicians. Both of them are connected to the priesthood of Ganmache (largely due to that priesthood having become heavily interwoven with educational institutions in general) and receive their basic education from them, as spiritual knowledge is considered a fundamental necessity for medical care. These are the Hittlatlamii and Nacouy.

Hittlatlamii are predominantly midwives, but are also general physicians specializing in women's care. This role is Technically open regardless of gender, but male Hittlatlamii are uncommon and often subject to mockery as having failed at being Nacouy or possibly being some kind of pervert. The order is mostly composed of women and akoshos, and they are uniquely condoned to remain unmarried and given significant freedom of movement due to the necessities of their work. Most of their patients are women who may not necessarily leave the home as much as men, so Hittlatlami often have to travel to their patient's homes and may sometimes live there temporarily. Most Hittlatlamii are members of the commoner class, and usually inherit the position from a relative via recommendation (who will often become their mentor).

They are formally educated in the priesthood of Ganmache's schools from the age of ~7-10 to 15, and work in a close mentor-mentee relationship with a senior Hittlatlamii until the age of 30. In this process, they will have learned to read and write, have access to a broad base of recorded medical knowledge, and will have had extensive hands-on experience as physicians and midwives. Their specialty is women's health re: fertility and pregnancy and 'female anatomy', but they are also equipped to treat non-gendered common ailments and will sometimes attend to men as needed. They are also a cult to Anmir-Ganmache (God as the hearth/domestic sphere)- their work itself is a matter of this devotion, and they are considered equipped to provide blessings and attend to domestic spiritual issues (though are not full priests and thus not permitted to perform sacrifices).

Nacouy are the other group, with the word 'nacouy' being functionally translatable as just 'physician'. This role is exclusive to men. Most are commoners, but being a Nacouy is a fairly common 'youngest son of 6 brothers in a noble family that doesn't really have anything else to do' career path. They are general purpose doctors who will have been extensively educated, and will know/have access to the breadth of recorded medical knowledge. They are educated in the priesthood of Ganmache's schools from ~7-10 into their early 20s, and from there will work with a mentor until the latter dies or retires. They usually receive patients as visitors instead of coming to their homes (unless the patient is bed-bound or any travel would otherwise harm them), with full Nacouy usually sending their mentees to handle the majority of house calls. Highly esteemed nacouy are sometimes hired to become permanent doctors for royal families.

They are considered the backbone of medical practice and knowledge in Imperial Wardin, working life-long as healers while also extensively recording their knowledge and findings in the process. They are expected to be highly literate and good writers, though usually hire servant scribes as assistants for this matter. After retirement (usually around 50) they generally spend the remainders of their lives as teachers in their former schools.

There are plenty of people in this society who work as healers without being a member of these orders. These are mostly people living in small villages who work as doctors for their community, usually having inherited this position from their parents. They are very unlikely to have a formal education or to be literate in written Wardi, but will have learned a broad variety of medical lore via oral transmission and cooperation with other healers. This role tends to double as a local spiritual authority in places that are distant from priestly centers, as spiritual knowledge is a requirement for being a good healer.

[bestworstcase]

THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN it's a draw let's talk about the principles.

In the rulebook for The Lady Afterwards, these are defined as "the most fundamental elements of reality; or, the various natures of the Hours; or, a post-facto invention of scholars of the invisible arts." Mark that third note in particular, because the aspects we discuss herein are—expressly—only an attempt to taxonomize the occult forces at work in the world and thus necessarily an imperfect and imprecise model thereof.

Keep this in mind. There are no clean dividing lines between the principles, and what we label (for example) 'Lantern' and 'Forge' are not, in reality, discrete individual forces but rather a cluster of interacting forces, patterns, rules et cetera which may be expressed or called upon in different ways at different times. Many seeming contradictions or inconsistencies are thus resolved.

With that out of the way:

The interaction most visible to the player is of course the Cultist Simulator 'subversion' mechanic, but I think it is also elucidating to consider 1. differing categorization of certain books shared between Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours, and 2. the principle aspects associated with each of the nine parts of the soul in the latter.

Before we dive into that, a note on 'Secret Histories' and 'Rose':

History is the scar on the world's skin. [Secret Histories describe the unknown complexities of the world, and its many pasts.] vs 'The rose which encompasseth all'. Nine directions to new horizons. [Exploration? Enlightenment? Hope?]

It is evident that Secret Histories and Rose have some relation and may even be synonymous to an extent—for instance, Dr. al-Adim is interested in the former in Cultist Simulator and the latter in Book of Hours—but Secret Histories notably isn't treated like a fully-realized principle in its own right, whereas Rose is mechanically indistinguishable from any other power. What's going on here?

Well, if Rose is the aspect 'which encompasseth all', then we might describe Rose as the skin; and therefore what we call Secret Histories are the scars or the flaws which inform the principle called Rose, in effect making Secret Histories not a principle in its own right, but rather an aspect of Rose.

So for the purpose of this discussion, I will refer only to 'Rose', even with regard to entities and things with Secret Histories aspect in Cultist Simulator. I believe the relation here is comparable to the relation between, for example, Heart and Dances.

Onward!

I have made a series of diagrams. First:

We begin with a wheel representing the order in which the Cultist may subvert lore and influences from one principle to the next, beginning with Lantern at the top and proceeding clockwise; into Forge, into Edge, into Winter, into Heart, into Grail, into Moth, into Lantern. Knock, placed at the wheel's center, cannot be subverted and subverts every other lore except Rose into itself.

Note the larger gap between Moth and Lantern. My reason for arranging the principles this way will become apparent shortly.

For ease of reference, here is a spreadsheet comparing the principles associated with every text that appears in both Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours. In cases where the text's mystery aspect does not match the lore fragment(s) it yields in the first game, I've noted the skill and memory as well.

This is a simple way to demonstrate the 'fuzziness' of the principles, noted at the beginning of this post.

In cases where the principle lore yielded by texts in Cultist Simulator differs from the text's mystery aspect in Book of Hours and the mystery aspect is not one of the newly-introduced aspects, generally speaking, the lessons the Librarian learns will match both; for example, 'The Six Letters on Memory' yields Forge lore in CS, but has Moth as its mystery in BoH, and the Librarian learns a lesson in Transformations & Liberations, a skill whose primary/secondary aspects are Forge and Moth.

The one notable exception is Sunset Passages. In Cultist Simulator, this text yields Winter lore; in Book of Hours, its mystery aspect is Forge, and it provides a lesson in Sacra Solis Invicti (Lantern/Sky). In order to understand the re-categorization of this text, we must consider its subject matter: it is a "miscellany of the funerary prayers, ceremonies, and hymns of the Church of the Unconquered Sun," which "schismed during the Intercalate, when the Sun was divided." It is thus concerned primarily with pre-Intercalate worship of the Madrugad, whose aspects are Winter and Forge, and the skill the Librarian learns from it pertains to those rituals.

Sunset Passages thus serves as a useful illustration of how and why certain texts may be categorized differently between the two games. It is not arbitrary. It's a mechanical representation of the taxonomic 'fuzziness' in that the Cultist can read a certain book and conclude that it's a volume of Winter lore whereas the Librarian can read the same book and categorize it as a book of mainly Forge lore with some relevance to Lantern and Sky, and both are correct, although the Librarian, being a scholar rather than an adept, takes a more nuanced view.

The point being that we can look at those texts which have been reassigned to one of the four/five aspects introduced in Book of Hours as a rough approximation of common relations between those aspects and the ones in the earlier game.

We'll use Moon as an example.

Kanishk at the Spider's Door — Edge lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Sharps (Edge/Moon) — Memory is A Stolen Secret (Moon/Knock)

Larquebine Codex — Heart lore -> Moon Mystery — Lesson is Sea Stories (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Gossip (Rose/Grail)

Morphy Codex — SH lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Tridesma Hiera (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Beguiling Melody (Grail/Sky)

Viennese Conundra — Moth lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Wolf Stories (Moon/Scale) — Memory is Fear (Scale/Edge)

Voyages of Ferninshun of Oreol — SH lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Sea Stories (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Salt (Knock/Moon/Winter)

Tally up the aspects associated with these texts: Grail: 5, Edge: 3, Rose: 3, Knock: 2, Scale: 2, 1 each Sky, Moth, Winter, Heart.

& secondary aspects for skills with primary Moon aspect: Grail: 2, Scale: 2, Edge: 1, Heart: 1

& primary aspects for skills with secondary Moon aspect: Winter: 5, Rose: 2, Edge: 2, 1 each Grail, Heart, Nectar, Sky, Scale.

& other aspects on Moon-aspected memories: 4 each Rose, Edge, Winter, Knock, 1 each Sky, Moth.

Keep in mind that this is only an approximation, because we're not taking into account any context for when, why, or how these conjunctions may occur. But we can identify certain patterns just by looking at the frequency; the two most common conjunctions are with Edge and Winter (10x), followed by Rose (9x), Grail (7x), Knock (6x), Scale (5x), Heart and Sky (3x), Moth (2x), and Nectar (1x).

Rose and Knock are both unusual in how they interact with other principles, with Rose being all-encompassing and Knock all-opening. So we're somewhat less interested in them for now. If we consider only the frequency of Moon's associations with the seven 'regular' principles present in Cultist Simulator, where might we position Moon in relation to the subversion wheel diagrammed above?

Well, the most intuitive way to decide its placement is to first put it in between Edge and Winter, then move it a bit clockwise to reflect its significant overlap with Grail and minor associations with Heart and Moth. Right?

In the interest of brevity I won't go through the tallies for the other three 'regular' aspects introduced in Book of Hours, but after going through this same process (and making some aesthetic adjustments, because this is only an approximate representation)...

What we have here is the Cultist Simulator order-of-subversion wheel with the four new aspects plotted onto it as the corners of a containing square; Sky in the juncture between Moth and Lantern, Scale between Lantern and Edge, Moon between Edge and Heart, and Nectar between Heart and Moth. I propose that:

These four principles subvert each other clockwise around the outer wheel, Sky into Scale into Moon into Nectar into Sky, and

The principles in Cultist Simulator, including Knock and Rose, all emerged through division of these older four during the striving and conflicts of the Lithomachy.

Any serious discussion of the Lithomachy is well out of the scope of this post (BUT WE'LL GET TO IT SOONER OR LATER BECAUSE HOO BOY) so my argumentation on this second point will necessarily be rather thin. Sorry. The remainder of this post will concern how well the above diagram holds up to more substantive investigation, and to that end here are the definitions of each principle aspect as per Book of Hours, in order of subversion:

Rose. 'The rose which encompasseth all'. Nine directions to new horizons.[Exploration? Enlightenment? Hope?]

Sky. Wind, storm, echo, song; the intricacies of mathematics and the principles of flight. Law's touch is lighter than we sometimes think.[Matters of balance, harmony and necessity.]

Scale. Hard without, hard within, hard to rouse, harder to subdue. [What is left of the crude powers of the deep earth.]

Moon. Secrets are soft; night is softer still; the sea speaks. It is not always wise to listen. [The nocturnal, the forgotten.]

Nectar. The green wealth in the world's veins; the pulse of the seasons. [Long ago, some called this principle Blood.]

Lantern. 'Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible Sun within us.' - Thomas Browne [Lantern is the principle of the secret place sometimes called the House of the Sun, and of the light above it.]

Forge. 'Fire', I once read, 'is the winter that warms and the spring that consumes.' [The principle of the Forge transforms and destroys.]

Edge. All conquest occurs at the Edge. One who dwells there is blind, and cannot be wounded. Another is strong, and grows stronger. [Edge is the principle of battle and of struggle.]

Winter. ... [Winter is the principle of silence, of endings, and of those things that are not quite dead.]

Heart. The Heart Relentless beats to protect the skin of the world we understand. [The Heart is the principle that continues and preserves.]

Grail. Hunger, lust, the drowning waters. [The principle of the Grail honours both the birth and the feast.]

Moth. I knew a man who captured moths in a bell-jar. On nights like this, he would release them one by one to die in the candle. [Moth is the wild and perilous principle of chaos and yearning.]

& Knock. The Knock permits no seal and no isolation. It thrusts us gleefully out of the safety of ignorance. [The Knock is the principle that opens doors and unseams barriers.]

And while, as I said, we are not going to delve deeply into the subject of the Lithomachy in this post, I do want to make a brief note of the gods-from-stone and their probable aspects. The Horned-Axe, we know to be both Knock- [Liminal Evocation] and Winter-aspected [Winter veneration]. Her attestation in 'On the Winding Stair' is also quite interesting:

Gregory evidently succeeds in opening a way to something he calls the 'Moon-Hall', but here his account becomes erratic. He insists that in the Moon-Hall the Horned-Axe is still an Edge-power; he hopes for an 'eternal rival', but cannot find the one he needs. The narrative is increasingly interspersed with chess notations, and ends abruptly.

Here we have an implication that the Horned-Axe was and is no longer an Edge-power, but within the House of the Moon she still is Edge-aspected (or possibly a cross-gender mirror-twin of hers retains an Edge-aspect that she has lost or discarded). The similarity here to the recurring idea that the Wheel still turns in the House of the Moon is striking. Her altar beneath Hush House accepts Edge, Scale, Winter, and Knock aspect.

The Horned-Axe is one of the three Hours of the Chancel alongside the Meniscate and the Sister-and-Witch, of whom the former has obvious associations with the Moon and the latter with the Sea. I submit, then, that before the Lithomachy, the Horned-Axe's aspects were instead Moon and Scale, and that she was—in some way—divided or bifurcated in the course of the Lithomachy into two halves, both with Knock aspect, one Winter-aspected and the other an Edge-aspected reflection.

(<- I will note, as an observation, that there is a vague and rather tangential precedent for such an occurrence; the Wolf-Divided is the product of the division of an Hour, and likewise has Edge and Winter aspect. The common factor would seem to be the coincidence of an ending, hence Winter, with the emergence of an entity driven by an unfulfilled need, hence Edge.)

That is our only living god-from-stone. The others are the Wheel, the Flint, the Tide, the Seven-Coil, and the Egg Unhatching. We know that the Wheel was usurped by the Moth (and that its blood, shed on the roots of the Wood, birthed the Velvet); that the Flint was shattered by the Forge; that the Colonel and the Mother of Ants conspired to slay the Coil; and that the Egg Unhatching fled to the Glory by unknown means and with uncertain outcome.*

[*The Unwise Mortal brought it through the Tricuspid Gate and then it hatched into the Sun-in-Splendour. This is how he ascended to Hourhood as the Watchman. I can't get into it right now or we'll be here all day but: TRUST.]

So, the Wheel was replaced by the Moth and the Velvet (aspects: Moth, Heart—& I submit, also Moon). When the Medium paints the endless memory: "With each turn its cilia pulse and wriggle and its body flushes translucent to crimson. It might be ugly but it is beautiful like the withdrawing of blood from the labyrinths of glass. It does not cease and all its involutions are infinite." All of this locates us firmly in the neighborhood of Moth/Heart, emphasis on Heart given the imagery, and given that the aspect now called Nectar was once known as Blood, this one is easy.

The Wheel's first aspect was Blood. I believe it may also have been Scale-aspected, due to its association with serpents. (On this see Serpents & Venoms. Note that the Secret Histories wiki identifies the 'low red sun' as the Egg Unhatching mostly on the basis of the Medium's glorious memory, but this plainly incorrect. The 'low red sun' was the Wheel, and the Egg Unhatching was a moon, before it hatched. We'll talk about this in more detail in my next post.)

The Flint was 'eclipsed and then shattered' by the Forge. In nearly all of its attestations it's associated with the earth in some way. When painting the golden memory, the Flint is described thus: "This is only a stone, though it is smoothed and sharpened to a midnight point, but look closer. Each of its facets shows a single point of light. It might be the glint of firelight. It might be each a different Star."

As with the Wheel being a Blood-Hour, it seems quite straightforward that the Flint's aspect was Scale; and given its connection to the Wheel through the line of Antaios, an argument could be made that it had a minor Blood aspect as well, making the Wheel and the Flint reflections of each other (Blood/Scale | Scale/Blood).

Next, the Tide, which the Red Grail drowned and consumed. Its usurpation by the Grail and association with the Sea would suggest Blood (the primordial precursor to Grail) and, obviously, Moon. Painting the luxurious memory offers the description: "In a night-blue Mansus-haze swims a coral palace-crown. At its fore-edge it absorbs the lesser Names, coating them with its minerals and juices, and at its rear edge it expels some of them, polished like jewels. The others go to feed its thorny Tide-heart," which reinforces the 'Grail-precursor' angle pretty strongly.

Further, the Tide being Moon- and Blood-aspected offers an elegant explanation for the unusual frequency of Moon-Grail conjunctions in comparison to the other 'precursor' aspects (Heart-Sky is also a common conjunction but otherwise conjunctions with aspects outside the precursor 'quadrant' are quite rare); consider the Sea as the world's blood, an ever-churning life-giving liquid, and the Moon must figure as the world's heart, as the engine of the tidal forces which keep the waters circulating. Heart is the connection between the two, but Grail having supplanted Blood (now Nectar) as the principle most strongly associated with the Sea, it remains closely entangled with the Moon.

Like the Flint, it seems fairly straightforward that the Seven-Coil was Scale-aspected: its monstrous serpentine form and present associations with earthquakes both unambiguously point in this direction. Contra the Secret Histories wiki, I actually do not believe that the Seven-Coil had Rose aspect itself. The events leading up to its slaying are (notably) recounted in much greater detail than the death of any other god-from-stone, and unlike the others, its defeat came not at the hands of a god-from-blood but what seem to have been the first two human* gods-from-flesh; it follows that the death of the Seven-Coil occurred much later than the usurpation of the Wheel, the Flint, and the Tide...

[*I believe the Elegiast and the Beachcomber may be much older, but neither of them were mortal humans as the Colonel and the Mother of Ants seem to have been prior to their ascensions. Jury is out on when the Vagabond ascended to Hourhood exactly, but she's of the Cross. Probably.]

...and indeed, 'The Deeds of the Scarred Captain' places the slaying of the Seven-Coil immediately prior to the founding of Mycenae, which occurred around 1350-1200 BC—well into the Bronze Age and not remotely prehistorical.

The Coil itself wasn't Rose-aspected; I believe its slaying is the inciting incident for one of the Histories—most likely the Third. The massive proliferation of Worms in that History, the loose association between Worms and the Coil, the origin of the Seven-Coils' Temple in the Third History, Sparrow's paranoid conviction that this History is "overrun by Coils," and even the aspects of the Third History's encaustum Nillycant (Winter & Edge for the Colonel; Scale for the Coil) all seem to point in this direction.

That leaves only the Egg Unhatching, vexing little enigma that it is. In the Medium's painting it appears like this: "A faded pale white-gold seen in certain patches of the sky, when the mist is clearing but the sun might be mistaken for the moon. We hold our breath and watch it brighten, until each colour divides from the next like a new-minted alphabet." Despite its having been a moon, I'm not wholly convinced that it had Moon aspect; that it hatched into the Sun-in-Splendour (you'll have to trust me on this for now) might suggest it was Sky-aspected, although this doesn't feel quite right to me either.

The other Lantern-precursor it could have had is Scale, and I am fairly confident that the Egg Unhatching was Scale-aspected. The Seven-Coil is described as 'the nest' in a certain ending and there are some hints toward a connection between the Sun-in-Splendour and the Scīmafectra-kind of the Carapace Cross; it would not be unreasonable for the Egg Unhatching to have been laid or incubated in the Nest—that is, the Seven-Coil—during the era of the Carapace Cross, and thus to have Scale aspect. The Scale determination may loosely support this as well. Furthermore, the Unwise Mortal "learnt the shaping arts of the Flint" and later "ascended to the shadow of the Egg Unhatching," which is suggestive of some degree of similarity between the Flint and the Egg. So we'll put this one down as Scale and a 'maybe' on Moon/Sky.

...and that's my 'brief' note on the probable aspects of the gods-from-stone. TO RECAP:

Horned-Axe: Moon/Scale -> Knock/Winter + Knock/Edge

Wheel: Blood/Scale

Flint: Scale/Blood

Tide: Blood/Moon

Seven-Coil: Scale

Egg Unhatching: Scale + Moon/Sky (?)

Lastly—and this is more a footnote for a future post, really—notice the absence here of any gods-from-stone with clear, unambiguous signs of having been Sky-aspected. An argument can be made for the Wheel and the Flint to have had Sky aspect, the Wheel having been the old sun and the Flint being associated with starlight, but there is little in the way of supporting evidence (and neither Sky-Nectar nor Sky-Scale are common conjunctions, although Heart and Sky are frequently conjunct in matters of weather, so the argument for the Wheel to have been Blood / Scale / Sky is a bit stronger than the one for the Flint).

Right. So.

Let's talk about the nine elements of the soul.

Here, I've marked how different aspects are connected through, or by, each part of the soul. Where two aspects are not adjacent, the connection is represented passing through the simplest juncture, such that the aspects of Ereb, Wist, and Trist connect to each other through Knock; the Moth and Rose of Fet pass through Sky; and Moon is the joint between Health's Nectar/Heart and Scale.

Depicting the elements this way reveals some interesting patterns:

Other than Health, which is unusual in other ways, every non-adjacent pair here is joined through its juncture at a 135° angle (and if we were to route the connection from Heart to Scale through Knock rather than Moon, this would be true of Health too; however, I believe that Moon is the more appropriate juncture in this case for reasons I will outline in a bit.)

The two paired aspects that are adjacent around the inner wheel, Forge/Edge Mettle and Heart/Grail Chor, are stronger in the principle subverted when these aspects interact. In theory, this suggests that Sky may subvert Lantern—and this in turn would be a small point in favor of interpreting Sky / Scale / Moon / Nectar as precursor aspects whose division created the modern principles, on the grounds that Sky subverting Lantern then obeys the Sanguine Exception.

(which holds that every door must open both ways.)

Chor, "exuberance, rhythm, and instinct," has Heart aspect with a lesser power of Grail; when subverting Heart lore or influence into Grail, the project description is "what does not cease will succumb, at last, to temptation," and the action "all that moves must succumb to hunger." This conjunction is also reversed in Memory: Satisfaction, which has Grail aspect with a lesser power of Heart, so it doesn't seem like a stretch to conclude that Chor arises from hunger in moderation; that is, the need for sustenance and meaning in life, absent the wilder hedonism of Grail.

Chor's malady, Duendracy, is a lapse in concentration brought on by what is described as a quite pleasant but very distracting (or perhaps inspiring) "possessing presence from the Mansus." It has Heart aspect only; but notice how afflicted Chor seems to be stilled as the Grail aspect is lost to the pleasant distraction—even though Heart is defined as the principle of relentless motion! Similarly, that Duentratic Chor must be roused by a sufficient power of Moth, the "wild and perilous principle of yearning," suggests the best cure for Duendracy is a nameless dissatisfaction which reawakens the Heart to its hunger, and thus restores its balance with Grail.

Ereb is "pride, compassion, hatred, fear" and "the shadow in the soul's cellar." It has Grail aspect with a lesser amount of Edge; so, we might call it an expression of passionate desire bringing about, or brought about by, strife. And while Ereb itself lacks Knock aspect, the way its Grail-Edge conjunction is expressed does resonate with the principle of Knock for much the same reason that one facet of Knock is wounding.

What commonality unites the qualities of pride, compassion, hatred, fear?—here I will note that Book of Hours (and Cultist Simulator, in less unsubtle ways) incorporates a number of Jungian concepts into its storytelling; the Archaeologist in particular is more or less explicitly tormented by their projected Shadow, in Jungian terms. The Shadow is an unconscious aspect of the personality composed of traits that are unwanted, that do not align with the aspirational ideal image of oneself, and which are therefore both repressed and projected outward, driving conflict both within and without. Confrontation with the Shadow is inevitable and may lead to either possession by it (which produces confusion, distress, emotional paralysis) or assimilation of it (which acknowledges and integrates the Shadow into the conscious self, a spiritual awakening).

The word Ereb derives from ἔρεβος (érebos), the ancient Greek for the darkness of Hades; and it's "the shadow in the soul's cellar," the intersection of Grail's "drowning waters" with the conflict and conquests of Edge—it is the Shadow, and so it is hidden or buried but must, sooner or later, be encountered. And so we might say that the Shadow will eventually, inevitably, perhaps violently, Knock. Note, also, the descriptions when strengthening Ereb with either Bosk ("the Wood is filled with shadows") or Skolekosophy ("...will unchain my Ereb"), and more generally Ereb's association with the unwritten, instinctual lore of the primaeval wood and the study of things that should not be studied. The Shadow comes Knocking, etc.

(I find Ereb especially interesting in relation to both Calyptra and the Corrivality, and will get into a deeper dive about this at some point in the future. For now: Westengryre is the affliction incurred by provoking the Mare-in-the-Tree. Sleep softly!).

Fet is "that part of us which walks in dreams," and its first aspect is Rose, its second Moth; and, as noted, I propose that the juncture in this conjunction is Sky. Why?

Sky concerns "matters of balance, harmony, and necessity." Moth is an unpredictable, wandering principle of chaotic yearning; Rose is "exploration, enlightenment, hope." Now think about Fascination: 2 Moth, THE HIGHER I RISE THE MORE I SEE; and if the Cultist succumbs to visions with three Fascination, this is their ending: "First it was the dreams. Then it was the visions. Now it's everything. I no longer have any idea what is real, and what is not."

Fet, the part which walks in dreams, which traverses the Mansus, has Moth aspect commingled with the aspect of enlightenment and exploration. Its malady is Gisting, the Rose aspect absent the Moth, and described thus: "As my concentration fails, a part of my soul flutters away, drawn by a distant half-imaginary light. [...] My fet is gisting - too loosely tethered to me - so that I glimpse the Mansus even in daylight hours. [...] In dreams I have visited the House behind the world... and some part of me is trapped there now, even when I wake." Whence does the Cultist's Moth-aspected Fascination derive? From the unmooring of Moth from their Fet.

To maintain one's Fet in good health—to walk the Mansus in dreams with the dangerous impulse to wander tethered safely to the skin of the world and the ways beneath it—what is required most of all is balance; harmony between the peril of Moth and the Rose which anchors the dreamer to the Wake. This is a matter of Sky.

(& of course, Rose and Moth together represent the nine divisions of the wind itself: the eight winds of the compass rose and the directionless, chaotic ninth.)

Health—Health is unusual in several ways, the most obvious being that it has three aspects rather than two. It is not a part of the soul per se but rather the dwelling-place thereof; its aspects are Nectar, Heart, and Scale. I believe that the reason for this is relatively simple. The aspect now called Nectar was once instead named Blood, and so we might consider that the first aspect of Health, the body, is the Heart-Blood, or the Blood-in-the-Heart. Or we might conceptualize this combination of Nectar-Heart as within-without, the lifeblood moved by the heart beating to protect the skin.

Then why Scale?

Well... Scale is the aspect of what is left, of what remains, of the old forgotten songs asleep in the depths of the earth which might yet be roused; and the Cross died not but passed within. Health has Scale-aspect because that is the last trace of the Carapace Cross, long-buried and forgotten but never quite gone. Hence my choice to route Nectar-Heart's union to Scale through Moon, the secret and forgotten things, rather than through Knock and Forge. Either is cogent, but I think Moon is the better fit.

Next! Mettle. Mettle is easy. Mettle is the "will; self-discipline; that part of us which makes the right choice" and "the capacity for meaningful choice," and it has Forge aspect with a lesser power of Edge. When subverting Forge lore or influence into Edge, the Cultist invokes the Lionsmith's rebellion at Issus: "The Hour called Lionsmith shattered his own sword to escape his master's dominion. All things can be overcome, with sufficient force. [...] I've shattered what I believed before. Thus have I subverted my Forge lore to Edge."

A small—but important!—detail I want to underscore here. In shattering his sword at Issus, the Lionsmith enacted a teaching of the Forge of days, that "the artisan may achieve their highest goal only by destroying their most precious tool." That is to say, the method used here to subvert Forge into Edge is not to conquer the Forge with the Edge but instead to reforge the Edge using Forge-techniques. One principle subverting another doesn't necessarily imply an adversarial relationship to each other; they are instead complements, or united opposites, or both. Forge-into-Edge is the clearest demonstration of this.

Thus, Mettle encompasses not just fortitude and conviction but specifically the will to change oneself—to break and be reforged—in pursuit of the highest goal. I would also submit that it is the part of the soul most in conflict with Ereb (the ego-ideal of the superego, if you want it in Jungian terms; that aspirational sense of self and identity which suppresses the Shadow). The drowning waters of Grail versus the consuming fire of Forge, the birth-and-death, end-and-beginning of Grail vs the metamorphosis and shaping arts of Forge; opposite and the same, passion striving against self-discipline, willpower striving to give form to unconscious desire, and so conflict arises from the Edge between them.

Phost is "the light within: sight, perception, inspiration" and "all the Glory's gifts." Its first aspect is Lantern, its second Sky. When afflicted, its malady is Fascinated: "My inner light gutters, then flares - I am snared in a dangerous fascination. [...] Phost is the brightest part of the soul - sometimes it can grow too bright for safety." Unlike the Cultist's Moth-y Fascination, Fascinated Phost has a small degree of Lantern aspect. It does, however, appear to be the same condition, hence "the HIGHER I RISE the MORE I SEE."

The discrepant aspect here may come down to a simple difference in temperament between the Cultist and the Librarian; one imagines that an adept must have a greater inclination toward Moth than a scholar—otherwise why seek what lies above and beyond the Stag Door? Thus Glory entices the adept but blinds the scholar. Or else, for the scholar, the danger of Fascination lies in what perilous yearnings might be enticed toward you, as Daymare insinuates, although whether the advice she offers Gwen is applicable generally or not is, given Gwen's particular circumstances, unclear.

In any case, Phost is the part of the soul afflicted by Fascination, and it seems reasonable to conceive of it as a counterpart or perhaps the fulcrum of Fet. Consider the Watchman's Paradoxes, a Lantern-Sky skill which can be committed either to Illumination or Nyctodromy:

From Light (Phost) Our dreams are shadows cast by the Watchman's light. So we perceive him even in our shadow. This is Illumination. From Change (Fet) We recognise the dream-places that the Watchman shows us, though we have never seen them before. Perhaps we were something else when we saw them. This paradox is fundamental to Nyctodromy.

If a dream is the shadow cast by the Watchman's light, or a place thereby illuminated, and Phost is "all the Glory's gifts," and the Fet is the part of the soul which walks in dreams, then it is—perhaps—Phost which illuminates the way, as an inner semblance of the Watchman's light, and keeps the balance between Rose and Moth.

Shapt is "eloquence and understanding; the door opens both ways." It has Knock aspect and a lesser power of Forge. It is words. It is speech: the first wound, the first sword, the first key. When afflicted, it develops the malady Acusis, "in which the door, Shapt, cannot be closed. [...] Every sound rings like a bell - every word scratches at my eyes or skin." Knock, absent Forge, soothed only by the silence of Winter. I get very excitable about Shapt and this is already a quite long post, so I will leave it at: Ebrehel is the Shapt of an Hour.

Trist is "the change and the longing," and its first aspect is Moth, its second Moon. Its affliction, Despairing, has Edge aspect instead: "Trist is already half a hand trailed in a river of deeper sadness. [...] Melancholy is the mist on the soul's waters. Despair is the wolf that prowls the water's edge." Trist is also implicated in the existence of what seems to be the most dangerous of the 'great shadows' that can be found in tombs—as described in 'The Barrowchild's Elegies':

The Barrowchild warns particularly of the 'avidity of trist', where a remnant-shadow's longing for change survives its sense of self and even devours its wist. That longing may draw the curious into the tomb, where the remnant-shadow changes so that it cannot be distinguished from its visitor - or that the reverse becomes true - and that it is never again possible to say whether it is the shadow or the visitor that exits the tomb.

ahem. Conceptually what this 'avidity of trist' describes is, in Jungian terms, possession by the Shadow. In Secret Histories terms, I believe that Ereb (fear) overtakes Trist, which turns to despair; the Mettle (will, choice, the determinants of self) is eroded or forsaken or otherwise lost, whereafter the despairing Trist provokes a complete obliteration of everything else that remains in a violent, agonized desperation to destroy the Ereb. & that's what a Wolf-Splinter is.

So the Moth aspect needs no explanation. Moon, however, is interesting, as is the juncture through Knock and Winter. Trist, the change and the longing, is melancholy... and Moon is the aspect of secrets, of nocturnal and forgotten things. Trist, I believe, is specifically the longing for what has been lost, after the changing, after something ends. Hence the danger of its avidity.

Last and not least, we have Wist; "the soul's memory, the true name scratched on its cornerstone, what remains after the rest has passed." It's the memory and the remnants. Its aspects are Winter and Lantern, and its malady, Shell-Crossed, has the aspect Scale, expressly because it's a surfacing remnant: "Memory crossed, hatched, lined, snapped. My thoughts are tangled and unfamiliar to me. Something of those who came before - the Carapace Cross - has always lingered in humankind. It's risen now in me."

The Winter-aspect is of course straightforward, given the Wist's role as memory-keeper for the soul. The Elegiast comes to mind, as does the nowhere-Hour called Snow (for death alters; Snow endures).

But why Lantern? Lantern is not an aspect frequently associated with preservation or endurance—quite the opposite, it purifies and it blinds. It begins to make sense if we consider this Lantern-aspect in relation to the Scale-aspect that emerges when Wist becomes Shell-Crossed, and that is, I think, the closest we have to a smoking gun in terms of Scale being a precursor to Lantern. What remains of the Carapace Cross now? Only light. This is why Shell-Crossed Wist is cured with Lantern; its Scale aspect is purified and therefore forgotten, all but the very last, inextinguishable trace.

(We'll discuss that more in another post.)

So!

All of these conjunctions of principles within the soul track quite well with the positioning of Sky / Scale / Moon / Nectar at the corners around the 'inner wheel.' I think the elements of the soul provide a more comprehensive look at the way the principles interact with each other than do Cultist Simulator's subversion projects, which we turn to now. Briefly. (she says, lying.)

Lantern into Forge: "The magus Julian Coseley claims the Forge of Days split the Sun. Perhaps he was right. [...] Light yields to Heat."

Something interesting to note is that there is a recurring if rather subtle motif of the Sun's light—the light of the Glory, Lantern—being cold. Or at least, not very warm. Besides the Meniscate, whose light is that of a reflection because her domain is the Moon, all of the extant Solar Hours have Winter aspect, which is not particularly unusual in and of itself given the influence of the Intercalate. But the Medium's splendid memory implies that the Sun-in-Splendour, although brighter than the Madrugad or the Sun-in-Rags, was likewise chilly: "The Sun was brighter once - no warmer, but its light held colours we no longer see."

This contrasts the Wheel, as described in, for example, the Inks of Revelation commitment to Hushery: "...since the dawn times when the sun hung red and low and we felt its warmth like autumn." But even that suggests only a little warmth.

Lantern and Forge are similar in myriad ways—light purifies, light blinds; fire gives light and consumes knowledge; one is unmerciful, the other inspires unmerciful change—but one key enduring difference does seem to be that Lantern-light is cold, unyielding, whereas Forge-light burns, desires, consumes, destroys. In this specific way Forge holds more similarity to Moth and Grail than it does to Lantern... and indeed we do see Forge-Moth or Forge-Grail conjunctions here and there. Notably, Transformations & Liberations (Forge-Moth) and Numen: A Merciless Alteration (Edge-Forge-Grail).

Forge into Edge, we've touched on already.

Edge into Winter: "I am acknowledging the victory of patience over strength. [...] Patience defeats strength."

Just as the method for subverting Forge into Edge recalls the Lionsmith, Edge into Winter may—arguably—call upon the Colonel's understanding of victory through the cunning borne of experience. Or we might interpret the operation from the perspective that even the fiercest conflict must end in time, whether in victory or defeat; that even the strongest warrior must fall. The White waits west of the world, but she will not wait forever. In all likelihood both are true, or at least can be true. I would imagine there are different techniques drawn from either viewpoint. (& this, too, is Edge.)

Winter into Heart: "Winter's coming must yield at last to spring."

This operation, I find most interesting in conjunction with the description of Forge as "the winter that warms and the spring that consumes." On its face, it is reasonable to interpret Winter and Heart as opposite forces—silence and stillness, striving against the drums and motion of life—but... but. Winter is the principle of endings, of silence, and of those things that are not quite dead.

Consider the Winter-Heart skill Quenchings & Quellings:

Arts which quench fires and bring solace to the troubled mind. 'A true adept is never troubled by fire, nor by fever, nor by restless spirit'. – Ambrose Westcott Safety in Silence (Trist) Unwise words are dangerous. Mourn them, remember them, speak them not. This is Hushery. Safety in Oblivion (Health) Let the flesh forget disease, let the smoke forget the flame, let the troubled mind forget its pain: Preservation.

Ambrose Westcott was a metallurgist, an alchemist, a pyrographer—his area of specialization pertained to Forge, not to Heart or Winter. But Quenchings & Quellings is first and foremost a skill interested in regret and forgetting, and therein lies the connection: Regret is a Winter-Forge memory. "Every choice has its shadow."

I do not think Winter and Heart are opposing forces at all, but rather two sides of a three-sided coin. (If you'll pardon the tortured metaphor.) Winter ends and Heart renews. Winter remembers and Heart preserves. What's missing from these pictures? Forge, which destroys; Forge, which transforms. Not for nothing are these the principles of Calyptra; the Black Flower's Heart-aspect, the White's Winter-aspect, the Red's Forge.

Heart into Grail, we've already discussed.

Grail into Moth: "Even the Red Grail falls prey to the buzzing in the brain."

Obviously, little daylight exists between hunger and yearning; both are a form of desire. Moth and Grail are similar in their hedonism, their wildness, their violence; the Moth flayed the Wheel and the Thunderskin was flayed at the Grail's behest. (Much is made of the confounding question of whether the Moth or the Grail came first, feasted first, arose first. There are no end of contradictory answers, but the truth is really very simple. They are twins—triplets actually but we don't have time for that—born together.)

But do note the specific phrasing used here—that the Red Grail falls prey to the Moth. The Hour called Moth is a hunter. This is described, for example, when committing Horns & Ivories to the Bosk. So the Red Grail is an Hour which hungers and consumes, presiding at births and deaths in equal measure, and sometimes she falls prey to the hunter-Moth; there is some notion here of reversals, of the hunter-becoming-hunted, of hunger being what is preyed upon.

Here I will draw your attention to the Moth-Grail skill Resurgences & Emergences: "Birth and death are only directions. Between the two we find a crossroads." When Grail is subverted into Moth, this is the crossroads they approach.

& into Knock: "Place pressure upon a weakness, and rend the skin of the world." Any aspect studied with Knock becomes Knock.

Knock is a power of opening, of wounding, of breaching; but I think it is also—perhaps even more importantly—a principle of intersection. It is the joining-together which dissolves all boundaries. The reason it subverts everything is less that it's a cosmic skeleton key and more a question of Knock being the principle that understands everything to be connected to everything else, because it is the principle which connects all things. Nothing is truly separate, and nothing can be divided unless it was first joined.

It's the aspect of the Mother of Ants, who encircles, who arises from wounds, who spares those who are already harmed. Knock is the principle that both wounds and heals by wounding, the venom that is also the antivenin. If you've ever wondered why Sacrament Ascite is brewed from Glassfinger Toxin, this is why.

Now—finally—let's discuss my proposed operations of Sky into Scale, into Moon, into Nectar, back into Sky.

Sky into Scale: This one is actually quite open-and-shut. We'll start with the Ithastry commitment for the language Kernewek Henevek:

The Stars (Wist) A smiths' proverb in Brancrug: 'What starts in the sky, ends in the earth.' A story goes with it, that the village smith's anvil in the time of the Dewulfs was hatched from a meteor stone, and so every plough in the village knows something of the stars. Not many remember the story, but everyone remembers the proverb. It would probably count as Ithastry.

From the sky to the earth; as above, so below. Sky is "wind, storm, echo, song... matters of balance, harmony, and necessity." Scale is "hard without, hard within, hard to rouse, harder to subdue; what remains of the old powers of the earth." What's an earthquake if not a storm within the stone? Or is it a song that still echoes beneath the earth?

Both are precursors to the modern principle of Lantern; Scale, the principle of the Flint, is very closely associated with Forge—and in Lightning we find the conjunction of Sky-Forge.

There is also a whole tangent we could go into here about the birds and the serpents and the birds-of-a-scale, worms-of-a-feather. But I won't belabor the point. Next!

Scale into Moon: One could make an argument, too, for Scale into Nectar, on the grounds of stone-and-soil, fossil-and-seed, antecedent for the Winter-Heart relationship. However, that becomes more difficult when the relationships between the precursors and the modern principles is taken into account, and I think the similarities between Scale-Nectar and Winter-Heart are more accurately represented in terms of Scale-Moon-Nectar preceding the triad of Forge-Winter-Heart.

The Scale-Moon subversion also has Hill & Hollow going for it, in particular the Preservation commitment:

The ways of the hill-children and the gods-from-stone. Old paths, old secrets, the songs that still echo beneath the earth. How They Endured (Health) In the beginning, the Carapace Cross served the first Hours, the gods born from stone. When the gods-from-stone were defeated, where could the Cross go? Into the hills; into the Bounds; and into us. This is how humankind came to be, and in our most secret hollows, the Cross endures. This is a matter of Preservation.

(Note that 'the Bounds' seems to also encompass the House of the Moon, as per the Nyctodromy commitment for Hyksos.)

Scale is what sleeps, remains, what might be roused, while Moon is what is secret, what is hidden, what is nocturnal, and what has been forgotten. Scale endures and fades from memory; Moon remembers what was forgotten. The old songs that echo under the earth become the secrets whispered by the waves beneath the moon.

Like Forge and Winter, Scale and Moon pair the violent destruction of Scale (as a shattering earthquake) with the softer, gentle endings presided over by Moon (as the sea erodes stone). Next!

Moon to Nectar: Here, of course, the dual nature of Grail—the drowning waters but also blood—is worth noting. Both Nectar and Moon are far more strongly tied to Grail than to Heart. And of course, the Wheel, the low red sun, once had the aspect Blood; and it still turns inside the House of the Moon.

Speaking of the Wheel, while Serpents & Venoms is a Scale-Moon skill, it undeniably concerns the Wheel (which may, as we discussed earlier, have also been Scale-aspected), and its Hushery commitment has some interesting implications regarding the relationship between the Wheel and dreams:

The Last Sun (Trist) In the dawn times the sun was lower, so we gave it our blood. From our blood it knew us, and so it was kinder. Its serpents brought us its poisons to drink, and so we died. But we only died a little, and so we dreamed, and returned the next day to give it our blood again. Those times of peace persist in the lessons of Hushery.

In the Mansus as it exists now, dreams are shadows cast by the Watchman's light, or else illuminated by his light, but of course this could not have been true in the dawn time when the Watchman didn't yet exist. The Moon-Knock memory A Stolen Secret, "Something I overheard in dreams?", together with Moon's associations with secrets and nocturnal things, at least circumstantially supports the conclusion that dawn-dreams were illuminated instead by the Moon.

Thus, this interplay between the blood-drinking Wheel whose serpents opened the way each night into dreams beneath the light of the Moon, speaks to the interaction of Moon with the old principle Blood, and what traces of that remain between Moon and Nectar.

Blood drinks of life and gives death and the Moon heals in dreams; Blood brings the dawn and Night yields to day. Nectar is the principle of germination and of poisoned thorns and of renewal, and the Moon still remembers what it was.

Also, the Velvet. Just... the Velvet. Next!

Nectar to Sky: We return to Kernawek Henavek, but this time it is the Bosk commitment that interests us...

The Roots (Health) A farmers' proverb in Brancrug: 'What starts in the roots, ends in the sky.' A superstition goes with it, that before a child's first birthday you should leave her for a summer night sleeping in the roots of an apple-tree, to make sure she grows tall and straight-backed. Not many pay heed to the superstition now, but everyone remembers the proverb. It would probably count as Bosk.

...along with the Birdsong commitment for Leaves & Thorns:

Looking Up (Chor) The gardener's first lesson is this: look up. What starts as weather ends in the world, what starts as sky ends in the soil. This is what the birds know, and the birds know most things first.

As beneath, so above. What is a tree but a throne to birds, and what is Sky but a crown for birds? What begins in sky ends in soil, and so the first lesson of the gardener is to look up.

Nectar is the pulse of the seasons, the ripening, the wild vigor of new life. Sky is the principle of balance and harmony, mathematics and law—moderation, but also music. The wind in the branches, the bird in the nest, the lightning-strike that fells the tree and lets in the sunlight so that new flowers can grow. I rest my case.

& Fin. (ominously) for now.

I would apologize for the sheer amount of things I've glossed over things to the tune of "but we don't have time for that now" but in my defense, 1. I'M FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE (this post is 8.2k words long) and 2. I have half of a far more comprehensive disquisition regarding the various shadows-under-the-boat we carefully ignored in this post sitting in my drafts; perhaps a quarter of it is complete; it is pushing forty thousand words in length, so 3. It Will Happen Again.

Tune in next time for: VAMPIRE SUN, EGG MOON, & ...THAT GUY.

[ellipsistories]

me: I'm gonna plan and write an entire slow burn, with a long time frame and a bunch of chapters

My brain: hey what about a modern au but with spellcasting and like, vampire elements

Me: ...OK fine au notes let's go.

Worldbuilding

People have varying amounts of innate magical talent.

Magic is everywhere.

There are all sorts of magic types and spells. Spells are usually incantation-based.

Everyone is human, at least mostly.

The university is not on Motunui but on a larger island which is part of a chain or cluster, close to the mainland. There are ferries available, however.

Moana is a college student. She's a political science major, as she stands to inherit Motunui's chiefdom, and is on the rowing team. She shares a freshman physics lab with Loto.

Loto is also a college student, but is already an accomplished engineer and model boat builder. She works part-time maintaining, repairing, and designing boats at the local marina three days a week, and fulfills model boat commissions another three days. She's known locally for keeping to herself in her standalone studio apartment and befriending a flock of crows that follows her around.

Maui is a popular influence, world-class athlete, and minor celebrity, but will drop everything for his adopted sisters. He drives a minivan for no apparent reason, at least when he's around.

Moni is a storyteller and children's librarian.

Kele is still a farmer, and still as grumpy as ever.

Tui is the hardworking matai of Motunui. His main concerns are preserving his people's way of life in the face of modernization and the wellbeing of his family.

Sina, while not officially employed in the local government, often supports and aids her husband, taking on whatever minutiae she can while raising Simea. Fortunately,

Gramma Tala is alive! Modern medicine amirite? She is a storyteller, a prominent advocate for maintaining the old ways while allowing for change, Moana's confidante and Simea's favorite minder. She has a driver's license.

Matangi is a research scientist and occasional performer. She has two cars thanks to an out-of-court settlement with Nalo, a chic violet sports car and a jeep that always smells faintly of guano. Moana calls her when she requires transportation and utmost discretion.

Tamatoa is an expert appraiser and collector turned influencer. There's a popular theory that he and Maui are exes, even though Maui keeps showing up to pride in aroace blue and orange.

Nalo is in prison and considerably poorer. Matangi really went after him for all he was worth without even stepping foot in a courtroom.

Te Fiti is an environmental scientist and conservationist.

Plot Part One

Loto is getting by. She works and studies and goes to the GP and checks in with the social worker and avoids going out when she can, but it's a new semester and she has to attend her physics lab in person. Also in that lab section is Moana, someone she knows of from the boat shop as an unusually friendly canoe racer.

Moana could've sworn that Loto from the boat shop was like, high school age, but here she is in freshman physics. Moana knows her as shy and secretive, but Loto accidentally started infodumping to her one time and Moana was intrigued. She's gonna sit with her and try to befriend her.

First group project and Moana basically calls dibs on Loto, who has no idea how to refuse and kind of doesn't want to? But she shouldn't she shouldn't she shouldn't

From there Moana figures out just how alone Loto is and worms her way into her life. Loto doesn't really know how to stop it, and she swings between trying anyways and letting it happen. Moana remains determined, even past the end of the semester.

They get closer, and closer, and closer, and “like” turns to “love platonically.”

Loto wakes up one day with a killer migraine.

Ask questions, share theories, point out your favorite bits, do literally anything and I will be happy. I know there's probably not much to say yet but there will be things later.

[lilith0fthevalley]

Now Showing... The Valdebos Tapes

The Blair Witch Project AU!Leon S. Kennedy x Fem!Reader x The Blair Witch Project AU!Jack Krauser

Content Warning: This story is a horror narrative told through found-footage-style transcripts and third-person vignettes. It contains psychological horror, supernatural/paranormal themes, off-screen violence, abduction, restraint imagery, and unsettling ritualistic elements. Readers should be advised that the tone is intense, immersive, and meant to evoke a creeping sense of dread. The fic also includes moments of helplessness, gaslighting, and eerie, cult-adjacent behavior. Please proceed with care if these themes may be distressing.

And as always… Reader discretion is advised.  Word Count: 2257

Event Poster Back of Case Summary Event Masterlist

Tape # 1 :

“Is… Is this thing on? Ah! I think it’s working! Ahem… Hello world! My name is Doctor Y/N L/N, I am the head Paleontologist and assistant head Geoscientist at the University of Massachusetts, where this film is being shown, and I am… So incredibly pleased to be able to bring you along on my trip to a little region tucked away in Spain named Valdebos.” The doctor starts to stand and start to pace, using one hand to hold the camera while speaking and emoting with the other. “See, an anonymous donor was recently so kind as to give the Geoscience and Paleontology departments with samples of a special amber-like specimens that could have a forming date that falls during the Neolithic age. How exciting is that?!” 

Her eyes glitter. “That being said, while my colleagues are hard at work dissecting and hopefully studying the wonderful organisms in your classes, I am off to try to make contact with the inhabitants to see if they can share a bit of history about the model.”

She waves at the camera, a warm smile donned on her face as the tape ends. 

–End of Tape–

Spain – Office of Received Guests

Date: October 20th, 2004

“Doctor… L/N?” A man calls out and looks around. He’s tall with a head of curly brown hair and an ash gray dress shirt tucked into maroon fitted trousers. You raise your hand and smile, bouncing over. “Me! That’s me. Hi…” You greet with a nod of your head. As you settle before the man, you adjust your bag. The words spill from your lips. 

“I’m the head Paleontologist at the University of Massachusetts, and recently we were gifted with a donation of some Neolithic aged samples listed to be from Valdeb-” “I’m sorry, Doctor L/N. I cannot help you.” The man says swiftly and shakes his head. You blink and stammer, scrambling to follow him as he turns to walk away from you.

This is your life’s work… To be turned away now would be… It would be unacceptable! “Wh- Well hang on! Can I at least know why? Do you know something, anything about the location the samples were extracted from?!” You cry out, desperately and catch the sleeve of his charcoal button up. 

He turns to you with an odd look in his warm brown eyes, eyebrows pinched together, and sighs. “... Doctor… I implore you… If you truly have samples of anything from…” He lowers his voice. “...From… Valdebos… I strongly advise, hell, I would even say I beg you to lock it away. Destroy it. Never examine them… For your safety, and for the safety of your team…” The Spaniard says stiffly before pulling from your grip with a graceful turn, and striding down the hall he came from. 

As you watch him retreat, shaking his head and running a hand through the brunette curls, your shoulders slump. 

‘…So much for that idea…’

From behind you, a throat clears. “So I 'ear you’re sniffin’ 'round for help findin’ them cursed isles o’ Valdebos, eh?” A masculine, accent tinged voice that sounds particularly out of place, offers suavely. You whirl around and face the speaker, only to be met with a newspaper acting as a barrier between you and your perceived blessing. “I am! Can you help me?” The figure chuckles and turns a page in the paper. 

“I can toss ya a fair bit o’ help, I can… no coin needed, mind ya!” He replies, tone smoothing out into something warmer. Something welcoming. You can feel your spirits rise once more as a look of relief and optimism permeates your features. “I-I would appreciate that… Thank you.”

“O’ course! Think of it as a lil’ favour fer an ol’ customer, eh?” The man chuckles with boisterous laughter. As he recovers, he continues. 

“Though, I can't tell you here… too many bleedin’ eyes and twitchin’ ears lurkin’ about…” You nod and look around subtly, trying to locate the alluded to surveillance. 

“Oh, and can I ask….” You start, looking back at the newspaper concealing your new ally. 

“Do you mind if I record our conversation? For the department, and my students, and my records…” 

The newspaper finally lowers and a hooded head with a purple bandana obscuring the lower half of his face meets your curious gaze.  “...By all means, step right in, make yerself comfy-like…”

~~~

Tape # 2 :

The video comes at the sight of Doctor L/N adjusting the video camera on a glass table, her tongue pokes out of her lip as she concentrates. 

“Ok. I think… We’re all set…” She muses softly and clears her throat, adjusting in her seat. 

It looks like she’s sitting outside of a cafe. The frame may only be pointed at her, but based on her body language, someone else is present… “Thank you so much for helping me out. You really are a lifesaver Mister…?” As her eyes flit up to the figure across from her, a masculine voice tinged with a loosely recognizable cockney accent speaks up. “...Er... just call me Mister Mercier, if it pleases ya…” The unseen man stammers, as if he had forgotten his own name. Doctor L/N nods and poses her pen over a notepad. “So, you say you can help me find information about Valdebos, Mr. Mercier… What can you tell me?” She posits. The man chuckles and there’s the sound of shuffling behind the camera, like he’s going through a bag. 

“This were given to me, it were. Scribbled full o’ me own notes from loiterin’ 'round that blasted isle…” A hand with black, fingerless gloves slides a small, leather booklet with a tall map looking paper folded up between the pages. “Everythin’ yer little heart’s yearnin’ for—and then some—is scratched in that there journal.” Mr. Mercier continues. “I see… And you don’t mind if I take copies or pictures of the-” The paleontologist is cut off by a burst of laughter from the man, before it devolves into a fit of coughing. Doctor Y/N’s eyes widen as she reaches a hand out to offer help, but he stops her. 

“Nah nah, don’t get all jittery—just a wee nasty bug crawlin’ about, nothin’ worth screamin’ over.” He rasps out and clears his throat.

“Take it, it’s yers now. I’ve done me fair share o’ stompin’ 'round Valdebos… more than any sane soul oughta.” He chuckles weakly. The young doctor nods and her expression relaxes just barely. “... Th-thank you…” She whispers, the sentiment barely picked up by the microphone. A finger of Mr. Mercier points at the booklet. 

“That map’s got a path, clear as day. Stay on it, I’m tellin’ ya. Don’t go wanderin', Doctor—don’t you dare stray, not even a toe…” He takes in a sharp breath of air.

“Can I at least know why? Is there anyone there I’ll be speaking to-” Her words are cut off by another fit of coughs as the man just points at the leather bound journal. Some sort of red stain litters his worn black gloves. “Stick to the path. Don’t let that nose o’ yours drag your brains off course. Don’t chat with no one. And if you ‘ear chantin’… leg it. Fast.”

–End of Tape–

Spain – Valdebos Islands

Date: October 21st, 2004

The cold, salty air whipped your hair around as you fixed the lens cap over the camera. It’s surprisingly strong, but not enough to stop you from filming another successful tape. Pride swells in your chest as you mentally count the number of recordings you’ve made. You are nothing if not dedicated to your occupation as a professor for your students. Hell, you’ve bent over backwards to connect them to opportunities that would bolster their love for your taught topics, and this trip had the same exact intention woven through it. ‘God, I can’t wait to show them what achievements dedication to our work gets…’  You sigh dreamily, a soft, blissful smile on your face, before you shake your head, refocusing on the goals at hand. You double check the security of the dirt samples and with a satisfied nod, close your pack back up to peruse your map once more. 

The moment you unfold it. A strong wind pulls it from your weak, half-hearted grip and off over one of the offshooting paths… “No!!” You cry out in surprise and make haste to follow the fluttering chart. 

Your eyes are locked on the paper as you absently maneuver over the piles of rubble and discarded materials that are haphazardly strewn about the main island. “Dammit!! Come back here!!” You scold the paper as it seems to taunt you, lulling for a moment, fluttering down close enough that you believe you’ll have it this time… Before a new burst of wind rips it from your grasp. 

You’re sure this is a cruel joke…

As it lowers again, you decide to make use of the mounds of stone and… whatever else, climbing it with a burst of adrenaline and leaping into the air…

Your hands grip the map and you let out a satisfied  “Gotcha!!” Before descending with no modicum of grace, onto the fracture-laden stone floor. Sharp pants are drawn into your lungs as a humorless laugh leaves your lips and you push a mess of hair out of your face. As you pull yourself to sit, you look around to see you’ve found a sort of… amphitheatre. In the back-center of the stage, a rectangular, brilliantly carded blackstone structure looms. Despite its weathered exterior, it still looks elegant, oozing with a sort of… reverence-demanding air. “Where could I be…?” You muse out as you open your map. The telltale signs of your full focus being turned to the drawn trials that Mr. Mercier gifted you surface; Bottom lip sucked between your teeth, furrowed eyebrows, a pensive pinch of your chin and soft clicks of your tongue as inquisitive eyes darted about the worn guide. 

It really is a weakness of yours… Turning your whole attention to deducing your location… 

A weakness exploited by the pair of creatures that leer down at your unassuming, unaware form. 

With an acknowledging nod to each other, they pounce.

~~~

Tape # ? :

“My my, Miss Doctor… I thought I told my dear merchant friend to tell you to stay on the paths I marked for you…” A cold and yet smooth voice coos. A hand obscures the view of the camera as it’s moved around. In the background, the sound of muffled crying and movement can be picked up. The figure covering the lens places down the camera on an unknown surface and positions it until he lets out a satisfied hum. 

The sight of an altar is in frame, Y/N’s gagged and bound form on top of the degrading stone. She kicks and pulls at the restraints, but they hold firm. “She’s struggling.” A gravelly voice snarls. The initial man laughs, a sound deep and sweet if not twisted “Well, of course she is, my old friend. She’s a scared little lamb…” A mutated, clawed hand, belonging to the man-or creature-holding the camera, brushes the back of its knuckles against Doctor L/N’s tear streaked cheeks. She flinches away from the touch and lets out a broken sob, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“Was it worth it, Miss Doctor?” The first man purrs. In the corner of the frame, you can see plump, baby pink lips that lean down to the restrained doctor’s forehead. They pull into a cruel smile as she forces her eyes open to look up at the man. He rounds the ledge the camera is on so that his back is to the camera. A dirty blonde man with a broad back and shoulders. Built, and yet… lithe. A navy compression shirt hides the ripple of his muscles as he moves. He would be considered attractive… If it wasn’t for the razor sharp claws adorning his hands and forearms, marring the flesh with a sickly charcoal hue, or if a glossy, onyx scorpion tail, scaled up for use, wasn't piercing through the flesh of his lower back… “Was your lust for knowledge worth sacrifice?” He chuckles. 

A second creature resembling a mutated humanoid with claws and features akin to a bug pounces into view. He’s tall, muscular, wearing a red beret on top of his platinum blonde hair. He crosses his carved arms over his bare chest and clicks his tongue. 

Both men are littered with inky veins, spidering around under their flesh. The lines seem to pulse and contract with every move made… “You little researchers… Always saying you’ll sacrifice anything for the sake of your work…” He rasps out, scarred lip pulling into a derisive smirk. “Does that include your freedom, Miss Doctor…?” The first man coos as Doctor L/N’s cries intensify, a fresh wave of tears pouring down her cheeks. “Ohhh, none of that… Come on now…” The dirty blond muses with mock comfort, using a clawed finger to brush away her tears, before gripping her cheeks and holding her head up uncomfortably. 

“You were all smiles and sunshine in your first tape… So go on… Do what you do so well…” He whispers as the bulkier man unties one of the wrist bindings around the Doctor’s wrists, gripping the thin, bony joint tightly, shaking it in a mocking action at the camera. 

The dirty blonde turns to the camera and offers it a boyish, charming smile.

“Smile and wave…”

–End of Tape– ~~~

Event Masterlist

Taglist: @shymoob

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Niels Henrik David Bohr (7 October 1885 – 18 November 1962)

A Danish physicist, Niels Henrik David Bohr is perhaps most well known for his work on the structure of the atom and the resulting Bohr model. Bohr built off of Ernest Rutherford's previous atomic model, proposing that electrons orbited the nucleus at discrete energy levels and were able to jump between levels with the addition or expulsion of energy. Although more accurate models exist today, the Bohr model remains a useful tool for understanding atomic structure. Bohr was eventually awarded the 1922 Nobel prize in physics for his work. He also predicted the existence of hafnium (named for Copenhagen) and worked extensively in the field of quantum mechanics.

Though he spent most of his life in Denmark, Bohr and his family were forced to flee the country when the Nazis took over during World War II as his mother was Jewish. As a result, he spent the final years of the war in Britain and the United States, working on the Manhattan project and was an early proponent of international cooperation regarding nuclear weapons and nuclear power.

Element 107, bohrium, is named in his honor.

Sources/Further Reading: (Images source - Wikipedia) (Biography.com) (LiveScience) (Nobel Prize) (PBS)

[supper-ansuta-broth]

Welcome to Supper あんスタ！！Broth!!

This account is dedicated to documenting the weird, interesting, useless, helpful, niche, obscure, or otherwise not-very-well-known tidbits of information about Ensemble Stars!. Here's a guide on how our blog will work!

#enstars music - Posts about Ensemble Stars!! Music.

#enstars basic - Posts about Ensemble Stars!! Basic, and Ensemble Stars!.

#enstars stories - Posts about stories.

> #! stories - Stories from ! era.

> #!! stories - Stories from !! era.

> #!!-2 stories - Stories from !!-2 (aka !!!) era.

#ensemble training - Posts about Ensemble Training.

#enstars anime - Posts about the Ensemble Stars! anime.

#road to show - Posts about Ensemble Stars!! Road to Show.

#enstage - Posts about Ensemble Stars! stage plays. Does not include DREAM LIVE or any other hologram/3D model stage performances or concerts.

#dream live - Posts about DREAM LIVE. Does not include the several live actor stage productions.

Characters included, if they are significant to the post, will be tagged as well, along with #enstars, #ensemble stars, #あんスタ, and #あんさんぶるスターズ.

#short post - Posts that are relatively short. Up to author discretion.

#long post - Posts that are relatively long. Will usually require a post break ("Keep reading" bar). Up to author discretion.

#not fun fact - Posts that are not related to the account's original purpose. Usually just goofy stuff. Mute this if you only want to see the infotainment!

* * * * * *

All posts will have sources cited whenever possible. Some posts (specifically from author 🕰️) may have original research. All original research posts will be backed up with tangible evidence.

Posts will attempt to remain neutral and be facts-based only. Any personal opinion or speculation will be warned for as such, and avoided completely if it can be helped.

Here are our authors!

Update on 17 January 2025: For the sake of clarity and to emphasize the importance of educated enjoyment, I wish to stress that this account has always and will always view Ensemble Stars!, Happy Elements, and all affiliated with the Enstars brand under a critical lens. This game is my (🕰️) years long special interest and I hold it dearly to my heart, however this in no way means I make these posts under the false assumption that it is flawless. Terrible decisions have been made with the stories, especially as of recently, and this account is made not only with love for what the franchise was and could have been, but also with hope that it may improve and disappointment for its many drastic missteps. This account, as well as any others meant for the spread of information or archival, should be viewed neutrally and with no implication of endorsement of everything this franchise has to offer, even if we record these missteps publicly.

(TL;DR: This account does not endorse HappyEle and everything they've done to and with Ensemble Stars!, and all authors on this account are highly critical of the company.)

Author 🕰️ - cl0ckworkpuppet. Will mainly be focusing on Music. Will make a lot of long posts with original research. (he/him)

Author ☕ - beastofmoss. Will mainly be making short posts. (they/he)

Thanks for checking us out!

[narcoleptic-assassin]

Maximus Has C-PTSD

I’m surprised no one else has talked about this yet so I’ll just jump in and give my thoughts. Grabbing a snippet directly from wiki, it reads:

“The diagnosis of PTSD was originally developed for adults who had suffered from a single-event trauma. However, the situation for many children is quite different. Children can suffer chronic trauma such as maltreatment, family violence, dysfunction, or a disruption in attachment to their primary caregiver. In many cases, it is the child's caregiver who causes the trauma. The diagnosis of PTSD does not take into account how the developmental stages of children may affect their symptoms and how trauma can affect a child's development…

“Repeated traumatization during childhood leads to symptoms that differ from those described for PTSD.”

So what is the difference between PTSD and CPTSD? Let’s look at the seven behavioral clusters described.

• Attachment – “problems with relationship boundaries, lack of trust, social isolation, difficulty perceiving and responding to others' emotional states”

• Biomedical symptoms – “sensory-motor developmental dysfunction, sensory-integration difficulties; increased medical problems or even somatization”

• Affect or emotional regulation – “poor affect regulation, difficulty identifying and expressing emotions and internal states, and difficulties communicating needs, wants, and wishes”

• Elements of dissociation – “amnesia, depersonalization, discrete states of consciousness with discrete memories, affect, and functioning, and impaired memory for state-based events”

• Behavioral control – “problems with impulse control, aggression, pathological self-soothing”

• Cognition – “difficulty regulating attention; problems with a variety of 'executive functions' such as planning, judgment, initiation, use of materials, and self-monitoring; difficulty processing new information; difficulty focusing and completing tasks; poor object constancy; problems with 'cause-effect' thinking; and language developmental problems such as a gap between receptive and expressive communication abilities.”

• Self-concept – “fragmented and disconnected autobiographical narrative, disturbed body image, low self-esteem, excessive shame, and negative internal working models of self”

There are also some similarities to regular ptsd such as reliving traumatic events (although more so in rumative occupation rather than the classic war flashbacks you see in media), insomnia, hypervigilance, and of course depression and anxiety.

People with CPTSD also sometimes have an obsession with their abuser, being preoccupied with thoughts of revenge, or having an idealized or paradoxical gratitude towards them, and acceptance of a perpetrator's belief system or rationalizations.

At a very young age, Maximus lost everything he loved and knew, only then to be snatched up by a fascist organization and revictimized over and over again. He was beaten regularly, by his peers and teachers, constantly derided and humiliated, and given the most menial and disgusting tasks. That’s what we know just looking at the very surface. Who the hell knows what else went on that we the viewers haven’t seen. He’s a perfect candidate for such a disorder.

If that’s not enough for you, let’s go through the above listed behaviors.

Maximus is repeatedly shown to be inexperienced and awkward in social interactions. He either gives too much, or too little, like when he came clean to Thaddeus way too soon, or how he repeatedly lied to Lucy. This also displays his general mistrust. When he saw all the vault 4 dwellers being nice and happy for apparently no reason, this immediately seemed wrong to him, and he labeled it a cult. However, when Birdie gave him a home and food, he latched on to it like a dying man. He craves attachment, longs for it so badly that he falls into this vicious cycle of reaching out, getting hurt, then becoming mistrustful and dishonest. I could write a whole essay on Maximus’ attachment issues, but I’ll move on.

We don’t exactly see any biomedical symptoms with him, but who knows. Maybe there’s something going on internally that we just haven’t seen yet.

With affect and emotional regulation, Maximus has several emotional outbursts during the season, the first when he breaks the toilet after hearing that Dane got promoted and he didn’t, and the second in the very next scene with him during his interrogation. He obviously feels immensely guilty for wishing harm upon his only friend, and panics when asked about it. Whether he did it or not, to him it probably feels like he might as well have just put the razor in the boot himself. Then when Quintus spares his life and even promotes him, he cries in relief and joy. There’s also the other side of this, where he often shows little emotion and remains stoic even when those around him are obviously upset, such as with the fiends on the bridge. He hides behind an expressionless mask, because it’s the most safe, the most neutral option. He was probably punished for expressing himself when he was younger, and now in adulthood, it’s become habit. The only time we see the mask come down, is briefly and usually when he’s alone.

Maximus doesn’t seem to have dissociative symptoms or amnesia, but we know very little of his backstory. At times he may dissociate in response to situations, but that’s a very internal thing, and Max as a character is already quite stoic and aloof. It’s hard to gauge his mental state.

Impulse control is not our guy’s strong suit. He is a slave to his desires as one might say. He almost takes vault 4s fusion core without hesitation until Birdie stops him. When he sees Lucy in trouble he jumps to action (although most people probably would in a similar situation) then attacks the residents almost immediately without stopping for a moment to read the room. He also panics several times and acts quite impulsively. He ripped out the radio in the suit, which with just a little thought he probably would have realized wouldn’t help. (Then again he was probably heavily concussed at this point so you have to give him a break lol) Then when Thaddeus responded negatively to him revealing himself, this immediately sends him into fight or flight mode, and he’s been taught by the Brotherhood to respond to threats with violence.

For cognition, I feel like I could just copy and paste it here again lol. I could go through all the times he’s not thought things through, or done something poorly planned, but come on, you watched the show didn’t you? And this goes right along with impulse control as well. In the class scene, he’s shown not to be a particularly good student, this could be due to a short attention span, or difficulty focusing. Or it could even be due to a lack of object recognition and consistency, which is defined as the ability to recognize an object across varying viewing conditions. These executive dysfunctions are similar to those displayed in ADHD and ASD. There may even be an overall lack of motivation, but as you can see in the first scene with power armor, he shows more knowledge about them than his peers. He’s more than willing to learn about something that interests him, but you’ll know if you have ADHD, it is much harder learning about or doing things you’re not interested in.

Finally, there’s his self image. He goes through most of the show masquerading as someone else entirely, and even says to Lucy at one point that he doesn’t think he’s a good person. He’s ashamed of his own body, thinking that sexual arousal is disgusting, and has shame surrounding those feelings. I think he even blames himself for what happened to Dane because he had intrusive thoughts about it happening, which is why he may have had trouble telling Quintus that he didn’t do it. Maybe he even thought he deserved to be punished.

There’s also his relationship with his abusers. In his mind, there is only one perpetrator, the person who blew up Shady Sands, but in reality there’s two. For the person who destroyed his home, he’s consumed with a vague but obsessive goal of revenge even years later into adulthood. But for the Brotherhood, they are his saviors. He owes them his life, and repeatedly goes back to the memory of stepping out of the fridge and seeing this gleaming suit of armor standing tall among the wreckage of his home. He bought in wholesale to their ideology, taking it literally, even too literally. He betrays his own knight, going over him to stay loyal to the Brotherhood overall. I’ve seen other people mention this, but I don’t remember who now unfortunately. Honestly, I’m so grateful to them because I hadn’t thought of this before.

There is so much more I could say about Max and his symptoms of trauma, but a lot of it is still floating around my head in a messy abstract clutter. This is all I’ve got right now. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk!

[bengisuedotcom]

The grotesque isn’t the opposite of beauty, it’s often its mirror. Pain and elegance aren’t mutually exclusive. Trauma doesn’t invalidate artistry; it can birth it. But this isn’t a truth people like to sit with. In a cultural climate obsessed with healing and safe expression, we’ve created a hierarchy of acceptable pain, what kind can be shared, how it should be framed and most importantly, how it should make the audience feel.

This essay is not about making anyone feel better. Quite frankly I’m not here to do that. It’s about defending the artist’s right to create without moral constraint. I want to argue for the legitimacy of work that unsettles, that confronts, that even disturbs. Because there are some experiences that shouldn't be made soft. And there are artists, myself included, who don’t want to soften them. Those stories still deserve to be told. Viewer discretion advised. 

I believe it’s valid to turn the most traumatic, violent or grotesque elements of life into art. Not as therapy. Not as spectacle. But because they exist. And because ignoring them doesn’t make them go away. It doesn’t change reality. The world can be filthy. 

The Moral Expectations Placed on Art Today

In contemporary culture, art is often expected to perform a function: to heal, to empower, to uplift or at the very least, to teach a lesson. This is especially true in digital spaces, where context collapses and everything becomes public-facing. The artist is not just asked what they created, but why and whether that “why” fits within an acceptable moral framework. Intention is scrutinized. Impact is judged. Nuance is flattened.

Discomfort, unless framed within a narrative of overcoming, is seen as a threat. Work that lacks resolution is considered dangerous. Art that centers pain, especially if it's raw, unresolved, or confrontational, is often met with suspicion, as if the artist is exploiting the suffering rather than expressing it. Somewhere along the line, we began to treat difficult work as irresponsible and problematic.

But art was never supposed to be safe. Some of the most culturally significant works throughout history, Guernica, Galliano at Dior, Highland Rape, dare I even say The Weeknd and Sam Levinson’s The Idol, were met with outrage in their time. Not because they were morally wrong, but because they revealed something society wasn’t ready to look at. This is what powerful art often does: it forces confrontation.

When we expect art to soothe or educate, we reduce it to a tool. But art isn’t always a message. Sometimes it’s a mirror. And sometimes, the reflection is violent. 

Highland Rape as Case Study: On McQueen and the Right to Disturb

In 1995, Alexander McQueen sent models down the runway in torn dresses, smeared makeup and exposed breasts. Some of them looked like they'd been assaulted. Others looked like they’d survived it. The collection was titled Highland Rape and the backlash was immediate.

Critics accused him of glamorizing violence against women. Feminists called it offensive. Headlines labeled him misogynistic, exploitative, dangerous. But McQueen wasn’t glorifying harm: he was documenting it. The collection wasn’t about the violation of women. It was about the violation of Scotland, its historical domination, its identity stripped by colonial force. “It was about England’s rape of Scotland,” he said. The women on that runway weren’t victims. They were territory. And they were fighting back.

The nuance didn’t matter. It never does when something makes people uncomfortable. No one wanted to engage with the metaphor. They wanted to be outraged. And McQueen was left to defend his work, again and again, against people who had already decided what they thought it meant.

But McQueen didn’t stop. He never tried to become more palatable. He didn’t apologize for making people uncomfortable he pushed further. He created shows that mirrored psychosis (VOSS), questioned bodily autonomy (Deliverance) and deliberately disrupted conventional notions of taste and femininity. He once said, “I want to empower women. I want people to be afraid of the women I dress.” That was the point. To force confrontation. To make people feel something that couldn’t be ignored.

He was misunderstood but not by accident. When you refuse to offer comfort, people will always try to reduce you to the thing they fear most. And that’s exactly what happened to him. It’s what happens to anyone who tells the truth too brutally, too early, too beautifully.

I don’t romanticize McQueen. He was chaotic, inconsistent and sometimes didn’t know how to explain himself. But he knew exactly what he was doing. He used fashion as a scalpel. And the world hated him for it until it decided he was a genius. But that’s how it always goes. They attack you first. Then they frame you. 

The Problem with Cancelation as Reflex Response

We’ve created a culture where discomfort is treated like danger and outrage is treated like justice. The moment an artwork crosses a line, we don’t ask why it exists. We ask who to blame. We cancel first and interpret later, if at all.

It’s not that there aren’t things worth calling out. There are. But what we’re doing isn’t always accountability it’s moral policing. We are scrubbing the timeline clean of anything that forces us to sit with what we don’t like. We pretend that removing the artist will remove the discomfort. That silencing the voice will erase the truth it tried to speak.

But what happens when the work is meant to disturb? What happens when provocation is the point? When the artist isn’t careless or cruel, but just unwilling to conform to a narrative of healing, hope or clarity?

People like McQueen were nearly destroyed for refusing to soften the truth. If he were emerging today, he would be canceled before his third show. Not because he was harmful but because he was loud. Because he didn’t ask for permission. Because his work made people feel something they couldn’t control and that’s the one thing our moral economy seems unable to tolerate. 

Cancel culture doesn’t just punish the offensive. It punishes the unpredictable. The complicated. The ambiguous. The artists who don't offer easy answers. And when you punish people for making others uncomfortable, you don’t eliminate harm you eliminate honesty.

I’ll be honest: some of the things that inspire me most would disturb other people. Blood. Death. Decay. Psychosis. Existential dread. The world as it looks through the eyes of mental illness. I don’t just tolerate those things, I’m drawn to them. Not because they’re shocking, but because they’re honest. Because they expose something raw and unfiltered about being alive. I find beauty in nightmares, in horror and the uncanny. 

I Don’t Want to Be Palatable

This is where the essay takes a more personal turn but bare with me, it might be worth your time.

I see myself in artists like McQueen not because I want to imitate their chaos, I’m already a walking contradiction, but because I understand what it means to be misread. To be told that what you’re expressing is too much, too dark, too uncomfortable. That you should tone it down, make it prettier, more digestible. I’ve heard the same suggestions, spoken or implied: add resolution, offer hope, give people something they can walk away from feeling better.

But I don’t want to make people feel better. I want to make them feel something real.

When I say I find beauty in the grotesque, I don’t mean I want to romanticize suffering. I mean that I reject the idea that beauty must be soft, symmetrical or safe. I believe that what is difficult to look at can still be meaningful. That what is horrifying can still have value. And that pain, when turned into art, does not always need to be justified or explained.

Sometimes, I make work out of the things that have broken me. Not to process them. Not to heal. But because they happened. Because they shaped me. Because I refuse to pretend they weren’t there. And maybe, even after creating it, I still feel like shit. That’s okay. If the result disturbs you, that’s fine. You are free to look away. But I am also free to keep creating.

Being misunderstood is not a tragedy to me. Not everyone is going to understand me. Being silenced is.

You Don’t Have to Look

This isn’t an invitation. It’s an appeal.

I will continue to make what I need to make. It might disturb you. It might not follow the rules. It might not leave you with anything useful. That’s not my problem. That’s not my job.

You don’t have to look. But I won’t stop showing you. And if the only thing you take away from my work is your own discomfort then maybe that’s the most honest reaction you’ll have all day.

We do not owe the world prettiness. We do not owe our pain a soft translation. And we do not owe art a purpose beyond itself.

Some of us create to survive. Some of us create to expose. Some of us create to remind you that not everything wants to be fixed.

Let it bleed.

[open-hearth-rpg]

Gear & Loadout: Great RPG Mechanics #RPGMechanics Week One

For the next few weeks, as a short break from the RPG Covers series, I’ll be talking about discrete rpg mechanics which I dig. These are rules, elements & systems that grabbed me when I read them. I love what each of them do to play at the table. This isn’t a cobbling together of mechanics to build a new game, but an appreciation of cool ideas designers had and how they work. 

The question of “stuff” has always been present in rpgs. How do games model equipment and gear. Usually that’s just a question of weapon and armor lists. Some games would do away with it– making it instead into point-statted equipment and gadgets. But others went with multiple page listings of all the things your characters could buy– and usually how much they weighed. Detailed lists lead to encumbrance, and encumbrance leads to soul-death-y rules. 

A bigger question is: how can you have equipment and make it meaningful and fun to interact with. Forged in the Dark’s gear system offers a solution to that. Instead of gear being charts of numbers that you go through to find effects or to use as modifiers, it’s an active thing. It doesn’t sit passively. You get to choose. 

On the one hand, when you actually call on equipment, it does something. It gives you a benefit. That makes the list feel real and important. It’s also a limited resource. In Blades in the Dark, loadout shapes how much equipment you can use. It makes for an interesting choice about equipment right away.

The second big choice is which equipment to use. For the most part the gear is the same (with a few exceptions like Special Armor). So the cool part is choosing which thing fits best with the story being told. That can vary from session to session, mission to mission. And there’s no complex calculation of weight, prices, or rarity. We have a list and we do pick ahead of time. 

Instead our choices are contingent on events, chosen in the heat of the moment, and don’t require complex calculations ahead of time. Forged in the Dark changes something basic in the game and reverses classic approaches. 

It’s why I love it– and the many variants we’ve seen of it (take Mountain Home for example). I love that we can have the *feel* of complex equipment lists but without the actual complexity of so many trad systems.

[mariacallous]

There’s a lesson I once learned from a CEO—a leader admired not just for his strategic acumen but also for his unerring eye for quality. He’s renowned for respecting the creative people in his company. Yet he’s also unflinching in offering pointed feedback. When asked what guided his input, he said, “I may not be a creative genius, but I’ve come to trust my taste.”

That comment stuck with me. I’ve spent much of my career thinking about leadership. In conversations about what makes any leader successful, the focus tends to fall on vision, execution, and character traits such as integrity and resilience. But the CEO put his finger on a more ineffable quality. Taste is the instinct that tells us not just what can be done, but what should be done. A corporate leader’s taste shows up in every decision they make: whom they hire, the brand identity they shape, the architecture of a new office building, the playlist at a company retreat. These choices may seem incidental, but collectively, they shape culture and reinforce what the organization aspires to be.

Taste is a subtle sensibility, more often a secret weapon than a person’s defining characteristic. But we’re entering a time when its importance has never been greater, and that’s because of AI. Large language models and other generative-AI tools are stuffing the world with content, much of it, to use the term du jour, absolute slop. In a world where machines can generate infinite variations, the ability to discern which of those variations is most meaningful, most beautiful, or most resonant may prove to be the rarest—and most valuable—skill of all.

I like to think of taste as judgment with style. Great CEOs, leaders, and artists all know how to weigh competing priorities, when to act and when to wait, how to steer through uncertainty. But taste adds something extra—a certain sense of how to make that decision in a way that feels fitting. It’s the fusion of form and function, the ability to elevate utility with elegance.

Think of Steve Jobs unveiling the first iPhone. The device itself was extraordinary, but the launch was more than a technical reveal—it was a performance. The simplicity of the black turtleneck, the deliberate pacing of the announcement, the clean typography on the slides—none of this was accidental. It was all taste. And taste made Apple more than a tech company; it made it a design icon. OpenAI’s recently announced acquisition of Io, a startup created by Jony Ive, the longtime head of design at Apple, can be seen, among other things, as an opportunity to increase the AI giant’s taste quotient.

Taste is neither algorithmic nor accidental. It’s cultivated. AI can now write passable essays, design logos, compose music, and even offer strategic business advice. It does so by mimicking the styles it has seen, fed to it in massive—and frequently unknown or obscured—data sets. It has the power to remix elements and bring about plausible and even creative new combinations. But for all its capabilities, AI has no taste. It cannot originate style with intentionality. It cannot understand why one choice might have emotional resonance while another falls flat. It cannot feel the way in which one version of a speech will move an audience to tears—or laughter—because it lacks lived experience, cultural intuition, and the ineffable sense of what is just right.

This is not a technical shortcoming. It is a structural one. Taste is born of human discretion—of growing up in particular places, being exposed to particular cultural references, developing a point of view that is inseparable from personality. In other words, taste is the human fingerprint on decision making. It is deeply personal and profoundly social. That’s precisely what makes taste so important right now. As AI takes over more of the mechanical and even intellectual labor of work—coding, writing, diagnosing, analyzing—we are entering a world in which AI-generated outputs, and the choices that come with them, are proliferating across, perhaps even flooding, a range of industries. Every product could have a dozen AI-generated versions for teams to consider. Every strategic plan, numerous different paths. Every pitch deck, several visual styles. Generative AI is an effective tool for inspiration—until that inspiration becomes overwhelming. When every option is instantly available, when every variation is possible, the person who knows which one to choose becomes even more valuable.

This ability matters for a number of reasons. For leaders or aspiring leaders of any type, taste is a competitive advantage, even an existential necessity—a skill they need to take seriously and think seriously about refining. But it’s also in everyone’s interest, even people who are not at the top of the decision tree, for leaders to be able to make the right choices in the AI era. Taste, after all, has an ethical dimension. We speak of things as being “in good taste” or “in poor taste.” These are not just aesthetic judgments; they are moral ones. They signal an awareness of context, appropriateness, and respect. Without human scrutiny, AI can amplify biases and exacerbate the world’s problems. Countless examples already exist: Consider a recent experimental-AI shopping tool released by Google that, as reported by The Atlantic, can easily be manipulated to produce erotic images of celebrities and minors.

Good taste recognizes the difference between what is edgy and what is offensive, between what is novel and what is merely loud. It demands integrity.

Like any skill, taste can be developed. The first step is exposure. You have to see, hear, and feel a wide range of options to understand what excellence looks like. Read great literature. Listen to great speeches. Visit great buildings. Eat great food. Pay attention to the details: the pacing of a paragraph, the curve of a chair, the color grading of a film. Taste starts with noticing.

The second step is curation. You have to begin to discriminate. What do you admire? What do you return to? What feels overdesigned, and what feels just right? Make choices about your preferences—and, more important, understand why you prefer them. Ask yourself what values those preferences express. Minimalism? Opulence? Precision? Warmth?

The third step is reflection. Taste is not static. As you evolve, so will your sensibilities. Keep track of how your preferences change. Revisit things you once loved. Reconsider things you once dismissed. This is how taste matures—from reaction to reflection, from preference to philosophy.

Taste needs to considered in both education and leadership development. It shouldn’t be left to chance or confined to the arts. Business schools, for example, could do more to expose students to beautiful products, elegant strategies, and compelling narratives. Leadership programs could train aspiring executives in the discernment of tone, timing, and presentation. Case studies, after all, are about not just good decisions, but how those decisions were expressed, when they went into action, and why they resonated. Taste can be taught, if we’re willing to make space for it.

[alicesadventuresinffxiv]

FFxivWrite2024 Prompt #18 / #wolkrileweek Prompt #5 (Pictomancy)

Title: Not hackneyed if it’s from you

Wordcount: 1344

Spoilers through: Endwalker 6.55

Relationships & Characters: Krile/Tataru

Summary: Five times Tataru designed a Pictomancer outfit for Krile.

(Oh hey, a prompt combination I can turn into Krile/Tataru fluff! This entry really needs some screenshots to go along with it… but that will have to wait for a later draft. ^^)

.

“Pictomancy, is it?” Tataru thoughtfully tilted her head. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a thing.”

“It was invented by the Archon Relm.” Krile grunted as she hefted a stack of tomes onto a desk in the Baldesion Annex. “These days, there are very few living practitioners, so I’ve turned to the Noumenon instead.”

“Aha! So you’re looking for historical inspiration.”

“That’s the idea.” Krile opened one of the tomes, wrinkled her nose at the dense blocks of text in an art book, and closed it again. “Though I must confess, I’m not certain where to start.”

Tataru peered over her shoulder “Hmm… well, what if you looked the part?” She pointed to the cover of the book, illustrated with colorful images of the Archon in question. “I think I could whip something like that up. Maybe even try a few variations…different styles, different materials…”

“Are you sure? I know you’ve been swamped with orders now that you’ve got the Warrior of Light advertising your business. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

But Tataru’s eyes gleamed. “If it means getting to see you try my designs on, I’ve all the time in the world!” Then she sheepishly looked away, her voice hesitant. “If, that is, you’re interested…?”

Ah. So that was her goal. Despite becoming an immensely successful businesswoman and a political force to be reckoned with in her own right, the Scion’s former secretary had an ever-humble heart. From the shy eagerness coloring both her posture and her thoughts, she must have been waiting to ask for quite a long time.

Krile chuckled and put aside her book. “I suppose I have put little thought into my appearance lately. As much as I’ll miss this cloak, I can’t wear it forever.”

Tataru looked curious at that comment, but Krile merely sat back in her chair and stretched. The meaning behind her robe, and the ups and downs of her early life with the Students were not topics she much enjoyed expounding upon. “Very well. In the spirit of attempting something new, I’ll act as your model.”

1. Archon Relm

Krile twirled and posed, judging her reflection in the mirror. “It truly is the spitting image of that book cover, isn’t it.”

Tataru grinned. “I even matched the paint splatters!” 

Indeed, it was a startlingly accurate recreation. So accurate, in fact, that Krile couldn’t help but feel she was standing in shoes she couldn’t hope to fill. Her shoulders slumped. “Mayhap you should try your hand at pictomancy instead of me. The craftsmanship on display here is far better than any I’ve accomplished with my paintings.”

Tataru winced sympathetically. “Trouble controlling your creations?”

“More like a failure of imagination.” Krile shook her head. “I’m sorry. The costume is lovely, but… it just makes me worry I won’t ever measure up.”

“Then let’s try something else!” Tataru narrowed her eyes and stared deep into Krile’s. “Something unique to you...”

2. Elemental +2 Casting Set 

“Tataru?” 

“Yes?”

Krile examined the glowing white lines running down the coat. “Did you get the materials for this from the Isle of Val?”

“You’d be surprised what activities retainers get up to, and what they’re willing to discuss in exchange for a little discretion.” The Scion’s master of blackmail crossed her arms with a smirk. “Besides, I’m sure those adventurers won’t miss a few bits and bobs they stashed away and haven’t looked at for moons.”

Krile lifted her shoulders in a wry shrug. “I did say they could keep what they found in return for their assistance.”

“I’ve seen to it that they’ll be compensated.” Tataru waved away her concerns. “More importantly: what do you think?”

Krile glanced down again and grimaced. “I look like a tree decked out for the Starlight celebration.”

“That won’t do, then…” Tataru bobbed her arm in a decisive gesture. “Next!”

3. Crawling in My Memories

“This is… unique…” Krile raised an eyebrow as she took in the full effect of the outfit. There was dark and gloomy, and then there was… Tataru’s latest creation. “Er… if you don’t mind my asking, what was the inspiration?”

Tataru shyly kicked at the floor. “Well… I know what it’s like to be left behind, on the sidelines. And I know that as difficult as that is for me, it must be so much worse for you! You never complain, even though you’re constantly feeling everyone’s suffering.”

“So it’s inspired by my abilities?” There was something oddly sweet about the idea. Krile couldn’t help but smile underneath the (frankly overdramatic) mask. “While I’ll admit I’ve had more than my fair share of dark days, I’d prefer not to dwell on them. As painful as it may be at times, I choose to see the Echo as a blessing.”

“A blessing…” Tataru’s face suddenly lit up. “I’ve got just the thing!”

4. Chosen of Hydaelyn

“By the Twelve…” Krile gasped as she examined the shimmering blue crystals and faintly glowing blossoms. “Tataru, this is exquisite. Are these Elpis blooms? And…” She closed her eyes and focused on the faint, yet achingly familiar aura the crystals gave off. “I’d know this signature anywhere. These are fragments of the Mothercrystal!”

“Just fragments and dust, I’m afraid. Not even enough to craft into a focus or staff.” Tataru knelt to trace her fingers around one of the larger pieces. “Even if She’s gone now, I like to think some remnant of Her still watches over you and keeps you safe.”

“I can’t wear this.” Krile would not cry. Would not think of that perilous yet wondrous voyage into the Sea, and the knowledge that she had missed her one chance to meet the Goddess face-to-face. So much of her life had been shaped by Hydaelyn’s call. But now she would never hear it again. “Imagine if it got torn, or stained with my paints! It’s irreplaceable.”

“But you do look just lovely in it.” Tataru sighed wistfully. Then she nodded with a serious expression. “Yet you’re quite right. The goal was to craft practice gear for your pictomancy, and this simply isn’t suited for that purpose.”

Krile caught her by the shoulder as the seamstress turned back towards her patterns. “Perhaps for special occasions…”

Tataru beamed. “Of course! Waste not, want not, after all!” A faint blush crept over her cheeks. “Did you have any special occasions in mind…?”

“Well, I do recall a rather fine dining establishment from Estinien’s memories should we ever find ourselves in Ishgard again…”

5. Dawntrail

Tataru self-consciously wrung her hands together as Krile moved the mirror back into position. “I know the design isn’t the most original, but I did my best.”

Krile pulled the hood up and stepped back to admire herself. There was something about the slight weight of the cartoonish ears settling back into place that just felt right. “I look like me.”

“You like it?” Tataru rushed over to the table and grabbed the final piece of the ensemble. “My contacts in Thavnair finally deciphered the recipe for the paints you wanted, so I’ve got those as well!”

Krile lifted her brush and struck a pose. “You’ve done it again, Tataru.”

The master seamstress shrugged awkwardly. “All I really did was copy most of the pattern from your grandfather’s notes…”

“And that’s why it’s perfect.” Krile looked back and gave her a nod. “He was no more than an amateur craftsman, so I suspect he copied the design wholesale from some popular collection. But he stitched it together himself, and that meant the world to me as a child.”

Tataru’s eyes widened. “So I’m following in the footsteps of a family tradition.”

“That’s right.” Krile set the brush and palette aside so she could take Tataru’s hands. “He might be gone today, but now I have you.”

Once upon a time, Galuf had made Krile’s original cloak with the wish that others would not fear her powers. That she would befriend and be beloved by many. And what better proof was there that his wish for her had come true, than the woman now standing at Krile’s side?

[wizard-archivist-official]

What’s your favourite piece of forgotten lore?

We raised this question in our biweekly Head Archivists' Meeting to make sure the whole team got to have their input. Once the fires had died down and the various demons had been banished back to their planes of origin, we decided that rather than trying to settle on a single piece we would produce a shortlist based on the most popular answers across the team. The original list of 37 items was then cut down to a "top 3" with the highest degree of consensus between the archivists, and then extended to a "top 4" when Ainsworth threatened to release a Greater Hypercurse of Enpigening in the lobby if his favourite wasn't included.

So, without further ado,

Our sort-of top 34 consensus list of some of our favourite pieces of forgotten lore

Iacobus Stultus (James the Fool)'s Four Prime model of alchemy. Proposed some time after 1613 in the (possibly pseudographical) De Arte Divina Transmutationis et Anates, Iacobus argues against previous Paracelcian tripartite Salt-Sulfur-Mercury theories, as well as later bipartite Sulfur-Mercury and Mercury-alone models, of prime materials in favour of a quadripartite model consisting of salt, sulfur, mercury and ducks as the four fundamental elements of reality. Iacobus's argument hinges on the claim that ducks are such essentially peculiar and transcendental beings that it is inconceivable that they may be constituted of more discrete parts, and must instead be understood as foundational elements and principles of reality. This theory was widely panned by other alchemists on the grounds that ducks are clearly composed of constituent parts and can be subdivided, although a number of later texts attributed to Iacobus continued to defend the salt-sulfur-mercury-ducks theory with a gradually increasing role for elemental ducks in the theory, with the last text, De Divinis Anatibus, going so far as to defend a duck-only theory of prime materials.

The Second Banned Spell. Now, all wizards know the story of the first banned spell, so we won't bore you by repeating it. What is often left out of these stories, however, is that, at the time, the wizard council only created the requisite ordinances and regulations to ban exactly that spell, and did not provide any appropriate institutions for the generalised banning of spells that would follow. In fact, there was significant pushback against the banning of that first spell for fear that this would lead to the council exerting tyrannical control over the wizarding community, and so various clauses and provisions were put in place to prevent the council banning any other spells. So what changed? Throughout the 16th century, wizarding bosses had sought for ways of increasing the effeciency of their apprentices and workers. In 1536, Alfonso of Piccolamerda developed the Lesser Wage Theft spell which, alongside Efficacious Torture and Shatter Will, was widely used by wizarding bosses to force workers to produce more in ever harsher conditions. The result of these harsh and exploitative conditions was the great Apprentice Revolt of 1593, which led to the passing of the Rights of the Apprentice Act 1595 (an early predecessor to the 1707 Wizard Apprentices' Right to Live [WARL] Act) and the addition of Lesser Wage Theft to the list of bannded spells.

Why installers are called "wizards". When computers were first developed, there was some difficulty in developing hardware and software solutions to replacing information within a storage system with other information, or transfering information between storage systems. The original solution for this problem was to shrink a wizard down small enough that they could stand on the computer chip with a little screen that told them when a new file had been called for. When required, the wizard would then summon that file from its original source and use a magical transmutation ritual to imbue it directly into its new storage device. While this was a very quick method of data transfer, it was also expensive, and so it was eventually phased out in favour of the software installers that you know today, although they were referred to as "wizards" for a long time to recall the original information transfer system. Interestingly, the last computer to still use the wizard-based data transfer system was Horatio of Slough's WizBook 7, released in 2011, was discontinued in 2012 following the council establishing the Use of Wizards and Other Sapient Magical Beings in Technological Devices Act.

The invention of blue. Now, you may be familiar with Homer's "wine-dark sea", which some people use to argue that the Ancient Greeks couldn't see blue, and others say is just a metaphor because the idea that the Ancient Greeks couldn't see blue is obviously stupid. As it turns out, neither of these answers is correct - Ancient Greek eye-sight was just as good as anyone's today, but the colour blue hadn't been invented yet. Back then, the visual colour spectrum just went straight from teal to purple. The colour blue was added by the revered Archwizard Wolfgang Sauerkraut, as part of his performance in the 32nd Annual Wizarding Polylympics. While historically notable, the invention of the colour blue and expansion of the visible light spectrum was largely overshadowed for viewers by the second half of the archwizard's act, in which he summoned a seamonster from the plane of water and attempted to have sexual intercourse with it, and as a result, Archwizard Sauerkraut was remembered not for his light-bending creation but as "Archwizard Serpentshagger".