#Just good old parasites and impossible body warping

[2x4plank]

I've completely failed to kill the eight year-old MLP creepypasta fanatic within me and now it's gotten stronger than ever.

[rotworld]

19: Going In Circles

(previous)

you get lost. things get worse.

->contains gore, body horror, parasites, ear penetration, non-consensual touching.

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It’s impossible to know how long you spend on Aliquando Island. It looks like a few days but feels like months. You wake up beside Jamie just before dawn, studying their tranquil expression—parted lips and fluttering lashes—until weak sunlight trickles through the balcony doors. You dine on seafood with the artists. Sometimes Jamie tries their hand at oil panting in one of the second floor studios, talking amicably with a woman who used to be a University art professor. Sometimes you follow the Architect down to the beach, listening to his rambling stories about the island while he casts his fishing line.

He sees something about you that startles him a few times. He turns and suddenly goes wide-eyed and silent mid-conversation. “Oh! My goodness,” he says, laughing off the shock. “I thought you were—no. Not yet.” If you ask him what he means, he’ll feign ignorance. He’s already forgotten what he just said. But he looks at you differently, you think. You catch the twinkle of nostalgia in his eyes from across the room, like he’s just seen an old friend.

“Do you like it?” Jamie asks you one evening, the two of you leaning against the balcony railing to enjoy the cool, salty air. “The ocean, I mean. Would you want to live somewhere like this?” 

“You know what I’m going to say.”

They nudge against you playfully. “Alright, smartass, how about this? Would you want to come back to a place like this between exciting, life-threatening courier deliveries?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s true, you do like the ocean. Aliquando Island doesn’t grate on you like most cities. You aren’t waking up in the morning with a persistent itch for the road, anxious to keep moving, but that could very well be the island’s strange, warped sense of time. You ask Jamie, “Would you be there?” 

Jamie yanks you over by the forearm and crushes your lips together. The fluke slithers into your mouth like a second tongue and Jamie moans when you suckle it gently. They grab your jaw when they pull away, the fluke flicking against your lips one last time before it retreats. “You make this so, so difficult for me, courier,” they murmur. “How am I supposed to let you out of my sight when you say things like that?” 

Eventually, the isthmus appears again. The Architect informs you over breakfast, though  not without some apprehension. “It may not be quite right,” he warns you. “I can’t promise that you’ll even be able to leave.” You thank him for his hospitality. You tell him you’re going to get help somehow, that you’ll come back someday. He smiles sadly. “I know. And I’ll be so happy to see you again. I just wish it would be under better circumstances.” 

The artists gather on the front lawn of the mansion. The goodbye is bittersweet. Jamie makes a fuss about letting you drive but lets you off with a stern look. You wave as you turn the car around, heading for the isthmus road. 

“How do you fix something like this?” you ask. “When anchorware malfunctions, what do they do to stabilize the area again?”

Jamie looks back, watching the house vanish in the swirl of the fog. They squeeze your shoulder. Your heart sinks. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: LACRYMARIA OLOR BY NICOLE DOLLAGANGER]

The drive is just as you remember it: slow and eerie, the fog so thick you can’t see further than the nose of your car. You can hear the ocean if you listen, rolling waves and gentle seabreeze. Home is southwest until it isn’t. The pull falters, the string gone taut and painful in your chest. Southwest. South. Southeast. It seems to glide. Home is behind you, and then it’s dead ahead. Jamie keeps a hand on the headrest of your seat, posture rigid and eyes shut. They’re not saying anything, which worries you. 

“Our best bet is to find the nearest town,” you tell them. “Meet with some other couriers, fill out our map a bit. The University is usually to the east. Just need to narrow things down a bit.” 

Jamie hums in acknowledgement. You let them focus. Truthfully, you’re not sure what you’ll do once you reach the University. Anchor feels untouchable. Would anyone be willing to sanction a place so vital to the Drift’s continued existence? Could they even reach it, or would all the roads be even more twisted and tangled up after you’d managed to slip through?

“You are missed, angel. It is time to go home.” The God of Nelton’s voice is strong and clear. You’ve been neglecting your anti-parasitic medication, but its influence has been gentle; a soft nudge rather than smothering pressure. It wants you to want the soothing pleasure of its control. It reminds you of the Feast of the Multitude from a skewed, rose-tinted perspective. You see yourself from a hundred voyeuristic perspectives, panting and shameless in Malachi’s lap. “You are all welcome in my embrace.”

You can’t help but feel some fondness and amusement for that. It’s a definite improvement over before, when it wanted to rip the fluke out of Jamie’s brain. But Nelton isn’t your home, and you have more immediate concerns, the worst of which becomes apparent when Jamie opens their eyes and sighs deeply.

“We’re lost,” they admit. “This is different somehow. I can’t tell which way it out.”

“That’s alright,” you say. “We just followed the road coming into Aliquando Island. We should be able to follow it right back out—”

There’s someone in your backseat. You glimpse them just briefly, your eyes flicking across the rearview mirror and away before you process that there is a shape, a person, someone in the middle space between you and Jamie with a hand curled around your seat. You screech to a stop and look back in a panic. Nothing. Nobody there. Your heart races. Did you really imagine that? 

Jamie follows your gaze to the backseat. “Are you okay?” they ask gently. “Do you need a break? I can drive for a while.” 

You’re fine. You have to keep going, have to figure out what to do about Anchor. You keep driving into the fog. Did it last this long before? You feel like you’ve been driving for hours and making no progress. You check the clock and it hasn’t budged; the same early hour you left, down to the minute. Something is very wrong.

A shape lurches out of the fog up ahead. You manage to stop in time to see the strange, hulking thing move in jolts and jerky shudders. It’s a mosaic of features; human, animal, alien. Skin stretched loosely like an ill-fitted sheet around a jumble of broken glass, hand and hoof and claw dragging its body forward. There are a pack of them moving in the same eerie way, slinking across the road in stop-motion. 

Those are glass mimics. Young ones who are still learning imitation, still collecting usable bits and pieces, or older ones shedding their borrowed forms. You saw one in New Ridgeway. It tried to steal a woman’s face. There are at least a dozen in front of you now, ranging in size from a housecat to a large, bristling wolf. 

“Shit,” Jamie mutters. “That many of them, they’re probably migrating. Glass mimics are one of the few things that can pass through planes without a shift to help them.” 

“They’re not bothering us, at least,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t change their minds.

Jamie frowns tightly. “It’s not them I’m worried about. If we’re seeing them on the move, then we’re not in the Drift anymore.” 

“That’s right, children of the road.” The voice sounds close; in the car with you. You see the thing in the mirror again but when you look back, it’s not there. One of the mimics in the road—an older one, larger than the rest, more limbs than it’s supposed to have, extra skin dragging like a ragged cloak in its wake—stops. It lifts itself up on mismatched hind legs in a nauseating blur of motion, shaping itself before your eyes. It discards its extra parts, a patch of rotten, pus-oozing hide and spotty fur sloughing off with a sick splatter. It contorts and rotates, hiding its sharp inner parts beneath soft, human curves. It starts to look familiar. 

You remember those long, graceful limbs and glittering eyes, silken hair draped over both shoulders. It’s Elisile. It occurs to you now how much he resembles Jamie; that’s one of Jamie’s sweaters, Jamie’s pretty smile and bony wrists. The other mimics continue on, vanishing into the fog, but Elisile stays. 

“The cracks between broken worlds are no place for you. Something must have gone terribly wrong,” he coos, his voice louder than it should be. You see him in your mirrors. He shouldn’t be there. Has all your time passing through sharp, fractured patches of reality worn away their protective coverings?

Jamie gets out of the car. You stammer protests but they ignore you, climbing out and resting their hand against the open door. “Elisile?” they ask. Their voice is quiet and uncertain.

“Hello, Jamie.” You don’t see the mimic move but it’s slightly closer. “I’m glad to see you’ve found each other. There’s safety in numbers.” 

You glance between the two of them. “You’ve met before?”

You can’t read Jamie’s expression. They’re wary but not afraid. They look at Elisile like a friend they didn’t expect to see again. “We’ve met before,” they repeat. That’s all they’re willing to say.

“You know he’s—”

“A mimic?” Elisile cuts you off, his attention returning to you with a sharp glance. “How much do you really know about mimics? About my species, or any, for that matter?” 

You know the basics. Glass mimics are cold to the touch. They don’t sweat, and their blood is black. They take on shapes they learn through close observation or consumption, and they’re not known to understand human speech, only copy what they’ve heard. 

That’s what you thought, anyway. Elisile’s interactions with you have all been a little too convincing for you to believe he’s unaware of what his words mean. 

“You need my help,” he says, his smile soft and innocent. 

Jamie frowns. “We can manage on our own.” 

“Oh, of course. I can see you’re managing splendidly.” He moves closer and your pulse picks up when Jamie doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to register Elisile as a threat. You get out of the car and put yourself between the two of them. Elisile blinks and his eyes change colors, attempting to mimic the golden glow of Nelton; your eyes. “You haven’t told them, have you? About the storm, the snow. What’s coming for you now.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “How do you—?” 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you since we last met. It was difficult to see much at first, but the Drift is falling apart. Nobody’s mirrors are what they used to be.” His gaze shifts to a spot over your shoulder. “A happy couple needs to communicate. Don’t you think, Jamie? Surely you won’t let that slide. Who knows what other secrets they might be keeping?” 

“I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—” 

“What is he talking about?” Jamie asks quietly. 

You forgot about the Road Ripper. So much has happened since the motel, so much time spent just trying to survive, trying to cling to whatever fleeting happiness you could find, and part of you had hoped he might have lost your trail. You try to tell Jamie all of this but their expression never softens. They study your face intently, as though searching for any sign of a lie.

“They’re marked,” Elisile says. “It’s nothing tangible, but it doesn’t have to be. He can find them no matter where they go, and as long as the snow can get in, so can he. He’ll hunt them until his bloodlust reaches its peak, and then he’ll kill them. And if you’re with them when it happens, Jamie, you’ll be marked next.”

“I don’t care about being marked,” Jamie snaps, turning towards you. “But what about the rest of this? When were you going to tell me someone was following you? That you were in that kind of danger?” 

“I was…I was going to,” you swear. “Jamie, I’m so sorry. I never wanted to put you in any danger. It honestly slipped my mind—” 

“It ‘slipped your mind?’” they echo, incredulous.

You can feel Elisile watching all of this. He stands nearby, hands together, smiling gently. “It’s not their fault, Jamie. Their priorities are just skewed. Too much time around humans. The last time I saw them, actually, they were helping an Anchor scientist get out of New Ridgeway safely…”

A hand seizes your shoulder and slams you back against the car. Jamie’s eyes are cold. “He’s lying!” you say quickly. “I wasn’t—I was in New Ridgeway, but she said she was from the University! She studied mimics, she was on a cleanup assignment—”

“There are no ‘cleanup assignments.’” Jamie’s grip shifts to your neck when you try to fight, pushing you back down and threatening to cut off your air. “Courier. Tell me you did not do this. Tell me that Elisile is mistaken, and it was someone else.” 

The mimic is closer again, leaning against the car and staring down at you with feigned sympathy. “You didn’t know, did you, courier?” he says, his voice sickeningly sweet. “You couldn’t have known. I’m sure she spun some sort of story for you. New Ridgeway was Anchor’s fault. The city had an unusually large number of children of the road. Of course a place like Anchor would be interested in that. There was a lab in town for a while, conducting tests, taking samples…New Ridgeway complied initially but their compliance waned as the tests became more extreme. Less safe. I don’t know when exactly Anchor blockaded the city, but at some point, no one was allowed to leave.”

“I didn’t know,” you insist, struggling to speak through Jamie’s tightening grip. “Jamie, I swear, I had no idea—” 

“I believe you, courier. That’s not the problem.” Their other hand reaches up and strokes your ear, thumb tracing the shell. “The problem is you’re too trusting. Too incautious. I shouldn’t even be here with you, should I? You forgave me too easily. I could lose you. To anyone, or anything. All it has to do is speak sweetly enough.” 

“That’s not true!” 

Jamie leans in and kisses you softly. The fluke scrapes your lips. “Elisile,” they say, never breaking your gaze, “hold them down.” 

You fight but you don’t win. The last time you saw Elisile, he let you go. If he’d used even a fraction of his strength back then, you’d never have left New Ridgeway. It’s easy for him to wrestle you down to the asphalt no matter how you kick and writhe. He straddles your waist and there’s no moving him, no bucking him off. He looks light but his weight is crushing, and it’s effortless for him to hold your wrists down on either side of your body. Jamie crouches above your head and you see them upside down, leaning over you. They turn your head to the side, hard asphalt digging into one of your cheeks. Their fingers pinch and play with your exposed ear, stroking the lobe.

The God of Nelton squirms anxiously. You feel it calling out to Jamie’s fluke, that spindly connection unfurling, before it suddenly snaps. Cut off, you think. The fluke—and Jamie, by extension—are unwilling to compromise.

“I don’t want to cause permanent damage,” Jamie murmurs. Their thumb rubs up and down, caressing the dips of your ear. 

“You don’t need to,” Elisile assures them. “Just a short, deep sleep, so travel is safer. Can’t have your beloved getting lost.” 

Your reaction is delayed from shock. You can’t wrap your mind around what’s happening. Jamie would never hurt you. You had a rocky start but they understand you, respect your choices. They stroke your ear with a heated, half-lidded gaze. “Jamie, please,” you beg. “Please don’t do this. He’s—he’s doing this on purpose! He’s manipulating you, he’s trying to get something out of this!” 

“Elisile is worried about you because you keep doing foolish things,” Jamie murmurs. They lean in, breath ghosting against your ear. You shiver when the fluke darts out and slithers along the curve. “I said I wanted to keep you and I meant it, courier. But you make it difficult.” The fluke extends further. Dozens of thin, squirming hair-like tendrils split off along its sides and ghost across your skin like cobwebs as it begins crawling into your ear canal.

You scream, trying and failing to get any part of your body free. Elisile clicks his tongue, chiding you like a misbehaving child. Jamie tries to distract you with gentle kisses and nips, tonguing at your ear while the fluke crawls deeper. You don’t want to believe this is happening. It’s a nightmare, worse than any vision of endless darkness and great, incomprehensible monsters and forgetting how to breathe. It doesn’t make sense. Tears burn in the corners of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You cry Jamie’s name like it’s the only word you know. 

“I love you, courier.” 

You don’t hear the words, but you feel them. They’re warmth blossoming in your chest, a pulse of soothing acceptance. The God of Nelton goes lax in your chest. 

“I love you, and I’m so sorry.”

You hear a sound like a cabinet of plates shattering all at once, a shrill, ear-splitting noise of destruction. Elisile tumbles back and away from you, both hands broken off at the wrist. Thick, black blood spurts like ink from the jagged wounds, splashing on the pavement. Jamie’s palms are bloody from dozens of thin lacerations, shards of glass lodged in the cuts. You remember the night you met, the way they hovered over the body of the fluke as though prepared to die for it—because that’s how they lean over you now. 

“If you’re leaving the Drift, then leave. I won’t follow. This is my home, Elisile. They are my home. I won’t betray them.” You hear the fluke in the sharpness of Jamie’s voice, the territorial growl edging their words. Elisile doesn’t look surprised or even upset. He stands up gracefully, still bleeding profusely from both wrists. 

“You’ll regret it, Jamie. This broken little world of yours is being torn apart at the seams,” he warns. “But I won’t waste my breath. I can see you’ve made up your mind.” His gaze lowers. He sneers at you. “I hope this wretched place doesn’t disappoint you.” 

He slinks across the road where the rest of the mimics went, vanishing into the swirl of the fog. His shape unfurls as he goes with a wet, shredding sound and the scrape of glass, his silhouette no longer human. Jamie helps you back to the car quickly and without a word. “We should keep moving,” they say, tense, not looking at you.

“You had me worried for a second there,” you say. You mean it as a joke, even if you’re half-serious. Jamie doesn’t laugh. They curl up against the window and stare at the fog, keeping their distance. Sometimes you catch them glancing over at you guiltily. They didn’t mean it, did they? They were just acting, getting Elisile to lower his guard. 

But the look in their eyes—that hurt and that fear, you think, that was real. I could lose you to anyone or anything, they said.

“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?” you ask. Jamie shakes their head. Maybe you both have a few things you’ve been keeping quiet. All this time together, all the talking you do, and there are still a few secrets and insecurities lurking unsaid. 

Maybe the glass mimics moving on does something to reality, or maybe it’s just luck; either way, the fog thins out to its usual distant, wispy curtain. It’s night now, dark enough that you need your highbeams. You see the forests of Verlinda thick at the roadside and feel Anchor pulling at your heart. It should be cause for celebration, the time to joke and laugh and talk lightheartedly, but neither of you says a word for a while. 

“I’m sorry,” Jamie says quietly. “That was…I should’ve warned you, at least.” 

“Do you really think I’m going to leave you?” you ask.

“I don’t think you want to leave. I think someone will take you, and you’ll let them. I think you’re going to do the kind thing when you should do the smart thing. That’s how I’ll lose you.” 

You don’t know what to say. You want to reassure them and promise you won’t. That you’ll stay. That they won’t lose you. You’re still mulling over the right words when you see a shape in your headlights. A man standing in the middle of the road. You nearly swerve into a tree trying to avoid him. He runs over to your window without hesitation, banging on the glass.

“Courier? You—you made the delivery, didn’t you?” He’s familiar. It takes you a moment to remember why, giving him a once-over and realizing he’s standing out here naked. He’s Verlindan; one of the men who was with the Stag. 

“Garvan?” you say, your face heating with embarrassment at the memory of your last meeting.

“You did, you must’ve. The mark’s gone. What did they say?” He looks awful, you think. His eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with dark lines of exhaustion. He’s shaking. “What did they say?” he snaps when you don’t answer. “What did they tell you at the University? What did they find?” 

“They didn’t tell me anything. I don’t even know what I delivered,” you say. Garvan’s shoulders sink. He collapses without warning, sinking to his knees on the pavement. “Garvan? What’s going on?” You’re out of the car without even thinking about it, dimly aware of Jamie’s door opening behind you. 

“He’s dead, courier,” Garvan croaks. “The Stag. He’s dead.” 

(next)

[neildylandy]

pokemon vague story idea

honestly don’t know where i’m going with this or even if i’m going anywhere with this, just had the concept appear in my brain and wanted to write it down so here i go

pleas give feedback or more ideas if you can ok thank you goodbye

Once, there were no books, for there were no humans who could read. 

Once, there were no lectures, for there were no humans who could speak. 

Once, there was no history, for there were no humans who could survive it.

This world bears the innumerable scars of its violent past–a past where heat waves scorched forests to ashes in a single day, where oceans rose to swallow whole continents, where the spores of mushrooms the size of skyscrapers turned clean air to deadly fog. A past where anything could happen and anything did, all at the alien whims of Those Who Lived First.

And then...something changed. No one knows what, or why, or how.

More importantly, no one knows how to do it again.

Which, of course, is where the Arcane Schooling System comes in.

(Yes, we know about the acronym. No, we can’t change it.)

While the apocalyptic magic of Those Who Lived First is no longer quite so troublesome, they were considered gods for a reason, and their influence has persisted since (we assume) the moment they were evicted from our reality. About 1 in 680,000 children will, at exactly 11 years and 7 months of age, awaken to find that they have obtained either one or two distinct magical talents, known as Types (with the odds of getting one Type or two Types at almost exactly a 50/50 split, which depending on the instructor is either a mildly interesting coincidence or a terrifying conspiracy).

Simultaneously, that slightly-more-than-11-and-a-half-year-old will also awaken to find that they have been teleported to our illustrious school. The teleportation is quite necessary, as there is only one ASS location–please try to giggle more quietly–for all of the planet’s inhabitants. Oh, and also that location lurks within another dimension that our founder unstuck from time to prevent total reality failure. We thought that might make for a difficult commute.

But don’t fret! While commuting between your native plane and the ASS will be utterly impossible until you graduate, our seasoned experts in time, space, and mind magic will make sure that not only will you never physically age while on campus, but when you do graduate, you will return to exactly the point in spacetime that you left! All you’ll need is a bit of discretion (which are taught in mandatory classes) and your friends and loved ones won’t notice a thing.

In the meantime, enjoy campus life! Our little slice of unreality is equipped with a wide variety of amenities to make your education here as pleasant as possible, including (but not limited to):

Automatic translation of every language ever spoken, written, or gestured by all of humanity

Cafeterias and housing powered by mind magic–literally live in the house and eat the food of your dreams!

Medical services from our team of recovery mages that, yes, can even actually cure the common cold

A wide, safe view of the starless void and the three-dimensional shadows of Those Who Lived First that glide silently through it, a firm reminder of your educational goals

Football teams (American, Association, Australian)

Our unique education system will use our understanding of your Type(s) to put you in one or two of three curriculums, specialized to help you get the most out of your reality-warping while protecting your mind, body, and soul. In addition to the following curriculums are a smaller selection of interdisciplinary programs that benefit students no matter their Type.

The first curriculum is Corporea, a discipline focused on both the creation of tangible, comprehensible objects and the alteration of one’s physical form in tangible, comprehensible ways. Types that benefit the most from Corporea are Bug, Fighting, Ground, Normal, Rock, and Steel. Corporea’s mascot is Stakataka.

The second curriculum is Conductivity, a discipline focused on the manifestation of intangible forces with comprehensible, consistent effects on their surrounding environment. Types that benefit the most from Conductivity are Electric, Fire, Flying, Ice, Poison, and Psychic. Conductivity’s mascot is Xurkitree.

The third curriculum is Connection, a discipline focused on the careful balancing of a parasitic relationship with the unfathomable arcane reservoirs of Those Who Lived First. Types that benefit the most from Connection are Dark, Dragon, Fairy, Ghost, Grass, and Water. Connection’s mascot is Guzzlord.

---

The mascot for the Arcane Schooling System as a whole is a six-legged Type: Null with Giratina’s head, wings, and color scheme. The Type: Null stuff is because Type: Null is known for subduing eldritch deities from other dimensions. The Giratina stuff is there because that’s the school’s founder and principal, and the Distortion World is the alternate dimension in which the school resides. (No one in the ASS knows that last part or even that Type: Null doesn’t actually look much like their mascot. This includes Giratina themself, since they erased that knowledge from reality soon after founding the school because they got bored of students and faculty being terrified of them.)

Giratina was very bitter because they got banished from reality while all the other legendaries got to have their kickass apocalypse party. So when some miserable dying humans from a long-forgotten eon sacrificed some of their few remaining folks in their honor and begged for help, they figured now was a pretty good time for some revenge. They snagged an army of Type: Null from alternate realities and led that army to turn the tables on the other legendaries and basically lock them in their basement for all eternity.

That “basement” is still guarded by all their Type: Null buddies in some long-forgotten layer of the Distortion World, but the lock itself isn’t very good, so the other legendaries’ power and influence started to leak back into reality almost immediately. This could’ve led to a breakout if left unchecked, and the leaking magic was already starting to fuck up the planet again, so Giratina panicked and devised this overcomplicated school idea to postpone what was probably inevitable. Then they decided on impulse to delete all their knowledge of being an omnipotent god from the universe. Now they’re a very kind and totally 100% human person named Principal Ren.

Principal Ren Egade. Creating is hard when you’re the god of antimatter.

[evolutionsvoid]

When it comes to the subject of Mancers, there are many classes that are misidentified as completely different monsters. To the public, many assume that those who are consumed by Mancer Syndrome are just crazy people with magic powers. A Pyromancer is a crazy guy covered in fire, and a Cryomancer is a loony case who is encased in ice. Go outside of that realm, though, and people assume that it is a different beast altogether. Geomancers are one of those, who are often mistaken for golems or ancient statues. Hydromancers are another, as their bizarre appearances and strange encounters leave many sailors and victims babbling of sea monsters and leviathans from the deep. Obviously, the path to Hydromancy begins when a mage turns their focus towards water-based magic. The manipulation and control of water is an interesting path of magic, but one that many do not see as a powerful one. Power hungry mages dream of raining fire from the sky and shaking continents with quakes, not splashing someone with a bucket of water. It is true that Hydromancy is not one for offensive spells, but it is still a helpful side of magic that clever casters can take advantage of. To those who live in coastal towns, Hydromancers are a godsend. Hydromancers often finance their studies and efforts by working on ships and docks. At the docks, a Hydromancer can command the waves so that they may steer a ship to safety or prevent damage when a storm is blowing in. When present on voyages, they are invaluable with their ability to separate salt from saltwater, providing freshwater to the thirsty crew. When the seas get rocky, they can aid in calming the storm and give the ship a chance to survive. A Hydromancer who looks to aid fishermen can cause the water to churn, pulling schools of fish from the depths and dragging them to the surface. As a Hydromancer grows in power and skill, they can seemingly command the water at will. At this point, those who believe Hydromancy to be a passive class will be horribly mistaken. If one is foolish enough to fight them near a water body, they may find themselves dragged in by watery arms and pulled down to the murky depths. Even without a lake or ocean to aid them, Hydromancers can be forces to contend with. Orbs of water can wrap themselves around an opponent's head and drown them on dry land. Some can even spray water with such force that it can slice through flesh and metal. When a coastal town is under siege by pirates and other foes, a Hydromancer may rise up and use the waves to batter the attacking ships. Those who study Hydromancy are well liked by their community, and I truly wish it could remain that way.

Much like other Mancers, though, the research can turn to an obsession. Those who practice Hydromancy will become more and more enamored with the water. Their desire to be close to it will slowly grow, as their need for more water follows suit. Hydromancers who live near ponds will start seeing it as insignificant for their study, and will move towards lakes, until that too becomes too small. All practitioners of Hydromancy who succumb to Mancer Syndrome will eventually find themselves at the ocean. The massive water body seemingly calls them, and they would never dream of being away from it. If the mage does not work hard to purify their mana or follow the steps to prevent infection, they will begin to view land as a dry, inhospitable place. Any hunk of earth will suddenly seem like a desert to them, and they will fear being taken away from the water. At this point, they spend most of their time in the water, practicing their skills and trying to understand the element even more. Hydromancers can even drink seawater without ill effect, as well as using it for sustenance. Something within the water nourishes their bodies, and they hardly need food to fill their stomachs. With that, they will hardly leave the ocean, and protest the sheer idea of even walking on dry land. The concept of walking even becomes foreign to them, as they grow accustomed to floating and swimming. Dragging a far gone Hydromancer to shore will leave them literally flopping on the dirt like a fish. As time moves on, their ties to the terrestrial world will fade away, and they will become consumed by life in the ocean. Like all Mancers before them, Hydromancers will succumb to mana poisoning if the proper procedures aren't followed. As they grow more obsessed with the ocean, their precautions go out the window. Their use of magic and water manipulation will further the infection, until it is too late to save them. When the final stage of Hydromancy occurs, a horrible transformation will take place. All fluids within their bodies will break down and turn to water. No blood, no bile, just pure water. Their forms will be consumed by the water, as the Hydromancer seizes control of ever drop of it within their flesh. Their bodies will twist and contort, as the broken mind shapes it to its liking. Their obsession will at last reach a point where the Hydromancer wishes to join life in the ocean. The concept of humanity too vile and impure for them to handle. What mind and humanity they once had will fade away, and they will flee into the waves to join their brethren. They will often warp their flesh and organs so that they resemble a marine creature, usually the one they fancied during their studies. Mutated into an animalistic form, they will plunge into the deep and become lost in the blue world. From that point on, Hydromancers live the life of simple, marine animals. They swim, hunt and sleep like the beasts down below, and they rarely yearn for anything different. Their exposed, fleshy bodies will be surrounded by a shell of water that is under their control, allowing them to keep away parasites and predators. When they hunt, any flesh they consume will be assimilated and warped to their use, adding to their own twisted bodies. The water within the meat will become their own, and the Hydromancer will grow in size. The water they control can be used to create false limbs and allow them to swim quickly through the ocean. If a Hydromancer ever chooses to come onto land, this water control is used to create a watery body for them to survive in. These instances are rare, as Hydromancers hardly want anything to do with the dry world above.       While monstrous in appearance, Hydromancers are not one of the Mancer types that pose a large threat to humanity. Reduced to bestial state, they prefer to remain in the depths, well away from the world of man. Those who trawl the seas for food may accidentally net a Hydromancer, and at that point, they are doomed. Unless a powerful mage is aboard the ship, the crew will be lost at sea, as the Hydromancer throws its wrath at them. If one ever has to fight a Hydromancer, then my advice is simple. Get them away from the ocean and onto dry land. Fighting them in the sea is impossible. Draw them onto dry land and try to destroy the watery bodies they control. Fire and ice are good for stopping them, as you can either freeze them or dry them out. Leave them high and dry, and you should easily win the day. Before the battle it is essential that you find a way to keep the Hydromancer from drowning you on land. Special breathing apparatuses are good, or the use of wind spells to blow away their drowning orbs. Hydromancers like to engulf the head and smother their victims in water, so it is best to find ways around that. If you cannot remove their watery shells, then lightening is the best option. A bolt of electricity will shoot through their bodies and fry their organs. Just be sure you are not in the water with them while you do it. Though Hydromancers are content to remain deep in the seas, stories have been swirling about of some strange encounters. Sailors speak of ancient Hydromancers that have grown titanic in size, so large that they can drag entire ships to the abyss below. Warped, wet things that slumber in the deep, so old and large that they have forsaken their animal forms and have become something alien. I cannot confirm nor deny this, but a part of me can believe them. The paths Mancers take are ones that humanity was never meant to walk down. When those travelers reach the end of those twisted trails, whatever made them human will be long gone.   Cavarious Shaid

[a1detective]

OPINION: BY JEFFREY A. FRIEDBERG

Impolite, and not chronicling the “news” politely….

MAXINE WATERS, THE FACE OF A RAVING LUNATIC, THE PARTY OF TREASON – Gellerreport.com

liberalarts.oregonstate.edu

sjpl.org

Hiskind.com

bythebloodofthelamb.files.wordpress.com

i.mmo.cm/

  “PREGNANT ‘MAN’” (oh, right this fooled me totally—I thought it was a MAN!) – “Hayden Cross was born a girl and was legally male when he paused transgender hormone treatment to conceive using a sperm donor he had met on Facebook.” (Oh, that’s DELICIOUS! “FACEBOOK.”)

…During Wednesday night’s first Democratic presidential debate, San Antonio mayor Julián Castro stated he supports taxpayer-funded abortions for “transgender women.”  “I don’t believe only in reproductive freedom; I believe in reproductive justice,” he said.  “And what that means is just because a woman, or let’s also not forget someone in the trans community — a trans female — is poor, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t exercise that right to choose….”

…Let’s assume, however, that Castro didn’t misspeak and that he indeed supports taxpayer-funded abortions for “trans women,” which is most likely the case.  Why would Castro want taxpayers to fund something that is currently biologically impossible?  Perhaps a “trans female” is a woman who becomes a man?  Not at all.  Although progressives are constantly altering and updating terms relating to sex and sexuality to fit their current political narrative, science be damned (he who defines the terms controls the argument), the latest liberal terminology defines a “trans female” or “trans woman” as a man who “becomes” a woman.

According to Wikipedia, which is the gatekeeper of all things progressive:

A trans woman (sometimes trans-woman or transwoman) is a woman who was assigned male at birth.  Trans women may experience gender dysphoria and may transition; this process commonly includes hormone replacement therapy and sometimes sex reassignment surgery, which can bring immense relief and even resolve gender dysphoria entirely.  Trans women may be heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, asexual, or identify with other terms (such as queer)….

….Now, let’s suppose, years in the future, when science has worked out all the bugs, that a man decides to undergo all the risks and grueling preparation involved with a uterine transplant (instead of simply adopting, which would be a lot easier, safer, and more sensible).  And let’s say it works, and he finally gets pregnant.  And let’s say he wakes up one morning and thinks, Hmm, I don’t think I want this baby after all.  I want to get rid of it, and I want the government to pay for it. 

In this case, I guess Julián Castro’s support for transgender abortion contains some semblance of warped logic.  Not that this highly implausible and as yet scientifically impossible scenario is worth mentioning in a presidential debate when you are already limited by time and must choose your words wisely.  And not that there are other more practical, more pressing issues to be dealt with.  But that’s what you get from a political party that wants to fund the kinds of procedures that could put babies inside men’s bodies, while simultaneously fighting for laws that would allow these same babies to get ripped out again.

—americanthinker.com

Julian Castro. A Pregnant Male? Nahhhhh! Just Another OBAMA Whack-Job. 

…Castro served as the mayor of his native San Antonio, Texas from 2009 until he joined Obama’s cabinet in 2014. He was mentioned as a possible running mate for Hillary Clinton during the 2016 presidential campaign.[2][3] Castro is the twin brother of Congressman Joaquin Castro.

On January 12, 2019, Castro launched his campaign for the Democratic nomination for President of the United States in 2020 in San Antonio….[4]

…Castro[5] was born in San Antonio, Texas, the son of Maria “Rosie” Castro and Jessie Guzman.[6] 

[His] mother was a Chicana political activist who helped establish the Chicano political party La Raza Unida,[8] and who ran unsuccessfully for the San Antonio City Council in 1971.[5] Castro once stated, “My mother is probably the biggest reason that my brother and I are in public service. Growing up, she would take us to a lot of rallies and organizational meetings and other things that are very boring for an 8-, 9-, 10-year-old”.[9] His father, Jessie Guzman, is a retired mathematics teacher and political activist. Never married, Rosie and Jessie separated when Castro and his brother were eight years old.[8] Castro’s Texan roots trace back to 1920, when his grandmother Victoria Castro joined extended family members there as a six-year-old orphan from northern Mexico.[5]

—https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julian_Castro

So, it seems  Castro is just another spawn of liberal, progressive, Democrat, “Mexican” descent.

Whose Leftist parents were flaming, raging Liberal,”Progressives,” who taught him the Liberal Way.

”Progressive Socialist” sounds sooo much nicer than its true, parasitic name of “Communism.” Which has never worked out—ANYwhere it was tried.

It’s no wonder to me Castro is running for cartel-controlled, sissy President of Mexico…whoops, I mean President of the defunct, Russian, communist USSR—Oh, wait…what is he actually running for?

“JULIAN CASTRO”

He’s running for President of what—gay liberals? Or what?

What the hell are Democrats doing? WHO is their Target Audience? What are they fishing for? Does Open Borders, Unlimited “Migration,” Free Everything for Illegals, and all this “Gay” and “trans” stuff sound like a winning Platform?

Yes; maybe.

Because Democrats are targeting the votes of every illegal invader-voter; every lost- cause alien; every angry misfit, criminal, prevert, suburban housewife, uninformed, disinformed, lied-to, delusional, insane, crazed, brainwashed, feel-good, TV-and-drug-addicted, I-want-to-help-my-fellow-humans, Democrat-inclined voter.

The Democrat Party of Harry Truman, JFK, Hubert Humphrey, and the great Daniel Moynihan, is GONE. They are dead. And so is the Democrat Party.

What we face now is The Party of Death—abortion, jihad, riots, dead cops, American murders, open borders, free everything for everybody, and World Communism with Democrats in permanent totalitarian power.

It’s no wonder Julián or Julian (or Julio, or whatever) is named “Castro.”

Like Communist Cuba—“Castro” is a perfect fit for a Communist America—by the Alien-Communist Democrat Party.

America was never founded as a communist state. It was meant to be open, successful, and moral. It has been under attack by Democrat communists for a hundred years.

But—you see—they must eradicate America’s Constitution and guns to make their takeover coup successful. And that doesn;t seem likely to work out well for them.

As in: Kids, a Democrat takeover-coup will never happen in America.

Donald Trump has already won the 2020 election. He has “pushed” the democrats so far left, they cannot possibly sound like winners to a majority of Americans, and win.

Democrats will lose. And then they will react as never before. They will be inconsolable and uncontainable. They will march, burn, kill, “protest,” and destroy. After a while, this will not sit well—with practically everyone.

At that point Julio Castro can trot out his plea for transgender pregnant males, and all fighting and opposition will spontaneously cease, from pure joy. We will all join hands and sing the gay national anthem…or communist…or something.

Yeah…right.

<<<—————->>>

    THE SCIENCE FICTION OF PREGNANT MALES—AND JUST WHO THE HELL IS Julián (?) Castro? OPINION: BY JEFFREY A. FRIEDBERG Impolite, and not chronicling the “news” politely.... ...During Wednesday night's first Democratic presidential debate, San Antonio mayor Julián Castro