#Mark Sheet Transcripts

[todaysdocument]

Passport Application of Martin Luther King Jr.

Record Group 59: General Records of the Department of StateSeries: Selected Passport ApplicationsFile Unit: King, Martin Luther, Jr.

[marginalia] Declassified Authority NND 66640

[form/]

[marginalia] TWX P [/marginalia]

(PLEASE TYPE OR PRINT)

DEPARTMENT OF STATE

PASSPORT APPLICATION

(Before Completing this Application, Read Information for Passport Applicants on Page 4)

A PART I - TO BE COMPLETED BY ALL APPLICANTS

(First name) (Middle name) (Last name)

I, Martin Luther King, Jr., a citizen

of the United States, do hereby apply to the Department of State for a passport.

MAIL PASSPORT TO

[handwritten/] Will Call today 4³⁰ [/handwritten]

DATE OF BIRTH (Month, day, year)

January 15, 1929

PLACE OF BIRTH

Atlanta, Georgia

HEIGHT

5 FT. 7 IN.

COLOR OF HAIR

black

COLOR OF EYES

brown

APPROXIMATE DATE OF DEPARTURE

August 14, 1964

VISIBLE DISTINGUISHING MARKS

[blank]

OCCUPATION

Minister

[column to right of Section A]

(Passport Office Use Only)

R D O DP

E 5 7 9 7 2 0

PASSPORT ISSUED

Aug 13 '64

DEPARTMENT OF STATE

NEW YORK PASSPORT AGENCY

B PERSONS TO BE INCLUDED IN PASSPORT (Include photographic likenesses in group photo)

This section to be completed only if wife or husband is to be included in applicant's passport

(WIFE'S) (HUSBAND'S) FULL LEGAL NAME

[blank]

This section to be completed only if children are to be included in applicant's passport

NAME IN FULL

form 1359

PLACE OF BIRTH (City, State or Country)

prepared

[section] C

IF PASSPORT PREVIOUSLY APPLIED FOR GIVE YEAR [blank] (AND NAME IF DIFFERENT FROM PRESENT NAME). FOR EACH PERSON INCLUDED IN THIS

APPLICATION WHO HAS RECEIVED A PASSPORT, COMPLETE INFORMATION BELOW:

[~4x6(?) photo of Martin Luther King, Jr. adhered to sheet]

[headings: BEARER // APPLICANT / SPOUSE / CHILDREN]

[all sections blank]

PASSPORT NO.

2 [(?)]

DATE OF ISSUE

1961 [complete document and transcription at link]

[bullet-prooflove]

By The Grace of God: John Carter x Reader (feat: Wild Willy)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

It’s by the sheer grace of God that you end up with Wild Willy on your review board.

That man is salt of the earth, you’re told by Mark Greene when he informs that they’ll be making a decision later that day. This is the best possible triumvirate you could have hoped for.

Morgenstern who’s seen your exemplary work in action.

O’Hara who would rather be at lunch than drag out a lengthy hearing

And Wild Willy, a man who grew up piss poor in Canaryville, paying his way through Med School by patching up boxers in his spare time at local gyms in the area. If there’s anyone that can appreciate your journey it’s him.

He makes that abundantly clear during your hearing. He understands you, the sacrifices you’ve made, the hurdles you face. He makes sure the others understand you too. He drowns out their protests about common decency and the calibre of person suited to the profession and reminds them of your transcripts, your mentor reports and your capacity to stay calm under pressure, especially when all this shit is falling down around your head.

“Do you really want to penalise her because she’s poor?” He asks them outright. “Or do you want to be the one that says I did that when she starts presenting papers that advance the field.”

“You think she’s that good?” O’Hara asks, tapping his pen on the surface of the table.

“Here’s a draft of a paper she was co-authoring with Doctor Lewis before she was suspended.” Willy pushes a small stack of paperwork towards them. He sits back in his seat as the other men flick through it.

“She’s third year, this level of detail… It’s impressive.” Morgenstern states as he scrutinizes the notes. “They don’t usually start working in papers until their fourth year and even then…” He pulls a face as he studies your work. “They’re nothing like this.”

“We’d be letting go of a good one.” Willy informs them, his fingertips rapping out a tune on the manilla folder. “Probably even a great one.”

“But the dancing…” O’Hare chimes in.

“A ‘needs must’ situation.” Willy reminds him before looking pointedly at the $500 dollar tie the other man is wearing. “Maybe it’s time to get off your high horse and step into the real world with the rest of us. It’s not easy if you don’t have family money-” He tosses your budget sheet across the table. “You can see what she’s living off, it’s not enough and that’s a fault in our system, not with her mismanaging money. Every penny is accounted for and there’s still a deficit.”

“Look.” Morgenstern says as he leans forward, his elbows coming to rest upon the table. “We have to show that this sort of behaviour is not tolerated-”

“We can give her a warning.” Willy bats back.

“The dancing will have to stop.” Morgenstern continues, straightening the papers in front of him. “We can’t have the profession associated with it, it look bad for all of us.”

“Did you not hear me explain the deficit?” Willy responds, pointing at the final figure on the bottom of the budget sheet. “The dancing is the only thing that keeps food on the table and her from freezing to death in the winter.”

O’Hara opens his mouth to speak but Willy cuts him off with a raised finger. “Do not tell me that’s what shelters are for or so help me God-”

“Alright, I can see this is getting a little heated.” Morgenstern butts in, his voice carrying throughout the room. He’s chair of this hearing, he has the final say. “The terms are this, we let her off with a warning and the dancing stops otherwise she’s excluded from the program. That’s the best we can do.”

“Well our best isn’t good enough.” Willy huffs sagging back in his seat.

“It’s what we’ve got to work with.” Morgenstern says as he raises to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. “Now do you want to give her the good news or should I?”

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[h0neytalk]

Practicing the Arabic Alphabet

I honestly lucked out so much taking Arabic in college and learning basic MSA reading/writing/grammar from an excellent professor but I’m gonna compile the most useful things we did in class here to help people learning on their own (this isn’t focused on resources, just strategies, might do a separate post with worksheets and videos but they’re pretty easy to find):

Get the alphabet in front of you. We had a packet with a page for every letter with the letter written in the three positions, pronunciations, names, and lines to trace and write like 100 times. And then a page with all the diacritics. These sheets abound for free online. Make yourself an alphabet packet. Watch copious videos/listen to recordings going over the letters and how they sound. Repeat it back. Work in chunks and don’t move to the next set until you can recognize and write the current set.

Tracing! Learn to write the letters right to left and with the proper order from day one. This sounds obvious but people in my class were still drawing letters left to right as isolated shapes next to each other so idk maybe it’s not. Having nice handwriting in Arabic is both satisfying and absurdly helpful. Learn how the letters connect. Spend more time than you think is necessary on this.

Write English words and sentences phonetically using diacritics and Arabic letters. Do not worry about translation and spelling. Just make the connection between shape -> sound. Use anything you have. Lists of names, entire pages from books and magazines, texts from friends, menus. Literally anything. Work through how to make those words with the new alphabet. You will learn a surprising amount about the language and pronunciation by doing this. How do you translate sounds that don’t exist? What about multiple sounds where English only has one? Read it back with the accent.

Transcribe English phonetically. Same as above but do it without the English in front of you and just listening. Make that voice to visual connection.

Hand write word lists once you get to vocab. Then type them on your laptop and phone (if you want to be able to type in Arabic, also highly recommend a keyboard cover with the letters next to the Latin alphabet). Copy all the diacritics even though that’s not necessarily how native speakers do it. I have a notebook that looks like it belongs to lunatic toddler because it just has the same words and snippets written over and over again lmao.

Finally, transcribe Arabic. If you can use something with a transcript or captions to check your work even better! But don’t check for perfect spelling, check you used mostly the right letters and marks. You will definitely smash some words together and miss a silent or elided letter or something but try and hear the difference between ع and ا or ق and ك etc. The more sources you use the better.

We did this for one full semester of 50 minute classes 3 times a week while sprinkling in some basic vocab towards the second half. It felt like forever at the time but I never lost my ability to phonetically read and write in Arabic despite 4 years of complete non-use while living in America in an area without any significant Arabic-speaking population or language presence. It is absolutely CHISELED into my brain.

[thepringlesofblood]

Ayda Aguefort character sheet!

I went through FHSY transcripts and wrote down every spell she used and figured out what level she was and made a full character sheet for my beautiful wife, Ayda Aguefort.

Actual character sheet and plaintext description below the cut: here's how I figured it out.

Ayda has one (1) 7th level spell slot, and presumably no 8th level spell slots, since she can only cast Teleport once per day. This puts her at either 13th or 14th level, the only difference being that at 14th level, Divination wizards get "Greater Portent", aka an extra Portent roll per long rest. Looking through the transcripts, she never uses more than 2 portent rolls per long rest, so we will assume she is 13th level.

In terms of background, "Sage" makes the most sense. Like, you roll to determine your “specialty” and one of the options is librarian. She’s gotta be a sage. This gives her proficiencies in arcana and history, two languages of choice, and the "Researcher" feat - “When you attempt to learn or recall a piece of lore, if you do not know that information, you often know where and from whom you can obtain it." Extremely in character

Wizards pick 2 proficiencies from Arcana, History, Insight, Investigation, Medicine, and Religion. I picked Investigation & Medicine, since she already gets Arcana and History from "Sage".

Spells are tricky - I included every spell she uses in the series, but wizard spellbooks are weird in that there's kind of no limit to the amount of spells you can know, the limit is just on how many you can prepare. You automatically learn two new spells per level, so I went through and added other spells (in italics) up to the minimum amount of spells she would know, and then made a list of other spells that seem likely for her to know, or that you could switch in if you like. she does fully live in a library so like. who knows what she could know?

Also, there's a spell she uses during the fight aboard the Goldenrod that sounds a lot like Steel Wind Strike, though it isn't 100% confirmed, so I put a question mark next to it. We also don't know what exact spell she was going to use to "flood hell" - I chose Tidal Wave because it seemed most likely, but it could also be a spell of her own invention.

Final product below the cut!

the reason these don't have image IDs is bc I'm putting the IDs after the images bc there's so much text. also sorry the resolution's shit i don't know why that happened it looks fine on my computer. also i don't know how passive wisdom works im sorry its probably just her normal wisdom (11)??

image/page 1:

Character Name: Ayda Aguefort

Class & level: Wizard (Divination) 13

Background: Sage

Player name: bleem

Race: half-phoenix

Alignment: Lawful neutral

Experience points: [blank]

Ability scores Str 18 (+4) Dex 15 (+2) Char 16 (+3) Int 20 (+5) Wis 11 (+0) Con 14 (+2)

AC 14

Proficiency bonus: +5

Inspiration: [blank]

Initiative: +2

Hit point total: 72

Hit dice: 13 d6 Speed 80

Saving throws:

Strength: +4

Dex: +2

Con: +2

Int: +10 (proficient)

Wis: +5 (proficient)

Cha: +3

Skills

Acrobatics: +2

Animal Handling: +0

Arcana: +10 (proficient)

Athletics: +4

Deception: +3

History: +10 (proficient)

Insight: +0

Intimidation: +3

Investigation: +10 (proficient)

Medicine: +5 (proficient)

Nature: +5

Perception: +0

Performance: +3

Persuasion: +3

Religion: +5

Sleight of Hand: +2

Stealth: +2

Survival: +0

Passive Wisdom: [blank]

Languages: Common, Phoenix, + two others of your choice from Sage background (I chose Infernal & Elvish)

Personality Traits: amazing

Ideals: [blank]

Bonds: Fig (paramour), Adaine (best friend), Kristen, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug (transitive best friends), Garthy (parental figure/guardian/adopted child of a previous incarnation of herself), Arthur Aguefort ("father")

Flaws: [blank]

Features & Traits:

Flight (see: Half-Phoenix)

Fly speed = 80

Fire Immunity (see: Half-Phoenix)

Ayda is immune to all fire damage

Portent (Div. lvl 2) - roll 2 d20 at the end of each long rest. You can replace any attack roll, saving throw, or ability check made by you or a creature that you can see with one of these rolls (once per turn)

Expert Divination (Div. lvl 6) - When you cast a divination spell of 2nd level or higher using a spell slot, you regain one expended spell slot. The slot you regain must be of a level lower than the spell you cast and can't be higher than 5th level

Third Eye (Div. lvl 10) - choose one of the following benefits, which lasts until you are incapacitated or you take a short or long rest. You can't use this feature again until you finish a short or long rest.

- Darkvision: You gain darkvision out to a range of 60 feet

- Ethereal Sight: You can see into the Ethereal Plane within 60 feet of you.

- Greater Comprehension: You can read any language

See Invisibility: You can see invisible creatures and objects within 10 feet of you that are within line of sight.

Attacks & Spellcasting

[formatted like] Name, ATK Bonus, Damage/Type

Fireball, +10, 8d6 fire (+1d6 per lvl)

Steel Wind Strike, +10, 6d10 force

Tidal Wave, dex save DC 18, 4d8 bludgeoning & prone if fail

Equipment: so many books

image/page 2:

Spellcasting Class: Wizard (Div.) 13

Spellcasting Ability: INT

Spell Save DC: 18

Spell Attack Bonus: +10

Prepared Spells Limit: 18

(spells in italics are speculative, based on the min # of wizard spells she would have at this level. the rest are canon. feel free to add or subtract as desired!)

Cantrips (lvl 0)

Prestidigitation

Message

Mage Hand

Mending

Control Flames

other potential cantrips: Lightning Lure, Dancing lights, Minor Illusion

Spell Level 1

slots total: 4

Find Familiar

Synod

Protection from Evil and Good

Detect Magic

Shield

Ayda's Comprehend Subtext

Comprehend languages

Identify

Illusory script

Snare

Spell Level 2

slots total: 3

Invisibility

Enlarge/Reduce

Misty Step

Hold Person

Spell Level 3

slots total: 3

Sending (pirate)

Counterspell

Dispel Magic

Clairvoyance

Remove Curse

Fireball

Tongues

Tidal Wave

Spell Level 4

slots total: 3

Greater Invisibility

Banishment

Scry

Arcane Eye

Spell Level 5

slots total: 2

Steel Wind Strike (?)

Legend Lore

Spell Level 6

slots total: 1

True Seeing

Spell Level 7

slots total: 1

Plane Shift

Teleport

Spell Level 8 [blank]

other good potential spells: Unseen servant, Thunder wave, Tasha's hideous laughter, Knock, Locate object, Scorching ray, Shatter, Web, Animate objects, Symbol, Bigby's hand, Storm sphere, Control Wind, Mordekainen's Private Sanctum, Conjure Elemental, Dimension Door

Spell Level 9 [blank]

Flood Hell [level & specifics unknown]

image/page 3:

Character name: Ayda Aguefort

Age: 17 (present), over 300 (total)

Height: 6-7 ft

Weight: [blank]

Eyes: fire

Skin: dark brown

Hair: fire

Character Appearance

“A Resplendent, Beautiful Woman”

Digitigrade ankles

bird feet

golden talons

orange runic tattoos

books in bandoliers like guns

undercut: fire

wings: fire

ear cuff (from Fig)

resembles Arthur Aguefort, her father

Character Backstory

perfect :)

Allies & Organizations

Compass Points Library

The Bad Kids

The Gold Gardens (Garthy)

Fig & The Sig Figs

[a screenshot of Ayda's official junior year character art (standing), taken from her wiki page]

Additional features & traits

“a resplendent beautiful woman who from the knees down has large talons, she also has digitigrade ankles, she has those ankles that kind of kick back like a lot of animal feet do. So from the knees on down become these almost like metallic golden talons. She bears a striking resemblance to Arthur Aguefort the moment you look at her”

“She looks kind of harpy-esque until you realize that she does have arms in addition to wings. So she has these incredibly, and as they spread, deep red wings that as they approach the tips of the feathers sort of change into orange, and by the time they get to yellow, flicker in a little edge of flame on the outside of the wings. She's dressed in sort of like white linen pants with a pirate's sash on them. No guns or anything you can see. Sort of vest, a lot of sort of orange runes tattooed on her arms, you see that she has a short shock of red hair, it seems to be not on the sides or back as much, almost like a plume of red fiery hair that comes off the top of her head. And her eyes have pupils in them but are otherwise clearly roiling balls of flame.”

“You see that she does have two scrolls at the side on her bandolier, and similarly to the guy downstairs, but sort of like she has it on those leather harnesses you would have for guns, but it's two small books strapped under each arm.”

Treasure: [blank]

[my-friend-the-unknown]

I finally committed to making character sheets with (some) of my headcannons.

First one being Toby! I decided to do his first because he's my favorite, obv.

Comment who I should do next! I need to fill up this new sketchbook. Also some more Toby art coming soon for his birthday on the 28th!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's the transcripts from the image

Toby Rogers

In My Headcannons

[ Traits ]

• Sarcastic

• Prankster

• Friendly

• Hormonal

• Animalistic

| Signs of Crime |

- Burnt Buildings

- "X" marked on victims

- Fingers cut off

- Broken Glass

Backstory

Toby as a young boy was diagnosed with many illnesses, such as Tourettes, CIPA, APD,,. Etc.

He faced abuse from his father throughout his childhood, which worsened as he transitioned to homeschool.

Since he can't feel pain, he often took beatings for his mother and sister.

After his sister's death, his mental state worsened. He began to lose reality, hallucinating, hearing voices, chewing the skin of his cheek and fingers.

His first time seeing the operator was the night of his sister's death.

After that, he continued seeing him, convincing himself it was his hallucinations or a reaction from his meds.

He had a last snap one night after his father drunkenly hit his mom. He killed him in the livingroom that night.

He burnt his house and half of the neighborhood down and fled. He was seconds from succumbing to the flames, when the operator gave him an ultimatum. Now he works as a proxy.

[womanofwords]

I Give You My Word

"I swear, teacher, it was them! They broke the shelf! I give you my word!" Vanessa insisted.

Harriet groaned. Vanessa always said that. The worst part was that she was usually lying when she said that, but nobody wanted to disbelieve the most rule-abiding and high-achieving student in the school. "Something the matter, Harriet?" Vanessa said, a hint of false concern in her voice.

"Harriet, do you have something to say?" Miss Armitage asked.

"Vanessa, I saw the whole thing. That shelf fell on its own; it's super rickety and unstable. You can't and shouldn't give your word on something that is untrue." Harriet stared the star student in the eye, holding firm.

"I'm sure Vanessa was mistaken, Harriet. She'd never lie to a member of staff," Miss Armitage said. Behind her back, Vanessa pulled an eyelid down. Safe once again.

"You'll have to try a little harder if you want me out of the way," Vanessa hissed.

"Challenge accepted," Harriet hissed back.

_____________________

When Vanessa came to school the next day, the atmosphere was odd. Everyone was reading something. Some kind of newsletter. When she arrived, people looked at her like she was dirt.

"Ugh, it's her," someone muttered. Some of them cleared out; others stayed so they could give her the stink eye.

"What's going on? Why do you all hate me?" Vanessa watched helplessly as people looked at her with disgust.

"You ought to know, killjoy!" A younger student happily shoved some of the papers into Vanessa's face, and she read them.

Colour drained from her face.

Everything she'd thought she'd done in secret was out in the open now. The time she'd called the police on a loud gathering just for it to be a block party that got broken up? The transcript of the call where she 'gave her word' that the neighbours were definitely breaking some kind of law had been distributed around the school. And the time when she took part in a cyberbullying campaign against the more unpopular students was included in the papers. Vanessa winced when she read her own words.

Those freaks have it coming, I give you my word.

"Young lady, with me!" Miss Armitage commanded.

And Vanessa went with her without a word in protest.

____________________

There was a marked change since then. Vanessa was subdued, quieter. The teachers, however, were louder. Mostly with Vanessa.

"Teacher, they're passing around the answer key! I saw them! I give you my-"

"Vanessa, do your work," the teacher groaned.

And Harriet smirked into her quiz sheet.

[tanadrin]

Above is my attempt at transcribing the first three lines of TH 496, that haunting fragment of Kuchean poetry. AIUI, in Tocharian B, the transcription convention uses ä for /ɨ/, ṣ for /ʃ/, ś for /ɕ/, c for /tɕ/, and ñ for /ɲ/. The ṃ is just a variant for /n/. So I think these lines would be pronounced something like:

jaltse pikala watɨn le -ɲo tɕi ɲe -- -- -- -- -- -nts po askaskau ma ɲi sa noʃ ɕomo ɲem wnolme la:re ta:ka ma: ra postan cisa la:re mɨsketɨrɲ ciʃʃe laraumɲe ciʃʃe a:rtaɲje pelke kaltta- rrɨ ɕolɨmpa ʃʃe ma: te sta:lle ɕol wɨrɲai taijsu pɨlskanojm sanai ʃarjo

Some fun cognates: śomo is cognate to Latin homo, OE guma (modern "groom," with an intrusive r due to the compound "bridegroom"); ñem is cognate to English "name;" and wnolme is cognate to Latin animus.

At least some of the consonant clusters in Tocharian B were eventually simplified in pronunciation--apparently later in the same manuscript someone has written lykautkañ for klyautkañ, "make, turn into;" the initial cluster was probably pronounced /l/, which makes this an error roughly on par with writing "nkow" instead of "know," because you know there's a k in there somewhere but it's not pronounced.

The Tocharian script is essentially a local form of the Brahmic script, and operates on the same principle: in theory, it is an abugida where each sign is a consonant with an inherent /a/ or /ə/ vowel, and diacritics mark the other vowels (as well as standalone vowels), while a virama marks final consonants with no vowel. In practice, Brahmic scripts (especially older ones) seem to be a a lot more complicated, because consonant sequences are represented by stacking signs on top of one another, and this can produce a dizzying array of fearsome ligatures. The annoying thing about Tocharian is that I actually can't find any good resources online about the writing system as it's actually used--mostly a list of the basic signs (which, as you might expect, are not in fact the majority of signs used in a text like this!), without any indication of what common variants or simplifications look like.

It helps, of course, that cheat sheets exist for this sort of thing, so you can check your work as you go. But I would definitely classify this text--or at least the hand responsible for the first two and a half lines--as "not especially clear examples of the script." I think it would also be kind of annoying to learn in that the division into signs doesn't really match up with natural syllabification at all--there's this kind of fucked up maximal onset principle thing going on where instead of writing <war nai> or <kalt tar rä> you have to write <wa rnai> and <ka ltta rra>, which seems like it would have been very annoying. Seems like it would be very easy to transition an abugida into an alphabet, too--you already have standalone signs for all the vowels!

But there's no denying that like a lot of scripts in the family, it looks great. Just A+ aesthetic, up there with Syriac and katakana.

[the-sun-lords-will]

Transcript: S1, E1

As requested by my partner!

18th Mensis Valentis, 1652

The vampyres are the most horrible things in the world.

I do not know their full number, but currently at Court there are five. Of course there’s the King: Amarant the Fifth. He is horrible in the beautiful way. His hair is long, thick and flowing, his features sculpted, his skin unblemished save for a single dark mole beneath the eye. He’s pale as a sheet, even without the hideous white paint his courtiers wear. He is like a porcelain doll—unblinking, sitting still as the dead thing he is, watching over his subjects with that soulless cat’s-eye gaze. When he looks at you, even for only a second, you feel like a fish on a hook. For it is like being known by a machine—seen by something that should not be able to see.

The Queen was a princess of Alabast, and I do not think she was beautiful even when she was alive. But she is hideous now. Death has carved canyons into her cheeks. She has no color in her at all. She has the blank dead stare of a new corpse. Black veins mottle her face and chest. I have never seen such a miserable creature. For her, I find little hatred. She only makes me sad.

Of the King’s two children, a boy and a girl, I know little. They are very young. All I may say for certain is that they are already vampyres.

The last of the vampyres is the King’s brother, Cyril Saint-Cloud, the Duke of Voselle and probably some other places. At Court he is called the Blood Duke or simply Monsieur. This one I find most repugnant of all. He has the King’s immense height but none of his grace; he is a squarish, over-muscled beast with a hard, unshaven face. He has a slit nose like a snake’s, with those same black veins running like rivers of sludge under his skin. His teeth are black daggers that flash when he speaks. He cuts his dark hair short, like a criminal’s, short enough to reveal the stubby black horns poking out of his head. He walks with a beastly lope, his ankles long like a dog’s, and he stands on twisted gray feet with claws the size of knives.

His looks alone do not mark him as the worst among abominations. No, there is something about his very being. His eyes seem to betray a predator’s intelligence, cunning used only for the pursuit of death.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. It occurs to me just how many days have passed since I last put my pen to these pages. In my many weeks of travel I have found little time for writing. I shall provide a full account of the circumstances leading to my arrival here, for that time when history will find these words important.

Some weeks ago an alchemist arrived at the Abbey of Saint Valentina of the Sun Orthodoxy in search of holy items for a journey north. He rode in at night and stayed with us several days. In that time he revealed little of who he was or where he was going, but he had about him an air of caution that caused me to assume his purpose was dangerous. Eventually I had it from him that he was bound for Sevonne.

I asked him, “Is that the amount of holy water a man needs to take to Sevonne?” For he had bought gallons of the stuff and was loading it into his cart by torchlight, alongside a silver-tipped pike and a two-high stack of crates.

He said: “I’m going to the royal court at Glace-de-mer. The court of the House of Saint-Cloud.”

In that moment I understood his purpose. I felt myself on the precipice of the cliff of my life, ready to leap into unsure waters.

I knew of the Saint-Clouds, of course, for centuries the dark rulers of the Kingdom of Sevonne. Since I was a child, when the visions began, when I developed my vocation, I had devoted myself to the study of vampyres. One will find, reading these pages, evidence of my devotion and, conversely, my doubts. I had begun to wonder if my visions were only that, my destiny only a hallucination. But the arrival of the Alchemist was a sign from the Lord himself. That night I prayed, I cried tears of joy that the time had come to fulfill my divine purpose. And I went to the Mother Superior for her blessing.

I asked her humbly that I might be permitted to accompany the Alchemist on his journey. I reminded her of the regularity of my visions, the many years I had spent preparing for the task the Lord had set me: combing the words of the old monks, training myself to fight with the stake and flail. I knew, I said, that my visions had made me a source of scandal to the convent, that they had done a great favor in keeping me on. Now I should like to return that favor by going out into the world as a holy champion of the Abbey of Saint Valentina.

She said: “Dear Viori, you have done enough disgrace to your reputation here that I shudder to think what you would do in the outside world.” And she denied me.

I went anyway. The Alchemist, of course, did not care that I didn’t have permission to leave. He snuck me out at night, under the tarp of his cart. I’m sure the Mother Superior is furious, but when I emerge as a hero of the true religion I expect her forgiveness.

We decided that I would disguise myself as his apprentice. A nun of the Sun Orthodoxy would meet with derision and scorn in the land of the Night. Even under the tenuous peace our nations now enjoyed, in the nest of the vampyres themselves I’d be good as dead. At first the Alchemist offered to buy me a few nice dresses and smuggle me in in the guise of his wife, but I refused.

“Why not?” he asked. “You’ve never had the chance to live as a normal woman. Surely you must have been chafing at the bit for a different kind of life, to have left your abbey so readily in the dead of night. Why do you want to hide yourself as a man? You could be my niece, you know, if you wanted to remain unattached. You might have more fun that way.”

I refused him. I said, “Sir, I am holy before I am a woman. I do not wish to live a decadent life. I’ve never been a normal woman before, besides. I don’t know how and I don’t want to learn. And I’ll have more access to the royal family as a man, I suspect.”

Thus the Alchemist outfitted me in some of his old clothes, and as we traveled he explained enough of his trade to me that I might pass as a useful idiot in his service.

We spent a month, I think, on the road, or maybe two. I began to lose track of time. We traveled at night, to make better time on the roads and to accustom ourselves to the nocturnal schedule we would have to keep at Glace-de-mer. This whole time I have learned very little of the Alchemist’s life or his motivations. I cannot even remember his name, which shames me. I had it on the first day, and now I am too embarrassed over it to ask again.

I know, at least, the specifics of our plan to dispose of the vampyres:

There is a castrato singer who performs in the King’s operas, one Luca Luotti, hailing from our land of Liila, whose voice drives birds to weep. The Alchemist, explaining this, asked me how much I knew of castrati. “Very little,” I told him. I had heard one of the eunuchs singing at the great cathedral in Calavan, but only once.

“The castrati are afflicted,” the Alchemist explained. “There is a certain fluid in the body that controls the development of a boy into a man. To make a castrato, they cut the cord that connects the testicles to the rest of the body, causing them to shrivel up and die inside his sack—do you know what I’m talking about? Have you ever seen a man naked?”

He looked at me. I said I had. He continued. “Well. When a man comes into adulthood, it is believed his body relies on this masculinizing fluid for many of its vital functions. It strengthens his bones, clarifies his thoughts. The same is true for women, you know. There is a different chemical. A fluid of the womb. It does the same things. Anyways, a castrato can’t produce the fluids his body needs to stay totally functional. Men produce one chemical, women produce another, but the castrato produces nothing, and over time it begins to wear on him. His head fogs. His limbs weaken. He becomes irritable, confused, and, gradually, insane. This is the affliction which our Luotti now suffers.

“It is possible to produce a synthetic version of this masculine chemical I have described. Dosing a castrato with this elixir would cure him of his ills, but at the same time it would ruin his voice. Luotti wants to sing until death, per the letters we have exchanged, yet the affliction grows intolerable. So I have resolved to brew a synthetic version of the female chemical. The voice will remain intact, the mind will clear, and as a pleasant side effect the body will grow a little prettier.”

I nodded through the Alchemist’s explanation. Still I had one question. “What do you brew this chemical from?” I asked.

“Horse piss,” he said. I burst out laughing until I realized he was serious.

As for the Alchemist’s true goal at Glace-de-mer, he told me this:

“For centuries the evils of Sevonne have been the evils of men. Conquest and slaughter, all the foul whimsies and gluttonous games of the rich. The vampyres have held to the contract they made with the Sevish people centuries ago—to protect the land from the forces of the Sun kingdoms, to make the nation proud and rich, in exchange for the regular donation of enough blood to drown a whale. But what if the devils decide to stop playing by the rules? What if they want more? What might a ruling family of vampyres do if they decide all of a sudden to rule as vampyres instead of men?...I fear the consequences to our land will be impossible to bear.”

“How many must we kill, then?” I asked.

The Alchemist laughed. He said: “You talk as if the gravity of this situation has escaped you. You have joined me, without question or concern, in a clandestine plot of assassination. I have been preparing for this moment for years. I have had a long time to think about how I will do it. I have had a long time to accept that these will likely be the last months of my life, for truly neither of us are likely to survive it. Yet you are like a boy going to kill a fox.”

I told him this: “Sir, the Lord has shown me that I will survive. This is my divine purpose. I cannot say as to your survival, but I wish you the best of luck… so I ask you again, how many of them must we kill?”

He smiled then, and finally answered my question. “If we can, I would like to kill all of them.”

He never explained why, exactly, he had set himself to this goal, always dodging the question with that fluidity of tongue a learned man has. I am sure he has his secrets; I am sure he has told some little lies, but this is of no consequence to me. The Sun Lord has laid my path. The Alchemist cannot prevent me from reaching its end, be he an honest man or not-- it is simply the Sun Lord’s will.

At the very least he has a determined spirit and a sound plan. He explained that we would arrive at court under the blessing of the King’s Master of Entertainments, Luca Luotti’s patron at court, who had hired the Alchemist to produce the feminizing potion. The Alchemist would send me into palace as his spy, to learn its layout, learn the intricacies of its rancid court, ingratiate myself to them. Like this I could study the vampyres as individuals and report back to him. The Alchemist all the while would spend his time brewing a certain elixir he claimed would be indispensable in killing the beasts. The Elixir of the Stone Key, he called it. He described it as a kind of poison, I think, but in his usual fashion he has given me no more information than that.

At one point a small band of brigands accosted our cart; the Alchemist dealt quickly with the bulk of them, the speed and accuracy of his shot astonishing me. I impressed him for my part by brutalizing the remaining two men with my flail. I had never enacted this level of violence on a man before, but I had of course seen it in my dreams, my righteous arm shattering the skulls of devils. I swept out from under the covered part of the cart with my weapon raised, and before the man in front of me could react to my presence I slammed the flail’s heavy head into the space between his eyes. The bone caved in like wet paper. A spring of blood bubbled forth from inside, bright and pretty as fresh water in the light of the torches bound to our cart. I cried out like an animal, overcome with the enormity of this first kill, my heart squeezing angrily. I felt the warmth of the Lord on me.

For good measure, I staked the dead men in the chest and left heavy rocks in their mouths. Although I felt it unlikely the group were vampyres, I thought the practice useful, and anyways, one never knows in Sevonne.

Other than this small incident, we reached the village of Glace-de-mer without trouble. The Master of Entertainments, the Duke de Rouxel, has given us a free space to sleep and work in the cellar of his private residence in the village. I suspect this less of a generosity than it seems on the surface. He likely cannot afford to house us anywhere else, nor to supplement the wage he has promised the Alchemist enough to allow us to rent rooms.

Glace-de-mer is a wet, miserable village that bumps up against the northern seacoast. It is not the capital of Sevonne; that honor belongs to Virivis, a grand, cosmopolitan city some miles south along the river. The Blood Family moved their primary residence here some fifty years ago for reasons unknown. The palace of Glace-de-mer itself was built out of an old monastery that sat on the edge of the cliff up which the village slopes. I do wish I knew what happened to the monks.

Nothing of the monastery remains in the palace, a pale, grandiose structure with a red-tiled roof, rows and rows of windows, carved marble busts sticking out of the walls, gold leaf lining every edge. It looms over the village like a dark cloud of locusts, a plague wrought by the hand of an evil god. The rest of the village clusters around it, every building like a dying tree stretching desperate fingers to the sun. Mist pools in the cobblestone streets; shadows dance in the light of hundreds of hanging lanterns, which the city keeps lit at all times. This is essential to the functioning of the village, for people in this corrupted place conduct all business at night in keeping with the schedule of the King.

We first arrived in the village around midnight. Upon unpacking our things the Alchemist sent me immediately to fetch Luotti, who was in the habit of rehearsing through the night at the local theater. After wandering the streets for some time, I heard a sound that froze me still. A long, piercing cry, high and clear, ringing out like a silver bell. My breath stuck in my throat. Even the birds kept careful silence to listen. The note shifted then, and I was able to perceive the sound as singing.

I found the door of the theater unlocked and the lobby empty. When I entered the main hall, I met with the striking sight of an exceptionally tall and beautiful woman singing from center stage. She wore a long white dress with heavy accents of lace at the neck and cuffs. I looked around for someone who could be Luotti, but all the men I saw there sported beards, which I knew a castrato could never grow. Soon a man observing the rehearsal from the audience turned and approached me, speaking in a hushed and irritated whisper. “What are you here for?” he asked. I replied that I had come in search of Luotti, who had business with my master, and the man said, “Well, you have found her. She will come down when the song is finished.”

And she did. Noticing me waiting there, Luotti paused the rehearsal and descended to meet me. Nervously, I bowed my head and kissed the knuckles of her hand. She had a solemn, silvery look, hair the color of bone, eyes dark and wet with melancholy.

“You are the Alchemist’s apprentice?” she asked in a soft voice. “I apologize. You looked confused; I’m sure you were expecting a man. You should have come yesterday, when I was feeling boyish…he will want to see me later, I’m sure. Tell him to meet me at the Whipped Cat for supper. It’s the tavern where I’ve taken rooms. And give him this little pouch. There’s some coin for his trouble. From me.” Luotti extracted the pouch from her pocket and handed it to me. I felt the money clinking around within.

When I returned to the Alchemist, I told him when and where Luotti had asked to meet him. Then I said: “You did not tell me she was a woman.”

“Given your background,” the Alchemist responded, “I did not expect you to accept it so readily.”

I said: “Sir, in a way, I think her and I are the same.” He nodded at this, and I considered the discussion resolved.

The Alchemist did not want me at the Whipped Cat, I found; he claimed that his business with Luotti at this particular meal would be entirely personal. He set me the task of entering the palace to observe the Blood Family at supper, a public event most nights.

The thought chilled me to the bone. But I felt a strong pull in my gut, like a tugging at the thread of my destiny. This sensation entered me on our arrival at Glace-de-mer and even now it has not left. My hands throb. My joints ache, demanding movement. The Sun Lord needs me in this place… it is like crawling for a cave, up towards the light.

I took a light supper from the servants at de Rouxel’s house, who were obligated to provide for all the Duke’s guests. Then I went up to the heavy golden gates of the palace, where I produced the Alchemist’s Writ of Invite and said I was the man’s apprentice. I expected the lie to go rougher, but the watcher at the gate simply nodded and led me around to the servant’s entrance. I was not important enough, I surmised, to have the gate opened for me.

The palace smelled of blood and smoke and sweat. It smelled like a kennel for a lame dog, knowing it was to be shot, or perhaps like the cell of a hangman. I slid through the narrow halls, dodging the staff and clutching my papers at my side. I entered into a new corridor that smelled more strongly of meat and sugar, and passed a train of men carrying silver trays. Following this group, two men held up a heavy oaken cask on a platform suspended between two poles. A third, trailing behind, noticed me as he passed and said, “Sir, the way is to bow.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “for I am only just come to the palace.”

The man said: “You see the King’s Blood, you bow. Here.” He stopped the others and demonstrated for me. He gave a low, deep bow, pulling off his felt cap and sweeping its tip against the floor, and murmuring reverently, “The Blood of the King.”

I copied him, repeating “The Blood of the King” in a low and hesitant voice. The man nodded and went on his way. Sticking close to the wall, I followed this procession through the hall, whose doorways evidently led to the kitchens based on the noises of scraping and crackling and loud angry men. At a certain point the man who had taught me to bow noticed I was following him. He showed me the proper place to go if I wanted to watch the King dine, lest I find myself following the servers straight to the table.

I split away and found myself in a wide and opulent room with a checkered floor inlaid with bands of gold. I had entered a thronging crowd of people, some outfitted lavishly and some, like myself, of an evidently lower station. The rich, who spoke amongst themselves in a loud and heated way, were painted like clowns, a stark white with red cheeks. They wore lace: square lace collars and heavy sleeves for the men, long silken gowns with layers of linen cuffs for the women. The fabrics grew muted and dark as I moved further back in the crowd.

I heard the ringing of a heavy bronze bell. A man cried “The King enters—he who is most glorious and who does the will of the Moon—Amarant the Fifth!” At this the whole room bowed deeply and removed their caps. I followed suit.

I couldn’t see when the King entered, but I did see when he sat down. His opulence of dress and his horrible visage, which I have described earlier in this text, arrested my attention. The weight of my destiny—almost close enough to lunge at, after waiting so many years—settled in my very blood. I was on fire.

The crier announced the entrance of the Queen, the Blood Duke and the royal children. Abandoning etiquette, I slipped and twisted my way to the front of the tight crowd, until I had nearly marked the velvet rope separating the King’s supper-guests from his audience. As I reached the rope I felt the King’s soulless stare. Shocked and disturbed, I looked quickly away.

My eyes found the Blood Duke Cyril, who sat in a high-backed chair ringed by golden leaves. Suddenly he returned my gaze. I was close enough to see his pupils narrow into slits. His lip twitched into a snarl. I heard a growl, a deep rumbling wolvish sort of sound. A growl filled with such threat I thought it could start a mountain trembling.

My heart abandoned its rhythm and began to pound something frantic. A jolt of terror shot from my scalp to the soles of my feet. My hair stood on end. Although I knew not what, something had set this animal after me, and if I did not remove myself from his sight I feared he would pounce and wring my neck in his teeth.

Steeling myself, worried I might collapse, I pushed away from the velvet rope and made for the door through which I had entered. When I had entered the hallway I began to sprint in earnest. I allowed myself a deep breath of relief when I emerged into the cool, misty night, and the guard at the servants’ gate let me out without question. I began the walk back to de Rouxel’s house, taking a slow pace in an attempt to calm myself. I assumed that the rigid social obligations of supper with the King trapped the beast at the table, giving me time to barricade myself in the cellar. The sun would rise in maybe four hours besides. Surely Cyril Saint-Cloud had better to do than chase a man he had seen in passing at supper. Still, I wondered what he had seen or felt in me that had provoked him so, and whether I would be able to return safely to the palace at all.

I neared the house—only a few blocks away—when I felt the hair raise again on the back of my neck. My hands and feet tingled. My heart shivered. I fought the urge to freeze. Instead I spun around. The thick, turbulent mist swirled around a heavy shadow, gaining on me with bullet-speed. As the thing emerged from the distance I saw the twin lights of the monster’s yellow eyes, gleaming with violence.

I forced myself again into a sprint. I focused my eyes on the end of the street, the lamp hanging outside the Duke de Rouxel’s house. If I could make it inside, then the Blood Duke, I hoped, would not be able to cross the threshold. My lungs began to burn; my feet slammed into the ground, launching me forward. Suddenly I lost balance. I was skidding on the damp stone. I crashed wildly, skinning the palms of my hands and bruising my knees. I twisted up to see the Blood Duke bearing down on me, his fanged mouth open, teeth glistening with black saliva.

He seized me by my collar and yanked me to my feet. I fixed my thoughts on the grace and mercy of the Sun Lord, that He should see me survive to enact His holy will and destroy these beasts. I saw the sharp, slick claws tipping the vampyre’s fingers—extensible, it seemed, like a cat’s. He loomed over me by nearly a foot, his bulk blotting out my view of the street. He lowered himself to address me, and I felt his hot, stinking breath on my face, clogging my nose with the scent of dead flowers and iron. Dark blood stained his mouth. Glancing down, I saw for the first time his hideous bestial feet, uncovered by shoes. I began to shake uncontrollably, my body flooded alternately by the need to run, to freeze, to jam my fingers into the yellow eyes and burst them like egg-yolks. I knew I could not die, but I did not know what other evils the vampyre might inflict upon me.

The low, deep growl again rolled from the Blood Duke’s chest like fog, rumbling my very bones. Fear sapped the strength from my aching knees, and I stumbled. He pulled me up again, his grip on my collar nearly choking me—he licked blood from his lips with a long, black tongue—

A voice from the darkness. “Monsieur Cyril!” it called, high and clear. “Monsieur Cyril, let him be!”

The Blood Duke relaxed his grip, but only slightly. He left me with enough slack to turn and see Luca Luotti standing there, fists curled in her skirts. He said, “What do you want with this wretch? He attended our supper wearing Sunwater like perfume. He is a fanatic of the Sun Orthodoxy, snuck into the palace somehow. At worst he’s part of some plot. Is he known to you?” Suspicion laced his voice.

Luotti answered, “He is apprenticed to the alchemist I sent for from Liila.”

“Yes,” I interjected. “Sunwater is a necessary ingredient in the elixir we are brewing for the lady. I spilt it on myself earlier, and I see now that I did not clean myself properly. Being from Liila, I am not yet familiar with your kind, Your Grace, and I did not realize this would affect you so.”

The Blood Duke hawked a gob of black spit onto my face. It oozed down my cheek, warm and wet, and I shuddered in disgust, restraining my own urge to spit back. He snarled: “An outrageous lie. Tell me what it is used for, then.”

Before my terrified brain could claw forth a feeble answer, Luotti saved me: “It is a solvent, used to dissolve the shell of a sharp-folk egg and separate the membrane from it…the Alchemist was just telling me of the spill. This boy has proved a remarkable idiot as an apprentice, unfortunately. I can assure you he will not remain in his current position if an error of this magnitude occurs again. That said, Cyril, you must know that he doesn’t have half the wit required to plot against you or your brother.”

The Blood Duke sighed and released my collar from his grip. He looked into the sky, considering, I guessed, the position of the moon, and seeing the closeness of the morning turned to leave. Before loping off, he gave me one last warning: “If you ever bring Sunwater into the same room as my brother again, even the faintest trace of it, I’ll tear you open with my teeth.”

I wiped his spit off on my sleeve. When he had disappeared into the mist, I turned to Luotti to thank her. A sharp slap across the face disavowed me of that inclination. I pulled away and rubbed my cheek, indignant.

“What the Hell do you mean by that?” I spat.

She said: “I know your purpose here, Viori, and you jeopardize it by behaving like an idiot. You threaten the safety of the Alchemist, and by extension my own safety. What were you intending to do with Sunwater at supper?”

I said: “It is part of my prayers. I anoint myself with it upon waking. I did not think the vampyres would be able to smell it so long after.”

She said: “Monsieur Cyril can. He has a nose like a hound...you must be more careful. I am sure the Alchemist, when he told you to observe supper, did not intend you to cause such a scene. It may be difficult for you to regain entry to the palace, although I will try my best with Cyril on that front.”

I said: “He calls you by your given name.”

s

She said: “He does. We have been acquainted for a long time.”

I resolved not to press her on the intended meaning of acquainted. It sickened me to consider. She left then, back to her rooms at the Whipped Cat.

My nerves calmed when I finally reached the cellar. I found the Alchemist on the verge of sleep, grumbling and rolling over on his mat with a small leather pouch clutched to his chest, and I determined to let him lay there undisturbed. After bandaging my hands, I resolved to take out my journal, hoping I might calm myself enough for the rest of morning to take me. It is here you have found me, writing these notes from my little mat in the corner of the cellar.

I am not long for waking. I have only to make my prayers to the Sun Lord—thanking him for leading me to this place, to the altar where I will sacrifice devils to his name, for pruning my life to this divine purpose. Today’s events have only strengthened my determination. How lucky am I, to have been so anointed! So blessed! As I run my fingers over the glass beads of my prayer necklace I am so overcome with the Lord’s energy that I yearn to strangle myself with the leather cord, if only for a taste of the holy violence I am to enact.

The Sun Lord guards my sleep and works over my dreams with His capable hands, and in the long nights of the vampyres He walks beside me in my fear and my pain. If these words be in some future time the memory of a nation, and history claims me as her child, let the world know me as a zealot. I am the Sun Lord’s bride. I am holy fire. I am a spring coiled. I am the sound of water sizzling on hot stone. I am the Lord’s will, and I will burn the night until it smokes.

[nickonimura]

Proper reference sheets for my primary mystery dungeon blorbos.

Text transcripts under the break

Charko Charmander, He/him, Timid Former human/Rookie explorer Team Horizon

Design notes: Markings on back to tip of tail, knees and forearms. Does not have to be exact and can be simplified.

Charko is positive that he is a human, but woke up in an unfamiliar land with an unfamiliar body, and no memory of who he was or how he got here. Lost and confused, he is found and taken in by Pampa the Quaxly and his adoptive father Ficus. With a little bit of encouragement from the plucky duckling, he takes up being an explorer to learn more about the Pokémon world and just maybe solve the mystery of how he came to be there. He just can't shake the feeling that something bad must have happened…

Charko has a tendency to be nervous and quiet towards people he doesn't know, and clingy to those he does. Despite this, Charko has a curious and good heart and wants to do right by the Pokémon who gave him a chance. He handles a lot of the preparation for any adventures, since he wants to keep his buddies safe, especially Pampa.

Due to his relative inexperience with his Charmander body, Charko acts more as a supporter when the team delves into mystery dungeons. He aids his friends with seeds, orbs, and moves like Helping Hand. If he does have to get into the fray, he can defend himself with Fire Pledge and Breaking Swipe.

Moves: Fire Pledge, Breaking Swipe, Helping Hand, Protect

Pampa Quaxly, He/him, Jolly Rookie explorer Team Horizon

Design notes: Hands can be drawn as either "mittens" or with individual digits.

Pampa was abandoned as an egg and found by Ficus the Tangrowth, an explorer who would go on to raise him like a son. He helped his now-retired father with his berry gardens, but he's always wanted to go on adventures and help Pokémon in need. He was never able to find anymon to form an exploration team with, despite his outgoing attitude. After a chance encounter meeting Charko, the two of them become explorers together, both for Pampa to realize his dream and to lend a wing to the lost and lonely Charmander. Even if he doesn't quite believe that Charmander was a human.

Pampa believes every Pokémon deserves to be happy at one point or another. He tries to keep a positive outlook and be a ray of hope, even if he can come off as overbearing or unable to read the room at times. He's the primary point 'mon for any adventures he and Charko go on, particularly rescue jobs and bounties.

Pampa acts as a striker when his team goes into a mystery dungeon, making the first move to protect his friends from any threats that await them. Between rushing at foes with Aqua Jet, hitting them hard with Low Sweep or Wing Attack, and increasing his strength with Swords Dance, he can be a force on the field.

Moves: Aqua Jet, Low Sweep, Wing Attack, Swords Dance

[rapidlycrimsonscribe]

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[raintailed]

Finally drew a sheet for scouts!

More info on their toyhouse

Scouts are a species that was created by Winding Roads at Dusk, using genes from slugcats and northern vultures. They patrolled the regions near WRD, killing or chasing away trespassing creatures.

Now that WRD (who was cruel to the scouts) is dead and the scout blueprints recovered, it's possible for other iterators to make their own scouts. As a result they are an open species; just ask Clear Focus for the blueprints.

Note: scouts have feathers instead of fur and walk quadrupedally.

Notes transcript under the cut

1st Image

Kinda long necks

Long arms + shorter legs = sloped back

Deep chest

Dark body, bright wing/tail feathers & eyes. May have white markings

Hands & feet are scaly

2nd image

Hawk wing shape

Primaries attach to a 4th finger

Feet: 1st toe can be rotated to be in line with the other toes

Hands and feet grow "snowshoe feathers" for the winter

3rd Image

Some scouts have bright head feathers

Wattles :D

Scouts have masks! Their mask grows with them & is shed when they reach adulthood. The mask does not regrow.

Scouts don't like going out without their mask.

Mask: large eye holes, triangular nose notch, spikes don't obstruct mouth

4th Image

Lay eggs!

Babies are born bald, then become gray, downy babies with small masks and dark eyes

Juveniles have unfinished masks, small wattles, and don't have bright wing/tail feathers

5th Image

There's a long-tailed variant

Look scraggly when they're molting

They preen each other :]

They often howl at night to check on family

Can walk on hind legs for a short period (it is awkward)

Go into fluff mode (tm) when they are cold

[thegreenisles]

I've put together a spreadsheet that contains every line of dialogue in the game, written out.

This INCLUDES lines of cut dialogue that were left over in the files!

Additional information below the cut.

The cut dialogue is at the very bottom of each chapter's sheet. However, if you would like to mix them all together and see them in sequence, you can filter the leftmost column (with the file names) by A-Z

(I should note that in chapter 1, a lot of the files are named inconsistently, so a lot of lines should go together in-game are named separately. They get better at naming them in the other chapters, though there are still a few inconsistent ones)

You can also search for lines from a specific character by pressing Ctrl+F and typing their name with a - before it (ex. -Graham, like in the picture I'm using). That way, it won't include lines of dialogue or file names with their names in it, it'll just be their lines. Or just filter the character names column from A-Z, but searching will keep it all intact and highlight their name, so you can see the related lines of dialogue from other characters in context with theirs.

I basically just dug out all of the subtitles from the files, and put them with the audio file names that they go with. You want to know why the file names have .mp3 on them? Because I copy and pasted them in one big chunk straight from my audio files directory. No way am I going to do that individually, or edit each one to remove the .mp3. The cut files do not have .mp3 at the end. This is a good companion to the voice line audio files in the google drive.

There are also lines of dialogue that were not subtitled. I manually went in, listened to them, and transcribed what I heard. It's a lot of [grunts], [yells], [groans], and [goblin noises], but I did it! I also included the ice guards from chapter 4's reverse audio transcription, so it says what they're actually saying there.

The way to tell if a line is ripped straight from the game or transcribed by me is to look for quotation marks. If it has quotation marks around the dialogue, it's straight from the game. Anything I typed out myself lacks those.

There's also a few times where the 'cut' dialogue is just repeats of what made it into the game. I've included everything- with no exceptions, so they're all there anyway.

This was a huge project so I hope others find this useful! Even while it was unfinished, I liked to scroll through it or search for specific lines I remembered. The cut dialogue is really cool too, so check it out if you're interested!

[temporalreverie]

ponysona ref sheet :3

[text transcript: Carrie Go-Round, or Carrie for short It/She, Trans Mare, Lesbian Can prance through air with its saddle on. Gives carousel sky-rides to help others. It likes going around again, solving puzzles, helping with problems, music, good fortune, and going around again. Beholden to the whims of its fate & cycles, it tries its best to be carefree but secretly feels aimless at times.]

Extended character bio & art process thoughts below the cut v

Carrie Go-Round is a unicorn with carousel themed magic. Carousel magic works in mysterious ways. It can direct the magic somewhat and hone certain patterns through repetition, but it’s ultimately at the whims of the fate chosen for it. Usually everything works out just fine though.

While actively using its carousel magic and wearing its saddle, it can prance on top of air. It takes others on rides through the sky using this, giving them time and space to think through a problem they’ve been having. These rides can involve a conversation, a magical spectacle of lights and music, or simply peace and quiet, whatever will help the other pony best. Flying, putting on light shows, and making music are all come naturally when the magic is in service of another.

Carrie has adapted an outwardly carefree and playful nature. It’s partially its true self, and partially a defense mechanism in response to the lack of control that the carousel makes it feel. When you’re stuck going around in one big circle, it’s easy to feel aimless and confused. Helping someone else with a problem of theirs always makes it feel better though. It's also fond of rhymes, puzzles, and riddles.

It’s somewhat taller than average. Not very strong, but when its magic is active any passengers feel light as a feather. Both the color and shape of its hair is all natural.

—

Art process thoughts:

An idea for a ponysona design popped into my head the other day and I'm really happy with how it turned out! Multiple times I've played with designing a ponysona by taking more grounded and literal elements of myself but none of those struck me as exciting or fun. Being freely indulgent and overdesigning a pastel magic horse is way better.

In terms of the drawing itself, this is probably the closest you'll ever see me mimic the G4 artstyle! I referenced a couple screenshots of pinkie to get an idea for scale, and then I cut apart my rough sketch into chunks so I could stretch out the neck & back because I like when the bodies are longer than proportions on the show. This also doubles as making its tallness present in the art but really I would've done that regardless.

The carousel concept is a fun way to tie in the colorful aesthetics with themes of cycles and fate. Girls love to be stuck in a loop of mayyyybe their own choosing. And it also means I get to bring back the saddle & bridle fashion concept Lauren Faust considered for the show's pitch bible. It's definitely kind of weird but in a fun way.

Carrie Go-Round like Merry-go-round but also like Carrie short for Carousel but also like Carry because she physically carries other ponies & helps lift them emotionally. Do you get it.

This is my first time adding ALT text to my images; I did my best to be thorough but not too verbose.

Miscellaneous design thoughts: I love pink and green together! IRL horse coat patterns are so so cute I wish more MLP characters had them. Plus the bubbly shapes on the hooves match her cloud prancing. Duality is everything to me: two different shapes and colors of hair, two symbols on its cutie mark, two little eyelashes. Although I tried less to make it look like me, its hair still has the same general shape (however mine will only rarely form curls like that all on its own). Also the cutie mark arrows being green is a slightly inspired by a real dream I had about getting my cutie mark:

I've been meaning to make a ponysona for a long time now. All in all this was very fun to do and now I'm excited to draw more of my own OCs and their interactions.

[themuppetarchives]

Archivist,

I think I need help. I don't really have anywhere else to go. I'm alone now, I used to have friends but they've left me. Or maybe they think I left them.

You said you feel a call to the Felt? Do you think the same can be said of Paper? Of newspapers, stained with ink that runs and forms into symbols I no longer recognize. Of books full of leafs of pages full of words that I claw at, desperate to understand and know and read and see, but when I do so I leave gouge marks in my arms. Of lined sheets that rip and tear and crease and crumple and breathe and quiver.

Is Paper the same as Felt? As Flesh?

I'm afraid. I Know but I don't Understand. I think I'm losing my mind.

Please help me. It hurts. I cry but the ink that comes from my eyes blinds me. There's no warmth in my hands anymore.

And yet it calls to me, beckons for my embrace, whispers sweet promises that I Know are lies. I don't think I'm strong enough to resist.

I just wanted to know.

- 📖

Statement of...a book regarding its cry for help. Received 15 June, 2024. Audio transcription recorded by The Archivist.

[thelightningbottler]

Lightning Boltz - Villains

TRANSCRIPT

The Audacity

The intimacy

Of student accommodation Offers a lot

To the imagination 

and proves to be above many stations the source of trials 

and tribulations.

As you hear sounds of sex from the wall to your left

the passionate cries of every breath. And below you hear

that couple fighting angry tones and ragged breathing.

As they try to get out each word seething

and next to you they play the police or the beat or the jam,

(if you're lucky.) The Skints. And beyond the moans and the groans,

and the crying and the fighting,

beyond the dancehall the dub

and the reggae you hear him.

Three rooms down…

He moves at half a clip. He breathes when he sleeps,

Incomplete, he hiccups for air on every other beat.

He shuffles down the hallway Singing songs

He laughs and bleats and for some reason this is the last straw That You can keep

And so its not the lovers, The fighters

The stoners

The people who keep you from your slumber they’re not the ones you get your ire.

It’s that GUY

with his BREATHING. His DEFIANCE

Of ENTROPY

He KEEPS PUTTING OFF His ETERNAL SLUMBER.

But then again, in lighter climbs. In student bars

with pints in hand the same guy

looks at you and say, ‘You snore, big o, Something rotten’

And suddenly you know

your animosity

is equalled.

The scales are set 

the message simple: You have to dive across the table and ring the life

from his fuckin nostrils.

Make believe

Inside the white walls      

of the white cottage,

which was ringed by the white Picket fence,

a small girl named Betty

took white sheets 

and cut out the image 

of white Jesus 

and glued him 

to a cross made of popsicle sticks.

Close Acquaintance

John had great big waterproof boots on.

“Back in the day, I used to wear crocs.

But I found that the holes let the blood soak through.

And the blood can really fuck up your socks.

“Did you know about young Leafblower?

The fellow your height who tended the pigs?

And blew away the leaves in autumn

And in the summer picked the figs?

“Well he and I, young Leafblower, that is,

We were told of an important job.

Something small just by the coast

That could withstand a mighty storm.

“No, not the job, it's no metaphor:

It’s the shack that I speak well of

Sturdy foundations my dear boy

Nothing could have blown its top off.

“So me and Leafy, I called him Leafy sometimes,

If he let me. But he was insistent

‘Leafblower is my name,’ he’d say

But I called him Leafy and I was persistent.

“Anyway, Leafy and I, we share this moped

That we borrowed off his brother.

‘Be careful turning into benders,’ he said

As we headed sideways to Great Yarmouth

“Nows, this was before your new fangled “Aitch You Dees”,

We had to use a pen and paper,

The courier gave us a printed Google map, 

 - X marks the spot - he told us, as he drank his cider. 

“So me and Leafy, we gets to Great Yarmouth,

I tell you now, it’s lost its glamour.

Just a bunch of boarded up storefronts

From those years of Tory power. 

“Anyway, through Yarmouth me and Leafy go

On this moped from his brother

Up to the cabin on the cliff

That could withstand all kindsa weather.

“‘Bloody Cold,’ Leafy said,

Chattering, the poor lads teeth was

No problem there for me

I had my woolly socks and crocs on!

“‘Hush your whining,’ I said to Leafy,

‘All that piss’ll do you no good.

Find out where the fuckin lav is

And I’ll order in some Food.’

“So I get on the blower

As young Leafy goes for a slash

And I order like 3 pizzas, 

And I tell em that I’ll pay in cash.

“Turns out the fella who delivered

Was a bit of an entrepreneur,

So not only did we acquire the pizza

But a bag of Whizz and some great green herbs!

“Leafblower, in his search for a bog, 

Had found himself a different stench

In the basement of this cabin

There was in fact, a stillers bench.

“Oh the moonshine these lads had made

Stronger than a kicking mule,

Bitterer than Love’s last kiss

And tasted like you’re drinking stool.

“By fuck did we get wasted, lad,

By fuck did we get hammered.

By fuck, lad, did we get sozzled.

And paint the place with vomit after.

‘And on we partied many days, 

Until all that was left was whizz and thinner

And Leafy looked over at me

And said, ‘Dear chap, what’s for dinner?’

“And I looked at Leafy in new light, 

Like… what a handsome little brat

What strong pectoral muscles he had

But with this scintillating fat.

“And look, call it the drugs or whatever

But it was at that point that I knew

Young Leafblowers steak and kidneys,

Was gonna be my next meal.

“And yea, some conflict did ensue:

I chased him with a broken bottle,

He cried, and whined, and begged and pleaded,

Didn’t stop me slicing his wattle. 

“And as he bled out he cried a lot

For his muther and his father

And I was like ‘Blah Blah Blah Blah’

And started to prepare my supper. 

“Steak and kidney pie I made! 

Ale soaked rump, and chipolatas

Braised ribs, and bourguignon,

And all the foods that I was after.

“And after that, I came straight home

The orgy of eating sucked it out of me and

the violence, of course, the violence...

Tuckers me out something rotten. 

“Course the constabulary couldn’t leave well enough alone,

They came knocking at my door.

And when I say my door, I mean my door!

Cause I was back away from Great Yarmouth and all.

“Turned out they’d found a soggy sock!

Turned out it had a toenail clippin’!

Turned out their forensic investigations

Had me dead-to-rights at the scene!”

He (John) stared out over the landscape,

Rolling hills and setting sun.

I was about to ask another question

But turns out John just wasn’t done.

“So of course I served my time.

And I’m a model citizen now.”

And what, I asked, do you do for a living?

“Butcher.” he smiled, or maybe scowled.

I was out of questions now,

And so I paid him, tit for tat.

“Could never get the bugger out my teeth…”

And that (said John) ⁠is ⁠that.

[visatips]

Understanding Your Passing Certificate

In the grand tapestry of academic achievements, several documents mark significant milestones. While degrees and diplomas often take center stage, there's a quieter yet equally crucial document that plays a pivotal role in every student's journey: the passing certificate. Often overlooked or simply filed away, this unassuming piece of paper is far more important than many realize, serving as official proof of successful completion of a particular academic level or examination.

At its core, a passing certificate is an official attestation issued by an educational institution or examining body. It confirms that a student has met all the necessary academic requirements and successfully cleared a specific examination or course of study. Unlike a mark sheet, which details your performance in individual subjects, the passing certificate provides a definitive declaration of your overall success. It's the ultimate 'green light' confirming you've moved on to the next academic stage or are now qualified for certain opportunities.

Why is the Passing Certificate so Important?

The significance of a passing certificate extends far beyond mere formality. Here's why it holds such weight:

Proof of Qualification: This is its primary function. Whether you've cleared your 10th standard (SSC), 12th standard (HSC), a diploma, or a university semester, the passing certificate is the irrefutable evidence that you've achieved that qualification. Without it, your academic claims might not be recognized by future institutions or employers.

Admission to Higher Education: Applying for undergraduate, postgraduate, or even diploma courses? Your passing certificate for the preceding level will almost always be a mandatory document for admission. Universities and colleges require it to verify your eligibility and ensure you meet their entry criteria. For instance, to enroll in a Bachelor's degree, your 12th standard passing certificate is indispensable.

Employment Opportunities: Many employers, especially for entry-level positions or those requiring specific educational benchmarks, will request your passing certificate as part of the hiring process. This is particularly true for government jobs, public sector undertakings, and roles in regulated industries, where verification of academic credentials is stringent. It assures them that you possess the fundamental educational background for the role.

Migration and Visa Applications: If you're planning to study abroad or seek employment in another country, immigration authorities and foreign universities will often require attested copies of your passing certificate to evaluate your educational qualifications. It forms a crucial part of your academic dossier.

Personal Record and Achievement: Beyond its official uses, the passing certificate is a personal testament to your hard work, dedication, and successful completion of a significant academic phase. It's a tangible reminder of your accomplishments and a source of pride.

Prerequisite for Other Documents: In some cases, obtaining other important academic documents, like a transcript or a degree certificate, might require you to first possess your passing certificate. It often acts as a foundational document in the academic chain.

Key Information on a Passing Certificate:

While the exact layout may vary between boards and universities, a typical passing certificate will include:

Student's Full Name: Your official name as registered with the institution.

Name of the Examination/Course: Clearly stating what you have passed (e.g., "Secondary School Certificate Examination," "Higher Secondary Certificate Examination," "Bachelor of Arts - Semester VI").

Year/Session of Examination: When you cleared the examination.

Roll Number/Registration Number: Your unique identifier for that examination.

Name of the Issuing Board/University/Institution: The authority that conducted the examination and awarded the certificate.

Date of Issue: When the certificate was officially released.

Seal and Signature: The official seal of the issuing body and the signature of the authorized signatory (e.g., Controller of Examinations, Principal).

In conclusion, the passing certificate may not be as flashy as a degree, but its practical importance is undeniable. It's the quiet workhorse of your academic portfolio, validating your efforts and unlocking future opportunities. Always keep this vital document safe, as it will serve you well throughout your academic and professional journey.