#Lodestone Notes

[thefreelanceangel]

So looks like we can expect a revamped benchmark at the end of the month, well before Dawntrail's early access date. These people are busting ass, damn!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Medieval Plants & Stones

for your next poem/story

Agate - a stone that is used to find pearls. When divers want to locate pearls, they tie an agate to a rope and drop it into the sea. The agate is attracted to a pearl, and the diver can follow the rope to where the pearl lies.

Carbuncle - a red stone, and the name referred to several stones: the Oriental ruby, the garnet, etc. It is said to be found in the forehead of the asp or the dragon. Theophrastus says of it: "Its color is red and of such a kind that when it is held against the sun it resembles a burning coal."

Diamond - no harm can come when kept in a house, even demons cannot enter; comes from the East, where it is found at night by its shining. A person who possesses a diamond can overcome both men and beasts. The diamond does not keep the smell of smoke or fear iron. Only the hot blood of the he-goat can dissolve diamond. It is a miraculous medicinal substance formed by burning magnetic stone in a hot fire.

Fire stones - stones that burst into flames when brought close together; as long as they are kept apart, they are safe

Indian stone - a stone that can cure the illness called dropsy (i.e., a disease of excessive water retention) if it is tied to him. The stone will absorb the man's impurities, and in so doing, comes to weigh as much as the man. If the stone is then placed in the sun for 3 hours, the impure water will drain out of it and it can be re-used.

Magnet stone - or lodestone; attracts iron; can be used to determine if a wife is chaste; produces harmony between man and woman; enhances skill in argument; as a drink it cures the sickness called dropsy; powdered, it quenches fire. Burning a magnet stone produces a diamond.

Mandrake - a plant that shrieks when it is pulled from the earth; its roots grow in human form, male and female; it is of great use in medicine, but anyone who hears the plant's cry dies or goes mad. It was therefore a custom to tie a hungry dog to the plant by a cord and place a piece of meat beyond its reach. To get at the meat the dog tugs at the cord and drags up the plant, while its master remains safely out of hearing; it grows in the East, near the Earthly Paradise (i.e. garden of Eden)

Peridexion tree - a tree in India that attracts doves and repels dragons; doves gather in the tree because they like the sweet fruit, and because there they are safe from the dragon. The dragon hates the doves and would harm them if it could, but it fears the shadow of the peridexion tree and stays on the unshaded side of it. The doves that stay in the shadow are safe, but any who leave it are caught and eaten by the dragon.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Medieval Period

[britishsquidward]

Every Single "Holy (x)!" Thing Robin Says in the 66 Series (In Alphabetical Order)

Source: The Official Batman Batbook, The Revised Bat Edition

Note: I noticed some of the words in the book were spelt incorrectly or not in the correct order so I did my best to remedy them, but if you notice an error or maybe a word that didn't show up, let me know so I can make the proper adjustments!

Long Post Incoming:

A

Holy Agility

Holy Almost

Holy Alps

Holy Alter-Ego

Holy Anagrams

Holy Apparition (x2)

Holy Armadillos

Holy Ashtray

Holy Asp

Holy Astringent Pomite Fruit

Holy Astronomy

Holy Audobon

B

Holy Backfire

Holy Ball and Chain

Holy Bank Balance

Holy Bankruptcy

Holy Banks

Holy Barracuda

Holy Bargain Basement

Holy Bat-Logic

Holy Bat-Trap

Holy Benedict Arnold

Holy Bijou

Holy Bikini

Holy Blackbeard

Holy Blackout

Holy Blank Catridge

Holy Blizzard

Holy Bluebeard

Holy Bouncing Boilerplate

Holy Bowler

Holy Bullseye (x2)

Holy Bunsons

C

Holy Caffeine

Holy Camouflage (x2)

Holy Captain Nemo

Holy Caruso

Holy Catastrophe (x2)

Holy Chicken Coop

Holy Chiliblains

Holy Chocolate Eclair

Holy Chutzpah

Holy Cinderella

Holy Cinemascope

Holy Cliche

Holy Cliffhangers

Holy Clockwork

Holy Clockworks

Holy Coffin Nails

Holy Cold Creeps

Holy Complications

Holy Consecration

Holy Contributing to the Deliquency of Minors

Holy Corpuscles

Holy Cosmos

Holy Costume Party

Holy Crack-Up

Holy Crossfire

Holy Crucial Moment

Holy Crying Towels

Holy Cryptology

Holy Crystal Ball

D

Holy D'Artagnan

Holy Davy Jones

Holy Dead End

Holy Demolition

Holy Dental Hygiene

Holy Deposit Slip

Holy Detonation

Holy Detonator

Holy Deviltry

Holy Dilemma

Holy Disappearing Act

Holy Disaster Area

Holy Distortion

Holy Diversionary Tactic

Holy Diversionary Tactics

E

Holy Edison

Holy Eggshells

Holy Epicure

Holy Epigrams

Holy Escape Hatch

Holy Explosion

F

Holy Falsefront

Holy Fate Worse Than Death

Holy Felony

Holy Finishing Touches

Holy Fireworks

Holy Firing Squad

Holy Fishbowl

Holy Flightplan

Holy Flip-Flop

Holy Floodgates

Holy Floor Covering

Holy Flypaper

Holy Fog

Holy Fork-In-The-Road

Holy Fourth Amendment

Holy Frankenstein (x2)

Holy Fratricide

Holy Frogman

Holy Fruit Salad

Holy Fugitives

Holy Funny Bone

G

Holy Gall

Holy Gambles

Holy Gemini

Holy Geography

Holy Ghost Writer

Holy Giveaways

Holy Glue Pot

Holy Golden Gate

Holy Gbaf Zeppelin

Holy Grammar

Holy Graveyard

Holy Greed

Holy Guacamole

Holy Guadal Canal

Holy Gullibility

H

Holy H'Ordourves

Holy Haberdashery

Holy Hailstorm

Holy Hairdo

Holy Halleli

Holy Halloween

Holy Hamburger

Holy Hamlet (x2)

Holy Handiwork

Holy Happenstance

Holy Hardest Metal in the World

Holy Haziness

Holy Headache (x2)

Holy Headlines

Holy Heart-Break (x2)

Holy Heart Failure (x2)

Holy Helmets

Holy Helplessness

Holy Here We Go Again

Holy Hiedelburg

Holy Hieroglyphics (x3)

Holy High Wire

Holy Hijack

Holy Hijackers

Holy History

Holy Hoaxes

Holy Hole-in-a-Doughnut

Holy Hollywood

Holy Homecoming

Holy Homework

Holy Homicide

Holy Hoodwink

Holy Hoofbeats (x2)

Holy Horseshoe

Holy Horseshoes

Holy Hostage (x2)

Holy Hot Foot

Holy Hot Spot

Holy Houdini (x4)

Holy Human Collector's Item

Holy Human Pearls

Holy Human Pressure Cooker

Holy Human Surfboards

Holy Hunting Horn

Holy Hurricane

Holy Hydraulics

Holy Hypnotism

Holy Hypodermic

Holy Hypothesis

I

Holy Ice Picks

Holy Ice Skates

Holy Iceberg

Holy Impossibility

Holy Impregnability

Holy Incantation

Holy Inquisition

Holy Interplanetary Yardstick

Holy Interruptions

Holy I.T.&T.

J

Holy Jack-in-the-Box (x2)

Holy Jailbreak

Holy Jawbreaker

Holy Jelly Molds

Holy Jetset

Holy Jigsaw Puzzles

Holy Jitterbugs

Holy Journey to the Centre of the Earth

Holy Jumble

K

Holy Keyhole

Holy Keyring

Holy Kilowatts

Holy Kindergarten

Holy Knit One, Purl Two

Holy Knockout Drops

Holy Known-Unknown Flying Objects

Holy Koufax

L

Holy Leopard

Holy Levitation

Holy Lift-Off

Holy Living End

Holy Lodestone

Holy Long John Silver

Holy Looking Glass

Holy Lovebirds

Holy Luther Burbank

M

Holy Madnes

Holy Magician

Holy Magic Lantern

Holy Mainstrings

Holy Marathon

Holy Mashed Potatoes

Holy Masquerade (x2)

Holy Matador

Holy Mechanical Army

Holy Memorandum

Holy Memory Bank

Holy Merlin the Magician

Holy Mermaid

Holy Merry-Go-Round

Holy Metronome

Holy Miracles

Holy Miscast

Holy Missing Relatives

Holy Molars

Holy Molehill

Holy Movie Moguls

Holy Mucilage (x2)

Holy Multitudes

Holy Murder

Holy Mush

N

Holy Naivete

Holy Nerve Centre

Holy Nick-Of-Time (x2)

Holy Nightmare (x2)

Holy Non Sequiturs

O

Holy Oleo

Holy Olfactory

Holy One-Track Batcomputer Mind

Holy Oversight

Holy Oxygen

P

Holy Paderevsky

Holy Perfect Pitch

Holy Piano Roll

Holy Polar Front

Holy Polar Icesheets

Holy Polaris

Holy Popcorn

Holy Pot Luck

Holy Precision

Holy Pressure Cooker

Holy Priceless Collection of Etruscan Snoods

Holy Pseudonym

Holy Purple Cannibals

Holy Puzzles

(There's none for Q)

R

Holy Rainbow (x2)

Holy Rats in a Trap

Holy Ravioli

Holy Razor's Edge

Holy Red Herring

Holy Red Snapper

Holy Reincarnation

Holy Relief

Holy Recompense

Holy Remote-Control Robot

Holy Reshevsky

Holy Return from Oblivion

Holy Reverse Polarity

Holy Ricochet

Holy Rip Van Winkle (x2)

Holy Rising Hemlines

Holy Road Blocks

Holy Robert Lewis Stevenson

Holy Rock Garden

Holy Rocking Chair

Holy Rudder

S

Holy Sarcophagus

Holy Sardine

Holy Schizophrenia

Holy Sedatives

Holy Self-Service

Holy Semantics

Holy Serpentine

Holy Shamrocks

Holy Sherlock Holmes

Holy Shocks

Holy Show-Ups

Holy Showcase

Holy Shrinkage

Holy Skull Tamper

Holy Sky Rockets

Holy Slipped Disc

Holy Smoke (x2)

Holy Smokes (x2)

Holy Smokestack

Holy Snowball

Holy Sonic Booms

Holy Special Delivery

Holy Spider Webs

Holy Split Seconds

Holy Squirrel Cage

Holy Stalactite

Holy Stampede

Holy Standstills

Holy Stereo

Holy Stew Pot

Holy Stomachache

Holy Strait Jacket

Holy Stratosphere

Holy Stuffing

Holy Stupor

Holy Sub-Orbit

Holy Sudden Incapicitation

Holy Sundial

Holy Superlatives

Holy Suprise Party

Holy Switch-A-Roo

T

Holy Taj Mahal

Holy Tartars

Holy Taxation

Holy Taxidermy

Holy Tee Shot

Holy Ten Toes

Holy Terminology

Holy Tintinnabulation

Holy Tip-Offs

Holy Titanic

Holy Tome

Holy Toreador

Holy Trampoline

Holy Transformation

Holy Travel Agent

Holy Trickery

Holy Triple Feature

Holy Trolls and Goblins

Holy Tuxedo

U

Holy Uncanny Photographic Mental Process

Holy Understatement

Holy Underwritten Metropolis

Holy Unlikelihood

Holy Unrefillable Prescrptions

V

Holy Vanity Case

Holy Venezuela

Holy Vertebra

Holy Voltage

W

Holy Waste of Energy

Holy Wayne Manor

Holy Weaponry

Holy Wedding Cake

Holy Werner von Braun

Holy Whiskers

Holy Wigs

(There's none for X)

(There's none for Y)

Z

Holy Zorro

[diardri]

Dia's FFXIV Art Reference Notes, A possibly long post

Hello! I made this as a thread on my twitter but I might as well post a version of it here. For the record this will be a thread linking to the resources I use when drawing commissions or fanart, I have not made Any of these and whenever I can I will note the creators and link directly to their resources.

GPose Reference First and foremost, if you're drawing a WOL or ordering a commission of your WOL the most important thing is to take a proper reference GPOSE. I use the method in this post, to make sure I got all the angles. Clean refs are super important when drawing armor/intricate outfits so take care to take simple standing poses like the one in the tweet above. Cool dynamic poses might be fun but they're not really useful for referencing.

Gear/Weapon Reference

If you need good references for a weapon/outfit that you don't have a GPOSE for, I recommend using the attire website

This is a japanese website maintained by @/chiyo_asa on twitter and if you've ever looked up a piece of gear in the lodestone you've almost definitely come across their pictures.

This is a super rough translation in english of the menu of the website. While it is in Japanese it's very easy to navigate and all the pictures in the site are super high quality and very useful for referencing.

This is my number one source for gear references I haven't taken myself

The "mirapuri" button afaik is for glams they made themselves that they want to showcase.

An important note about this site specifically is that I believe it's currently undergoing an overhaul so Some weapons/gearsets might not be completely transferred in yet.

That being said, the majority of sets from dungeons/crafting/alliance raids/job gear sets etc are sorted like so, which makes it super easy to look for.

There IS also a search function but I'm pretty sure it works only for japanese input.

NPC reference sheets

@xivrefsheets Offers really detailed resources of npc models. They also occasionally accept requests on their ko-fi (closed at the time of writing this)

These are super useful and really high quality, especially for some of the boss refs they've done. As someone who doesn't use anamnesis I go back to their refs very often

Convocation of the Fourteen refs

Maintained by @/Igeyorhm on twitter this site has a nice list of Ascian refs per character in addition to some lore bits for each of them. Also some very useful closeups of the Ascian clothes.

Even more NPC and Boss Refs

I believe maintained by @/MlNRATHOUS on twitter, this site has a really nice array of major NPC and boss references in various angles and with colourpicks for skintone and hair which is super useful. I use them a Lot

Lalafell centric refs

Norirow Note is a super cute blog that showcases glam items/ weapons/ chocobo barding and more.

It is NOT meant to be an art reference, however if you play a lala like me, I find their showcases useful when drawing gear on lalas.

Even if you don't use it as an art ref it's a super cute blog that's just fun to go through AND fully translated in english so I recommend just having a fun time reading through it anyway.

Bonus- Au Ra Scales.

I literally found out about this today but @/saficchi on twitter has made a super detailed angled ref sheet for both male and female au ra scales and I love them for it

Bonus 2 electric boogaloo- TextTools

I use this to import 3d models of specific weapons into CSP if I'm drawing them.

I don't know how useful this is for other art software but it's saved my ass from freehanding titania weapons so in the thread it goes

That's the full list of refs I personally use, if there's more that people want to add please feel free to do so in the comments. I hope it helps people out in their creative endeavors!

[astra-ravana]

Cat Magick 🐈‍⬛

What is cat magick? Well it's no secret that cats have been beloved by witches for centuries, perhaps longer and it isn't hard to see why. They were worshipped in ancient Egypt, helped fight the plague by killing infected rats, and were even tortured and killed along side us in the witch trials. These powerful, intelligent, little creatures understand magick better than perhaps any other. After all, legend says that cats are really just witches in disguise. As such, they possess their own potent class of magick.

Cat Correspondences

Herbs: Catnip, cat grass, silver vine, thyme, basil, valerian, fern leaf yarrow, cat thyme, rosemary, sage, witch hazel, echinacea, licorice root, cat's claw, dandelion root, calendula, goldenseal, dill (all these herbs are cat safe)

Crystals: Mookaite, amethyst, cat's eye, turquoise, hematite, lepidolite, pink Botswana agate, lapis lazuli, fluorite, tiger's eye, emerald, rutilated quartz, black tourmaline, jade

Planets: The Moon, Saturn, Pluto

Element: Earth/spirit

Deities: Bast, Freyja, Diana, Hekate, Odin, Lilith, Artemis, Sekhmet, Parvati, Juno, Ra, Erishkegal

Abilities

• A cat can purr at a frequency between 25 and 50 hz, which has been show to relieve stress and pain, increase oxytocin production, heal wounds and injuries, and even repair broken bones.

• They can enter a meditative state whenever they like which makes them incredibly perceptive.

• Cats see/sense spirits, the Fae, auras, and all manner of energies.

• Natural generators that can lend their energy to spell work and divination as well as charge crystals/magickal tools just by touch.

• Cats can expand your auric field and increase your magickal output.

• They act as guardians against negative energy and malevolent forces.

• The only beings that can enter or leave a magick circle without breaking the energy field.

• Cats act as guardians of doorways and thresholds and are keepers of many spiritual secrets.

• They have a strong connection to the Moon and the powers of the night.

• Your cat can act as your anchor/tether while hedge-riding/astral projecting.

Cat Colors

Brown: Grounding, love, companionship, peace

Orange: Cheer, leadership, happiness, fun, Sun energy

White: Purity, bliss, peace, good luck, psychic boost

Grey: Hope, support, comfort, healing

Calico: Good fortune, relationships, prosperity, abundance, psychic ability, strengthens family

Two Tone: Friendships, harmony, warding, wisdom

Striped: Good luck, happiness

Siamese: Success, good health, longevity

Note: If using cat hair in a working, consider the color of the animal it came from and apply those properties.

Black Cats

• They represent witches and witchcraft, magick, the Moon, protection, prosperity, the in-between/thresholds, dark goddess energy, the night, mystery, independence, resilience, and cleverness.

• If a black cat crosses your path they're removing danger and blessing your way.

• If you see a black cat on your way to gamble, luck is on your side.

• To catch a thief, write their name on a fish skin and feed it to a black cat.

• If you see a large, black cat for seven days money is on its way to you.

• To get away with something, wrap your name paper around black cat hair and burn it with yellow rose petals on a Friday.

Black Cat Oil

This oil is great for protection, good luck, seduction, breaking curses/hexes, working with the dead, divination and more.

Recipe:

• Sage

• Bay leaves

• Myrrh

• Mugwort

• Dragon's blood

• Steel wool

• Lodestone dust

• Hair (or whisker) from a black cat

• Carrier oil

The Power Of Cat Whiskers

Naturally shed cat whiskers are one of the most potent spell compents you can get. These tiny treasures contain a ton of magickal energy and can be used in the following ways:

• Carrying a cat whisker brings great luck and helps you easily overcome obstacles.

• To see your desires manifest, whisper your wish to a cat whisker and burn it over a yellow, gold, or orange candle.

• Hold a cat whisker in your hand while hedge-riding for a safe journey.

• Boosts the power and potency of any spell.

• Burn with jasmine and mugwort to bring prophetic dreams.

Whisker Appearance:

• The whisker length is said to reflect how long the spell will last.

• A very long whisker will aid in a long term goal and a short whisker; a short term goal.

• White whiskers aid in purification, healing, purity, empowerment, and luck.

• Black whiskers protect from bad energy and can be used for binding magick, spiritual power, and baneful workings.

• A grey/blue whisker represents neutrality, deities, shielding, patience, and resolve.

• Orange/copper whiskers bring success, strength, joy, truth, and encouragement.

• Banded whiskers assist with stability, physicality, love, comfort and peace.

Miscellaneous Cat Magick

There's a lot more magick to cats than I could ever cover here but here are some more examples of cat magick:

• Use cat hair in shape-shifting rituals.

• Burn a cat shaped candle and carve runes/sigils/prayers into it to protect and empower your cat.

• Feeding your cat the last of your meal keeps them from running away/getting lost.

• Bringing your cat/cats to a new home first brings good luck.

• Naturally shed cat claws can be used in spells for getting out of a tight situation. In baneful magick they help your curse "grab on" to the target and brings them sudden agony.

• Stroking a cat's tail nine times brings good luck in love.

• Hang a protective charm such as a bell, pentagram, or cowrie shell from your cat's collar.

• If a cat licks itself against the grain, a storm is coming.

• If the same cat comes to your window, three nights in a row, a witch has cast a spell on you.

• To learn the answer to a question, ask your cat while they sit on one side of a doorway. If the cat walks through the door with their left paw, the answer is no, with their right paw, the answer is yes.

• Incorporate catnip into your workings to draw your cat and borrow their power.

• You can divinate based on cat sightings/behavior, this is called ailuromancy.

• August 17th is 'Cat Night', a sentiment that has its roots in Celtic legend. A witch could turn into a cat eight times, but upon the ninth transformation, they would stay a cat forever. This is the reason we say cats have nine lives. Honor/celebrate your cats on this day and leave food for strays at night.

• A protective blessing for cats: "Bast of beauty and of grace, protector of the feline race, shield [cat's name] from hurt and harm, and keep them always safe and warm, watch over them from day to day, and guide them home if they should stray, grant them love and happiness, and a life free of strife or stress".

[pilferingapples]

“Mon Dieu! it is like a little republic. Neither judge nor bailiff is known there. The mayor does everything. He allots the imposts, taxes each person conscientiously, judges quarrels for nothing, divides inheritances without charge, pronounces sentences gratuitously; and he is obeyed, because he is a just man among simple men.”- LM 1.1.3

David Montgomery about Myriel and the idea of republics raised in 1.1.3:

That is a very interesting line, given how the First Republic would have dominated recent understanding of the word "republic." That said I will note that republics were actually quite common in Europe before 1789 (or before 1776). Self-governing cities and towns were everywhere! The Dutch, Genoan and Venetian Republics had only just been exterminated; the Swiss were still republican. It was widely assumed that a republic could be a good way to govern a city. What was new in the late 18th Century was MASSIVE republics. Experiments like the United States and French First Republic were challenging conventional wisdom that you needed a monarch to govern a big, diverse polity. ...He said it was like "a little republic" — not like "a little democracy"! The two words imply very different things (and not in the way that some American conservatives use them). As someone pointed out, technically a "republic" just means a state where the sovereignty is invested in its citizens (a term often not coterminous with its residents), as opposed to a monarchy, where the monarch is sovereign. that's generally the sense the terms were understood at the time. "Democracy" was a much more loaded term than "republic," with implications not just of mass political participation but of mob rule The other lodestone here is Aristotle, whose Politics described six different types of regimes — three good regimes, and then one corrupted version of each. Everything was paralleled, with rule by the One, the Few, and the Many, split into good and bad based on whether the leaders looked out for themselves or the common good.

[autumnslance]

Blacklist Improvements in FFXIV!

Enhanced Blacklist Functionality (removes the player model!)

Mute List

Term Filter (applies to most channels in most circumstances)

Estate Expulsion

Enhanced Lodestone Privacy Settings

These will apply across the offending player's account, though note many of them are stored client-side in some cases.

[vaiyamagic]

Vi rereads Elfquest, Issue #16

If Clearbrook hadn't cut off her braid, would Petalwing not wrapped One-Eye?

Dun dun DUUUNNNN. Also, just showing again, how well Wendy could convey so much with no words.

Ember is best character.

Suntop, the Sun Village has like half its inhabitants with black hair. I get you were just traumatized, but still.

Ekuar is also best character.

Note #1: No lodestone.

Note #2: Picky knew about Ekuar

The Gliders were the name of the group, not just what they could do. I get you were just traumatized, but still.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Ecce: Femina

Chapter 22: I do

The windows were thrown open to the pale English sun. A breeze drifted in from the cricket lawn, cool and clean, rustling the corners of boys’ notebooks. A few birds wheeled above the tower cross. All was calm—at least outside.

Inside, the classroom felt heavier.

Not hostile. Not loud.

Just... ordered.

Goffredo stood at the front of the old Jesuit lecture hall, spine straight, blackboard behind him covered in chalk glyphs of Greek and Latin, one sleeve of his cassock rolled just enough to reveal the white glint of cuff beneath. He wasn’t theatrical. He didn’t pace. But he held the boys’ attention like iron to lodestone.

“The Greek word is ethnos,” he said, writing it cleanly across the board. “It means nation. People. Tribe. Identity rooted in blood, land, and belonging.”

He turned back toward the room.

“And yet modern interpreters,” he continued, voice quiet but cutting, “translate it loosely as ‘Gentiles’—as if Paul were making some kind of sentimental plea for global inclusion. But that is not what ethnos meant in his time. It meant difference. Boundary. Distinction. It was not a word of welcome. It was a word of warning.”

The boys shifted slightly in their seats. Seventeen of them. Collars pressed, pens ready, all of them chosen—bright minds, legacy sons, sons of bankers and minor nobility. Most of them white. All of them listening.

Goffredo’s eyes swept the room.

“In Acts 17, Paul speaks at the Areopagus—not to unite, but to confront. He tells the Athenians they are ignorant in their worship. Ignorant,” he repeated. “Not sincere. Not well-meaning. Ignorant. Because the truth is not up for democratic vote. It is revealed. It is singular.”

He picked up a piece of chalk again. Wrote:

TRUTH IS EXCLUSIVE

ERROR IS MANY-HEADED

A boy in the front—Thompson, sharp and eager—raised his hand. “But Father, doesn’t Christ welcome everyone?”

Goffredo didn’t frown. He smiled faintly. “Christ welcomes the penitent. Not the proud. The Gospel is not a welcome mat. It is a sword.”

Another boy, hesitant: “But isn’t God love?”

“Yes,” Goffredo said smoothly. “And love is demanding. Ask any good father if he gives his child whatever he desires. Ask any soldier if love of country means surrender.”

He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the windows. He didn’t look out.

“I have heard enough sermons that make God sound like a therapist,” he said. “Or worse—a concierge. Gentlemen, if that is what you believe, you have not met the real Christ. He was not soft. He did not pander. He flipped tables. He called men ‘vipers.’ He said things that got Him killed.”

Silence.

Goffredo folded his hands behind his back.

“And it is that Christ,” he said low, “who calls us to Himself. Not the effeminate god of Sunday cartoons. Not the rainbow-colored spirit of liberal democracy. The King. The Judge. The One who separates sheep from goats, wheat from chaff, truth from tolerance.”

A faint cough from the back.

“But sir,” a boy murmured. “Didn’t Jesus eat with sinners?”

Goffredo nodded. “Yes. He dined with them. Then He told them to sin no more. And many turned away.”

He stepped forward again, voice firm.

“There is no glory in vagueness. There is no salvation in sentiment. The Church has never survived by being popular. She survives by being right.”

The room had gone still.

One boy had stopped taking notes altogether. Another sat up straighter, eyes shining.

“You are not here to be good citizens of the world,” Goffredo said. “You are here to become men of backbone. Men of clarity. In a world that mocks conviction and calls cowardice ‘kindness,’ your task is not to blend in.”

He turned, underlining TRUTH IS EXCLUSIVE.

“Your task is to stand.”

There was no applause. There never was. But the atmosphere in the room had changed. Some of the boys nodded, slowly. Others simply stared.

Goffredo let the silence speak.

Then, with a flick of his hand, he erased the board and said, “For next week, read Letter to the Galatians. Latin and English. We will discuss freedom. And why it must be bound to form.”

The bell rang softly.

Shoes scuffed against the tile as boys filed out, some whispering. A few lingered to ask questions. Thompson stayed behind.

“Sir,” he said quietly, “do you think the Church is... too soft now?”

Goffredo gave a ghost of a smile. “I think the world is too loud. And the Church forgot how to speak with thunder.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned back to his notes, already writing again.

And outside, the English sun flickered through the trees like stained glass—brief and blood-warm.

But inside the man, something was beginning to calcify.

Something that sounded like certainty.

And felt like iron.

The sky outside the mullioned windows was the color of wet slate. Clouds hovered low, pregnant with English rain. Boys scurried in orderly lines across the courtyard below, navy coats flapping, their chatter muffled by the stone. Inside, the old wood of the administration wing creaked softly, like it breathed with memory.

Father Goffredo Tedesco sat alone in the waiting vestibule of the Dean’s office. His hands were folded neatly over his knee. His shoes, well-polished. But the Roman collar at his throat felt tighter than usual—like a string pulled too long across a violin.

The secretary, a thin woman with tortoiseshell glasses and wrists like pencils, glanced up from her typing. “The Dean will see you now, Father.”

He rose, nodded politely, and walked into the room.

Dean Ainsley stood by the fireplace, a teacup balanced in his left hand, and gave a small, clipped smile. “Ah, Father Tedesco. Do sit.”

The office was lined in books—leather-backed, gold-leafed, all in Latin and Greek. A portrait of St. Anselm loomed behind the desk, and a long window overlooked the cricket field.

Goffredo sat with care.

“I hope the quarters are suiting you,” Ainsley said lightly, taking his own chair. “I’ve heard only excellent things from the boys. They say your lectures on patristics are…” he trailed off, searching, “...transfixing.”

“Thank you.” Goffredo’s voice was steady. “The post has been... unexpected. In a good way.”

“Good.” The Dean sipped. “Well, what can I do for you?”

Goffredo looked down for a moment. Then met the man’s eyes. “I have a question. Not as a priest. Not even as a foreigner. Just as a man seeking clarity.”

Ainsley set his cup down. His expression didn’t shift. “Go on.”

“If I were to... leave the priesthood,” Goffredo said carefully, “formally. Publicly. Would I still be permitted to teach here? In theology. In scripture. With dignity.”

There was a stillness after the words. The kind that followed thunder.

Ainsley leaned back slowly. He did not look scandalized. Only precise.

“Are you speaking hypothetically, Father?”

“Yes. And no.”

The Dean folded his hands. His knuckles were large, like knots in a tree.

“We’ve had clerics here before,” he said, “who’ve changed paths. Anglican converts. Orthodox lectors. Even a defrocked Jesuit who still teaches ethics—brilliantly, I might add.”

He studied Goffredo with mild curiosity. “So long as the transition is not marred by scandal, the Academy values knowledge over status. We prefer discretion. Not dogma.”

“I see.”

“You would have to cease clerical dress,” Ainsley added. “Refrain from referring to yourself as ‘Father.’ The chapel privileges would change, of course. You’d be hired under the laity clause. But your lectures, your books, your mind—we would be glad to keep them.”

A long silence passed between them.

“I’m not sure yet,” Goffredo said at last. “I haven’t decided.”

“No one can fault a man for discernment,” the Dean replied. “But I will say this: if you are waiting for certainty, it may never come. One must act while the door is still open.”

Goffredo exhaled. He reached into his coat pocket, then stopped.

His fingers had brushed the edge of the velvet box.

He didn’t take it out.

Instead, he rose.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Ainsley gave a small nod. “Good evening, Mr. Tedesco.”

The priest paused.

He smiled, just faintly, and corrected him:

“Not yet.”

That evening, Goffredo walked the long path around the edge of the school grounds. The hedges were clipped to perfect squares. The gravel shifted beneath his shoes. Every few paces, a lantern lit the way, casting a honeyed light over the stone path.

He walked to the edge of the garden where the apple trees grew, silent and sweet in the dusk. And when no one was watching, he sat on the wooden bench beneath the oldest tree and opened the velvet box.

The ring gleamed in the lamplight—simple, worn, gold softened with time. His Nonna’s wedding band. His grandfather’s last gift.

He held it in both hands. Not like a treasure.

Like a promise.

He closed his eyes.

Let her come.

Let her stay.

Let this life be enough.

And in the distance, the wind rustled the leaves like breath, and the chapel bell rang for none but him.

It was raining again. The good, righteous kind of rain. Unsentimental. English.

Father Goffredo Tedesco walked into the room precisely on time, cassock neat, jaw clean-shaven, a faint smudge of chalk already ghosting his cuffs. He did not greet the boys.

“Open your notebooks,” he said.

The students obeyed. No chatter. No gum. No posture unbecoming of men meant to shape the future.

He wrote two names on the board in sharp, authoritarian script:

Tertullian

Origen

“Two fathers of the faith,” he said without turning. “One revered. The other rebuked. Tell me why.”

A boy near the front raised his hand—William Thorne. Neat. Intelligent. A touch arrogant.

“Origen believed all souls would return to God,” he said. “Even the damned.”

Goffredo nodded once. “Apocatastasis. A heresy, according to Constantinople. And Tertullian?”

“Rigid,” said another. “Severe. Believed the martyrs were the true theologians.”

“Indeed.” Goffredo underlined TERTULLIAN. “Rigidity is not cruelty. It is clarity. The soul longs for clarity. It is the soft lie that damns, not the hard truth.”

He turned. “And what damns a culture?”

Silence.

William raised his hand again. “Moral relativism. The erosion of hierarchy. Weak borders. Imported values.”

Something flickered in Goffredo’s chest.

“Expand,” he said flatly.

“Well…” William squared his shoulders. “Rome fell because it let foreigners dilute its customs. The Church now risks the same. Too many concessions to regions that don’t understand the faith. Africans being made bishops. Latin American theology that smells more of Marx than of Moses.”

A few boys chuckled, low and knowing. A ripple of smugness.

Goffredo didn’t move.

William grinned. “Truth must be guarded, Father. You taught us that. And Europe’s been the guardian.”

It was the kind of answer Goffredo should have praised.

But the words sat heavy. Like smoke in his mouth.

He stared at William, his top pupil. Bright, eager, terribly formed.

And in that moment, something pierced the armor.

“If you think that love is not the beginning and the end of the Gospel…”

Her voice.

Not audible.

But present.

Maranata.

That room in France. The smell of her tea. Her calm, lakewater voice.

“Then maybe you haven’t read it through.”

He blinked. The classroom came back into focus.

William still watched him—waiting for affirmation. The other boys were silent. The tension was almost giddy.

Goffredo stepped away from the podium.

“The Gospel,” he said slowly, “is not European.”

The class blinked.

“It was not born in Oxford. Or Rome. Or Paris. It did not arrive in Bethlehem on horseback with a Latin dictionary in hand.”

He turned toward the blackboard and began to write again.

Tertullian. Origen. Nicodemus.

“Nicodemus,” he said, “was a man who knew all the rules. All the structures. He believed them. Taught them. Upheld them. But he came to Christ at night—not with power, but with questions.”

He circled the name.

“And Christ did not shame him. He did not correct his culture. He spoke of rebirth.”

William’s smirk faded.

“Do not confuse orthodoxy with nationalism,” Goffredo said, his voice lower now. “Do not mistake rigor for cruelty. Truth must be preached—but never weaponized. When it is, it ceases to be truth. It becomes ideology. And ideology cannot save.”

A boy near the window glanced up from his notes.

William opened his mouth, then shut it.

“You may write on Tertullian’s rigor,” Goffredo said, “and Origen’s error. But tonight—read John chapter three.”

He didn’t dismiss them.

He just walked to the window and looked out at the rain.

Behind him, the boys packed their books in silence.

And for the first time since arriving in England, Father Goffredo Tedesco felt afraid of his own echo.

That night, he sat in the faculty room with a cigarette in his hand and the taste of bile in his throat. Smoke curled toward the stained ceiling. Outside, boys played rugby under floodlights. Inside, he remembered her.

The girl who refused to sneer. Who corrected theology with parables. Who had handed him a note with trembling fingers that said: The anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.

He thought he had taught her. Now he feared she had been his only teacher.

And still—

He didn’t regret the cassock.

He only wondered what it might cost to wear it well.

The bell had rung, chairs scraped back, and the boys had filed out with the usual mutters of Latin declensions and tightly folded notes. Goffredo remained behind, as always, to reorder the desk—though truthfully, he liked the solitude. The rhythm of silence.

The room was still touched with the grey light of early September. Outside, rain clung to the windows in long, hesitant streaks.

He was slipping his notes back into their folder when he noticed the boy. Still there. Standing at the edge of the room, blazer a little too tight, collar slightly wilted from sweat. William.

Goffredo looked up. “Something else, Mr. Reed?”

The boy stepped forward, not nervously—but with intent. The kind of quiet boldness that made Goffredo’s spine straighten instinctively.

“Yes,” he said. “I have a question.”

“Speak.”

William hesitated only a moment.

“You said—Jesus paid for my sins.”

Goffredo nodded once. “That’s correct.”

“Paid entirely?”

“Entirely. The whole Bible is summarized in that sentence.”

“And He told us to pray in His name. That it would be heard because of Him.”

“Yes,” Goffredo said, folding his arms. “He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through Him.”

A silence. Then William’s brow furrowed, lips tightening into the shape of thought.

“Then why do I have to confess to another man?”

Goffredo blinked.

William’s voice remained steady. “If Christ is the intermediary, and He already paid for me, why must I name my sins to a priest who’s just as broken as I am?”

The room cooled. It wasn’t rebellion in the boy’s voice. It wasn’t arrogance, either.

It was worse.

It was sincerity.

Goffredo straightened. “Because confession is not about permission. It’s about restoration. The priest stands in persona Christi—in the person of Christ—not because he is pure, but because Christ is.”

William’s arms stayed crossed. “But Christ is listening, right? Without the priest.”

“Of course.”

“Then why not go straight to Him?”

There was a pause.

Goffredo’s answer came sharp, too quick.

“Because we are not Protestants.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m not trying to argue, sir. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I just…” William glanced down at his hands. “I read that verse last night. That Jesus stands at the door and knocks. That He comes in. Eats with us. That’s personal. And this—” he gestured toward the crucifix above the blackboard, “—this feels… far away.”

Goffredo’s jaw tightened.

“You want intimacy without submission. That is the great temptation of your generation.”

William looked up sharply. “No, sir. I want truth. That’s all.”

And then, before Goffredo could reply, the boy offered a small, awkward nod and slipped out the door.

Silence returned.

But something didn’t settle.

The question hung like smoke: Why confess to a man, if the Son of God tore the veil?

Goffredo turned toward the window, hands gripping the edge of the desk.

He had heard arguments like that before—Protestant claims, naive simplifications. He could debate them. Dismantle them with Aquinas, with the Church Fathers, with centuries of sacred consensus.

And yet...

I want truth. That’s all.

The echo of the boy’s voice rang too close to another one.

“You can’t tell me a Church that silenced children and protected monsters is the spotless Bride of Christ,” Maranata had said, months ago, her voice shaking with restrained fury.

He had fought her then. Argued. Rationalized. Deflected. With precision. With doctrine. With all the weight of Rome behind him.

But now—now her words slithered back through the cracks.

“You call it tradition. I call it a wound.”

He closed his eyes.

“You say authority. I say silence.”

His breath caught.

For the first time in his life, he did not doubt himself.

He doubted the Church.

Not her sacraments. Not her saints. But her system. Her hush. Her iron-handed preservation of form, even when it meant disfiguring Christ’s face in the world.

He turned to the crucifix, still wet with shadow.

“Ego sum via...” he whispered. “The Way.”

He remembered her voice then—Maranata’s—crystalline and gentle, from that night by the hearth:

“If you think that love is not the beginning and end of the Gospel…”

His throat tightened.

“…then maybe you haven’t read it through.”

The room was quiet.

And for the first time in decades, so was he.

The ligther and cigarette were each taken by a hand of his, he took a long, pensive drag, memories that came back, disturbing ideas that flew in.

Goffredo had had his own fair share of doubts, he had been a young cathecist and seminarist weeping on the floor, begging God to let him serve his kingdom

He doubted being worthy of salvation, of the privilege that was serving the one and only church

But now

Now he feared the Church was not worthy of serving

And that fear terrified him even more than he was willing to admit

He put out the cigarette

With the skin of his wrist

The classroom was heavy with oak and discipline. Latin conjugations still clung to the blackboard from earlier. The air smelled faintly of chalk, wet wool, and tobacco—though no one smoked but Father Tedesco.

He stood before the students with one hand gripping the lectern, the other resting over a leather-bound Missal. His tone was even. Dry. Hard as granite.

“‘Is it possible that everyone will be saved?’” he repeated, scanning the boys with sharp eyes. “That, gentlemen, is today’s thesis. Argue carefully.”

A boy in the third row raised his hand—Earnest, well-meaning, eager to please. “I think God is too good not to forgive everyone. Eventually. The Bible says He doesn’t want anyone to perish.”

A few nods. Someone murmured a verse—Peter or Timothy, something about salvation for all.

Goffredo tilted his head. Smiled faintly. But it wasn’t warmth. It was warning.

The classroom had no walls on the east side—just open air, and hammocks strung between the wooden beams where the smallest children sometimes napped. The breeze carried faint notes of cumin and wet earth.

Maranata sat cross-legged on a woven mat. Her Bible was open on her lap, worn and taped along the spine. The children—ranging in age from seven to sixteen—sat close, some leaning on one another, others doodling birds in the corners of their notebooks.

A girl asked quietly, “Maestra, if God is good... won’t everyone go to heaven?”

The room fell still.

Maranata didn’t rush to answer. She closed her Bible gently and looked up at them all.

“No,” Goffredo said flatly. “Everyone will not be saved.”

His voice cut through the polished hush of the room like a chisel.

“If that were the case, then Christ’s agony is rendered ornamental. His crucifixion—a pageant. His blood—wasted.”

Silence.

“Salvation is not a democratic inheritance,” he continued. “It is covenant. It is obedience. It is form. One does not stumble into heaven as one might into a well-tended garden. One is summoned. Prepared. Disciplined.”

His voice grew colder.

“The road is narrow. Few will find it. The rest—will not.”

“No,” Maranata said softly. “Not everyone will go.”

The students didn’t flinch—she had not said it like a threat.

“But not because God didn’t want them,” she added quickly. “Because some refused. And some never knew they were invited.”

She placed her hand over her heart.

“Love doesn’t force. It invites. It calls. Jesus didn’t die so He could drag us into paradise against our will—He died so that the door would stay open even after we slammed it shut.”

A boy near the front frowned. “So...bad people go to hell?”

She tilted her head.

“I think people go where they belong,” she said gently. “And some people never wanted to belong to love.”

“Mercy divorced from order,” Goffredo said, “is chaos.”

He let the sentence breathe. A few boys scribbled it down.

“Grace is real—but it does not excuse. It requires. The same Christ who said ‘Come unto Me’ also said, ‘Go and sin no more.’”

He walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“Fools speak of universalism like it’s compassion. But I tell you this: a gospel that requires nothing of man does not elevate—it diminishes. It turns men into swine, rooting for pearls they did not earn.”

“Sometimes,” Maranata said, “we confuse love with leniency. We think that if God is kind, He must let everything slide.”

She smiled, just a little. “But would it be love if He let the strong trample the weak? Would it be mercy if He allowed cruelty to go unchecked?”

She looked at the oldest boy—the one who had once stolen bread to feed his sister.

“God is not lenient. He is just. But He’s also patient. He’s not waiting to punish. He’s waiting for us to come home.”

Goffredo faced the class again. His voice was lower now. Steeled.

“There is no heaven without reverence. No paradise for the proud. The Church—this Church—guards the way. Outside her, salvation is... at best, a hope. At worst, a delusion.”

No one spoke. Not even William.

For a moment, Goffredo believed himself righteous.

But then—

“If you think that love is not the beginning and end of the Gospel…”

Her voice again.

Soft. Still.

He blinked, and for a half-second, his eyes drifted to the crucifix on the wall—Christ outstretched not in conquest, but in offering.

And he felt it:

Shame.

“Salvation,” Maranata said, “isn’t a reward. It’s a rescue. It combines the two main attributes the gospel is based in: Mercy and Grace. Mercy is to be spared from a punishment you deserved, Grace is to be granted a prize you did not earn.”

The wind shifted.

She looked down at her open Bible again. Ran a finger over the words.

“Jesus didn’t come to lock people out. He came to open the gate. But we still have to walk through it. And sometimes that means laying down things we’re not ready to give up.”

The children were quiet. Some bowed their heads.

She smiled.

“But I believe this: if you want to be with Him, He’ll show you how.”

“So I can just knock on Jesus’ door?”

Silence, Maranata’s eyes lighten up as if she is going to say the best news anyone has heard, because maybe she is.

“No. You just have to open, for Jesus is already knocking.”

Two classrooms.

Two teachers.

One truth, split by tone.

One Gospel—still dividing bone from marrow.

The window was cracked, and the night air poured in with its usual British chill—damp, quiet, tinged with woodsmoke. The scent of the nearby chapel’s old incense still clung to his cassock, though he had not worn it today. Not since morning Mass.

The desk was cluttered. Papers, commentaries, an open copy of Augustine’s Confessions underlined so many times the margins looked bruised. And in the center, beside a barely-sipped espresso gone cold, was the ring.

Nonna’s ring. Slim. Gold. Uncomplicated. But now heavy as judgment.

Goffredo sat still, spine stiff, eyes on the ring. His hands folded not in study—but in prayer. A private, desperate one.

Lord, if this is still Your will… make it clear to me. I will give her up. I will return to my post, I will silence these doubts, I will carry the banner if You ask me to. But I am tired. I am confused. I am... afraid.

His head bowed.

Is it disobedience to want joy? Is it betrayal to want to be held, not adored? To be known, not obeyed?

Outside, the bells rang softly—compline. The final prayer of the day.

He didn’t move to join it.

Instead, he stayed at the desk, elbows pressing into the wood as if he could sink through it, down to some quiet core of the earth where the answers waited like seeds in the soil.

He closed his eyes.

And remembered her voice.

“Salvation… isn’t a reward. It’s a rescue.”

The words bloomed in his mind with unbearable clarity.

“Jesus didn’t come to lock people out. He came to open the gate. But we still have to walk through it.”

Goffredo’s throat tightened.

There had been no condemnation in her voice that day. Only hope. Hope that sounded like the Gospel itself, stripped of clerical artifice and laced with something ancient and true.

“You just have to open… for Jesus is already knocking.”

His hand hovered above the ring.

He was trembling.

He thought of everything he had been—how strict, how prideful, how sure. How even now, he punished boys for smoking while flicking ash from his own lips. How he quoted truth but carried no love.

How had he become a man she might not recognize anymore?

He bowed his head once more, the Latin rising without effort:

“Domine, si vis, loquere ad me. Ego audiens sum. I am listening, Lord.”

No answer. Just the rhythm of rain.

He pressed the ring to his lips.

“I love her,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a confession anymore.

It was a vow.

Then—

The phone rang.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

It rang again, sharp and modern and mortal, slicing through the sanctity of the room.

He reached for it, hand unsteady. The cord coiled against his forearm like a living thing.

He lifted the receiver.

“Pronto.”

There was a pause. Then a voice he knew, one he hadn’t heard since the world tilted sideways.

Soft, unsure. But undeniably hers.

“It took me a while to get your number, Professore Goffredo. I received your letter.”

His throat felt like it was closing, as if he had eaten something that was poisoning in the most beautiful way

It was her…she read his letter

“…and well?” Goffredo tries to ask, maybe he sounds normal…

“I do.”

[velvet-cupcake-games]

If the Ros had to tell Marion a lie In order for Marion to stay with them or tell the truth and have the Marion leave them. Which would they do?

Ooh, let's see!

This one has two different answers. The first lie is to cover up something that is NOT the RO's fault or responsibility (in other words, they are protecting Marion).

Robin: Lie

John: Lie

Will: Truth

Meissa: Lie (Note that this *could* result in them having their powers burned out from them, a life-threateningly painful experience - they would still lie).

Alanna: Truth

Geoffrey: Truth

Gui: Truth

Layton: Lie

???: Truth

The second is to cover something that IS the RO's fault or responsibility.

Robin: Lie

John: Truth (would feel too guilty otherwise)

Will: Truth ("Take me as I am or not at all.")

Meissa: Truth (would feel too guilty otherwise)

Alanna: Lie

Geoffrey: Truth (he can't bring himself to lie to her)

Gui: Truth (Absolute, well-informed freedom is vital)

Layton: Truth (straight-up self-sabotage)

???: Truth (truth is his lodestone)

Geez we have a lot of self-sabotaging love interests. I guess that's just how I write 'em.

[zeroducks-2]

Barry is so desperate for companionship that he just ends up creating homo tension with anyone is hilarious to me even if half of those people are villains who have traumatize him. August called himself Barry's partner and this poor sap didn't even bother refuting cause he's so happy someone can fill the Wally shape hole left inside him lol.

True! But let's be fair, it doesn't only come from Barry.

August had been pining for him for years when he was not a speedster yet, and being Barry an oblivious little thing, he didn't notice/didn't consider it important/thought August only liked him as a friend. Getting hit by lightning only made everything worse, because now August is a speedster and Barry's equal (in his mind), so how come Barry STILL won't admit that they're made for each other? And then lightning started striking people all over Central City, and so suddenly August wasn't the only one, and Meena Dhawan saw Barry being cute and she too decided they had a "special connection" which had to become something romantic.

The difference between Meena and August in that department is that Meena had more gumption and was open with Barry instead of waiting for him to be the first to confess, or whatever August was waiting for. And August's reaction was the most vicious display of violent jealousy that even Eobard's bs pale in comparison - he started killing the other speedsters, acting like they weren't even people to begin with (please note that most of those he killed were children), and when it comes to Meena he didn't even leave her body behind, quite literally erasing her. And then proceeded to insult Barry and tell him that Meena was actually nothing for him, and their love story didn't mean anything.

Didn't stop there though! Because the next speedster who attracted August's jealousy was Eobard of all people - who might I remind you, at that point in time was locked up in Iron Heights and had no agency over anything - insisting that "Zoom had to die", and that he was going to kill him while Barry watched. Funny that for the first time in the arc Barry's reaction was viciously protective, and in stopping August from getting into Iron Heights he very nearly pulled his neck. Guess August had finally found who he should have been actually jealous of the whole time.

And anyway, almost every single Flash villain acts like they want to fuck Barry. Beside known cases like Reverse Flash, we have the Turtle in Flash Year One, who acts so creepy Barry himself gets scared, then we have Abra who in the Silver Age had a thing for forcing Barry into non-consensual pet play sessions, we have Captain Cold that when Barry died slipped in a depressive state and said Flash was more important to him than his own sister, and I could go on. Oh and then we have half of the Flash family who acts like Barry is their property, especially Wally who seems to have a fuck/marry/kill roulette going on in his head at all times.

But anyway yeah, Barry does create homosexual (or just romantic) tension with people, and imo it's because he's the speed force. He's light and energy personified, there is NO WAY people are going to be normal about him, and this comes up in more or less violent ways. One of the reasons why Eobard made himself the negative speed force was that now he's Barry's equal - their powers are on the same level and are basically two sides of the same coin, and I believe this is part of why they are each other's lodestone.

Have the panels of Lightning Strikes Twice in which August got *this close* to becoming a statistic:

[ishgard]

[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ?

Oof. I'm gonna be bouncing all over the place with this essay of an answer!

So, Ahru's earliest memory of 'safety' (and maybe the 'tldr the rest' answer) is when she was very young, playing with her father. She felt like she was embraced by sunbeams when he was around, like nothing could hurt her. Which... didn't last long before he left.

And then you fast-forward a couple decades and the person who gave her that lodestone in her mind, that inherent understanding of what 'safety' meant and felt like to her, tried to kill her. It kind of unravels what she thought she knew and believed in.

It's hard to pinpoint 'safest' for her. She might not have always felt 'unsafe' but definitely not 'secure' most of her life. And definitely not in ARR! though she did find 'belonging' and 'purpose' which kind of feel at times 'safe' in a sense.

Haurchefant felt safe. Her safety is mostly in the people around her. I think, with some irony, the safest place to her even now remains Fortemps Manor (and to an extent Ishgard at large), with her basically adoptive father. That's home.

She feels perfectly safe and at ease when she's traveling with Deryk. He may not be a God anymore, but his presence is nonetheless extremely comforting.

There's also a painful, fucked-up way she felt 'safest' whenever Zenos was around. Nice to know where the biggest threat is, and that he won't generally let anything interfere. It's situational, but she understands him because of course she does, he's her mirror.

(And during SB there was the adrenaline-thrill of the hunter and the hunted which definitely was NOT safe but it made her heart race, it made her thrive and feel alive, and want to live, so what could be 'safer' than feeling that instead of the dread of giving into despair after tragedy after tragedy that she kept walking away from-)

Anyway. She's not quite ^ that messed up anymore but. Dying at the edge of the universe, oddly enough, was one 'safe moment'.

Also, on that note, she thinks a lot less about 'her safety' (because it's genuinely been so out of reach for so much of her life) so much as she thinks about everyone else's safety and when they're safe she feels better.

She does feel safe in general when the Scions are around! If Alphinaud's got her back she basically doesn't fear anything because she refuses to accept anything but success or victory and he won't let her fall. G'raha pretty much tailored himself to cover her weaknesses. And there's no situation in which Estinien diving in doesn't immediately boost morale. (on and on I could go!)

ANYWAY this has been a rambley non-answer of an answer.

[ritualcaster]

i ran out of ultrakill memes to draw the fans in...

Anyway.

An idea for a railgun alternate would be to have a "minion" or "familiar" at the cost of your other rail cannons and a hefty cooldown if it dies

Immediatly with this concept alone you can get a ton of fun concepts that would be incredible to play around with (id love to hear you guys' ideas 🤤) but heres mine for SPECIFICALLY the screwdriver.

"Fracker!" lore wise, another one of humanities attempts to make profit off of hell, a portable mining device made incredibly durable and strong to extract various liquids samples and blood quickly, now repurposed as a weapon with a will of its own!

Design ideas with notes!

For the most part all you need to know mechanically is that its similar mechanically and functionally to the sentry, but more robust.

It would attack in much the same way!

With the exception that its using a fracking drill instead of a gun of course.

On its own this is beautiful but wheres the style? So in classic ultrakill fashion heres some "techs" or "style bonuses" that you could potentialy use in-game, and of course I have to constantly reference mining terminology, it's a mining bot!

+Coupled, knock the frackers drill into another enemy using feedbacker or shotgun, you could repeat this to skewer as many enemies as you wanted!

+Daisy-chain, jump start multiple skewered enemies, OR, the fracker itself, while he's attached! That can't be good for his insides...

+Backfill(ed), hitting the fracker in the back (right on the pump!) with any weapon while he's siphoning, will cause him to reverse the flow and.... pop!

+As-intended, hitting the fracker into the ground before it can hit an enemy will cause the fracker too.... well, frack! Blood flows forth from the ground in that area and the drill is retracted.

+Lodestone, if the drill happens to hit (or be redirected into) an attractor, the drill itself temporarily gains the effects of an attractor!

+Sump, a variant of +backfill, most enemies would pop under the pressure of its powerful pump, but large enemies take multiple hits this way to generate enough pressure to be reduced to liquid!

Nitty gritty mechanical stuff, the drill itself would move about as fast as a saw from the alt nailguns, and its damage would be about 1/4th of the screwdrivers, but twice as fast (firing and duration.) The cord is prehensile, but thats only really for idle animations, it's a straight shot. It has its own healthbar, which is shown on the ui similarly to the railgun charge, it regains health after hitting an enemy. Certain style bonuses will damage him if timed wrong, +sump in particular would require hits in time with the pump or risk missfiring.

It's very expressive! Being a much more comercial robot it isn't designed to be intimidating, so it has a lot of bells and whistles, rather than the usual "effeciency above all" strategy the other robots use. It has the capability to play radio, display images, connect to the internet (uhm, if possible?) And communicate with v1 in real time!

Despite being a robot, it is fully sentient, as most blood fueled machines are. I haven't decided on if it would have dialouge yet, but if it did it would be very simple "alert" notifications near the railgun charge bar.

Although he is more robust than the sentries, that also means he has much more trouble moving, typically bunny hopping is fastest!

The drill could also be reffered to as it's "probiscus".

Also, gender is... whatever! Any pronouns are fine.

Idk how many ppl are actually gonna end up seeing rhis but the second i came up with him I drew him immediatly with every ounce of skill i could muster, and I HOPE you guys feel the same.

The image on the left is much more early in "development" the "water" it pumps would much more likely be stale blood, or "exhaust" to better fit lore and like, mechanical stuff.

[purplealmonds]

🧭⚔️☔️Observations about the earth-aligned "Kun" exorcism sword

Discussions of potential spoilers beneath the cut.

It appears to take various forms both segmented and whole in the latest trailer, but seems to have a solidity to it that's unlike the Li exorcism sword's organic fire-like form.

And the blade itself seems to be...nonexistent upon first unsheathing the exorcism sword?

It does not emerge until Shingi summons this concentric sigil, which matches the markings on his body.

As a side note: this sigil fascinates me. To fully understand why, please refer to my analysis video about the Asian Philsophy of the Universe.

I include a visual from that post for convenience:

If I were to hazard a guess, outer circle has eight prongs to represent the 8 trigrams, and the next one in with 4 prongs represent the older and younger variants of Yin and Yang? I'm willing to bet that the innermost circles represent Ryo-Gi (Yin & Yang) and Tai Chi (existence) respectively.

It also somewhat resembles the Luo Pan - a concentric compass used for Feng Shui practices. Look - I even found the character for "Kun" engraved onto it!

I wrote a little bit about it in this post. In summary, the latest lore video says that the Shuuga operates much like a magnetic field.

So what I'm getting at is, I believe sigil represents some kind of magnetic forcefield and the actual blade (and maybe even the ofuda derived from it) may be formed by some kind of ferromagnetic material which can be moulded to various shapes. Ferrofluid, or magnetic powder, perhaps?

There are plenty of stones that are magnetic - meteorites, lodestones, various igneous rocks seem to be the most thematically appropriate. And it kind of aligns with my theory that Shingi has shifted from an earth aligned to metal aligned being.

[katherinecrighton]

Nuts and Bolts: Some Writing Advice

(Reposting a 2013 post from the Anna Katherine co-tumblr)

A friend of mine awhile back asked the aether for some practical, straightforward writing advice, which I assumed meant nuts and bolts stuff.

This is what I ended up writing to her.

(Caveat emptor: 1. The reason advice looks contradictory is because it literally is different for everyone — shit that works for one person won’t work for someone else. Just stick it in your toolbox and move along. 2. I will say obvious shit that you already know. Because it’s possible somebody else doesn’t. 3. You may totally disagree with anything/everything I say, oh my god, that’s fine.)

1. Use the word “said.” Throw in a “she declaimed” every once in a while if you like, but don’t do it all the time. Feel free to put in no dialogue tags at all, if it’s clear who’s speaking. But “said” is free and generally invisible to the reader (and the goal is to not remind the reader that they’re reading).

2. Writing advice for short fiction and writing advice for novels are and writing advice for one genre versus another are all going to tell you slightly (or wildly) different things. So, you know, watch out for that. I suggest switching mediums entirely, and try reading up on screenplays or three-panel comics.

3. Stick your finished draft into a Kindle or some other robot reader, and have a mechanical voice read the story to you. It’s a step removed, and you’ll hear where it clunks. Make notes as it goes.

4. If you don’t have a robot reader, read it out loud to yourself. Actually out loud. Put check marks wherever you cringe. It’s where the reader will likely cringe too.

5. Start your story at the point of change. It’s more interesting. Backfill with exposition a couple of paragraphs later.

6. Sometimes, if I’m writing a one-off, I pick a motif and stick with it as a lodestone for all my descriptions. It’s a way of creating a sort of subliminal mood and atmosphere for the reader, while at the same time maintaining a nice sense of continuity.

7. The English language likes to hear things in threes. Three bears, three nights, three wishes, and what with one thing and another, three years passed. English also likes iambic pentameter and any other rhyme or rhythm scheme it can get its hands on. Readers want language to both have a pretty meaning (three brothers seek their fortune) and a pretty sound (now is the winter of our discontent). The fastest way to do this, and not have it be totally obvious, is to combine the two. Have three lines of description, three examples of something, three jokes — and do it semi-regularly. It creates a rhythm in your work, like a heartbeat. Study other people’s stories and see if you can find where they’re doing the same or similar things. Count stuff.

8. Then, later, fuck with your readers by breaking the rhythm. Stop the heartbeat. Miss the step. The reader will get nervous and uncomfortable and have no idea why. Makes for good tension.

9. Other things that make readers uncomfortable: Set dressing. We’re used to visual mediums. If you want to set up a really uncomfortable scene, describe key things around it going in, and make it clear that it’s Not Okay. A pair of scissors that have been left half open. A door that is not entirely shut. A radio caught between two stations, the garden hose still left running. Nothing overt, nothing obvious – just stuff that feels uncomfortable to read. Do enough of those in a row, as you head toward a confrontation, and the reader will be a ball of avidly reading tension by the end of it. 

10. Graphic sex scenes are equal to action scenes. In both instances, know where everybody is, and what everybody’s doing. Describe with more physical action than you think is necessary. If the reader doesn’t know where everybody’s limbs are and what tools are being used, then they’ll get confused and bored. You can always edit later.

[kemetic-dreams]

Roots under Beale: The Significance of Beale Street to Memphis Hoodoo History

In the late 1800s, Robert Church, the first African-American millionaire in the South took great interest in Beale Street. After purchasing land on Beale, Church built Church Park and Auditorium exclusively for black Memphians. He also created a recreational center and an upscale hotel. Beale Street was very important to African American life in Memphis as Church wanted to create a safe haven for black Memphians where African American food, music and entertainment could be celebrated.

A community of healers, conjurers and rootworkers began to develop on Beale. Memphians knew that you could visit the right store or juke joint and find someone with the ‘gift’ to provide magical and spiritual help. Beale Street musicians like W.C. Handy began to speak of the hoodoo culture through the lyrics of their songs. Blues singer Lillie Mae Glover known as ‘Ma Rainey II’ became popular on Beale Street as not only a performer but also a conjurer. She would perform rituals and various spiritual workings for other performers on Beale, as well as random customers who knew to seek her out. One of her special abilities was the ability to make mojo hands for blues musicians. While many hands were traditionally made using roots, lodestone and a red flannel bag, Lillie Mae made hers using common ingredients like sugar, flour and a heap of coal.

It became evident that hoodoo was being practiced in downtown Memphis much to the dislike of the white community. Hoodoo and any African based religious practices were compared to savage paganism that threatened the wives and children of the white community of Memphis. Local police were put on alert regarding the threat of hoodoo and ‘voodooism’ as it was commonly referred to.

The Memphis Press-Scimitar reported:

‘The Voodoo business still thrives on Beale Street. Police, looking for a witch

doctor yesterday confiscated a half a sack full of “Stay Away Powder,”

“Easy Life Powder” and “Spanish Luck Drops” being sold to negroes at

25 cents a set. The “Stay Away” powder, supposed to jinx a love rival,

proved to be nothing stronger than flour. “Easy Life” powder appeared to

be a fine grade of ground clay. “Spanish Luck Drops” were more potent.

They were a cheap but stout perfume. All in all, police figured the 25-cent

collection cost the producers not more than a couple of cents.’

Raids on rootworkers and conjurers were quite common in the city. There is record of a number of arrests where hoodoo devotees were arrested and artifacts such as mojo bags and amulets were confiscated and in some cases destroyed in the presence of practitioners. Hoodoo was not only feared but represented empowerment for the black community, something that the times simply would not allow.

The development of a hoodoo community on Beale Street gained the notoriety of the title ‘The Black Magic District’ as many Memphians knew that one could obtain a cleansing, a black cat bone or guidance from the ancestors by visiting the right individual on Beale. In the 1940s gold miners would visit Beale Street looking for conjurers to help them spiritually locate treasure along the Mississippi River. The rising number of Memphians using Beale Street’s healers as a form of healthcare caused some Memphis physicians to become critical and voice offense against the community’s rootworkers. However as writer Keith Wailoo in has noted “Those who invoked spirits to relieve one’s rheumatism or to subdue one’s enemies would not be driven easily from the Bluff city.” Hoodoo was here to stay.

In 1876, Jewish immigrant Abraham Schwab opened one of Memphis’s most iconic businesses on Beale Street. A. Schwab began as a dry goods store offering everything from cloth overalls to blues records. Years later the store began to carry a number of hoodoo related curios. In fact at one point the store was literally bringing in shipments of over one hundred and twenty tons of hoodoo related candles. The hoodoo community in Memphis would purchase oils, candles, incense and roots from the oldest store on Beale. One of my earliest exposures to hoodoo curios came when as a child I was taken into Schwab by my parents. I remember the scent of incense and the colorful collection of candles and curios. It was a wonderland to the senses.

During the writing of A Secret History of Memphis Hoodoo: Rootworkers, Conjurers and Spirituals, I was given the opportunity to visit the store’s archives and see some of the remnants of hoodoo curios and artifacts. A number of old curios from Memphis based companies like ‘LaClyde Lucky Products’ and ‘Lucky Heart Cosmetics’ were preserved in pristine condition saved for their historical preservation. Boxes of dried rattlesnake root, John the Conqueror and assorted herbs could still be found. A member of the Schwab family shared stories of hoodoo practitioners throughout the years and the many testimonies and stories of customers from the conjure community.

These are but a few of the numerous stories about rootworkers and conjurers on Beale Street that were instrumental in the history of hoodoo in Memphis. The history of hoodoo in Memphis is a story of cultural survival that needs to be told.