hangeul-jjang

[orthodoxadventure]

Тучная Гора икона Божией Матери

[pangtasias-atelier]

Can I make a request for Gilliam and Garcia mutual gaining in a domestic setting (without ross of course) both at around 500 lbs, with Garcia having a bigger gut and Gilliam being chubbier all around, appreciating each others gains? Thank you

Ahhhhh I definitely struggled with this one ajsnjsb. I do very much like the pairing, I just think I've legit never used either of them in like all 7 of my playthroughs lmao.

I hope you enjoy it regardless cause I did have fun writing it after looking up all their supports ajnjbhns

Warning: This is a fetish story!

In a small yet lively cottage that mostly everyone in the bustling border town knows of, its two residents are the very cause of such an atmosphere. The residence is nearly the exact same as all its neighbors; like all the rest, the house is built from a combination of Frelia's fine lumber from its abundant forests and Renais' rich minerals derived from its vast mountains.

Despite the average appearances, its occupants are anything but average looking.

The two married men are busy in the kitchen. The room is currently being made a mess while also being cleaned up at the same time with both of the men working together.

Gilliam has his back to the stove. Clearly enjoying the peacetime in Frelia, his figure has bloated out. His trusty pants cover up the entire expanse of his blubbery rear. Standing at an impressive stature next to even tall men, Gilliam's height is made extra impressive with his weight. Weighing 508 pounds —last he checked two weeks back— that came about from extensive sessions involving food and groping. The entire shape of his ass is outlined by his tight clothes, every fold and roll of his plump, shapely ass visible for Garcia to gaze upon just by turning around. Gilliam's entire figure is rotund, his lovingly stuffed figure eagerly accepting the extra weight everywhere. The width of Gilliam's hips are almost the same measurement as the kitchen sink; his thighs fill out his pants. Gilliam's large thighs bulge from his weight, the upper half of his thighs straining against the fabric much more than his smaller yet still doughy lower half of his thighs and calves. His thighs squish together from Gilliam’s feet brought together.. It’s a bit difficult to see just how smushed Gilliam’s thighs are with his plentiful ass fat blocking the view, though.

Not that Garcia minds, turning away from his task to give it a playful smack. “You almost done? I’ve got a couple more things ready for you,” Garcia asks. Two turners in his right hand, he reaches around Gilliam to dump them with the last remaining dirty dishes. Garcia gets a handful of Gilliam’s stomach, his own flabby arm covered and sinking into his husband’s blubbery gut as he hugs him with his right arm. Garcia also gets to feel the back of his husband but his gut does most of the feeling. Garcia’s stomach is absolutely immense; the large flabby sack of fat is the retired warrior’s largest feature.

“I’m getting there. It’s a bit difficult,” Gilliam faces down at the last few utensils left despite his husband’s distractions. Gilliam’s difficulty comes from his own size. With him being rather tall, he always had the issue of several things not being made with people his own height in mind. And now with his growing waistline from too many binges —sessions that involve being fed or feeding or both more often than not— Gilliam’s troubles with things being too small are only doubled.

The kitchen sink forces Gilliam to stand at a slightly awkward angle. His thighs come up to the countertop which didn’t use to be too much of a problem before, nothing that a slight hunch or bending couldn’t fix. But his bigger, rather large belly makes it a bigger problem. His large belly sags down to rest on the counter despite it being tucked behind his shirt. Which, when combined with cleaning dishes makes for not the best of combinations. So Gilliam takes his time washing dishes and stands an extra few inches back from the counter. A few drops of soapy water do manage to collide with his belly and the lower roll of his stomach flab is damp from the splashes of water that manage to wet the countertop that his belly does inevitably touch whenever Gilliam reaches forward to grab something.

Garcia also makes washing the dishes a bigger issue than it usually is.

His husband cooking behind him, the two’s kitchen was clearly not made with two obese men in mind. Garcia pigging out just as much as Gilliam, if not more, left him at around the same weight as his husband. At least a whole quarter tonner of a man according to last month’s weigh in, Garcia’s slightly shorter stature has him looking much rounder than Gilliam. A large portion of his weight went to his over bloated stomach, the large gut representative of his new eating habits. Garcia wears his white shirt untucked. His gut spills out from his shirt, the hairy expanse of his lower gut exposed. His chest isn’t that far behind his gut in terms of size. The two large breasts spill out of the shirt’s extremely low neckline; his doughy, hairy chest pressed up against the neckline that struggles to hold back his meaty chest. Not that Garcia minds, the warrior proud of his weight. Though he does move around carefully while he cooks, always mindful of his wobbling belly as he takes slow waddles to adjust himself. His thighs help him move around slowly, the two thick legs crammed with enough fat at his weight to make sure he has to swing one meaty thigh past the other just to walk now. His thighs are free for the most part; Garcia wears a pair of ill fitting shorts. The fat on his thighs curve inward from the tight fit along with his ass. His ass bulges out from the small clothes.

Next to Giliam, Garcia is completely underdressed. A fact that he takes a complete advantage of.

“The food’s almost done. Shouldn’t you be hurrying up?” Garcia slots himself right up next to Gilliam. He bumps his husband with his large hip. Like gelatin slapping gelatin, neither of the now jiggling men end up moving from their spot. Garcia’s gut spills onto the counter, the cool material nice on the underside of his belly that envelops and smothers the countertop.

Gilliam keeps scrubbing at the used pan. “You slow cook everything. The meat won’t be ready for another thirty minutes,”

“And it’ll taste great cause I made it. You don’t get to be this big without knowing your way around a meal,” He pats his belly, the large pile of blubber wobbling in return. Garcia reaches for a kitchen rag and starts drying at all the pans and utensils Gilliam has washed. He makes sure to dry extra vigorously; his blubbery arms that are still as big as his days as a warrior wobble, his biceps filled with lard instead of muscle now.

Gilliam keeps a straight face as he now rinses the sink, all the dishes now washed.. But, he does glance over to see Garcia’s nonsense every once in a while.

Garcia dries the larger dishes now. He uses his gut for leverage, his doughy stomach sinking under the weight of the pans as Garcia makes sure to remove every last drop of water. Clearly not careful to remove most of the water immediately, Garcia’s already tight top is wet. His skin begins to show through the translucent fabric.

Gilliam pats at his forehead with the hand towel as he finishes his task of cleaning. His task finally complete, he focuses his attention over to his husband. Which he nearly snorts at with a grin.

“You’re finally taking some time to look at what a handsome husband you have?” Garcia grins right back. He also puts down the pan he dries, already done drying it some time ago.

“I always have time,” Gilliam brings himself closer. He pushes at Garcia with his gut, slowly using his bulk to turn his husband while also guiding him with his blubbery left arm. “But if I don’t do the chores my husband asks me to do, then what does that make me?”

Garcia allows himself to be guided by Gilliam. Their guts touch up against each other, both of their stomachs smushed as they take slow waddles. “It’d mean you're not such a hard-ass,” Garcia smiles when he sees a blush form on Gilliam’s face.

“Then I guess I won’t listen when you tell me to eat another plate,” Gilliam quips back.

“Like you need the encouragement,”

“Neither do you,”

His retort thrown back at him, all Garcia can do is laugh. “Guess all we can do is blame ourselves then. Not that I have any complaints,” Their left hands still interlocked, two sets of pudgy fingers happily held together, Garcia uses his free hand to grasp at the other’s belly. His thumb in Gilliam’s belly button, Garcia’s palm is smothered in belly flab as he holds the underside of such a doughy gut.

“I have no complaint,” Gilliam’s smile widens as he reaches the wall, well, as Garcia reaches the wall, his husband’s ass pinned to it. He himself stands a couple feet away from it with both of them so round and taking up so much space. Gilliam uses the extra couple of inches of height he has on his husband to pin him to the wall. Which he doesn’t even need to use, Garcia allowing himself to be in such a position.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Garcia asks. He gives Gilliam’s belly a small shake, staring at the way his husband’s belly slowly jiggles like waves crashing onto a beach.

Gilliam does his best to reach around both his and Garcia’s guts to grope his husband's ass. “We are tied once again. You want to break my winning streak?”

Garcia grins at the touch before suddenly becoming stiff. “Not if the food burns!”

Giving his husband a kiss, Gilliam presses both his hands on Garcia’s gut, reaching underneath his shirt to rub at it. But only for a brief moment, pushing himself off his husband by using his massive belly as leverage. As swiftly as he can move out of the way, lugging one large thigh past the other, he does his best to make enough room for Garcia. “I’ll set the plates,”

“Good, I’m starving so I’m sure you must be too,” Garcia rests a hand on Gilliam’s belly as he waddles past him, his fingers slowly grazing over the soft, blubbery stomach.

After Garcia makes his way through, Gilliam waddles over to the cupboards. “Make sure you eat everything,” He pulls out extra large dishes, the set purchased to allow them to eat more per serving.

“I’ll gladly eat my fill as long as you do. I know you can’t resist my cooking,” He slowly brings the pot roast over to the already set table.

The table really mostly meant for the two of them, the furniture is made extra long for the two to sit side by side. Though now they have to sit across from each other, the poor bench most likely not able to withstand an entire half ton of weight. As Garcia places the pot roast and goes back to retrieve the other side dishes, he smiles at his eager husband already sitting down.

As Garcia sits down and makes himself comfortable —after adjusting his gut multiple times— the two grin at each other in anticipation.

Neither wait for a single confirmation. Instead, they dig in and start their competition, both somehow even more eager and competitive now when it comes to eating compared to their arm wrestling so many years ago. Not that either mind, the obese married men content with each other.

[mariacallous]

Come the warm, ripening days of summer and I imagine that I am closer to a more ancient, basic and healthful style of vegetable and grain eating than in my cold and meaty winters. I am seduced by my garden and neighboring farm stands vivid with color and flavor.

I avoid a lot of hot time in the kitchen. Much is eaten raw or almost: vegetable soups - gazpacho has many names and many recipes - vegetable sauces for rice or pasty and endless salads. I have corn on the cob and other vegetables in every form: grilled, roasted, steamed, stir-fried, puréed and combined in a variety of stews to be eaten hot, cold and at room temperature. Fresh herbs, garlic, onions and imagination sauce the dishes. The first beans from the pod or dried beans, fruit, cheese, bread and wine complete my menus.

There is almost no meat and little chicken or fish - an occasional grilling, a stew more vegetable than meat, a slice of cold meat or charcuterie, a boiled egg, a little tuna from the can.

I eat this way for pleasure as well as in a modern quest for a more healthful diet. Those came before us ate this way to take advantage of what they had - often limited. While we tend to see a cornucopia-vision of the past, rich in more seasonal, more natural foods, it is only partly true.

Winter in most climates was short of fresh vegetables, and the world relied on salting, pickling, drying and cold storage for any vegetables at all. The animal protein we are fending off today was in short, expensive supply.

With the best will in the world and without an evil intention, food writers and the natural inclination of all of us to glamorize the past and the far away have been guilty of distorting our view of the way the world eats. By selecting the best, the most festive food of other places or times, we have come to see them as halcyon visions of plenty, filled with meat and seafood, sugar and cream.

It is not sugarplum fairies, but roasts and fries, sausages and sautés, stews and cassoulets that frolic in our Rabelaisian dreams. Southern picnics are enriched with baked hams and fried chicken. Clambakes clutter the shores of a mythical New England. In that world of the imagination, native Africans are awash in chicken and ground-nut stew, native Americans feast on venison and buffalo, Greeks expand over countless dishes of succulent lamb, the Chinese are exquisite in damask while dining on unimaginably choice viands.

The English eat hearty roasts, silken salmon, and mountains of oysters. The French of the mind are various, either robust peasants glorying in rich stews or jeweled aristocrats whose famous chefs set forth succulent sauces. Our Italians live in a world of perpetual holidays, their risotti topped with pungent white truffles.

While not totally untrue - these foods did exist in each of these countries and were eaten by the natives at least upon occasion - such visions falsify the totality of real experience and may contribute to the glut of fat and cholesterol in our lives. We equate these festive foods with good living and think that ,if we can, we should eat this way all the time.

Our ancestors and many peoples all over the world today eat very differently from this skewed perception. Carbohydrate, or stodge, was what really fed and filled up most people. With bread as the staff of life in Europe, scarcity led to bread riots for centuries. Even in the recent past, when the government-fixed price of bread was raised in France, the announcement was carefully scheduled for August when almost all Frenchmen are on vacation.

Certainly, the staple food of the vast majority of the world is still rice, followed by bread and potatoes along with noodles - pasta among them - soy foods, yams, taro, yucca, corn, beans, pulses such as lentils, myriad grains and other starchy foods with names foreign to me. In the past and in much of the present, animal protein, when available, has been primarily a flavoring.

Beasts were not killed promiscuously. They were the cash crops and the providers of the milk and eggs. If a pig was slaughtered in the fall, that was a major event, and a family would hoard the preserved hams for Christmas and Easter, or sliver small amounts for a taste at many meals. A prosciutto bone or other ham bone was an asset to be used and reused in soups until flavorless. Fresh meats were rare; only the overage animal or the single, religiously festive springling was sacrificed.

To envisage a chicken in every pot was to dream of luxury indeed - the most luxurious of Sunday dinners.

if other meats were salted and smoked like bacon, or pickled like corned beef, air-dried like grisson or jerky, or preserved in fat like confit, it was to keep them over the winter and dispense them parsimoniously as special treats.

So when we read recipes for peasant dishes crammed with meat, we should remember we are reading about rare treats, not daily fare. Even fishing nations could have uncertain catches, rough seas and months when it was impossible to put out upon the water. Even plenty might need to be sold. A home-cooked paella was mainly rice, seasonings, oil and vegetables.

The great go-along-withs have been vegetables and fruits, fresh when in season, pickled or preserved for inclement times. A little fat would have come from the possibilities of each region - olive oil, butter and lard. Food was about survival and pleasure when possible. No one got more than nutritionally sound share of meat and fat over the course of a year. It is these daily recipes that are by and large missing or recorded primarily as accompanying dishes in our cookbooks and kitchens.

It is up to us to re-create out of our plenty the sane eating and pleasures that scarcity and invention, herb patch and garden, bestowed on our forebears.

"The Real Past", from The Opinionated Palate: Passions and Peeves on Eating and Food by Barbara Kafka

[sevlgi]

oh, for you

requested: yes

group: dreamcatcher

pairing: handong x fem!reader

genre: ANGST HA

contents: established relationship, handong has a terminal disease, reader has mind manipulation powers, i’m crying in the club

warnings: terminal disease, also just like... angst

synopsis: You and Handong don’t have much time left. Even if it kills you, you’ll make what you have the best time of your lives.

a/n: THIS IS SO SAD HUH

word count: 1.2k

The air smelled deeply of roses.

The sky was an impossibly bright blue, the pure color of sapphires, only broken by the pale clouds that floated peacefully about the warm golden sun.

The ground was absolutely covered in roses of every color, every size, every type-- and yet, none of it could compare to the girl standing in the center of it all.

“Do you like it?”

Beaming, Han Dong spun to you. She was dressed in the finest, softest silk possible, and jewels glittered all over her like fat beads of rain. “I love it, Y/N.”

You smiled, and reached down to pluck a rose off of the ground. The pink bud looked beautiful tucked just above the girl’s ear, and her blush matched it in a way that could only make you smile. “I’m glad.”

“I think this is the most real one yet,” your girlfriend continued. She bent down and stuck her hands into the pool of flowers, laughing in amazement when not a single one glitched or disappeared. “Really. You’re getting so much better at this,” she gasped.

“Do you want anything else? Some animals, something to eat?”

Han Dong shrugged. “I don’t know. This is... it’s beautiful already. I don’t think I need anything else, but... here. Come sit with me.”

You obeyed. Flower petals crunched under your weight, releasing even heavier of the sweet smell into the air; as soon as you turned your face to Han Dong, she smiled mischievously and cast a handful of petals into your face.

Sputtering, you reached for her, and pushed her down into the flowers by her shoulders. Han Dong giggled when she found your nose brushing up against hers; your hands sunk into the soft bed beneath you gradually, until your lips met and your eyes fluttered closer.

It was blissful. Just the two of you, the feeling of her hands scrunching into the back of your shirt and the taste of her smile against yours; you couldn’t imagine any moment that had felt better.

But when you pulled apart, Han Dong let out a sigh, disappointment creasing her brow as she reached up for your face. “It’s happening again.”

Reaching your hand up, you sighed out in exasperation as you felt the sticky warmth to your nose. You scrunched your face up in concentration, putting all of your energy into sustaining the blissful world that you wanted nothing more than to remain in-- but to no avail.

You opened your eyes again to find your girlfriend in the hospital bed, her hand on your arm just like in your dream world. Only here, she was hooked up to a machine that beeped steadily, and her silken gown was replaced with the cotton one from the hospital.

“It’s okay,” she said immediately, sensing your apologies. Han Dong handed you a tissue to hold to your nose, offering you as sweet of a smile as she could. “It was beautiful.”

“It wasn’t enough,” you muttered, springing up from your chair. It had been morning when you started to conjure up the world, to imagine every little detail of it as Han Dong watched-- it was already nearly night, stars twinkling between the window’s blinds.

“It is, Y/N. You only started using your gift these two months, you can’t expect yourself to hold it for weeks,” Han Dong assured you, reaching out for your hands. You allowed yourself to be pulled closer to the bed, to the love of your life.

“We don’t have that much time left, Dongie.” You bit down on your lip, hard, and said again, “We don’t have much time. I need to make it perfect before you before you...”

“Before I go?”

You shook your head immediately, reaching up to wipe yet another droplet of blood from your face. “Before I can’t anymore,” you clarified.

As if simply talking about it had brought it on, you scrunched up your face at the pain that jolted through your head, like a lightning bolt contained inside your skull. The pains were getting worse, and according to your doctor, if you kept using your powers for hours on end each day, they would create something catastrophic.

Han Dong brushed a kiss across your knuckles and squeezed your hand. She promised, “You’ve made me so happy already. I don’t want you to do this to yourself, I might still have a few months left.”

“Don’t say that,” you interrupted, sinking into your chair. The pain that wracked your heart was honestly worse than the aches in your head; you couldn’t bear the thought of only having a few months left with the only person you’d ever loved. “Please.”

“You said it yourself, Y/N. We don’t have much time.” Han Dong smiled weakly; she was wan in the weak light of her hospital room, despite all the rich blankets you had piled onto her bed. The disease was sucking the very life out of her, even though the brightness in her eyes had never dulled.

“I didn’t... I didn’t mean it.” You shook your head rapidly, squeezing tightly onto her hands. “I swear. Look, you should... you should go to sleep. The doctor said that rest might make it better, right?”

“I’m not in pain. You are. Because of me.”

You only came to a stop when she grabbed onto your face, one hand on either side of your neck, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “You’ll be okay too, as long as you stop.”

Exhaling, you kissed her again, as hard as you could without making it painful. “One more time,” you promised fiercely. “But you’ll make it. I know you will.”

It wasn’t the answer Han Dong wanted, but she must have sensed that you wouldn’t let it go. She nodded, and gathered her knees up to her chest as you closed your eyes again. “Okay. This time... how about a mountain top? High enough that we’re above the clouds.”

The clouds formed first, bubbly round forms of white that started to dapple pink and gold when you commanded them to. 

“And... it’s sunset.”

The sky brightened to a deep orange.

“There are comets everywhere.”

“That’s not realistic,” you muttered even as you saw the blue and pink lights streak across your dream world.

Han Dong laughed, but continued with her descriptions. “We can see the city below us, getting ready for the night time. Busy, but we’re peaceful.”

And that was enough. When you felt a squeeze on your hand, you woke to find the exact scene your girlfriend had pictured, and the girl herself with a sad smile beside you.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered before you even asked, bending over to brush the softest of kisses to your lips.

You accepted it, even as you could feel the tears starting to sting at your eyes. The comets blurred in your vision, but you could see that Han Dong was crying too, crystal-like tears slipping down her face onto your shirt.

“It won’t be the last time,” you promised her, sucking in a shaky breath. “I promise.”

“I love you so much, Y/N,” she answered, her body wracked with her sobs. “I always will.”

[usuallyapirate]

A short Introduction to the most common Player-Races in Dungeons and Dragons as given by the DnD 5e Players Handbook:

Dwarf

“Yer late,elf!” came the rough edge of a familiar voice. Bruenor Battlehammer walked up the back of his dead foe, disregarding the fact that the heavy monster lay on top of his elven friend. In spite of the added discomfort, the dwarf’s long, pointed, often-broken nose and gray-streaked though still-fiery red beard came as a welcome sight to Drizzt. “Knew I’d find ye in trouble if I came out an' looked for ye!" 

– R.A. Salvatore, The Crysta lShard

Kingdoms rich in ancient grandeur, halls carved into the roots of mountains, the echoing of picks and hammers in deep mines and blazing forges, a commitment to clan and tradition, and a burning hatred of goblins and orcs—these common threads unite all dwarves.

Elf

“I HAVE NEVER IMAGINED SUCH BEAUTY EXISTED,” Goldmoon said softly. The day’s march had been difficult, but the reward at the end was beyond their dreams. The companions stood on a high cliff over the fabled city of Qualinost. Four slender spires rose from the city’s corners like glistening spindles, their brilliant white stone marbled with shining silver. Graceful arches, swooping from spire to spire, soared through the air. Crafted by ancient dwarven metalsmiths, they were strong enough to hold the weight of an army, yet they appeared so delicate that a bird lighting on them might overthrow the balance. These glistening arches were the city’s only boundaries; there was no wall around Qualinost. The elven city opened its arms lovingly to the wilderness.

 – Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman, Dragons of Autumn Twilight

Elves are a magical people of otherworldly grace, living in the world but not entirely part of it. They live in places of ethereal beauty, in the midst of ancient forests or in silvery spires glittering with faerie light, where soft music drifts through the air and gentle fragrances waft on the breeze. Elves love nature and magic, art and artistry, music and poetry, and the good things of the world.

Halfling

Regis the halfling, the only one of his kind for hundreds of miles in any direction, locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the mossy blanket of the tree trunk. Regis was short, even by the standards of his diminutive race, with the fluff of his curly brown locks barely cresting the three-foot mark, but his belly was amply thickened by his love of a good meal, or several, as the opportunities presented themselves. The crooked stick that served as his fishing pole rose up above him, clenched between two of his toes, and hung out over the quiet lake, mirrored perfectly in the glassy surface of Maer Dualdon. 

– R.A. Salvatore, The Crystal Shard

The comforts of home are the goal of most halflings‘ lives: a place to settle in peace and quiet, far from marauding monsters and clashing armies; a blazing fire and a generous meal; fine drink and fine conversation. Though some halflings live out their days in remote agricultural communities, others form nomadic bands that travel constantly, lured by the open road and the wide horizon to discover the wonders of new lands and peoples. But even these wanderers love peace, food, hearth, and home, though home might be a wagon jostling along a dirt road or a raft floating downriver.

Human

These were the stories of a restless people who long ago took to the seas and rivers in longboats, first to pillage and terrorize, then to settle. Yet there was an energy, a love of adventure, that sang from every page. Long into the night Uriel read, lighting candle after precious candle. She'd never given much thought to humans, but these stories fascinated her. In these yellowed pages were tales of bold heroes, strange and fierce animals, mighty primitive gods, and a magic that was part and fabric of that distant land. 

– Elaine Cunningham, Daughter of the Drow

In the reckonings of most worlds, humans are the youngest of the common races, late to arrive on the world scene and short-lived in comparison to dwarves, elves, and dragons. Perhaps it is because of their shorter lives that they strive to achieve as much as they can in the years they are given. Or maybe they feel they have something to prove to the elder races, and that’s why they build their mighty empires on the foundation of conquest and trade. Whatever drives them, humans are the innovators, the achievers, and the pioneers of the worlds.

Dragonborn

Her father stood on the first of the three stairs that led down from the portal, unmoving. The scales of his face had grown paler around the edges, but Clanless Mehen still looked as if he could wrestle down a dire bear himself. His familiar well-worn armor was gone, replaced by violet-tinted scale armor with bright silvery tracings. There was a blazon on his arm as well, the mark of some foreign house. The sword at his back was the same, though, the one he had carried since even before he had found the twins left in swaddling at the gates of Arush Vayem. Father’s face was as kill she'd been fortunate to learn. A human who couldn’t spot the shift of her eyes or Havilar’s would certainly see only the indifference of a dragon in Clanless Mehen’s face. But the shift of scales, the arch of a ridge, the set of his eyes, the gape of his teeth – her father's face spoke volumes. But every scale of it, this time, seemed completely still— the indifference of a dragon, even to Farideh.

– Erin M. Evans, The Adversary

Born of dragons, as their name proclaims, the dragonborn walk proudly through a world that greets them with fearful incomprehension. Shaped by draconic gods or the dragons themselves, dragonborn originally hatched from dragon eggs as a unique race, combining the best attributes of dragons and humanoids. Some dragonborn are faithful servants to true dragons, others form the ranks of soldiers in great wars, and still others find themselves adrift, with no clear calling in life.

Gnome

Skinny and flaxen-haired, his skin walnut brown and his eyes a startling turquoise, Burgell stood half as tall as Aeron climb up on a stool to look out the peephole. Like most habitations in Oeble, that particula tenement had been built for humans, and smaller residents coped with the resulting awkwardness as best they could. But at least the relative largeness of the apartment gave Burgell room to pack in all his gnome-sized gear. The front room was his workshop, and it contained a bewildering miscellany of tools: hammers, chisels, saws, lockpicks, tinted lenses, jeweler's loupes, and jars of powdered and shredded ingredients for casting spells. A fat gray cat, the mage’s familiar, lay curled atop a grimoire. It opened its eyes, gave Aeron a disdainful yellow stare, then appeared to go back to sleep. 

– Richard Lee Byers, The Black Bouquet

A constant hum of busy activity pervades the warrens and neighborhoods where gnomes form their close-knit communities. Louder sounds punctuate the hum: a crunch of grinding gears here, a minor explosion there, a yelp of surprise or triumph, and especially bursts of laughter. Gnomes take delight in life, enjoying every moment of invention, exploration, investigation, creation, and play.

Half-Elf

Flint squinted into the setting sun. He thought he saw the figure of a man striding up the path. Standing, Flint drew back into the shadow of a tall pine to see better. The man's walk was marked by an easy grace – an elvish grace, Flint would have said; yet the man’s body had the thickness and tight muscles of a human, while the facial hair was definitely humankind’s. All the dwarf could see of the man’s face beneath a green hood was tan skin and a brownish-red beard. A longbow was slung over one shoulder and a sword hung at his left side. He was dressed in soft leather, carefully tooled in the intricate designs the elves loved. But no elf in the world of Krynn could grow a beard ... no elf, but...

“Tanis?” said Flint hesitantly as the man neared.

“The same.” The newcomer’s bearded face split in a wide grin. He held open his arms and, before the dwarf could stop him, engulfed Flint in a hug that lifted him off the ground. The dwarf clasped his old friend close for a brief instant, then, remembering his dignity, squirmed and freed himself from the half-elf’s embrace. 

– Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, Dragons of Autumn Twilight

Walking in two worlds but truly belonging to neither, half-elves combine what some say are the best qualities of their elf and human parents: human curiosity, inventiveness, and ambition tempered by the refined senses, love of nature, and artistic tastes of the elves. Some half-elves live among humans, set apart by their emotional and physical differences, watching friends and loved ones age while time barely touches them. Others live with the elves, growing restless as they reach adulthood in the timeless elven realms, while their peers continue to live as children. Many half-elves, unable to fit into either society, choose lives of solitary wandering or join with other misfits and outcasts in the adventuring life.

Half-Orc

The warchief Mhurren roused himself from his sleeping-furs and his women and pulled a short hauberk of heavy steel rings over his thick, well-muscled torso. He usually rose before most of his warriors, since he had a strong streak of human blood in him, and he found the daylight less bothersome than most of his tribe did. Among the Bloody Skulls, a warrior was judged by his strength, his fierceness, and his wits. Human ancestry was no blemish against a warrior – provided he was every bit as strong, enduring, and blood thirsty as his full-blooded kin. Half-orcs who were weaker than their orc comrades didn't last long among the Bloody Skulls or any other orc tribe for that matter. But it was often true that a bit of human blood gave a warrior just the right mix of cunning, ambition, and self-discipline to go far indeed, as Mhurren had. He was master of a tribe that could muster two thousand spears, and the strongest chief in Thar. 

– Richard Baker, Swordmage

Whether united under the leadership of a mighty warlock or having fought to a standstill after years of conflict, orc and human tribes sometimes form alliances, joining forces into a larger horde to the terror of civilized lands nearby. When these alliances are sealed by marriages, half-orcs are born. Some half-orcs rise to become proud chiefs of orc tribes, their human blood giving them an edge over their full-blooded orc rivals. Some venture into the world to prove their worth among humans and other more civilized races. Many of these become adventurers, achieving greatness for their mighty deeds and notoriety for their barbaric customs and savage fury.

Tiefling

“But you do see the way people look at you, devil’s child." Those black eyes, cold as a winter storm, were staring right into her heart and the sudden seriousness in his voice jolted her.

“What is it they say?" he asked. “One’s a curiosity, two’s a conspiracy—”

“Three's a curse,” she finished. “You think I haven’t heard that rubbish before?”

“I know you have.” When she glared at him, he added, “It’s not as if I’m plumbing the depths of your mind, dear girl. That is the burden of every tiefling. Some break under it, some make it the millstone around their neck, some revel in it.” He tilted his head again, scrutinizing her, with that wicked glint in hiseyes. “You fight it, don’t you? Like a little wildcat, I wager. Every little jab and comment just sharpens your claws.” 

– Erin M. Evans, Brimstone Angels

To be greeted with stares and whispers, to suffer violence and insult on the street, to see mistrust and fear in every eye: this is the lot of the tiefling. And to twist the knife, tieflings know that this is because a pact struck generations ago infused the essence of Asmodeus – overlord of the Nine Hells – into their bloodline. Their appearance and their nature are not their fault but the result of an ancient sin, for which they and their children and their children’s children will always be held accountable.

[acatpersonapparently]

Jemtoria Angel AU: part 3

i.

The scent of freshly cut grass and ripe tomatoes surround Victoria in the sweet soft morning. Her hand gently works the wing of a mourning dove. Over the blade of the scapula and soft coverts. It has been three days since her newest little bird entered her coop.

She doesn’t even know why she did that.

Even after so much time, human still sits in a distorted shape in her throat. The bird in her lap stirs and coos, she’s not sure how to even exist near someone else. A dry breeze ruffles the air, blowing her hair into her eyes. She pushes the sudden blonde curtain away with a sigh, turning her gaze to her garden.

There’s the warm glow of bright red hair hiding behind her vegetables. If Victoria had to guess, the girl got up with the sun and busied herself in the soil before her alarm woke Victoria up. The dove in her lap chirps and fusses. Victoria hushes it and resumes her gentle ministrations.

How best to heal this bird?

ii.

Jemima has lived at the house with the blue door for a week and she already knows how every day will go:

-She will wake up first and head out to the garden.

-At 8:00AM, Victoria’s alarm clock will go off and some time in the next thirty minutes, the scent of bacon will waft out the kitchen window.

-By 9:00AM, her silent benefactor will step outside to greet her birds and tend to them, filling feeders and water bowls, examining hurt wings. That’s when Jemima will tend to flower bushes on the far side of the yard.

-10:45AM is the latest that Victoria leaves for work. Jemima can then head back inside before the sun gets too high and hot. She’ll find some leftover bacon on a plate left for her.

-Most of the time while Victoria is at work, Jemima reads or watches TV. She tried snooping around, looking around the house for anything fun or weird, but there’s nothing. No knick knacks, pictures, paintings. She couldn’t even find a stray ID or a letter.

-Sometime after 11PM, the door will slowly creak open and Victoria will walk through, open one of the beers from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and melt down into one of the wooden chairs at the small dining table. Jemima will lower the volume on the TV and, when she’s feeling brave, says hello. She never gets a response. The first time they spoke is also the only time they’ve spoke. She will get a polite wave or, if she asks a question, a nod or a shake.

-Victoria will wash out her bottle, place it in the bin, and shower at midnight. The soft shuffle of her feet always preceding Victoria before she appears to give Jemima a nightly goodnight wave and following her off as she heads to bed.

(There’s a few unexpected moments during her days. During a sleepy morning, she sees Victoria through the flowers, she sees her smile as a mountain bluebird nuzzles against her cheek. From peeping over a rosebush, the image is ethereal. If her father was half as resplendent, she understands why her mother was drawn in.)

iii.

Victoria didn’t mean to do it.

She didn’t mean to see anything.

There was some lemonade leftover at work so she brought it over and just wanted to know if Jem wanted some. She didn’t find the redhead in the living room so she had to be in her bedroom, so she just opened the door.

(She should not have opened the door.)

Victoria knows what her own back looks like. Catching brief glimpses of it in the mirror before stepping into the shower. Bone and blackened tissue that ached heavily, a rotted shadow of a symbol of Heaven’s glory. If Father’s intention was a mark of shame, he did a pretty damn good job.

Jemima’s was different (worse?)

White feathers molting, red raw patches, tufts of down sprouting up and down her back and across her shoulder blades. The waif was surrounded in a circle of white like fresh fallen snow. Victoria gags. Her stomach in instant upheaval at the sight. The tips of her fingers go numb as the moisture leaves her mouth. Her feet acted before she could think and she ran.

(She should not have ran.)

The birds open their wings and take to the sky when she reaches outside. She breathes deep, her chest aches, she tries to focus her thoughts. Her mind parsing through every microdetail with as much scrutiny in her panicked ability as she can get together. She looks up at the night sky and into the eyes of all the bright twinkling stars and, for the first time, she feels like they’re looking back at her.

Oh God, she’s not alone.

iv.

Jemima knows what happens next. She stuffs her bag with all of her belongings. All she needs to do is find another place to live. It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Her eyes watch the open doorway of her bedroom.

And, eventually, just like she expected, Victoria reappears with red eyes.

She waits for the cruel familiar sting of monster but Victoria just stares at her with these eyes, this cruel pitiful expression.

I- I can just go. I’m sorry. Jemima lowers her eyes and moves to push past the other girl. It’s all too bitterly predictable.

No. Victoria grabs her wrists so fiercely Jemima is sure that she’s about to be dragged into town to be burned at a stake. Please, stay.

And Jemima did not expect that.

v.

Between the two of us, we probably have enough for a set of wings, is the first thing Jemima says to her when Victoria shows her the withered afterimage of her wings. Victoria doesn’t know how to react in any way but laughter and it feels rusty in her throat, but good, really good.

Turns out holiness isn’t a factor in being a good dad and that seems to be a universal truth.

Victoria grabs two beers from the bottom shelf of the fridge and the two of them lay out in the garden, drinking to stories about how the shadow of divinity has taunted them. They yell into the void of the night sky at fathers that have fucked them over and what’s the point of abandoning them with enough holy to bitter the blood? Victoria grabs them another round when they start talking about how humanity is just another set of stone shackled to their ankles.

They’re still wiping away the tears from the last set of ab-aching laughter when Jemima asks Victoria what heaven feels like.Victoria hums to herself, a little tipsy, and sinks into the grass.

It feels a little like this, I guess.

vi.

Jemima has lived at the house with the blue door for three months. Long enough for hot dry summer to roll in and for the summer plants to start blooming. She has no idea how her day is going to go.

Last week, Victoria took her into town to get her new clothes. A few days before that, she came home with a blanket and a tub of ice cream for her. They had stayed up late that night because ice cream is received with enthusiasm, even by former servants of a deity.

(The two other colours are two different flavours? This Neopolitan guy is really smart, Jem)

Jemima finds herself waiting at the dinner table, an open beer at the seat across from her, waiting for someone to fill it. The clock hits 10:30 and the front door bursts open. Victoria rushing in to hug Jemima before helping herself to her beer.

Jemima had no idea that someone being excited to hug you could feel as good as a hug itself

That night, they curl up in front of the artificial glow of the television. Victoria offers to share a blanket with Jemima as the redhead scoots under it with pink-tinged cheeks. Throughout the night, Victoria’s breath warms the side of Jemima’s face as she leans in to whisper the occasional question about the television.

(Jemima is suddenly worried about spontaneous combustion cause that’s what this feels like, right? Right?)

Jemima wakes up before the sun rises like she always does. She doesn’t move an inch, coveting this moment in a never-ending form. The soft babble of the television, Victoria’s warmth snug against her, birds chirping outside. She looks around the small house and she can’t believe how much light its contains

Victoria’s eyes flutter open way too soon but it makes Jemima brighten up with what feels like the goofiest smile. Victoria returns it.

Good morning.

Good morning to you too.

What are you thinking about?

Do you know what happens at 4:30AM? You turn gold.

vii.

Victoria hit the earth crying for heaven. Her halo rests crooked.

Jemima's earliest memory was of the sun. Her mother is tearing fistfuls of feathers from her back again.

The girls are wrist-deep in the warm rich soil, worms dripping from the gaps between their fingers in every handful of dirt. They've managed to turn the air into music, permeated with the singing of birds and bursts of deep chest laughter. There was nothing in any hymnal that could rival it. Victoria sits back on her knees, removing her wide-brimmed hat to push down her sweaty hair. She looks up at the sky, vast and inviting.

(What’s wrong?)

It’s not easy, it hasn’t been easy. Half-angels and monster-girls creeping along the spine of the world made for Adam and Eve. There are dark moments: their bed brimming with nightmares and past memories on darkest nights, flinching and holding each other tighter when they’re in town, fat wet tears running down Jemima’s cheeks the first time Victoria acts on the urge to kiss her.

(I’ve been so lonely and so angry and so angry about being alone. I’ve been angry for so long that I- I’m not sure who I am without it.)

But, those good moments, those good glorious moments. Victoria has gawked at rapidly expanding nebulae, she’s stood with her brothers and sisters as gravity collapsed in on itself in an instant and formed neutron stars and black holes, she’s blown the last wisps of steam from a black star cupped in her palms. None of them are as good as Jemima waiting for her when she gets home, or when Jem reminds her that a proper diet includes more than bacon. The light dripping from those big brown eyes every time she showed Vic another sprout pushing to the sun from under the damp earth was something Victoria could savour until the world tires of spinning.

(I can’t promise you that I know who you are without it either, but I can promise that you’ll never be lonely again. A-and I’ve technically been a part of a hivemind since time began, so maybe we can find out who we are together? If you don’t mind staying here a little longer, that is.)

Alongside a narrow dirt road, fifteen minutes from the edge of town, there is a house with a blue door and a beautiful front garden of newly blossoming life and birds taking flight on recovered wings. The doormat has bright yellow lettering, written by two different hands, together.

Heaven is a place on earth.

[theblackbirdsgemimagines]

May I request for the Leona, Vil, Azul and our boy Jack getting stuck in their MC's world and their experience? (MC is with them)

Oh sweet Jesus akdhakdhsk FORGIVE ME OF MY RATHER CYNICAL OUTLOOK ON OUR LIL BLUE PLANET 😬 I think it’s understandable to be more cynical than ever in this Hell Year, lolll

Send these poor, sweet babies back home, they deserve better than to be stuck here of all places 😅 ESPECIALLY JACK AAAAAA SAVE THE BABY 💔

Ok, not even going to play with you... Vil would thrive, lol.

Just give him time enough to stop panicking over all his lost clothes, magic, etc., and find new things that works for him and his detailed self-care routine, and whatever he chooses to do, he will make Fat Stacks in.

He’s the male version of Belle Delphine, here ajdhakdhsj

He appears anywhere, on tv with some company to continue his performer career he had back home, or on youtube/instagram, and he is almost immediately just as famous here as he was in Wonderland.

Can we really blame anyone, tho? Look at him.

And there’s no Neige here!

Also, ‘my’ Vil is definitely the one that knows there are many different ways to be beautiful~. He may be a bit more blunt to his friends if he thinks they’re not quite hitting the usual mark their talents place them in. But that’s only because he cares about them, and wants everyone to see their best, as he does~. He’s an absolutely encouraging sweetheart to anyone else/a beginner at whatever their passion is, though~. And either way, he’s your best cheerleader~.

Of course he still just doesn’t feel himself without his magic, or ability to do potions. I don’t think he’d find the witchcraft in our world would suit him very well.

If he was really stuck for good, of course he’d make the best of it. But if he could go home, especially if you wanted to go back with him, he’d jump at the chance. And always be on the lookout for the chance.

But that being said, I think, aside from all the world’s problems, of course, he’d find it interesting just how similar, and vastly different, things are here.

He donates Ass Loads to so many charities, like honestly.

Rich boy knows his privilege, and lets others ride off his advantages as much as he can. 💜

He becomes friends with James Charles. You know he does.

You can’t be truly fully beautiful if you’re not also lovely on the inside, too, after all~!

Rip Rook wherver he is, he is lost without his Queen 😔

Gosh, in direct contrast to Vil, Leona probably suffers the most over here?? Jahdkshdj

I know they based his sleep habits off a irl lion, but that also sounds just a Tad Bit like possible depression to me (along with a lot of the other ways he’s behaved so far, lol).

Get this sweetheart to some therapy, maybe?? Help him get a lil energy boost at least to help him feel better 💛

He’s going to HATE the work pace people have to maintain just to eat here, 100%.

He enjoys the entertainment the most, though~. Video games, things you can watch online, all those sorts of things~. Might like a few of our sports, too~.

Poor bby struggles with having to work, though, please help him 💔

At least he doesn’t have to live under being Forever Prince, here, and doesn’t have to worry about turning anything he touches to sand. And the lions in the zoos are pretty cool to go see~!

He’d probably love it if he could go to Africa and see what our “Afterglow Savannah” looks like here~. Meet the lions that are in the wild~.

I imagine he and Jack would both lose the ears for human ones, and the tails, too. (😢💔) So he probably feels weird seeing himself like that, and might miss his tail. Especially if it helped him with balance. Give him some time to adjust to it~. There’s these neat new tails people made for cosplay, that can move around on their own, if he’d like one to help him not miss his old one so much~!

I had to really think about what the heck he’d even do for a job, cause he’s so grumpy to everyone, retail’s just OUT, lol. And I don’t think he’d be that great at something like youtube, either ajdhsjjd

It’s hard for him to not just lay around all lazy, rather than think of stuff to do for it/actually get up and go do it. Let alone all the meetings, and interacting with fans, and the like.

So maybe actually being one of the zookeepers would be a good fit for him~. He’d be obligated to actually go, and he’d get to be around lots of different animals~. Might help him feel more at home, too~. I think he’d be pretty good at it, and the animals would probably be drawn to him~ 💛

He’d also absolutely challenge the authority here (or anywhere else that has appalling governments, especially if they’re not run by women). The state of things, and the way women and minorities are treated by white men around the world, and men in general, would absolutely appall him. He so drunk on that respecc women juice, he just can’t wrap his head around what the hell the problem is with those rich assholes in power. Put him in power, and he’ll ruthlessly show them what-for! ALL the others behind him would be women! Good grief, humans!

All in all, he doesn’t mind it here, but would also prefer to be home, where he can sleep more, and Ruggie can run around for him most of the time, lol

Besides, that allowed him to spend more time with you~! 💛

(LOOKIT THAT HAPPY BOY SMILE!!! I’M DEAD 💞💞💞)

Oh, Jack. Sweet, sweet Jack.

He absolutely becomes a personal trainer as a job, here. 1000%. He lives that Exercise Junkie Lifestyle, there’s just no doubt about it.

He’s VERY encouraging to his students, though~! Build up that beef, guys, he has total faith in you~! 🤍🤍

He absolutely loooooooves going anywhere to see wolves. He’d probably really love the wooded mountains in Europe, if you ended up there, or in Oregon/Washington if you ended up here in America~. Definitely Canada, or Alaska, too~! Just give him huge trees, snowy winters, and nearby mountains, and he feels right at home~.

Idk if he’d miss his magic a whole heck of a lot, tbh?? But he WOULD miss his friends and family! It’s just not quite the same here, though he thinks it’s beautiful and interesting to see where you came from~. 🤍

He’s a good boy 😭

Also appalled with the state of so many rulers and governings both in your home, and around most of the world, lol.

He can’t stand seeing so many people suffer like that! How can they possibly live the life that’s the most healthy and happy for them to live, disabled, chronically ill, or not, if they’re suffering under an iron fist all the time?!

He CAN’T stand for it. You won’t stop him till he sees good change starting to finally happen. Especially if you live here! There’s no way he can just sit around and have you be subjected to that!

HE’S A GOOD BOY 😭

You gotta calm him down a lot and remind him there are others just as good and kind as he is, fighting to change things too 🤍

God help people if he gets here anytime within 2020-2021. He’s sucker punching nearly everyone he sees without a mask.

He’s also sucker punching every nazi he sees, too.

My goodness, please show him the movie Wolf Children! He’ll hide the fact he’s crying multiple times through it, but it’s one of his favorite movies here~.

If you do manage to go back to Wonderland, please try to bring a copy of it with you. It’s the one thing he’ll miss most, and keep asking to watch with you again, before remembering it doesn’t exist there. 😭

He also misses his tail and ears a lot. Losing all of that + his senses would be very a very awkward adjustment for him, and he wouldn’t really like it poor bby 💔 Give him lots of hugs to compensate U-U 🤍

His favorite thing to do with you would probably be to go hiking, and stay in a little cabin in the woods, for a week or two~. Somewhere in one of the previously mentioned places~.

(I couldn’t find a chibi gif of Azul to use, rip 😭)

Azul is just straight up becoming a mafia boss, probably wkdhakdjjs.

He’s the ‘good’ kind, though. He’s learned his lesson since his overblot, and he won’t outright kill people for not paying him back, or introduce drugs, or anything like that.

He’ll help people obtain what they want as legally as possible... But that doesn’t mean he still won’t be sly as hell about it, haha~.

He’ll protect loyal/good customers and the areas they live in, too~. In fact, he’d probably reDUCE crime from doing so.

He just learns all the dirty ins and outs of everything about how things run here. And as much as he’ll fight for change as the others would, because there’s no way any of that is an acceptable way for you to live, he’ll work dirty in order to take advantage of the system, to do so. What better way, right? Make the dominos fall from the inside out.

He’s a good business man, he knows doing so would also benefit him, too.

He’s like Bruce Wayne if Bruce Wayne was a rich mafia leader jeehskdje

Need health benefits to work for him? Covered. Need above-average pay to actually afford your bills and other stuff? Covered. Need education to do a job for him? They’ll train you.

He’s also practically a Gordon Ramsey, tbh. Lots of his bars will pop up across the world, if he stays here long enough, lol. But they’ll all help a good number of people, in doing so~.

He also donates as much as he can, too. If he’s gonna become even a fraction as rich as Jeff Bozos, he’s ending world hunger and homelessness every year.

And boy oh BOY will he swindle the rich akdhakdhwj

He will whip them so hard, they won’t know what the hell hit them.

He may have been under restrictions at the college, but he sure as hell isn’t here. Watch out as he spreads his tentacles wings.

And, of course, he adores being anywhere near the coast. Doesn’t matter what part of the world you’re in, he just needs to be by the sea.

All the polution absolutely breaks his sweet little heart, and that’s one of the first things on his list to fix. Dealing with trash back home was much easier... you could just zap it all away at big trash fields. But you don’t have that luxury here.

Being that he doesn’t really like his ocotpus form (bbyyyyyy 😢💔), he probably doesn’t mind the permanent legs. At least he doesn’t have to constantly take a potion to keep them, anymore.

But it’s still awkward to get used to. And he can’t stand that he can’t breathe underwater anymore, or go too far down without dying from the pressure.

He’ll dive as often as he can~. And loves to dive, or snorkle, or just swim~, with you, if you want to join him~.

He does miss his home, if only for the beauty and familiarity it had, despite a lot of bad memories around it. But there’s no doubt he’d thrive here, in a way only he could~.

He totally believes your own version of mermaids exists, and gets excited over anything that could prove it to be true 😅

Plus, he’s just obsessed with how marine life works here in general~. If he can juggle being a freakin maffia boss, and a marine biologist just out of the pure love for it, I have no doubt he’d do it~.

Humans most likely evolved from creatures in the water?? That’s amazing~! So the ocean feels like a distant memory of a second home~! He’d love to bond over that, the romantic~ 💜

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

...& Steel for Humans (Geralt x fem!Witchress, Part 2.)

Series description: The Butcher of Blaviken has a long and famous past, thanks to his friend Jaskier. Yet, neither of those dies easily and it still lurks behind Geralt like a shadow after all those years. History, neither unfriendly relationships, doesn't die easily.

Part summary: After a talk with your old friend, there is one thing - a contract which is supposed to keep you rich for at least other ten years. But there are things you are not going to like about is. 

A/N: Honestly, Dijsktra is one of my favourite in-game characters and I sincerely hope that he will make an appearence in the Netflix series. That mf is so fun honestly.

Tagging: (tell me and I will add you :)) @osgon-azure​ @davnwillcome

Word count: 2.1 K

Master list: H E R E

To your good luck, Dijkstra was very clear with the place of his staying - that fat rat was hiding at the Novigradian Bathhouse. You never held anything against Dijkstra - he was being a dick? You told him. That man knew famous non-humans like Geralt and even legends upon men, like Vernon Roche or the Redenian King Radovid. And he didn't hesitate to shove those connections into other people's faces. And you were one of them at that point.

So naturally, it didn't mean anything good when Dijkstra not only contacted you but knew where you were staying at the time. Novigrad was just three days of a slow ride on your horse and you didn't have anywhere to rush. Dijkstra only informed you, very kindly you must've said, that he would like to speak to you once you reach the city walls. It was for an important matter of saving lives or what.

Yeah, you weren't over your heels because of his demand. But you stopped in front of the famous bathhouse two days after the whole werewolf situation with a cape in your face. It wouldn't be exactly clever to walk around one of the biggest cities of the Northern Kingdoms just showing your face to everyone around you. Novigrad was looking just as you remembered it - it was dirty, it stank, beggars were on every corner and elf prostitutes only. That was the thing you didn't like on Novigrad. You had to be either a demon of a shapeshifter to cover that you're a non-human or you had to be a prostitute to be a non-human living in this city.

The cult of Eternal Flame was going nuts there. One of the priests even noticed that cats were hissing at you and that dogs ran away when your warhorse was driving through the streets and tried to verbally insult you and on top of that, he was calling you a heretic and a sinner. Instead of pinning him to a wall with your sword as a warning, you scoffed at his words and continued to Passiflora where you turned left. Not too long after that, you were standing in front of the bathhouse.

A bald man took your house, saying his name is Happen, and lead it to the nearby stable so the people there would take care of the poor animal. It needed some proper rest and some clear water, you couldn't deny that you weren't able to give your horse this kind of comfort on your travels.

To be honest, from the first moment you stepped in, you knew that the bathhouse stank. You hated those lingering, sweet smells that usually settled on the tip of your nose. Bathhouses usually used these scents because the humans found it more relaxing. Yet it was like a catalyzer for your damn nose - that was maybe for the first time in the last years when you sneezed. And it was damn uncomfortable.

Finding Sigismund wasn't exactly challenging - that man couldn't be ignored with the bright colors he tended to wear and with the size of his body. One of his legs also wasn't exactly in the best shape, so the limbing was quite easy to recognize when he was on the moe. At least to witchress's ears, it was unique.

Once you entered his office, you could see him sitting behind a table, going through some papers. You were quiet, so it took him a while to notice a caped person standing in the corner of the room. His face lit up with a smile that wasn't soothing nor comforting; he looked like a dick if you had to be honest.

"It is always a pleasure to see old friends. Have a seat with me, come on." - He said when you took the hood off and your face and white hair could be finally seen. You snorted when you sat down, taking a few grapes without even asking Dijkstra a word. He was quickly pouring you some of the sweet wine he had on the table but both of you knew that your lips won't even touch the drink.

"We aren't friends, Dijkstra. And also, it is never a good sign when you can find me without too much of trying." - A short answer to his greeting could be heard while your eyes scanned the books in his bookcases. Law things, political archives, some of the Novigrad's biggest family chronicles, nothing too extraordinary or interesting. Yet the Gwent packs caught your eye, so you took the Northern Kingdoms deck and started to go through it, looking at the cards with interest.

"Well, it didn't take too much of an effort to figure out that a witcher is in the Mire West currently. People talk and news spread quickly, don't forget about that. Especially quickly when you know who to ask for details." - The man slowly leaned into the chair behind his back while you turned your attention back to him, eating the grapes slowly.

"You torture people, you don't ask for details, Sigismund, don't you try to make me laugh because I am not in the mood for jests. You're just as much of a bitch as I am." - You smiled ironically, being tired of his little welcoming games. - "What is it that you need? Don't tell me that I came all the fucking way to Novigrad from Mire West just to see your fucking handsome face. And lemme tell you, you are fucking ugly."

At that, Sigismund laughed and shook his head. You two couldn't be exactly considered friends since everybody knew that you don't like Sigismund one bit. That wasn't too hard to understand - Sigismund was a spy who couldn't be trusted. But you two couldn't be even called enemies, since most of the time, you both stood at one side of a case - if you ever decided to take a stand in anything political.

"I have a friend in need and I told her that I will try to ask you for a helping hand." - He looked you in the eyes. Sigismund had a job... For a witchress? With that, you rose your eyebrows and furrowed. - "She offers you a ridiculous amount of coin - for searching and killing the source. And also invites you for a damn dance and pays for your stay Novigrad, no matter which inn you'd name." - He told very seriously so you could understand that Dijkstra isn't in a mood for games either.

"Damn. That must be a real matter of life and death if they're putting so much coin into it. What is going on?" - You asked and stole another grape from the small silver plate, putting the deck back on its place. You liked the grapes, they were sweet. Dijkstra surely had to offer them in Passiflora, the whorehouse just a while from Saint Gregory's bridge.

"No-one knows. We only know that whatever the fuck it is, it breaks trees and rocks like small wooden sticks and that it cooks humans for dinner. We dunno much more than what I've told ya." - Dijkstra told you and your face got even sourer than before. This wasn't just some ordinary Vampire, nor a Fiend. - "It lives in the mountains east from Novigrad and the Vegelbuds are rather concerned with it. No matter what in the horse's ass it is, it already massacred two villages."

Again, you pushed yourself more into the plushy chair Dijkstra had offered you. This wasn't a matter you could laugh at. Whether you liked it or not, it was more than fucking serious. Women and children were killed, men could be eaten or stomped to death.

"Bullshit. There ain't no monster who can destroy a whole damn village just because it wants to in Redenia. There ain't one like that on the whole Continent. Before you jump in with Fiends, they are too lazy for any that." - You started slowly and put a strand of your hair behind your ears.

"Dijkstra, honestly, I ain't a dumb bitch. You're the mediator between me and the Veganbrods or what the fuck is their name and I know that you'll have a lot of money from this. But no witcher, squirrel, or human will take this fucking job. This ain't a job. This is suicide." - You said, looking him in the eyes.

"Oh, Y/N, I just love how honest you can be with me. This ain't a one-man job, of course. We already have some... Takers who are gladly willing to accompany you." - Dijkstra said in a solid-sure tone.

"If it's Letho of the Viper school, tell him to fuck off right away. I hope it's not a sorceress either, I can't stand these bitches either. Lambert would be a nice company, tho and I wouldn't mind me an Eskel either." - You said honestly with a small smile. Yeah. You knew how did your witcher brothers work on their contracts, you knew you would get along with them and if there would be anything that would go bad, they would have your back.

You liked Lambert the most of all the witchers you knew - it didn't matter if they were from your school or the Griffin school or the Vipers, you just liked Lambert the most. There were rumors that you and he had some kind of a relationship - whether it had ended up or was going on. And any of that wasn't confirmed either denied by any of you. When people asked you, you both just smiled and changed the subject.

"It's not Lambert, unfortunately, but it is someone you know, which is some good fucking news. And it is someone you don't like, I have to say - one of them sings all the fucking time and the other one is a grumpy moron who had fucked up my leg. But don't think about that. Business is business, darling, it's not about liking someone. It's about money and surviving the fucking trip to the mountains." - Dijkstra looked you right in the eyes. You sat there in silence, watching the man with a dead serious face.

Of course. Of fucking course. Your partner for the trip, who you had to believe with all your will power, the partner who was supposed to be someone you should be able to trust with whole life, that man was supposed to be the white-haired moron. And his possibly gay friend. You looked at Dijkstra, having that daring look on your face.

"I can still say no, you ugly bastard." - You said honestly. At that, the idiot sitting opposite of you started laughing.

"No-one denies your right to deny - only your financial state and the reputation you have around Novigrad and other big cities now. Tell me, Y/N, you and the other witchers have some kind of a competition which should determine who is the worst person of you all?" - Dijkstra asked, having you speechless for a moment. - "Because according to my people, you have the leading position now. The incident with Stjepan got pretty known here over the last few days. And I know you like to keep your honor clean."

"I had never hurt a woman or a child. And that's it." - Was the sentence you said coldly as ice.

"People heard otherwise. Almost dragging the children out of the bed, abducting them so you can bring them to your witcher school as payment and all of that came with your promise of the next generation of witchresses... Oh Y/N, you know that one small rumor can completely ruin your business, huh?" - He leaned in, closer to you, watching your reactions. You hated Sigismund but there was one thing that needed to be said - he was a damn good businessman.

Why did that hiding rat want you to take the contract? You had no idea. But even though you didn't want it for some reason, he knew how to make you take it.

So it was said and done - you were supposed to travel to the mountain alongside Geralt of Rivia and his small musician puppy Julian. But not before a grand ball held at the Vegelbud family residence three hours away from Novigrad. Which, on the other side, you were excited about.

[trashmouuuth-blog]

forgotten memories.

based on the comic by @/atxnolasco on twt!!

—

Richie never liked winter. It was probably his least favorite season out of all of them. The early nights, freezing temperatures, bare trees, and inability to do what it was he usually did. Perhaps the last time he recalls feeling excitement for the anticipated snow fall was when he was a child, hanging with his friends as they played in the mountains of snow, and scarily trudged over the frozen over river that ran through the barrens. 

The crunching of snow beneath his sneakers, or the numbing feeling of ice burn into his calloused palms. It was a memorable time, really. One of the many memories he looks back fondly on ever since he left Derry for a second time, mind flooded now of thoughts that had been buried so deeply within his subconscious for over thirty years now. Voices that drew blanks now had faces; faces that were admittedly more matured and attractive, sure, but they were still the same faces off his friends.

It had been a few months now since he returned home to the big city of Beverly Hills, resuming the life of a normal man who just so happened to be a big name around both the country and world. But, many were quick to note the subtle change in Richie’s usually boisterous and vulgar attitude. Yet, no one seemed to understand why.

Sure, he was the same man who made jokes about cheating on his girlfriend, about people’s mothers, or even the infamous ‘that’s what she said’ trope. But there was an evident sadness behind that smile. One pitted so deep within him that not even Richie himself could fathom a melancholy so drastic.

Yet his return back to the celebrity life was short lived, as the spotlight finally shone upon the middle-aged comedian, it seemed to catch everything but the usual glimmer of mischief that always shone despite being hidden beyond thick glasses. To be honest, Richie himself didn’t know what was wrong, nor what was the reactant causing his chest to feel so empty. Numb, even. It wasn’t until he closed his eyes at night did he ever feel normal. Probably because sleeping consisted of dreaming a life that he could possibly ever have. But what was particularly strange about it, was that he could never remember what exactly it was he had been dreaming about. It had been like this for months now, and he’s grown accustomed to it. Also undeniably irritated, but used to the dressing feeling of the slumber blinking itself out of his eyes on instinct.

Richie hadn’t forgotten about his time in Derry, either. He can only blame the defeat of IT, or maybe some childhood trauma- maybe both- to be the cause of these weird dreams. In fact, he had managed to stay in touch with the rest of the Losers, too! It was hard not to, especially when the majority of them were such big names. Bill was still producing his feature film of ‘The Black Rapids’, and had been published a brand new book with an ending that didn’t completely suck. Ben and Beverly were still together, with their companies beginning to merge and create more publicity than ever. It was strange how well they made the drastically different worlds of fashion and architecture work. Mike had moved out of Derry at the end of the summer, settling down in Florida and living out the dream life he had always wanted. Needless to say, everything was going great for the remaining five Losers. They hadn’t forgotten each other this time, either. Everyone had gotten their well-deserved happy ending.

..Well, almost everyone.

They called and texted frequently, keeping to date with each other’s lives. However, their busy schedules sometimes meant that these calls would be postponed for days on end.

But winter meant a slow in business. People and paparazzi would much rather be cooped up against a roaring fire than going out of their way to catch a glimpse at the celebrities that seemed to roam around. They could stalk them from the comfort of their own home, thanks to technology.

The holidays were coming up, too. Early December now, but a time both Richie and his friends had been planning ever since their drastic turn back to the regular life of fame; one that contrasted almost comically to the one they used to bare back in the tiny, mundane town that was Derry, Maine.

Richie never thought he’d set foot back on this cursed pavement ever again. That’s what he had told himself during that dreaded week back in summer- to get the hell out of this place and never look back. But that was easier said that done. Despite its reputation, one couldn’t deny the place they had grown up and known for a majority of their life. Even then, the man still had good memories he’d rather hold on to that tied a part of his heart at the one place that truly felt like home.

Richie didn’t have anyone to spend the holidays with. His mother had long since passed, father only dwindling behind. His sister and niece lived out of state, with each other’s company and that of his brother-in-law. There wasn’t any romance, nor even a fling he could call up. Maybe it was out of shame, maybe it was out of the fact that Richie Tozier refused to admit to himself that he was truly alone. He did have one thing, though. Well- four things, if you count each of the Losers individually. Bev, Bill, Mike and Ben were the closest thing Richie had to family nowadays, and he jumped at the proposition of them spending time together back home at Christmas.

Richie rolls up outside the Derry Townhouse, pulling his suitcase out of the trunk of the red sports car. Flashy. He recognizes the other three vehicles parked outside, too- Bill’s silver Chevrolet, Ben’s green Lexus and Mike’s black Peugeot (that admittedly looked in a lot worse wear compared to the others, but Richie is nice enough to not voice that aloud).

Admittedly, he’s not nervous. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he was seeing them in twenty season years or something. The rekindling if their friendship in the earlier months was enough to make Richie recall how deeply rooted his emotional connection was to the group of Losers. They were just friends. Their shared trauma bound them closer than what one would even be able to perceive as humanly possible. It was love. A real love, one that not many  got to experience in their lifetime. Sure, it may have not been romantic, but the familial bond was so strong that it seemed to triumph anything else.

The door of the Townhouse creaks open, Trashmouth Tozier plopping his bags down on the ground with a small thump as he watches the familiar figures hunch over the bar, talking and laughing about any and everything under the sun.

“Hey, look who finally decided to show!” Bill turns and raises his glass to Richie, beckoning him over. This, in turn, earns a cheesy grin to erupt from the comedian’s lips. It was strange being back here again. Where it all started, yet they were down to five instead of seven.

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants, Denbrough.” Richie proceeds over, Bev welcoming him with open arms. He engulfs his tiny friend in a hug, ravishing in the feeling of warmth. Bev knew better than anyone about Richie’s hurt, even if he didn’t want t admit it to himself. She couldn’t comprehend what it must feel like, though- she came out of this story with the love of her life, yet her best friend’s own was lost in the process. Apart of her can’t help but feel bad, mostly because there was nothing she could do to better the situation, nor was there anything that could’ve helped prevent it. Needless to say, Beverly wouldn’t mind being a shoulder for Richie to lean on if he needed it. That had always been their thing, anyways. Sitting together with a smoke and a beer, staring up at the night sky and just letting their facades fall. Beverly and Richie could always be real with one another. They understood each other. Maybe that was due to their similar personality traits, or the fact that they were platonic soulmates made in hell.

“Heeey,” the red-haired woman grins up at her tall friend, reaching up to pat his cheek – the scratchiness of the stubble feeling like sandpaper against her soft palm. Pale blue eyes meet brown, the happiness evident within them- yet Bev could sense the emptiness behind Richie’s own. “Poured you one and everything. You’re no fun unless your drunk.” She chuckles, holding up a glass of whiskey for Rich. He takes it, rolling his eyes as the clinking of their glasses echoed throughout the desolate B&B.

The taste is bitter in his mouth, the alcohol practically burning as it surpasses his throat. Just how he liked it.

“Haven’t put a ring on it yet, Haystack?” Richie asks Ben, earning a flustered laugh from the undeniably attractive, former fat boy. His cheeks were barely illuminated under the dim lighting of the bar.

“I, uh-“ Ben begins, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, stop! You’re embarrassing him!” Bev points out, slapping Richie’s shoulder gently.

Mike and Bill proceed to join the conversation – time seemingly to fly by almost immediately. Perhaps that was just an effect of the copious amounts of alcohol everyone began to consume, cheeks flushed and words beginning to slur. It was nice, though. Even if it were for just a few hours, Richie wasn’t focusing on ignoring the gaping hood in his chest (pun intended), but rather his best friends.

One by one, the group seemed to dissipate – Mike being the first to stumble up to bed, followed by Bill, then Bev and Ben. Richie had grown quite the tolerance towards the cursed alcohol, having grown a feign dependency on it to help get through the tough times. He had stopped for a while, wanting to counter the issue before it untwisted into something bigger. However, that seemed to be easier said than done.

Being back in Derry erupted a heavy weight to press down on his chest, especially while housed in the same lobby that housed the previous six. The area was so quiet that even the slightest sound of a pin could be heard if it were dropped. Richie sat alone, the empty glass one one calloused hand, with the other bent against the bar as he hunched against it. He stares ahead at the array of bottles that were lined up neatly on the shelves, letting out a sigh as he deliberates tearing into those, too.

Nonetheless, he decides against it. He decides against heading up to bed in general. The thick bottom of the rugged glass meets the wood below one last time, an exasperated grimace pulling at the older man’s aging features. No drinks, yet no sleep. What exactly was there to do?

To hell if Richie knows. All he can comprehend is the fact that his car keys seemed all that more heavy in his jacket pocket.

Footsteps echo throughout the desolate hall of the Derry Townhouse, the sounds seeming to echo off the four paper-thin walls holding the place up. He had no idea where he was going, but chose to trust his gut with this overwhelming sense of need to travel somewhere. To just get out of here and clear his head. It was easier said than done, especially while the wooziness of the alcohol seemed to alter his state of mind and make his emotions all that more heightened.

He doesn’t even comprehend the comfort and warmth of his car, how it contrasted drastically to the bitterly cold Derry air outside, or how the night wind was so harsh that each whip of it felt like a repeated slap to his freckled and now-red cheeks. The bright lights of the modernized town pass by like a blur, each one reflecting over the lenses of his glasses in their varying neon colours and flashing rhythms. Greens, pinks and blues mixed with the navy sky, standing out like a candle in the darkness – flickering on an off in an attempt to garner a reaction from the people outside. It was a ploy that usually reeled the very man in with its excitement, but now his stoic and determined face seemed to scream anything but intrigued.

The night life seemed to decrease the further Richie headed out, the more he continued to follow the Main Street down until its nearing end as it broke into paths. Two roads diverged in a yellow road, and in his haste, Richie chose the one less travelled by. The car’s tires bump over the uneven hills and potholes that were littered in the grass, showing that this very shortcut hadn’t been touched in years. Last he recalls was when he was in his youth, the freedom of his beaten-up sneakers against the crunchy grass almost like music to his ears, surrounded by those he valued enough to call his best friends. The cold air would toss his unruly and outgrown curls around erratically in rhythm with its howls, Richie only having his glasses to shield his eyes from squinting in an attempt to savor some of his sight.

However, the sounds of tires rolling over pebbles seemed to signify enough that he had gone far enough. The desired destination would have to be reached by foot. It wasn’t an issue, though- the trees parted up ahead, clearing a path for the bridge to be crossed safely. Richie pulls his jacket closer to his body, teeth chattering at the coldness that seemed to envelop this winter night. The surrounding area seems to familiar to him, all the memories flooding back like a slap to his face.

Ah, yes. The Kissing Bridge.

It was only good for two things; sucking faces and carving names. Both options that appealed to Richie wholeheartedly, but he had only ever gotten to fulfill the latter.

The decayed wood that was laid across the bridge creaks under his weight, showing how much wear thirty years really does to something like this. Richie’s walk slows, taking in the scenery around him – the sparkling stars up above, how one seemed to shine ever so slightly brighter amongst the others and how it was situated directly above his head. The rushing water of The Barrens below also seemed eerily calm, more like a secluded lake. The place was hugged in a dark blanket of black within the night, but the full moon shine so brightly that it illuminated the path ahead of him.

He wasn’t sure what had originally led him to this spot,  it the familiarity of it was enough to make him understand. And man, he wished he hadn’t.

Brown eyes cast downwards as he comes to a stop, looking over the wooden panels that served as barriers at the bridge’s side. Names and initials of all kinds were engraved deeply into them, some now faded or grown over with moss. But one in particular still looked as good as new. It was only redone a few months prior, after all.

R + E

He scans the initials, a small smile tugging at his lips, yet the melancholy was evident from the way his brows creased in hurt. Eddie. Man, he can almost hear the voice telling him to shut up as Fichte delivered yet another crude joke or in protests to the many silly nicknames he had dubbed the small hypochondriac over the years.

That pain he had been experiencing was there, but only seemed amplified by a thousand – the knife in his heart now being twisted at an unimaginable angle to further embed deeper into the already open and sensitive wound. It hurts. Of course it does. He just wasn’t expecting it to feel so.. excruciating.

Richie reaches up to touch the bow of his glasses, fingers brushing over the lens from where it had previously been splattered with blood.

His breath hitches, and before he knows it, he’s knee-down in the gravel below, having to crawl a few steps over in order to sit his back against the panels below. The man’s shoulder shake pathetically, face buried within his calloused palms as he just.. cries. For the first time in forever, he feels the sensation of tears screaming down his face, the shortness of breath as he gasps in sobs. Albeit silent, each one caused his heart to ache more and more. Time seems to pass, but it’s beyond the point of being able to be told, considering the night was still upon him and he lacked a watch to check the time. Hell, he doesn’t even know if he wants to. He couldn’t been crying for five minutes, maybe an hour- who knows?

It’s the setting of his dreams all over again. The very scenario- only it felt way more real.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts once again by a familiar yet oddly foreign voice from behind. “Hey, fuckface. Mind if I sit here?” It asks, grabbing Richie’s attention. Over the fence leans a short man, his brown hair arranged in a neat fiat-top and puppy-dog eyes still so round beneath his thick brows. The occasional wrinkle was invented into his smile-lines, which was to be expected with age. The large gauze on his cheek is almost significant to his character.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Shit, fucking fences-“ he curses out, struggling to catch his leg over the top panel. He was so short in comparison, it was usually comical to Richie. But he hasn’t looked up. His head merely rests back against the fence, a defeated smile pulling at his lips. Eddie takes a seat beside him eventually, dusting himself off.

“This is the most disgusting place I’ve ever been. Even your mom wasn’t a public menace to mental health.”

Richie can’t help but snicker. “Pffft. Of couuurse. Even while you’re dead, you’re still the same germ freak.”

Eddie reciprocates the laugh, ensuing his usual playful teasing-wars with Richie. His sarcas, always seemed to contrast the vulgarity of his jokes. “Well, sue me for having standards.” The silence is resumed once again, it seeming so deafening in the current moment. The distant crickets chirp, combining with the faint sounds of rushing water and the natural night ambiance. It would’ve been beautiful if they had been in any other situation other than their current one. “So, whats the big Trashmouth plan here?” Eddie asks, glancing over. It was as if he was expecting Richie to conjure up some elaborate plan in order to make himself feel better.

There was no answer. Nothing. For the first time in what had to be history, Richie Tozier had nothing to say – which was worrying in itself. His long legs just sprawl out on the ground before him limply.

Eddie furrows his brows. “..Richie?”

“I don’t wanna forget again,” the taller of the two eventually blurts our, which earn a pair of chocolate-brown eyes to look over at him with a hurt expression. Eddie hurts for Richie, knowing that he’d have to live ur is days seemingly miserable. He didn’t want that, especially not for the very man he’d cared about for so many years. He wishes he could’ve said something sooner- anything. Maybe they wouldn’t be in this predicament right now.

“I remember everything now,” Richie begins, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in distress. “I can’t let go again, Eds.” Of you, Eddie. Richie doesn’t want  to let go of the very hypochondriac beside him.

“You wont this time. IT’s dead, remember? We’re free..”

A bitter tone is laced through the replying tone of Richie. “Doesn’t fucking feel like it.” His hand comes away from his face, glasses in grip as he takes them off. His thumb brushes over one of the lenses, as if recalling the very day they were crusted with splattered blood of the very man who was stabbed before him. “Did you know I had to clean your blood off my glasses after?” The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he gulps. “Had a sore throat for day’s from screaming your name.”

Eddie feels his own heartstrings get tugged on. He doesn’t hate anything more than seeing Richie so upset, especially when there was nothing he could do. He could take the shitty nicknames, even the jokes about his mom, but Eddie Kaspbrak hated being helpless. He takes Richie’s glasses and instead reaches up to adjust them back onto the wearer, a soft smile with creased brows adorning his features. “You won’t forget, but you do have to let me go, Rich. You deserve a happy ending, too.”

Richie’s gaze meets Eddie’s for the first time. It feels like they’re kids again, and he’s staring into the eyes of the same boy sitting across the hammock from him. “How?”

Quoting the famous lines said to him in the sewer, Eddie nudges him. “You’re stronger than you think. You’ll figure it out.”

“Am not.”

“The strongest, smartest, dumb asshole I know.”

Richie takes ahold of the hands near his face, holding them in a genetic grip as he studies the drastic difference in size. He’s feeling a plethora of emotions right now, and can’t control his next words. “I love you.”

Eddie merely smiles and presses his forehead to Richie’s, his eyes closing in glee. “I love you too, man.”

The curly-haired man feels his chests sink. It was now or never, but he just had to tell Eddie how h event one and for all – facing his fear of being rejected and outcasted by others for this one simple moment that decades had led up to. “No, I mean..-“ He swallows again. “Shit, Kaspbrak, I-“

“Richie, come on.” Eddie pulls away, his lips pressing against Richie’s forehead from where it was exposed beneath his bangs, “I know.”

Richie opens his eyes to instead see a small boy embracing him, his red shorts and fanny pack all too familiar. His head buries in Eddie’s chest, the casting down of his gaze now revealing that instead of his usual modernized-outfit, Richie wore some ripped jeans and an oversized Hawaiian shirt. They both seemed so small right now- having to be no older than thirteen. The same age their friendship was in its prime and began to blossom into something beautiful.

“Now quit the pity party. Go take a shower and make someone laugh, dipshit,” Eddie says, his voice matching his youthful look.

—

When Richie opens his eyes again, he realizes that it was indeed morning, from the brightness and the chirping birds, but also from how groggy he was. He must’ve fallen asleep outside, but the memory of last night still rang in his head like a second nature.

He smiles at the thought, wiping away the few stray tears of happiness that cascaded down his stubble cheeks. His palm presses against his face, trying to conceal that stupid grin that pulled at his lips.

“..Okay, Eddie.”

Pushes himself up, checking his phone to the the multitude of messages from his friends back home. Fuck, he didn’t mean to worry them.

“Let’s do it your way.”

[aion-rsa]

30 Rock’s Best Running Jokes

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When 30 Rock drew its final breath in 2013, yards of column inches were devoted – deservedly so – to praising the work of creator Tina Fey. Article upon article applauded the characters, cast, performances and seven seasons of energetic, inventive, satirical comedy.

More than anything else though, 30 Rock was always about the gags. It was fruitcake-dense with jokes, regularly fitting in more quotable laughs before its opening credits than many shows manage in a full half-hour. As it returns for a one-off reunion special, join us in celebrating the many, many running gags of its seven-season history, from the fake movies, to the terrible yet incredibly catchy songs, Frank’s hats, and those godawful TGS sketches…

The fake movies 

The presence of Tracy Jordan (a bonafide Martin Lawrence meets the Wayans Brothers-style movie star) in the TGS cast opened up the world of film parody to 30 Rock.

Admittedly Jenna Maloney also enjoyed a movie career of sorts, but while she was being offered the part of “any blonde actress” in torture porn flicks by the producers who watched and rented Saw, Tracy was turning down the lead in Garfield 3: Feline Groovy to pursue his serious acting career. The latter climaxed with the release of spot-on Precious parody Hard To Watch (Based on the novel Stone Cold Bummer by Manipulate), for which Tracy received the O in his EGOT plan. Sheer class.

Over the years though, who couldn’t not smile at Tracy’s blaxpoitation-filled back catalogue, from the timeless romance of A Blaffair to Rememblack, to Sherlock Homie, Who Dat Ninja?, The Chunks 2: A Very Chunky Christmas, and last but by no means least, Honky Grandma Be Trippin’. The man is a chameleon (in that he’s always a lizard).

Two of Jenna’s TGS projects however, bring back the fondest memories of 30 Rock’s stinging movie satire: small-town legal drama The Rural Juror (based on a Kevin Grisham novel), and her GE-produced life rights-avoiding Janis Joplin biopic, Sing Them Blues White Girl: The Jackie Jormp Jomp Story.

The TGS sketches 

The quality of TGS’ output was never under question in 30 Rock; the sketch show was unremittingly bad (when the absence of their star meant a ‘Best of TGS’ series had to be run in lieu of live shows, Legal objected to their use of the word ‘Best’, and when a review dubbed it the worst comedy ever made, Liz was thrilled they’d defined it as a comedy). Liz Lemon’s opus was a fluorescent collection of fart gags, dodgy caricatures, Jenna’s songs, and misjudged celebrity impressions.

Beginning life as, in Kenneth’s words, “a real fun ladies comedy show for ladies”, TGS was Saturday Night Live’s idiot brother, the unsophisticated thorn in NBC’s side, under constant threat of controversy and cancellation. Forced to synergise backward overflow, advertise parent company products and promote GE interests, 30 Rock’s show-within-a-show satirised both the TV industry and tired trends in comedy (the always hilarious combination of a fat woman who’s sexually confident! Old ladies are crazy! Farts!).

Lemon may have seduced pilot Carol (Matt Damon) with her Fart Doctor skits, but TGS failed to win many hearts. With sketches like Pam the Overly Confident Morbidly Obese Woman, Ching-Chong Man Who Loves to Play Ping-Pong, Fat Hillary Clinton, Bear vs. Killer Robots, Me Want Food, and Gaybraham Lincoln, why it wasn’t more successful is a mystery.

Astronaut Mike Dexter 

Lemon may have ended up with James Marsden’s Criss Chros, but fictional boyfriend Astronaut Mike Dexter will always hold a special place in her heart. Handsomer than Dr Drew, less British than Wesley Snipes, less living-in-Cleveland than Floyd, and a million times better than Dennis Duffy, Astronaut Mike Dexter had it all… except of course, a corporeal self. 

The fake songs 

Over the years, Jenna Maroney’s singing career has vomited up some truly dreadful creations, and topping the list has to be Muffin Top (a big hit in the king-making music markets of Israel and Belgium). Seguing from its pop insanity chorus “My muffin top is all that, wholegrain, low-fat” into a Madonna-style spoken-word rap “I’m an independent lady, so please don’t try to play me. I run a tidy bakery. The boys all want my cake for free”, the song is a battery assault on the senses.

But is it worse than Jenna’s summer dance jam, Balls, which earned her the princely sum of $50 in royalties? Or her computer generated, generic benefit song in aid of an unspecific natural disaster, which urged viewers to donate to “help the people the thing that happened, happened to”? How about the Jackie Jormp Jomp performance she gave of Chunk Of My Lung, written by Jack five minutes before the show, containing the classic line “You know you’ve bought it if life makes you sweet food”? Or Fart So Loud, the un-Weird Al-able song she and Tracy wrote after he parodied the theme to Avery Jessup TV movie Kidnapped? Such riches…

It’s not only Jenna who’s provided 30 Rock’s musical intervals of course. Season three finale Kidney Now! welcomed an eclectic collection of stars including Sheryl Crow, Mary J Blige, Elvis Costello, Moby, two of the Beastie Boys, Wyclef Jean, and Cyndi Lauper to perform a We Are The World-style anthem at the Milton Green benefit gig. Angie Jordan famously released a fifteen-second single My Single Is Dropping, to ride on the wave of her reality-show fame, Frank and Pete’s Sound Mound came up with unforgettable rock anthem Weekend Woman, and in the very same episode, even Tina Fey got in on the action by providing excellent Joni Mitchell parody, Paints and Brushes.

The legacy award though, as in the 30 Rock fake song that will continue to bring joy to the hearts of fans decades from now, has to go to one song, and one song only: Tracy Jordan’s Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.

Frank’s hat slogans 

Off-set, stand-up Judah Friedlander favours his ‘World Champion’ trucker hat, the one he claims to have been awarded as the winner of the World Championships of pretty much all sports, martial arts, and that time he karate kicked Chuck Norris’ beard off his face and forced him to legally change his name to Charles.

On-set as Frank Rossitano though, Friedlander wears a series of self-designed trucker hats, each bearing a different gnomic slogan. Often incongruous, sometimes suggestive, and always odd, Frank’s hat slogans are part of the bricks and mortar of 30 Rock. In terms of favourites, we’re quite fond of ‘Alabama Legsweep’, or the laconic enigma of ‘And’, though ‘Shark Cop’, ‘Half Centaur’ and ‘Space Gravy’ also caught our eye over the seasons.

Jenna’s Mickey Rourke sex stories 

Like Dot Com’s intellectualism, this running gag may have been introduced late into proceedings, but Jenna’s torrid sexual history with putty-faced beefcake Mickey Rourke gave J-Mo some of her best lines. Jenna’s allusions to Rourke’s sexually deviant and murderous attempts on her life paint a fascinating picture for 30 Rock fans. Here are some of the finest:

“Your new vibe is a double-edged sword, much like the kind Mickey Rourke tried to kill me with”, “Nice try Hazel, but you made the same mistake Mickey Rourke made on that catamaran. You didn’t kill me when you had the chance.”, “I’m going to have to reinvent you. Break you down completely and build you up from scratch. Just like Mickey Rourke did to me sexually.” “Next time you’ll tell me Mickey Rourke catapulted you into the Hollywood sign.” “You know what they say, if you can’t stand the heat, get off Mickey Rourke’s sex grill.” Wise words.

Kenneth the immortal page 

To this day Kenneth Ellen Parcell remains something of an enigma to 30 Rock viewers. In later seasons, Jack McBrayer’s character went from being a simple country rube from Stone Mountain, Georgia to  the flesh vessel for a mysterious immortal with no reflection, no age, and links to a world beyond our own.

Plenty of reference has been made to Kenneth’s ageless and supernatural state over the years, including the suggestion that not only is he unable to die, but he’s also an angel, sent to oversee the transition of souls from one world to the next.

The fake TV shows 

It’s either a credit to the 30 Rock team or a condemnation of our times that Jack Donaghy’s hit reality viewer vote show, MILF Island, no longer feels like a parody. In generations to come, time will no doubt erode the boundaries between fact and fiction, and we 30 Rock fans will be telling our kids about the time we watched Deborah beat her competitors and claim MILF victory in the same breath as educating them about those people who ate kangaroo anuses for public approval.

MILF Island stands head and shoulders above the rest of 30 Rock’s fake TV shows (including TGS itself, lest we not forget), but that doesn’t mean that Gold Case, Los Amantes Clandestinos, Black Frasier, Homonym, or the inimitable Bitch Hunter deserve any less respect. Our fallen brothers, we salute you.

We could go on indefinitely listing the recurring jokes that made 30 Rock great, from Liz’s sandwich lust and desire to go to there, to Jack’s gloriously thatched head of hair and Republican conspiracies. As the show prepares to return, which of the above will live again?

30 Rock: A One-Time Special lands on NBC on Thursday July 16th at 8pm in the US.

The post 30 Rock’s Best Running Jokes appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2WjIevB

[script-a-world]

Any tips on creating a planet that is 100% ocean. Yes, there are lots of rocks and mountains but none break the surface. The planet has a moon too. I've got to think of atmosphere, storms, earthquakes, gravity, tides, flora and fauna, etc...

Saphira:  

Step 1. Trim the Fat. 

Think about your project. If its a novel, think about your plot line and characters. If its a game, think about your End Goal and mechanics. The places you want to work on first are where the experience meets the world. What characters are important (where would you want them to be?) Start there. If you start with "oh god how does the moon affect tides") then you're going to be halfway through a box of Oreos and a gallon of Kool-aid before the hour's done. Don't do it to yourself.

Step 2. Envision the Ideal

Chances are that when you chose this environment, you had an idea in mind. It might have been the mental image of a coral reef, or the love of Disney Mermaids, or how unfathomably insane sea creatures can be. Go back to that. What about it got your attention? What about it got your imagination going? "I want to live in that much colour." "I could have done a better job than Disney in representing Ariel's life." "I love the horror of Earthly Sea Aliens." Write it down. Pin it up. Put that in the center of your world building graphs. That's the heart. Tether everything to that.

Step 3. Research 

Start from your Chart Heart. Take that Step 2 concept and start your research there. Research what Disney studied to make their world, or how coral reef biomes work, or the “Top Ten WTF is That Sea Animals”. Whatever it is. Then let the research web flow. You'll find something interesting. Read about that too. If you're getting something really exciting, see if you can find another reliable source for it. Write down your web of research around your Chart Heart. Jot down exciting details. Be careful. You can get utterly lost in this phase. Remember to come up for air, food, water and socialization.

Step 4. Connect the Dots

Your notes on your research will paint a picture. It will paint an idea. The notes, the chart you've made, will start to take on life and character. Put the research down and take a good look at your notes. If they're good inspiration points, they will start to tell you what your world is. You may start to see ecosystems. You may start to see mythology. You may see challenges for your characters to come across. Important: once you have started to get into the groove of your notes, bring back up your Project Plan from Step 1. Your narrative and your world need to work as one. As you go over the notes, go over your plot. Jot down or highlight points where the world and the plot REALLY GO TOGETHER. Celebrate those points!!

Step 5. Do it again 

Yup! It's a cycle. Take your winning points of your world that really resonate with your plot. Make those the hearts of your new charts. Start research again. Make notes again. Connect the dots again. The point of world building is to provide a more living experience. Do not let the mechanics of your world building get in the way of your audience's experience. Also, have fun with it.

Tex: I'm gonna make a lot of assumptions here that you might think are superfluous, but they're important to narrowing down topics to what I think you're presuming.

When you say "100% ocean", you mean something along the lines of "surface covered with liquid water", yes? This is a surprisingly rare phenomenon in astronomy - Earth is the only planet that we know of to contain not only water on its surface, but liquid water that is stable and in significantly large quantities.

There are several celestial bodies that are very close to these parameters: Europa has a water-ice crust; Enceladus is covered by more solid ice than Europa; Ganymede  is a mixture of water ice and silicate rock; Callisto has a surface composed of "water ice, carbon dioxide, silicates, and organic compounds". While their surfaces technically contain water, it's in a solid or mostly-solid form that's inaccessible for use to most life forms.

There are two main theories of how water comes to be on a celestial body, extraplanetary and internal. Extraplanetary sources rely on "Comets, trans-Neptunian objects, or water-rich meteoroids (protoplanets)" (Wikipedia), which impart only so much water due to factors such as the body's gravity and water-containing or water-inducing objects on a collision path with the body. It's not a particularly common method for producing water on a body's surface, unfortunately, and makes up a non-majority percent of surface water.

Internal water is both a more popular idea and a more common occurence. A liquid water ocean beneath the crust is possible, as in the cases of Dione, Pluto, Triton, and Ceres.

Frozen water, as in the case of ice, could be either purely water, or water and silicates (see: hydrate minerals ). It's possible that radioactive decay could have pushed subsurface water up, where it could have melted into liquid water and formed bodies of water such as oceans - this is especially possible if ammonia is present (Wikipedia). The heating of aluminum-26 could provide enough heat, also to force water to the surface (Phys.org), which brings up the important point that there needs to be enough heat for the water to remain a liquid.

For a body that contains water ice and is composed of primarily silicates, the contact of water with silicates will provide the hydrothermal and chemical energy to not only turn the ice into liquid water but also to maintain a temperature necessary to stabilize bodies of water as liquid. Radioactive decay as mentioned previously, tidal heating, and cryovolcanic activity all participate in the introduction and maintenance of surface water.

It is, admittedly, more difficult to find liquid water on the surface of an extrasolar planet, mostly because the "free" heat of the closest star is an easy way to defrost a celestial body. It's possible, but that would mean a greater reliance upon the internal heating and radioactive decay of the body itself, something that doesn't always pan out.

To elaborate on the idea of geological features of your planet, mountains  are a function of tectonic activity and/or volcanic activity, and an indication of how active the core is of your planet. The higher the mountains, generally, the more active. Rocks are formed from pressure, magma, or a combination of both (Wikipedia), wherein mountains are usually metamorphic (Wikipedia). If you decide upon how your planet's surface water came to be, it'll feed into how your landmasses are created, as well as how high they'll generally be. I do recommend reading up on geomorphology, too.

Further Reading

Extraterrestrial liquid water - Wikipedia

Ocean planet - Wikipedia 

Origin of water on Earth - Wikipedia 

Hydrology - Wikipedia 

Water - Wikipedia 

Nebular hypothesis - Wikipedia

Ocean Currents and Their Role in the Biosphere  by A.Ganopolski (chapter preview)

Insights into global diatom distribution and diversity in the world’s ocean  by Shruti Malviya et al. (PDF)

Grazers and Phytoplankton Growth in the Oceans: an Experimental and Evolutionary Perspective  by Simona Ratti et al. (PDF)

Life (Cells) - Wikipedia

Biota by sea or ocean - Wikipedia 

Marine Biota Exchange — The Biologic Pump - EARTH 103: Earth in the Future, Penn State University

Synth: Okay, yes, you do need to think about all of that eventually, but it doesn’t all have to be at once. Some things will follow logically after others.

Tides do affect ocean currents to an extent, but so far I haven’t found anything that gets into how they might affect the flow of deeper currents, instead of just the shallower areas. Tidal effects are most noticeable along shorelines, so if all of your “land” is very deep under the water, you might be able to get away with not dealing with this at all.

Being in the water is the closest we can come to a microgravity environment without leaving the ground, so, again, you can probably get away with filing gravity under "I'll deal with this later". (Did you know that gravity isn't uniform across the planet? You'd think it would be the same all over, but no. There are high spikes and weaker spots and all kinds of variations. It's wild.)

Undersea earthquakes and volcanoes could definitely cause problems for your marine inhabitants, although earthquake-spawned tsunamis tend to ruin the day for land-dwelling organisms way more than they do for ocean-based critters.

Yeah, you will need to figure out atmosphere, but at this point just having one is the important bit. Prevailing wind direction plays a large part in the flow of surface currents, but the composition of said atmosphere can take a back seat for the time being.

Get your planet and decide which direction it rotates. Looking at maps of prevailing winds  and ocean surface currents shows how the Coriolis effect from the planet’s rotation comes into play, affecting the direction of both the air and water currents: they travel predominately clockwise in one hemisphere, and counterclockwise in the other. 

Then it’s on to topography.

Tex had a bunch of suggestions to look into for planning your world's geologic formations. Lay out your geography, your valleys and mountains, shallows and trenches just as if it was above sea level. The “normal” rules for placing settlements on land (waterfront real estate is The Shit), kind of goes out the window for a completely submarine world, but it isn’t time to think about building cities yet anyway.

So you’ve got your landscape. Now submerge it. Decide just how far under the surface your highest points will be.

The nice thing about water and air is that they're both fluids, and they behave similarly when they encounter obstacles like, say, massive mountain ridges. If air wasn't transparent we would be able to see how it eddies and flows around objects the same way water does. Well, to an extent we can sometimes see it, when it picks up bits of detritus and blows it around. Wind tunnels pump in streams of smoke to make the airflow visible.

https://www.ventusky.com/ and https://www.windy.com/ are great for visualizing air currents. Not quite so good for water currents, but the "Waves" tab does provide a little bit of info to build off of. It's fascinating to see how wind at 10 metres above ground mostly follows the lay of the land, while wind at 1000 metres easily flows into low-lying areas, but does a hard stop at the Rockies and the Andes (and a few other places), and winds at 30000 just don't care about paltry geographic barriers like mountain ranges. The ocean currents on your planet will, to an extent, behave similarly in how they interact with the landscape, e.g. being deflected by very tall mountain ridges.

Airflow is the predominant driving force for the surface currents, but what about everything below that? Terminology to research deeper here are thermohaline circulation and hydrothermal circulation. Hydrothermal circulation is most apparent around the ocean floor near volcanic activity and deep-ocean hydrothermal vents (“black smokers”) and occurs due to temperature differences. Thermohaline drives pretty much everything else, and occurs due to changes in temperature (thermo) and salinity (haline). The motion of these major currents is vital to the submarine ecosystem, since it’s the main way nutrients and heat energy are transported (fun – and maybe slightly gross – fact: the abyssal depths of the ocean are subject to a constant “snow” of dead things and assorted other organic detritus sinking down from the higher levels. It’s an important food source down there).

Knowing how the oceans move on your planet will help with placing settlements, if your planet’s inhabitants have gotten to that point. On land cities often start near water sources, but obviously. when you already are underwater, that will change. Food sources and shelter (from predators, from too-strong currents) are still points that need to be considered. Who settles in the shallows, where the water is warm and sunlight allows for photosynthesis? What about deeper down, where several currents meet to create a good place for eating? Maybe it’s all chemosynthesis near deep-ocean fumaroles instead?

For flora and fauna, ooh lordy you have, like, so many options. So. Many. For inspiration just look at all the wild and wacky and downright creepy stuff that lives right here on our planet, especially the deeper regions. Some of it you’d swear was 100% alien in origin, but nope, born and bred right here on good ol’ Earth, where it seems like the deeper you go, the weirder the living things become. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Physical_oceanography has more ocean phenomena and terminology (scroll all the way to the bottom to find it organized by category), to get familiar with and research.

[redroseinsanity]

Ōmagatoki - Day 3

@daisugaweek2019​ | Day 3 -  Drama/Music

Chapters: 3/7

Summary: In the Kamakura period, a fallen samurai undertakes a journey to pray for the mountain god’s mercy as a famine threatens his people, but instead meets an enchanting tree spirit. Daichi knows that the kodama is possibly the most dangerous being he has ever encountered, and yet, he falls.

—

“What if I told you that there’s a price to pay for saving your people?”

“What kind of price?”

“A sacrifice.”

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

Daichi slammed through a particularly thick part of the undergrowth, felt his foot go through a hole covered by weeds and wild vegetation, and remembered to tuck his head down just in time to crash through several branches and tumble down a small mound. 

Staring up at the grey sky, thick with clouds, he let a string of curses escape his mouth. He started with cursing his leg, as he always did, then he moved on to cursing the enemies, for starting the war and forcing the deaths of so many. Then the crops, for wilting and starving his people and finally himself. 

Himself for not being fast enough to dodge that weapon without knowing it would injure him beyond repair; himself for not having anything concrete to feed his people with; himself for not being enough; and himself, for not being able to forget sparkling hazel eyes and the mischievous grin that came with it. 

Swearing as he felt the sting of fresh scrapes, he hauled himself into a sitting position. The tiny bursts of pain were a slight inconvenience compared to the way his mood had soured over the course of a day. As though in tandem with him, the sky rumbled its displeasure. 

He had awoken surrounded by crystal clear droplets of dew adorning perfectly shaped leaves and the rich scent of a treeful of blossoms, but no Suga. 

Daichi had sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, as though wiping hard enough would erase the night and return him to a twilight beside the curious being. He would trade the birds�� dawn melody and the way morning light glanced off gleaming blades of grass for a chance to run a finger over the edges of Suga’s kosode and perhaps, perhaps hold on for more than a sunset. 

But the knowledge that his limited time ebbed away while he was here, cavorting with someone who may very well be the daydreams of a desperate mind, hovered and worried him. He loathed having to make a call, but then again neither did generals on the field want to have to decide whether to leave a portion of their men and retreat for the sake of their remaining troops. 

He knew he had to, and so he did. One more try and if he failed to find anything, he would make his offerings at the most suitable place he could find and return home. There was no point chasing flimsy tales or stumbling after dreams in the mist here if he could be of better use plowing the fields or mending tools in his lands below. 

That had been five hours ago and as much as Daichi hated to admit, he could feel his body tiring fast while his mind chanted, ‘You’ve accomplished nothing, go home.’

By late afternoon, he found himself back where he began, where Suga had left him, and a bitter smile that was tinged with sorrow appeared. It seemed that, at the end, this seemed to be the most fitting place to make a plea, to beg for a bargain and then to say goodbye as well. 

It was quick work to get a tiny fire built from dried leaves and twigs going, and settling in front of it, Daichi made a bow. 

Drawing breath to begin, Daichi paused, reaching for the words he had carried up this mountain with him and instead, finding only Suga’s honeyed voice. What do you want? 

You.

Keep reading on AO3 or after the cut

“I’m not sure if that will work, but certainly, by all means,” Daichi’s hair nearly caught fire as he jumped, retracting the instinctive motion towards his sword when he recognised the voice and, after glancing around wildly, found Suga on the lowest branch of the nearest tree. 

Daichi’s heart nearly fell out of his mouth when, in a move too sudden for Daichi to even think about catching him, Suga leapt nimbly from his branch and landed lightly on the ground . 

As Suga approached, Daichi noticed the faintest strain that tightened the corners of a normally radiant smile and despite everything, a spark of worry flared amidst all the exhaustion and dread that he had been harbouring. 

He didn’t miss the way the fire that had been small but stable went out in the same instant that Suga lowered himself to the ground next to Daichi. 

Unable to stop himself, words failing him and a single question burning brighter than all the others, he extended one broad palm towards Suga. 

With a bemused expression, Suga followed the progress of that single tanned hand until it touched his shoulder, withdrew slightly and then pressed a little harder, as though unable to believe that it had encountered something solid at all. 

Looking mildly mortified, Daichi snatched his hand back, cheeks stained red as Suga’s eyes danced in unspoken amusement. 

“I just had to see if you were real,” Daichi confessed in a mumble. Throwing his head back, Suga laughed and it sounded like the autumn rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. 

“Either way, I have to go,” He continued, and Suga instantly sobered, a flash of what Daichi interpreted, hoped, was disappointment, crossed his face. 

“And your people?” Suga asked, slim fingers running over the ground that began to see dark spots as fat droplets raced towards the earth. 

“I will find some other way to feed them, perhaps see what my family has in our stores,” Daichi squared his jaw, “It is our duty to them.”

“So you’ll give them your food if you had to?” Suga’s voice raised above its usual liquid gold tones, perhaps to be heard over the beginnings of a shower or in disbelief. When Daichi made no response, “Starve yourself to feed them?”

Daichi did nothing except to tighten his jaw while the rain started to fall in earnest. 

“Why?” Daichi looked up in surprise because Suga had never raised his voice before, but now he was short of shouting as his cheeks flushed with anger, “Why do you always assign so little value to yourself?”

“My value is in what I can do, and since I’m no longer a samurai, my role is as a lord to these people, a life dedicated to them is a life well spent,” Daichi’s tone was even and measured as he met Suga’s outraged gaze. 

“So if I told you that your harvest would be prosperous if you gave your life for it?” Suga bordered on livid as his eyes darkened and darkened still. 

“So be it,” Daichi whispered, repeating one of the first things he’d ever heard Suga say. 

It wasn’t until Daichi heard the creaking of wood behind him that he whirled to find a massive tree erupting from the ground and burgeoning into full size at impossible speeds. 

Before he knew it, he was slamming into the solid trunk, thick vines beside him climbing ferociously upwards, and he opened his eyes to Suga, inches away from his face and settling an inhuman weight on his chest with a single arm.  

“Sawamura Daichi, do you know what I am? I can end your life before the next drop of rain falls,” Suga rasped, his eyes turning almost obsidian. 

Daichi looked at him, at the raindrops rolling down the curve of the most perfect face he had ever seen, the miniscule pearls that clung to lashes, the eyes that were foreign but enrapturing all the same, and he relaxed completely, leaving himself to be held up by that incomprehensible pressure on his breastbone. 

“To see your face before I die would be the most selfish thing I have ever wished for,” Daichi murmured, brushing away a stray lock of argon that hung in Suga’s face. 

Above them, the tree slowed in its growth, instead unfurling a series of heavy branches and deep green leaves. 

Daichi watched with detached fascination as Suga’s eyes settled into the exact shade of the leaves that sheltered them now and waited, as Suga remained still for what felt simultaneously like a brief moment and an eternity. 

Sinking down to the grass, Suga released his hold while, heaving to push air back into his lungs, Daichi slid to follow him there. The passing storm had slowed into a drizzle and for a while, the methodical tapping of droplets hitting leaves and Daichi’s breaths were the only things that resounded. 

“The first time I ever saw you,” Suga began softly, “Your leg had caught on a tangle of vines and root. You could have cut yourself free but you patiently unwound yourself and left everything intact." 

As his breathing steadied, Daichi noticed the way Suga’s hands trembled and he resolutely balled his hands in his robes to restrain himself from reaching over to clasp them in his. 

"It’s not supposed to be like this,” Suga continued, lifting tumultuous eyes that rioted with greens and browns to Daichi, “Humans are destructive and greedy, they take and take and never think of anything but themselves." 

Around them, the weak light that pierced through the dispersing clouds shivered over slick leaves and crept up to them, edging around their feet and the roots of Suga’s creation. 

"But you? You give and you never seem to think of yourself and-” Suga sighed, sweeping a damp curtain of silver shot hair behind his ear and blinking away stray raindrops, “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you need to save them when they have brought this upon themselves.”

“But it’s important to you,” He fixed Daichi with an unreadable, pensive look, “So I will tell you that your people have strayed away from remembering who is responsible for life and growth. If they begin building shrines and paying their respects to the mountain god and the gods of the harvest, they will survive the cold.”

“I thought you were supposed to bargain for the conditions with me before supplying the information,” Daichi could not resist from tease gently. 

Suga’s face cycled through a series of surprise, exasperation, fondness and resolute decisiveness before he smiled ruefully. 

“You’re already willing to give your life, is there not a condition that you’re not amenable to?”

“True,” Daichi agreed, “So what is it?”

“Stay with me.”

When Daichi opened his mouth to reply, Suga’s smile softened to amused affection tinged with age old melancholy. 

“I know your time is precious, humans do not have much to begin with, so all I ask is for one more day and you may return with this information.”

Daichi shut his mouth and blinked, recalibrating his response. 

“You have my word,” He said easily, and hesitated before asking, “Are you the mountain god?”

Suga huffed out a delicate laugh as his lashes fluttered, mirth quickly replacing the solemn atmosphere. 

“No,” he exhaled, “I’m a kodama, a tree spirit, if you will. The mountain god is hardly present, at least, not in this realm." 

"A kodama,” Daichi mused, wrinkling his brow, “Therefore, a yokai?" 

Seeing a crease appear between Suga’s brows and a pout begin to form on his lips, Daichi hastily backpedaled. 

"Or more of a yosei?” He hazarded and Suga’s face smoothened into a bright expression. 

“This is my home,” he explained, “Our presence keeps it thriving. We used to walk among your fields until we began to feel unwelcome there.”

“I apologise,” Daichi said with genuine regret and Suga snorted. 

“Yes, I forgot that you are solely responsible for the entire world’s shortcomings,” He got out through a burble of laughter. 

Daichi let the bubble of amusement be buoyed up by the swell of joy and laughed for the first time in months. It started out as a subdued chuckle but grew into a full belly laugh that felt as though something was loosening in his chest and pouring itself out in his exhales. 

From beside him, Suga’s eyes had turned immeasurably tender, shining as they trained on the curve of Daichi’s lips, and then shadowing as the radiance was dimmed by the knowledge of sorrow anticipated. 

Kosode - The basic robe that many Japanese of that period wore, can be held together with an obi or belt. Originally worn as innerwear, it later became outerwear and is as simple as Japanese clothing at that time gets. 

Kodama - Technically, it’s a yokai, Suga’s just being picky. A tree spirit or a spirit who lives in a tree.

Yokai - A demon, spirit or supernatural creature in Japanese folklore

Yosei - A subset of yokai (if I’m not wrong), but more akin to fairies than demons

If anything looks inaccurate, please forgive me or correct me (preferably both)!

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

1st July >> Mass Readings (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Saint Oliver Plunket, Bishop, Martyr (Ireland & England)

on 

Monday, Thirteenth Week in Ordinary Time.

Monday, Thirteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the feria (Monday)

There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Monday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Genesis 18:16-33

Abraham negotiates with the Lord

From Mamre the men set out and arrived within sight of Sodom, with Abraham accompanying them to show them the way. Now the Lord had wondered, ‘Shall I conceal from Abraham what I am going to do, seeing that Abraham will become a great nation with all the nations of the earth blessing themselves by him? For I have singled him out to command his sons and his household after him to maintain the way of the Lord by just and upright living. In this way the Lord will carry out for Abraham what he has promised him.’ Then the Lord said, ‘How great an outcry there is against Sodom and Gomorrah! How grievous is their sin! I propose to go down and see whether or not they have done all that is alleged in the outcry against them that has come up to me. I am determined to know.’

The men left there and went to Sodom while Abraham remained standing before the Lord. Approaching him he said, ‘Are you really going to destroy the just man with the sinner? Perhaps there are fifty just men in the town. Will you really overwhelm them, will you not spare the place for the fifty just men in it? Do not think of doing such a thing: to kill the just man with the sinner, treating just and sinner alike! Do not think of it! Will the judge of the whole earth not administer justice?’ the Lord replied, ‘If at Sodom I find fifty just men in the town, I will spare the whole place because of them.’

Abraham replied, ‘I am bold indeed to speak like this to my Lord, I who am dust and ashes. But perhaps the fifty just men lack five: will you destroy the whole city for five?’ ‘No,’ he replied ‘I will not destroy it if I find forty-five just men there.’ Again Abraham said to him, ‘Perhaps there will only be forty there.’ ‘I will not do it’ he replied ‘for the sake of the forty.’

Abraham said, ‘I trust my Lord will not be angry, but give me leave to speak: perhaps there will only be thirty there.’ ‘I will not do it’ he replied ‘if I find thirty there.’ He said, ‘I am bold indeed to speak like this, but perhaps there will only be twenty there.’ ‘I will not destroy it’ he replied ‘for the sake of the twenty.’ He said, ‘I trust my Lord will not be angry if I speak once more: perhaps there will only be ten.’ ‘I will not destroy it’ he replied ‘for the sake of the ten.’

When he had finished talking to Abraham the Lord went away, and Abraham returned home.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 102(103):1-4,8-11

R/ The Lord is compassion and love.

My soul, give thanks to the Lord

all my being, bless his holy name.

My soul, give thanks to the Lord

and never forget all his blessings.

R/ The Lord is compassion and love.

It is he who forgives all your guilt,

who heals every one of your ills,

who redeems your life from the grave,

who crowns you with love and compassion.

R/ The Lord is compassion and love.

The Lord is compassion and love,

slow to anger and rich in mercy.

His wrath will come to an end;

he will not be angry for ever.

R/ The Lord is compassion and love.

He does not treat us according to our sins

nor repay us according to our faults.

For as the heavens are high above the earth

so strong is his love for those who fear him.

R/ The Lord is compassion and love.

Gospel Acclamation

John 8:12

Alleluia, alleluia!

I am the light of the world, says the Lord;

anyone who follows me will have the light of life.

Alleluia!

Or:

Psalm 94:8

Alleluia, alleluia!

Harden not your hearts today,

but listen to the voice of the Lord.

Alleluia!

Gospel

Matthew 8:18-22

The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head

When Jesus saw the great crowds all about him he gave orders to leave for the other side. One of the scribes then came up and said to him, ‘Master, I will follow you wherever you go.’ Jesus replied, ‘Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’

Another man, one of his disciples, said to him, ‘Sir, let me go and bury my father first.’ But Jesus replied, ‘Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their dead.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

————————-

Saint Oliver Plunket, Bishop, Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial

There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Monday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

Either:

First Reading

Ezekiel 34:11-16

I will look after my flock myself and keep all of it in view

The Lord God says this: I am going to look after my flock myself and keep all of it in view. As a shepherd keeps all his flock in view when he stands up in the middle of his scattered sheep, so shall I keep my sheep in view. I shall rescue them from wherever they have been scattered during the mist and darkness. I shall bring them out of the countries where they are; I shall gather them together from foreign countries and bring them back to their own land. I shall pasture them on the mountains of Israel, in the ravines and in every inhabited place in the land. I shall feed them in good pasturage; the high mountains of Israel will be their grazing ground. There they will rest in good grazing ground; they will browse in rich pastures on the mountains of Israel. I myself will pasture my sheep, I myself will show them where to rest – it is the Lord who speaks. I shall look for the lost one, bring back the stray, bandage the wounded and make the weak strong. I shall watch over the fat and healthy. I shall be a true shepherd to them.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Or:

Alternative First Reading

1 Peter 3:8-18

He must never yield to evil but must practise good; he must seek peace and pursue it

You should all agree among yourselves and be sympathetic; love the brothers, have compassion and be self-effacing. Never pay back one wrong with another, or an angry word with another one; instead, pay back with a blessing. That is what you are called to do, so that you inherit a blessing yourself. Remember: Anyone who wants to have a happy life and to enjoy prosperity must banish malice from his tongue, deceitful conversation from his lips; he must never yield to evil but must practise good; he must seek peace and pursue it. Because the face of the Lord frowns on evil men, but the eyes of the Lord are turned towards the virtuous.

No one can hurt you if you are determined to do only what is right; if you do have to suffer for being good, you will count it a blessing. There is no need to be afraid or to worry about them. Simply reverence the Lord Christ in your hearts, and always have your answer ready for people who ask you the reason for the hope that you all have. But give it with courtesy and respect and with a clear conscience, so that those who slander you when you are living a good life in Christ may be proved wrong in the accusations that they bring. And if it is the will of God that you should suffer, it is better to suffer for doing right than for doing wrong.

Why, Christ himself, innocent though he was, had died once for sins, died for the guilty, to lead us to God. In the body he was put to death, in the spirit he was raised to life.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 30(31):3-4,6,8,17,21

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

or

R/ Alleluia!

Be a rock of refuge for me,

a mighty stronghold to save me,

for you are my rock, my stronghold.

For your name’s sake, lead me and guide me.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

or

R/ Alleluia!

Into your hands I commend my spirit.

It is you who will redeem me, Lord.

As for me, I trust in the Lord:

let me be glad and rejoice in your love.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

or

R/ Alleluia!

Let your face shine on your servant.

Save me in your love.

You hide them in the shelter of your presence

from the plotting of men.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

or

R/ Alleluia!

Gospel Acclamation

Matthew 5:10

Alleluia, alleluia!

Happy those who are persecuted

in the cause of right,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Alleluia!

Or:

John 17:19

Alleluia, alleluia!

For their sake I consecrate myself,

so that they too may be consecrated in the truth.

Alleluia!

Or:

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Alleluia, alleluia!

Blessed be God, a gentle Father

and the God of all consolation,

who comforts us in all our sorrows.

Alleluia!

Or:

James 1:12

Alleluia, alleluia!

Happy the man who stands firm,

for he has proved himself,

and will win the crown of life.

Alleluia!

Or:

1 Peter 4:14

Alleluia, alleluia!

It is a blessing for you

when they insult you for bearing the name of Christ,

for the Spirit of God rests on you.

Alleluia!

Or:

cf.Te Deum

Alleluia, alleluia!

We praise you, O God,

we acknowledge you to be the Lord;

the noble army of martyrs praise you, O Lord.

Alleluia!

Gospel

John 10:11-16

The good shepherd is one who lays down his life for his sheep

Jesus said:

‘I am the good shepherd:

the good shepherd is one who lays down his life for his sheep.

The hired man, since he is not the shepherd

and the sheep do not belong to him,

abandons the sheep and runs away

as soon as he sees a wolf coming,

and then the wolf attacks and scatters the sheep;

this is because he is only a hired man

and has no concern for the sheep.

‘I am the good shepherd;

I know my own

and my own know me,

just as the Father knows me

and I know the Father;

and I lay down my life for my sheep.

And there are other sheep I have

that are not of this fold,

and these I have to lead as well.

They too will listen to my voice,

and there will be only one flock,

and one shepherd.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[fernfmp2019]

Icelandic folklore Habogi

Once upon a time there lived two peasants who had three daughters, and, as generally happens, the youngest was the most beautiful and the best tempered, and when her sisters wanted to go out she was always ready to stay at home and do their work.

Years passed quickly with the whole family, and one day the parents suddenly perceived that all three girls were grown up, and that very soon they would be thinking of marriage.

'Have you decided what your husband's name is to be?' said the father, laughingly, to his eldest daughter, one evening when they were all sitting at the door of their cottage. 'You know that is a very important point!'

'Yes; I will never wed any man who is not called Sigmund,' answered she.

'Well, it is lucky for you that there are a great many Sigmunds in this part of the world,' replied her father, 'so that you can take your choice! And what do YOU say?' he added, turning to the second.

'Oh, I think that there is no name so beautiful as Sigurd,' cried she.

'Then you won't be an old maid either,' answered he. 'There are seven Sigurds in the next village alone! And you, Helga?'

Helga, who was still the prettiest of the three, looked up. She also had her favourite name, but, just as she was going to say it, she seemed to hear a voice whisper: 'Marry no one who is not called Habogi.'

The girl had never heard of such a name, and did not like it, so she determined to pay no attention; but as she opened her mouth to tell her father that her husband must be called Njal, she found herself answering instead: 'If I do marry it will be to no one except Habogi.'

'Who IS Habogi?' asked her father and sisters; 'We never heard of such a person.'

'All I can tell you is that he will be my husband, if ever I have one,' returned Helga; and that was all she would say.

Before very long the young men who lived in the neighbouring villages or on the sides of the mountains, had heard of this talk of the three girls, and Sigmunds and Sigurds in scores came to visit the little cottage. There were other young men too, who bore different names, though not one of them was called 'Habogi,' and these thought that they might perhaps gain the heart of the youngest. But though there was more than one 'Njal' amongst them, Helga's eyes seemed always turned another way.

At length the two elder sisters made their choice from out of the Sigurds and the Sigmunds, and it was decided that both weddings should take place at the same time. Invitations were sent out to the friends and relations, and when, on the morning of the great day, they were all assembled, a rough, coarse old peasant left the crowd and came up to the brides' father.

'My name is Habogi, and Helga must be my wife,' was all he said. And though Helga stood pale and trembling with surprise, she did not try to run away.

'I cannot talk of such things just now,' answered the father, who could not bear the thought of giving his favourite daughter to this horrible old man, and hoped, by putting it off, that something might happen. But the sisters, who had always been rather jealous of Helga, were secretly pleased that their bridegrooms should outshine hers.

When the feast was over, Habogi led up a beautiful horse from a field where he had left it to graze, and bade Helga jump up on its splendid saddle, all embroidered in scarlet and gold. 'You shall come back again,' said he; 'but now you must see the house that you are to live in.' And though Helga was very unwilling to go, something inside her forced her to obey.

The old man settled her comfortably, then sprang up in front of her as easily as if he had been a boy, and, shaking the reins, they were soon out of sight.

After some miles they rode through a meadow with grass so green that Helga's eyes felt quite dazzled; and feeding on the grass were a quantity of large fat sheep, with the curliest and whitest wool in the world.

'What lovely sheep! whose are they?' cried Helga.

'Your Habogi's,' answered he, 'all that you see belongs to him; but the finest sheep in the whole herd, which has little golden bells hanging between its horns, you shall have for yourself.'

This pleased Helga very much, for she had never had anything of her own; and she smiled quite happily as she thanked Habogi for his present.

They soon left the sheep behind them, and entered a large field with a river running through it, where a number of beautiful grey cows were standing by a gate waiting for a milk-maid to come and milk them.

'Oh, what lovely cows!' cried Helga again; 'I am sure their milk must be sweeter than any other cows. How I should like to have some! I wonder to whom they belong?'

'To your Habogi,' replied he; 'and some day you shall have as much milk as you like, but we cannot stop now. Do you see that big grey one, with the silver bells between her horns? That is to be yours, and you can have her milked every morning the moment you wake.'

And Helga's eyes shone, and though she did not say anything, she thought that she would learn to milk the cow herself.

A mile further on they came to a wide common, with short, springy turf, where horses of all colours, with skins of satin, were kicking up their heels in play. The sight of them so delighted Helga that she nearly sprang from her saddle with a shriek of joy.

'Whose are they?' Oh! whose are they?' she asked. 'How happy any man must be who is the master of such lovely creatures!'

'They are your Habogi's,' replied he, 'and the one which you think the most beautiful of all you shall have for yourself, and learn to ride him.'

At this Helga quite forgot the sheep and the cow.

'A horse of my own!' said she. 'Oh, stop one moment, and let me see which I will choose. The white one? No. The chestnut? No. I think, after all, I like the coal-black one best, with the little white star on his forehead. Oh, do stop, just for a minute.'

But Habogi would not stop or listen. 'When you are married you will have plenty of time to choose one,' was all he answered, and they rode on two or three miles further.

At length Habogi drew rein before a small house, very ugly and mean-looking, and that seemed on the point of tumbling to pieces.

'This is my house, and is to be yours,' said Habogi, as he jumped down and held out his arms to lift Helga from the horse. The girl's heart sank a little, as she thought that the man who possessed such wonderful sheep, and cows, and horses, might have built himself a prettier place to live in; but she did not say so. And, taking her arm, he led her up the steps.

But when she got inside, she stood quite bewildered at the beauty of all around her. None of her friends owned such things, not even the miller, who was the richest man she knew. There were carpets everywhere, thick and soft, and of deep rich colours; and the cushions were of silk, and made you sleepy even to look at them; and curious little figures in china were scattered about. Helga felt as if it would take her all her life to see everything properly, and it only seemed a second since she had entered the house, when Habogi came up to her.

'I must begin the preparations for our wedding at once,' he said; 'but my foster-brother will take you home, as I promised. In three days he will bring you back here, with your parents and sisters, and any guests you may invite, in your company. By that time the feast will be ready.'

Helga had so much to think about, that the ride home appeared very short. Her father and mother were delighted to see her, as they did not feel sure that so ugly and cross-looking a man as Habogi might not have played her some cruel trick. And after they had given her some supper they begged her to tell them all she had done. But Helga only told them that they should see for themselves on the third day, when they would come to her wedding.

It was very early in the morning when the party set out, and Helga's two sisters grew green with envy as they passed the flocks of sheep, and cows, and horses, and heard that the best of each was given to Helga herself; but when they caught sight of the poor little house which was to be her home their hearts grew light again.

'I should be ashamed of living in such a place,' whispered each to the other; and the eldest sister spoke of the carved stone over HER doorway, and the second boasted of the number of rooms SHE had. But the moment they went inside they were struck dumb with rage at the splendour of everything, and their faces grew white and cold with fury when they saw the dress which Habogi had prepared for his bride--a dress that glittered like sunbeams dancing upon ice.

'She SHALL not look so much finer than us,' they cried passionately to each other as soon as they were alone; and when night came they stole out of their rooms, and taking out the wedding-dress, they laid it in the ash-pit, and heaped ashes upon it. But Habogi, who knew a little magic, and had guessed what they would do, changed the ashes into roses, and cast a spell over the sisters, so that they could not leave the spot for a whole day, and every one who passed by mocked at them.

The next morning when they all awoke the ugly tumble-down house had disappeared, and in its place stood a splendid palace. The guests' eyes sought in vain for the bridegroom, but could only see a handsome young man, with a coat of blue velvet and silver and a gold crown upon his head.

'Who is that?' they asked Helga.

'That is my Habogi,' said she.

[homosociallyyours]

a friend just posted a pic on fb of the coffee shop we used to hang out at, taken way back in the day. it’s just a shot of the place taken from inside, looking out the big glass windows and onto the street of downtown chattanooga. but one friend pointed out that she could see another friend’s van parked across the street, and one of the baristas came on and said he’d taken the photo and then proceeded to post a bunch more. 

anyway i’m feeling nostalgic so i’m posting about it. memories behind the cut. 

i started going there when i was maybe 15 years old. i don’t remember why, but it’s likely that the artsy nerd club i was a part of (we stayed after school to watch amadeus and monty python and we’d sometimes go to the local art museum) went there after a meeting one day. or maybe someone told me about it. anyway, it was my favorite place to go. i would drink pots of tea, always trying new things. 

on my 16th birthday my parents got me a teapot from there and a gift certificate to buy tea with. i had that teapot til it broke a year ago. 20+ years! it moved with me to and from college, to nyc, california, texas, and back to california. damn. 

anyway after i’d been going for a while i started talking with the owner. his name was ian, and he was pretty young. he loved tea and coffee and he had a roaster where they’d make their own coffee. it was loud and lovely, and for a long time it lived up front, right by a little elevated area with couches. when it was running you couldn’t hear anything and had no choice but to either shout or be quiet. 

ian encouraged my love of tea, and offered to keep track of everything i’d tried in a little notebook that was kept behind the counter. i got to make notes on every pot i drank, and i remember writing “terrible! grass!” after my first pot of green tea (it was oversteeped--my fault--and probably made with water that was too hot--their fault). i had my first pu-er there, and fell in love with its damp leaf flavor and that turned earth scent that it has. i drank multiple pots of jasmine pearls and wrote a caffeine fueled poem about it with a friend. i loved that little coffee shop. 

i don’t remember when i went from hanging out inside to hanging out outside, but i feel like i was 18 or so. the older people (they were probably barely 21-25, fucking babies) sat out there smoking and drinking coffee. i developed a crush one summer on a guy who made me think of arthur dent for some reason (don’t ask because i don’t know) and we went on one awkward date and didn’t kiss, and now i wonder what’s happened to him and if he, too, wasn’t straight. who knows? someone, i’m sure, but i can’t remember his last name anymore so is it even relevant? 

i’d never felt cool til i went off to college. it was like leveling up without trying, like when you’re playing a game and do one action and suddenly all your stats are refilled and you’re like...this is unexpected? but i’ll take it? i think that’s why i decided i could really sit with the outside tables. that and my bff, who was dating someone who was friends with a lot of those people, would show up sometimes and sit out there. 

(if you’ve actually been reading along so far, here’s where i’m gonna introduce you to a bunch of people i’ve never talked about before and will likely never mention again. just so you have fair warning.) 

the cast of characters shifted a lot, but there were always the constants. scott, the barista, who was much older than most of the people hanging out but looked young and seemed young. i look back with adult eyes and question the relationship we had, but at the time i just thought it was cool that someone so much older thought i was worth hanging out with. but he was 30 when i was 19, and man that’s a lotta years. he had a summer where he hit on my friend and i constantly, after his wife left him and he was kinda floundering a bit. but it never went past flirting and it never bothered me, though like i said it kinda does now. we were still hanging out when i was 21 and we’d go get beers after the coffee shop closed at ten or midnight. he’d turn up obnoxious music really loud and i’d sometimes help close. 

there was gabe and george, brother and sister in a family of people with names starting with the letter g. george was tiny and cute and either very drunk or very hyper from coffee at all times. gabe was a nerd who was usually quiet but loved to play scrabble, and we’d take the board inside sometimes and battle one another. he was much better than me, i won’t lie. liz and ever were both writers who would play with us sometimes. ever had changed her name at some point (to ever; any name she had before is irrelevant) and when we met she explained the meaning of her new name, which i won’t give because damn it’s very google-able. 

she was a so fascinating to me, always talking about some feminist theory or philosopher, and i always felt so smart when we’d hang out. like a Serious Thoughtful Adult and not a kid. and liz was less serious but no less smart. she played scrabble a lot more and for a while we got pretty close. she took me out after coffee sometimes to a shitty bar with pool tables and tried to teach me how to play pool. she had her own cue and even though she was like 5′2″ she could break like nobody’s business. i never figured out how to do that part. 

alex would come with us sometimes. he was tall and handsome and rode a motorcycle, and was the first openly bi guy i ever met. one time he invited me over to his house and we laid around listening to the smiths and talking. he burned me a copy of their greatest hits that i still have, all scratched up so it probably doesn’t play anymore. he crashed his bike more than once driving drunk. dumb fuckin kid. now he repairs coffee machines and sails, i think. life is funny. 

a few other people ran in groups. meg and waide and the aforementioned jason and ardyce. some people called meg “big megan” and another megan (her family was really wealthy, rich southern politicians who knew the clintons and have a mention in sweet home alabama--the song, not the movie) was “little megan” because she was still in high school. i joked that i was medium megan, but the whole thing was awkward because big megan was fat and i was small fat and little megan was skinny. i’m gonna blame it on thoughtless dudes, but who the fuck knows? we all pretended not to mind it anyway. 

waide ended up being a connection with other people who i met later. my hometown is weird in that it’s actually a pretty big part of the southern punk scene, so a lot of punks i meet have spent time there, and anyone over a certain age probably spent time at the bar waide worked at (the stone lion, and then maybe also the pickle barrel) so he’s one of those people who i’ll end up mentioning even though we haven’t spoken in years. 

at some point a kid named ory showed up. i think he was 16 when he started coming around, and i used to call him puppy because he was excitable and silly, full of energy one minute and then mopey crashing the next. like a lot of people there he drank a lot and would be fucked up sometimes and make dumb choices. i always wanted to protect him. when i was 22 (and he was 19, i think) we ended up sitting together at the second lotr movie and having some kind of weird chemistry. that summer i drove him home one night and we had a super heavy make out with lots of clothed grinding. honestly the furthest i’ve ever gone with a cis straight(ish, he hooked up with a couple dudes but idk if he’d say he’s bi) dude and it was awkward in that we never talked about it? and then he came to visit me a couple years later in new york because he was in the navy, and he got super drunk and passed out on my couch and was a mess because he literally never stopped being a puppy. 

he’s fucked up now, fully cancelled bc he said shit about girls rock camp (really dude?) and also probably cheated on his wife on their honeymoon? idk, it was fb rumors and then he deleted. but i’d believe it, honestly. 

and then there were all these absolutely random downtown characters: dirty mark (a crusty punk who was drunk or high most of the time) and shirtless dave (yeah he really didn’t wear a shirt that much) usually came as a pair. sometimes dave hung out with a guy my friends and i called blue hair. he once hit on my friend and she panicked and gave him my number instead of hers because her brain didn’t make up a fake number fast enough. 

there was sandy the flower man, who just passed away a couple weeks ago. he’d get flowers from local florists and go around on his bike, stopping into the coffee shop or to bars with roses and carnations and daisies. people gave him money usually, but sometimes he’d just hand you a flower because he wanted to. i saw a picture from a memorial and there was a portrait of him that was sat on top of his bicycle, all of it surrounded with flowers on flowers. so pretty. it’s what he deserved. 

things changed around 2005 or so, i think. by that time, all the old baristas had left and the kids who came in were all weirdly religious and went to the christian college on the mountain. they made shitty coffee and sometimes played xtian rock and most of the old regulars couldn’t take it anymore. ian got sick around that time, too, and ended up selling the place. they stopped carrying much tea, if any. 

but they finally sold the space and moved in like 2015. i remember the first time i drove by and didn’t see the lights on inside. it felt like seeing a friend from grade school all grown up, maybe the kid you had a crush on but they have a family now and you don’t think they’d recognize you at all so you just have to walk away. gone. 

fuck this post is long as shit, i’m sorry for anyone on mobile. but damn it was good to get my memories out. 

[fluffynexu]

Large Felids of Korriban

Prior to the arrival of the Exiles, the biodiversity on Korriban was shown to be rich and diverse. Unfortunately most of Korriban’s native lifeforms were driven to extinction during the Great Blight. And the fact that much of the old Sith records were destroyed during the Transitional Period has made it difficult for modern-day xenozoologists to gather information on Korribani organisms.

However one small group of animals was featured so heavily throughout Sith culture, history, and art that official Imperial records have a decent understanding of these creatures. This group of organisms is the large felids of Korriban.

A couple of features distinguish the large felids from their small counterparts aside from the obvious difference in size. All large Korribani felids have two sets of canines while the small felids have either one or two. The other main distinction is that the hyoid bone in the large felid skulls has an elastic segment while the one in small felids are completely solid.

Currently the Imperial Xenozoological Society recognizes seven species of large Korribani felids.

Mowhef

The mowhef is possibly the most recognized animal in association with the Sith people. It is also the only felid to display sexual dimorphism with the males being larger, sporting a mane, and protruding canines. The manes were comprised of keratinized skin cells and used as an outward display of health. Mowhefs came in various shades of red with black stripes on their legs with ridges on the neck, lower back, and forearms. Their faces had dangling tendrils and bony spurs around the eyes, forehead, cheek, and chin. It’s thought that the mowhefs originally lived in the savannas of Korriban but spread throughout the planet with the Sith.

Mowhefs were, and in some cases still are, considered to be sacred animals among the Sith. Some ancient texts had the Sith people convinced that they actually evolved from these creatures. As such, their importance to the Sith was predominantly featured in their society. Before the Exiles renovated the old temples there were countless statues, paintings, mosaics, and other works of art depicting these creatures. Many of these works had the mowhefs featured with a ruling Sith Lord of that time and place. Although the Sith hunted nearly all manner of life on their world, the mowhef was the only animal which was forbidden to be hunted. The only instance in which a Sith would kill a mowhef was when a ruling Lord conquered his or her enemy and tradition mandated that all of the fallen enemy’s family, which usually included a mowhef companion, to be executed.

Sith never derived any food or fur from these creatures. They were only used as animal companions and symbols of divine rule by the Lords. The importance of these animals is so interwoven with Sith society that one can still see their depiction in the Empire today. The most famous example being the Gate Guardians that stand along the entryways to the Scarlet District. Other examples include various Sith families featuring a mowhef on their family crest or sigil. And Imperial law still mandates that any image depicting these creatures must be approved by the Sith Cultural Preservation Council.

Qyalak

The qyalak was a large, golden felids with black stripes. Like their mowhef brethren, they had tendrils from the cheeks and ridges upon the brows. They typically lived in environments the Sith called great grass seas but were also found in many of Korriban’s forests.

Qyalak were often seen as rival beasts to the mowhefs. Both species had territories that would overlap and they both hunted the same prey. The main difference was that mowhefs were pack hunters while qyalak hunted alone. Their stripes helped them camouflage against the golden grass blades or blend in with the shadows of trees. While not considered sacred, the Sith held these animals in high regard for their strength and hunting prowess that could rival a mowhef.

Their coat was also highly valued for the gold color and it would not be uncommon to read of Sith to hunt one as a feat of strength. Thus owning or wearing a qyalak pelt was only recorded among the noble Sith families. But their pelt was not the only use Sith found with these animals. When hunted, their flesh was served as an elaborate meal, their bones ground into medicinal powders, and their teeth and claws were used for ornamentation in a similar manner to Togruta with the akul.

There were also many stories and tales that involved qyalaks. They were seen as everything from demons, sages, to mere beasts of war. One notable example is the legends surrounding Ahmurn’s Chosen, a divine army of female Sith that rode upon violet qyalaks with golden stripes. Many temples had murals showcasing a "historical account” of Sith nations that were destroyed by these qyalak-riding warriors as an act of the gods.

Dzushaj

Dzushaj are relatively small for a large felid. They had very long tendrils compared to the other felids and often had more than one set. These animals were also purely nocturnal, using the darkness to help them hunt. Being superb climbers, they mostly lived near caves or in the dense canopies of forests. Being a smaller predator the dzushaj typically avoided any kind of confrontation with larger animals opting for the quiet, patient approach to hunting their prey instead.

Many Sith were fond of the dzushaj’s coat and thought it held mystical properties. With black and gold being good colors, many of the Kissai wore robes that were adorned with dzushaj fur trimmings. But rather than being hunted, these animals were raised as pets. The Kissai would often get attached to their pets but killed them in a ritual sacrifice. With so few written records dealing with sacrificial practices scholars among the Imperial Reclamation Service often debate the meaning, purpose, and significance of these events.

There is also a saying among the Sith: “taking your/my/a dzushaj to the pyre”, which typically means “having to do something that causes grief”.

Saiyûk

Unlike all of the other large felids, the saiyûk do not have any tendrils, bony spurs, or ridges. Its entire body is tall, thin, and streamlined. These animals were also the only felid, large or small, to have non-retractable claws. They evolved to hunt in only one way and lost any trait that would hinder their speed. But this made them incredibly fragile compared to some of its brethren. Assuming a mowhef or qyalak caught one, a saiyûk’s neck would snap with one hit from the larger felid. Saiyûk lived in open, grassy plains and was considered a nomadic species since they followed their prey while avoiding larger predators.

Some Sith nations even tracked the seasons with the migration of these animals. When “saiyûk season” came around, there would be a large, cultural festival or event that revolved around hunting these animals. These hunts involved tracking, chasing, and shooting down the animals with a bow and arrow on a mount.

Paintings and wall carvings adorned many Sith estates to record the skill of the family that lived there. Sometimes they would also be kept as pets that reflected the status of the Sith who owned it. There are also many tales and fables that feature saiyûk told to Sith younglings.

Niqoit

Niqoits were found in the mountainous areas on Korriban. They were able to run along the jagged, rocky terrain and hunt the prey in these usually isolated areas. There were several sub-species of niqoit that sported different coat patterns and textures depending on the mountain range it was from. The most common one had an orange coat with black spots. All sub species had the same facial features of tendrils and brow ridges. These are also the only venomous felid on Korriban.

Their venom was sought out by the Sith for alchemical and medicinal purposes. While a bite from a niqoit wasn’t fatal to a healthy adult Sith, it was known to be excruciatingly painful and kill Sith younglings.

Many depictions of niqoits were rather negative with the supernatural versions of these animals being omens, harbingers of ill will, or demons. One legend told of a malicious entity that brought death to infants, and this demon took the form of a white niqoit but its spots were eyes instead.

Bolâts

Unlike any other felid on Korriban, bolâts have adapted to thrive in the water. Their large stocky frame had a thick layer of fat which helped maintain their temperature and buoyancy. Their short coat was usually brown or grey and they had ridges on the nose as well as neck and lower back. Bolâts are also the only felid to have the lower canines protrude and webbed paws. They were found near large lakes, rivers, and one sub-species lived along the coasts of Korriban’s single ocean.

Bolâts hunted by dragging their prey into the water and drowning them. Although it was rare, they were even known to drag a mowhef or qyalak into the water, which gave them an advantage. More than any other creature on Korriban, the Sith had a great dislike for the bolâts.

Their dislike did not cause any mass extermination of these animals. Instead, the Sith had many ceremonies, typically among the Massassi, that involved killing a bolâts in the water. These ceremonies would weed out the weak and teach the warriors to face their fear. Many of the old Massassi temples had depictions of a young warrior wrestling a bolâts in the water. Those who were successful also crafted a thick leather armor from bolâts pelts.

The main mythological bolâts figure is the two-headed bolâts companion of Sahlaj Dzun. It guards the entrance to the Realm of Death which, unsurprisingly, was said to be at the bottom of the ocean.

Tsuzailek

The last felid on this list is the tsuzailek. These creatures lived in the snowy northern tundras on Korriban. They had a thick fur coat that hid any spurs or ridges, and their tendrils would often curl up in the cold.

While Korriban is generally thought of as cold, most of the planet’s surface was mildly temperate from time to time. Meaning that the poles were truly frigid by human standards and unpleasantly cold for the Sith. Most Sith civilizations occurred away from the poles, but the ones that lived in these desolate regions still recorded and produced art that show cased the tsuzailek.

These Sith nations saw the tsuzailek as spirits that came and went with the snow storms. Art that depicted death usually had a tsuzailek as the main subject or near a deceased Sith. Being the subject of many superstitious ghost stories the Sith generally left tsuzaileks alone. There would be instances where a Kissai would use a tsuzailek pelt to ward of spirits, but those would not happen frequently. A few Sith families that can still trace their lineage to these Kissai may have the tsuzailek on their family crest as well.