#Metal rendering rules

[odi-arti]

I will salt the earth behind me,

I will eat up every part of your rotten little heart

[airforcekitties001]

TEAR AT YOUR SEAMS TILL YOU'VE COME UNDONE

[misanthropicgardener]

also chara's inexplicable distaste towards mettaton is so funny to me

[iamindifferenttolamp]

Honestly the Contagion thing wouldn't have bothered me if they actually established in advance among themselves how new spells worked. Regardless of what Marisha reads or what Matt reads or what the book says or what wotc word-of-god, Keyleth would know what her spells do and it's so fucking disrespectful of Marisha as a player to not tell her that a spell won't work the way she thinks in advance

If it was clear that they'd decided ahead of time - before Keyleth cast it, or even better before she learned it for the day - to interpret Contagion this way, then I would have been fairly okay with it. But it's been part of a pattern of Matt undermining Marisha where her spells are concerned in a way that severely detracts from the story they're trying to tell. It makes Keyleth look incompetent and careless when she isn't either of those things.

And it's obvious she isn't either of those things because if Contagion worked as written, it would've been a really powerful, useful, gamechanging spell! And instead it was an utter waste, not because of Keyleth or Marisha but because they don't agree on the effects of these things in advance

[frizzy-frizz-frizz]

the way I would actually kill to read a fic in Android!Kevin's point of view...

....maybe I should write one

[m1d-45]

for all to see

summary: fontaine’s court of law is questionable on a good day. on a bad day? well…

word count: ~1.2k

-> warnings: you die, blood mention, spoilers for fontaine archon quest (only names of things), potentially ooc neuvillette(?)

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr

< masterlist >

despite being the nation of justice, fontaine was not known for its fairness.

trials took place in opera houses, the prosecution focused not on proving their claim, but to put on a show. the citizens didn’t care for the outcome if it wasn’t amusing, the archon known for throwing fits if things were too boring. to survive was to be entertaining, painting as many coats of shimmering blue over your soul until it was shiny enough to go outside.

obtuse laws hid around every corner. no floating objects for the first three days of each month. no fonta was to be brought into any government buildings, unless the date was a prime number, in which case it could be any flavor but strawberry. mechanical pens had long since been invented, but had to be classed as a meka, which required a permit that far outweighed the price of the pen itself.

nothing made sense. even neuvilette, as well versed in the law as he was, did not understand the reasoning behind most of these rules.

however, there was one that he backed entirely, the very first law ever established in fontaine—arguably in teyvat as a whole, the very notion of such a crime pulling disgust regardless of origin.

‘Any person or persons found to be impersonating the divine creator, with the exceptions of roles within an opera or other such performance, shall be punished with the full extent of the law, up to and including the death penalty.’

“defendant, do you have any evidence to refute ms furina’s claims?”

you said nothing, staring down at your hands. you’d stopped pulling at the cuffs that bound you to the railing, leaving you still as stone. your entire appearance was disheveled, a result of the nearly year’s long hunt for you. part of him felt pity, but he quickly dismissed it. you deserved this—provided you didn’t, somehow, have evidence to the contrary…

you looked up, overgrown hair falling into tired eyes. you were dirty, dark crusts of blood lining hairline scratches all over your face and arms. you didn’t say a word, but he found himself avoiding your sharp gaze quickly, inspecting your wrists instead. raw, angry, the metal cuffs unkind.

“if you wish to think, say so. if your silence continues, i will be forced to move on.”

you looked back down to the banister wordlessly, the crowd murmuring at your silence. he ignored them.

“we now turn to the oratrice mecanique d'analyse cardinale to render the final verdict on the charges.”

the oratrice clicked and clunked, gears spinning and meshing as the machine drew its conclusion. blue faith filled the tubes within the walls, collecting, then were pulled back in relative quiet. now would be when the scales would return to normal, but he hadn’t heard them tilt at all during the trial… he pushed aside that train of thought once again. he was getting distracted too easily considering the importance of this trial.

he picked up the verdict from the oratrice, addressing the crowd. “according to the judgement of the oratrice mechanique d’analyse cardinale, the defendant is…” his breath skips as he opened the small folder, something in his chest twisting violently. “…innocent?”

how?

furina sat up in a hurry, the audience clamoring for reasoning, but he barely hears anything. if the oratrice itself declared you innocent, then…

behind furina, his god also stands, cold eyes staring into the crowd. “calm down, everyone. it’s clear this fraud has simply tampered with the oratrice.” your head snapped up as neuvillette closed the pages from the oratrice, sending it back down the chute.

“my god, i can personally assure you that the defendant has not had the opportunity to-“

“silence.”

he bowed his head when they turned to him, mouth dry. something was off about the situation, but what?

“since we clearly have all the evidence in front of us, i think we can safely override the oratrice’s rule.”

“divine one, in fontaine law it clearly states that the oratrice-“

“and i’ve stated that it can be overruled. which is more important, fontaine’s laws or divine laws?” he couldn’t speak. “clorinde, my bow.”

he watched as clorinde produced a bow, as quiet as the crowd below. nobody could say a word—the death penalty hadn’t been imposed in fontaine for years… but this was a special case..

black steel arrows reflected light into his eyes as the creator pointed them at you, his heart thundering. the air was always polluted in fontaine, but it felt twice as oppressive now.

“chief justice. i can’t get a clean shot.”

neuvillette bowed once more, feeling cold. he weaved through the private hallways of the opera house, making his way to the defendant’s balcony.

he didn’t even know your name. you’d refused to give it- refused to say anything, really. how his god had arrived at this verdict was beyond him… but he could not overrule the divine. he opened the door to the balcony, uncertainly stepping to your side.

this was wrong. he could hear it begin to rain, water pattering against the windows, but all he could tangibly feel was confusion. he knew something was wrong, but what?

he lifted his hand but you beat him to it, lifting your head as you turned to face him. “step back,” you mumbled, and he found himself obeying in the split second before the arrow struck. bright blue blood flew into the air, landing right where he would have been.

you didn’t want him to get blood on his clothing.

the rain picked up, lightning striking close and shaking the floor beneath him. the whole house gasped, all eyes turned to you as you collapsed. he couldn’t look away, not when he heard the sound of a sword—clorinde’s, likely, furina was never one for a fight—or the shouts of the gardes. he was paralyzed, watching blue spread out beneath you, reaching the edge of the balcony and beginning to drip.

he’d known. he’d felt it. and yet he was powerless to stop your death, the one he- the one they all perceived as divine pinning down teyvat. he should have known from the moment they overruled the oratrice, should have seen the blue tint to your scratches, should have asked for more evidence before- before—

rain came down in hails, his hands shaking as he stared at the injustice before him.

[hawkinsbnbg]

Silver fox Steve meets fox hunter Eddie.

When Steve accepted the teaching position at IU, he didn't expect to stumble upon Eddie Munson–an enigma—who loved metal, who wore leathers with chains and rings, who always stood out with that wild mane, those attractive tattoos and devil-may-care attitude, and who had been trying to get into his pants for months now.

“Is this still a violation to the college’s policies, Professor?” Hot lips planted by his ears, strong hands held him down, stopped him from getting away.

“N– No,” Steve gasped and rolled his eyes back as Eddie hit that spot again. They had been at it for over an hour now, and Steve only had himself to blame for being weak-willed.

He had half a mind to worry about what his colleagues might say tomorrow about having seen him slink away with one of the graduates. But his head was rendered blank when those long calloused fingers wrapped around his neglected cock and started jerking it.

“Am I still too young for you, Professor?”

“Ye– Oh, god–” Steve writhed and slobbered as his sweet spots were battered again.

“Just Eddie is fine,” the younger man nipped the tip of his ear teasingly before setting up a brutal pace.

Steve couldn't even talk, he just fisted the sheet beneath him, overwhelmed and overstimulated. He was kind of appalled and thrilled by it all. Because sex had never felt so good to him before.

“Am I good enough for you, Professor?” Eddie asked, voice husky and gravelly with lust.

Steve dropped his mouth open to maybe form a proper word or breathe, he didn't know. His brain was too fucked out to remember why he had kept turning Eddie away in the first place.

The guy clearly knew how to plow. Fucking Christ.

He nodded blindly, moaning and losing his mind as Eddie hammered into his prostate as if wanting to knock his soul away.

He came with Eddie’s name on his tongue, twitching and clenching around the thick cock that pulsed inside him. He milked it for what it was worth, and lamented inwardly Eddie had filled the condom and not him.

Once the post-coital high finally passed, the clarity of the situation dawned on him. Steve didn't regret it, but he was mildly disappointed this was just a one-time thing.

Because of all people, he knew Eddie’s kind the best. Always curious, always eager to take on challenges. And who else was better to conquer than Professor Harrington who was known for being a rule stickler?

Except, tonight was the first time he let himself be swayed by those charming smiles and big impish eyes. Maybe it was old ages having mellowed him, or maybe it was loneliness wearing his guard down.

Either way, someone brilliant like Eddie would never stick around for a boring old man like Steve. Which was completely understandable. But it didn't hurt less to think he was just another pitstop in Eddie’s life. Easy to forget, easy to leave behind.

“Hope you haven’t gotten tired of me yet, Mr. Harrington,” Eddie returned from the bathroom with a washcloth in hands, looking far too chirpy in only a pair of black boxers and not at all as drained as Steve felt.

God, what a time to be reminded that he was too old for this.

Sitting against the headboard, Steve said nothing and just watched Eddie climb on the bed and kneel over to him. When he intended to take the washcloth, Eddie just grabbed his hand to kiss the back of it instead.

“Allow me to take care of my date,” the younger man said cheekily before proceeding to wipe him down with practiced ease.

“Your date, huh?” Steve snorted, laughing at himself for being so pathetic to perk up at that.

“Yeah, my date,” Eddie smiled softly, tone still light-hearted but eyes intense when they met his own. “We’re kinda doing it backward here but I can fix that.”

Jesus. Steve didn't think he knew what he was getting himself into. And still, he couldn't help but listen to his stupid heart, the one that was telling him to give Eddie a chance.

“How?”

“I know this place has really good tacos,” Eddie rested a hand on his bare thigh and stroked it slowly. “They also serve quite decent drinks and mean buffalo wings.”

“What if I say no?” Steve raised his eyebrow.

“Well, in that case,” Eddie deflated, looking like a kicked puppy as he braved on. “I’ll respect your decision and get out of your hair soon.”

Steve sighed, wishing pretty boys with big eyes weren't his weakness.

“Listen carefully,” he leveled Eddie with a serious look. “If you’re just looking for someone to fool around with, then I’m not the right person for you. But if you want to try for a real relationship, then we can do it together. And I’ll expect you to be fully committed. No polygamy or anything alike.”

Eddie grinned at him, dimpled and bright, before cupping his cheek and kissing the side of his mouth.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been committed to you since the first time we met. Been yours even before you noticed me.”

The fact that Steve could tell it was true made his heart flutter in his chest.

“Well then, Mr. Munson, I have no problem with you fixing our date tonight,” he turned his head slightly to press a chaste kiss on Eddie’s lips.

“So polite,” Eddie chuckled and kissed him again, but it was deeper and more tender this time.

Although Steve still couldn't quite believe Eddie would stick around, he decided to take the leap of faith anyway.

And many years later, when he glanced up from his newspaper to see Eddie showing him another new sweater for their dog, he knew he had made the right choice that night.

[factual-fantasy]

Hola Factual! Hope your morning or evening is going well! I wanted to let you know as always that I found great joy in your recent posts- the Starscream twitter post was 100% accurate- and the Bibi comic was truly adorable- the little guy never passes up a chance to cheer you up! Kinda reminds me of those life size pokemon plush they make nowadays- ever see those before? They're super cool! (As cool as they are expensive)

Also, I wanted to apologize for dragging out our discussion about the vehicons- but you made some good points In the last post! Due to the convoluted creative process behind the aligned continuity, issues like that are apparent- I think what they were going for was that the initial Vehicons were closer to exact copies of the original, unable to change by design- and as the clone generations degenerated it became harder to instill the identical properties into them- though I agree it's strange that they somehow maintained sentience throughout- and the idea of cloning sparks so easily kinda messes with the importance of the Well of All sparks... It's possible that they still need to draw on its power to "Imbue" the protoforms with life, which would explain why they aren't shown making any more once they leave Cybertron, but since all of that is left up to interpretation and theories your probably right to just reimagine them as Drones and simplify the matter!

Plus, like you said, you could do some really cool, intimidating scenes with truly sparkless versions of the Vehicons- as much as I like sentient minions, I always appreciate soulless enforcers as well! Though, even if they're just robots used on mass by the Cons, do you think maybe, just maybe, since he's such a fan favorite you could try to sneak in Steve still? I think it would be funny if- to help Ratchet out at the base, the crew reprogram a random Vehicon as a helper bot instead, and the kids later give him the nickname? He wouldn't have a spark- but over time his AI might develop some quirky behavior, and Ratchet would grow fond of him despite his initial distrust.... (Plus then Steve could cover some of Ratchet's duties and let him get out in the field more often!) Just an idea! (:

And also, in that train of thought, I fully agree with your stance on the predacons in your last post. Cool as they are, it always bothered me that Shockwave somehow just created Sparks and bodies from some dusty shards of metal...but I would hate to see you scrap one of the coolest factions from the show over that- so heres a compromise idea! Predacons are naturally extraordinarily resilient creatures- so instead of just dying on earth in ancient times, they instead hibernated to conserve what little energon they had...

Then, later on, instead of digging up bones and cloning them, Shockwave instead digs up the ENTIRE hibernating Predacons- rendered near death from millennia of inactivity- and he begins the process of carefully reviving them using his science and energon transfusions. Predaking would be the first to successfully recover as usual, and from there Shockwave would prepare to resuscitate the rest- after which it's once again up to you if some or all actually survive, or if Megatron once again weighs his options and decides to pull the plug....

(Starscream twitter post) (Bibi comic)

Hello! I'm glad to hear you liked my recent posts! :DD And OF COURSE I've heard about those!! If I had the money and if they had one for every Pokémon, I don't think I could be stopped from collecting all my favorite Pokémon XDD

As for the Vehicons,, yeahhh I just don't see it working any other way. Making them mindless "robots" in the inorganic/not loving creature sense. Like A.I, drones, whatever word fits best. <:/

As for Steve, I don't think he's gonna work.. I cant make him a living and feeling creature with the new rules I've built for the Vehicons 😔

Now the Predacons. I have major gripes about those guys. I tried to go into detail about why I don't like them and why there is no way to make them work for my AU. But you caught me on a bad day and it just sounded like a rant no matter which way I spun it 😅

So all I'm gonna say is your idea is rather clever. And honestly I feel like the show would have been better off if they did something closer to that. But for my AU? With the rules I built for cloning? The Predacons/Predaking clones just cannot work. They absolutely do not work.

The possibility that I'll draw the Predacons for fun is there. And the potential idea that Shockwave makes these horrible Frankenstein beasts using the CNA of similar animals is also there. But the Predacon clones just ain't gonna cut it. In my AU they were never cloned and sent to Earth all those years ago, and Predaking was never cloned and sent after Wheeljack. They went completely extinct after the cataclysm and that's that.😅

[heartfullofleeches]

"A tour of my room :)"

-

"Is it on? The red light is flashing so..... Hi! It's so nice to meet you whoever you are... My name is Y/n and..... This is my room! Red gave me permission to record this video after they told me what a camera is. My head still hurts a little from all the crying I had to do to convince them to let me keep this- but I'm okay! What should I show you first?....hm...."

You take a quick look of your surroundings - the hollow ping of metal hitting the poles of your bed catching your ear, steering your gaze towards your weighted wrists.

"My bracelets! Red gave them to me my first night home. The leash is to make sure I don't wander off. I used to do that a lot actually. It's long enough I can comfortably walk around the kitchen, the bathroom, and Red's room. Those are pretty much all the places I need to go. If I pull my bed away from the wall, I can almost touch the front-"

Knock- knock- knock-

Only three... Not them....

.....

"Moving on! As you can see under me, this is my bed. I don't use it much since Red likes when I sleep with them. If you look really close riiight there - you can see Red carved our names into the headboard. They've carved our named into a lot of things we own. I think it's their favorite hobby."

You point upwards at your caretaker's beautiful craftsmanship. Heavy pounds channels through the walls - the frame of your bed imitating the knocks at the front door as it taps your bedroom wall in an that dreaded sound-

Knock, knock, knock-

"Over here is my dresser, where I keep most of my things."

Sliding off the edge of the bed, you recenter your new camera towards your dresser. You knew Red cleaned while you were asleep so there wasn't much on top of the furniture besides a stuffed fox they gifted you your first night home, and a spool of wool rendered useless due to sharp tears in the fabric. There were some picture frames as well, but those were more for Red than anything. The less you had to see your face the better

"I really wanted to try knitting like Red does, but my claws always tear the wool. Next to that is Mr. Rabbit. Red said they got him when they were little and it helped them feel less scared - so they gave it to me to make me free better. I don't want to hurt him so he sleeps here. Above my dresser is the list of rules Red has for me. It's really short - because they said I'm a good person. Red is still teaching me how to read, but i still remember what they told me-"

You pick up the camera, angling it up at the tapestry as you speak

"No eating on the couch-"

"Clean your teeth after every meal."

"Ignore any voices that are not Red's."

"The only time you're allowed to enter the basement is if your teeth start to feel itchy."

"And lastly.... Do not open the front door unless you hear the special knock we created together."

The last one is easy to follow.

"Help! Please, somebody- help! My boyfriend is hurt, I can't stop the bleeding. We were attacked some maniac in this... fucked up mask. Please - open the fucking door!"

You walk to the opposite side of the room, facing away from the window.

"Red.... Red doesn't let me do a lot of things. They were so mad at me when they found me cleaning the storage closet, but their mood changed so fast when they saw I found this... They said it's a music player. I like when they play music from their phone. They said when I'm too scared to watch t.v in the living room to drown out the noises I can just play one of these these...re....reco...."

Knock.

"Go away!"

Go away, go away- Why can't they just leave you alone. Why can't they understand it's better this way? Whatever Red will do.... It's better than..... Red. Where's Red? Why aren't they home yet? You're scared. Scared of what you'll do. Where is Red? Red - Red, please come home. I'm so hungry.

Dinner... Dinner is right outside, but you're a good person - just like they said. You'll wait for Red. They'll probably be home at any second - cries that loud could be heard for miles in a place like this. You just have to wait.

"I.....I guess I just put the record in here, then. Red is gonna be so proud of me for doing this by myself. Thank you for everything you do for me, Red..... I hope you all liked my tour!"

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Eight: The Lord of the Tides

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm posting a chapter within two weeks and not a month? What sorcery is this? Anyway, thank you for staying with me through these chapters. We're getting to the juicy stuff here soon, which will be very angsty. I also want to remind everyone that this is a dark fic that deals with suicide, SA, and severe mental illness. You'll hate some of these characters and their actions and have questions about them as the story progresses, but everything has a reason, and it'll all tie together eventually. Just have faith, babes.

Chapter Warnings: misogyny, eugenics, mentions of and trauma related to COCSA, suicidal ideations, severe mental illness, self-deprecating thoughts, and sexual harassment.

The Great Hall echoed with the clamor of anxious voices. The petition summoned all the court members, seemingly attempting to embarrass your family publicly. Although hearings like these did not necessitate the presence of all the Lords and Ladies, they were all there, rendering the open space oppressively stuffy and cramped. The Iron Throne commanded attention with its imposing presence. Fashioned from the melted swords of Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies, it formed a seat that threatened anyone who ventured too close to its pointed metal surface. 

Daemon was conversing with your mother, and his strong fists clasped over his stomach as he leaned in to speak into her ear. Luke stood by her side, picking at his slender fingers while cowering beneath his cloak. You felt sorry for your younger brother. He didn’t want to be the Lord of the Tides and despised the idea so much that it became a fear of the sea. Part of you believed that Jace should inherit the Driftwood Throne since he was the second-born, but your mother’s advisors pressured that if Jacaerys married you, he wouldn’t be able to rule the Seven Kingdoms and High Tide, so Luke was next in line.

Your stepsister Rhaena was seated on the other side of you and Jace. You glanced at her slender form, noticing her white hair knotted into thick, cylindrical locs piled atop her head. She nodded toward your brother, who looked at his shoes with an undignified pout. You stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Jace’s body. He tried not to show how your gentle actions comforted him in front of the onlookers, subtly leaning into your side.

The hairs on your neck prickled as if someone was watching you closely. You caught a glimpse of your eldest uncle’s sullen face meeting yours. Aegon’s looming stare was fixed on you and your connection with your brother, his lips curving into a frown. Some of you wanted to return his stare with mockery for his audacity, but you held your decorum, fearing what his anger could entail if you went too far. Years ago, you experienced his kindness, leaving an irreparable scar on your soul.

You sensed the anxiety rising at the mere thought of having to confront your eldest uncle once more. Despite six years having passed, the wounds still feel fresh. Clutching Jace tightly to your side, you battle the overwhelming temptation to seek solace within his luxurious robes as a torrent of memories came rushing back as the petition commences.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto Hightower spoke, his voice booming across the Great Hall, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As the Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

“The Crown will now hear the petitions.”

Aegon felt a surge of frustration as he watched you avoid making eye contact, unable to bear the sight of you being affectionate with someone else. You had been his closest ally until Aemond’s actions shattered everything. With a scowl, he directed his gaze toward the ground and decided to converse with you about the years past. The eldest Prince was resolute in his determination to make you see that he was not the one at fault.

“Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon,” the Hand spoke, announcing the challenger to the room.

The individual accountable for this incident stepped up, adorned in an opulent doublet of rich velvet in a deep navy shade, almost black. He briefly acknowledged the presence of Lord Corlys’s wife. As he drew nearer, you found yourself in the presence of Ser Vaemond for the second time in your life. His facial hair displayed a striking blend of salt and pepper, evidence of the many decades of life experience that distinguished him from you.

“My Queen,” he greeted with a nod, “my Lord Hand.” Luke visibly bristled at his Great Uncle’s voice, retreating further into his cloak and your mother’s comforting presence. 

If the Gods were fair beings, they would strike Lord Vaemond down where he stood for daring to spout treasonous lies before the Court. The mere petition was a ploy to publicly embarrass and cast doubt upon your mother’s claim as heir to the Iron Throne. This was why he chose to pounce like a lion in wait for its prey onto the opportunity of his older brother getting injured. It was as if Lord Vaemond had already declared his brother dead before he returned to his bed. You were raised by a second son and understood too well of their lusts for what the eldest sibling had. 

As you tightly gripped Jace’s hand, you made a solemn vow to take the necessary action, not just to protect your family but also for the greater good of your kingdom. This would be the first time you would employ your extensive knowledge of herbs and medicinal practices for a malevolent purpose, but you were willing to do whatever it took for their sake. Throughout history, many distinguished individuals have fallen victim to choking on wine or food, which has proven fatal for even those of lesser stature.

“The history of our noble houses extends past the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Old Valyria, our House became the last of their kind.” You glanced at your mother while Vaemond droned eloquently, her regard downcast with a disapproving smirk. “Our forebears came to this land, knowing they would fail; it would be the end of their bloodlines and name. I have spent my entire life defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his blood,” the second son petitioned. 

Out of the corner of your vision, you spotted Princess Rhaenys, her stare boring holes into the back of her good brother’s skull. Your worries that the Queen Who Never Was would not side with Luke and his claim lessened as you noted the irritation on her face, the fury at Vaemond’s claim that he had the right to be Lord of the Tides and not her, as if her rule during Corlys’ absence meant that the Driftwood Throne was not in safe hands until Luke was ready.

Otto stared at the man with a neutral expression, but his eyes betrayed his genuine emotions. Arrogance and pride shine through, revealing his bias. “It’s a true, unimpeachable blood of the House of Velaryon that runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my son’s, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon,” your mother interrupted, causing everyone in the room to direct their attention to her. “If you cared so much about your House’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition-”

You sucked in a nervous breath, your gaze flickering to your mother as you scratched at your scalp. She knew better than to interrupt during a petition to the Crown. She would have scolded you for such an act. Perhaps since it wasn’t her father, she felt the ability to speak out of turn was appropriate. Even the daughter of the King wasn’t allowed such liberties.

“You will have a chance to make your petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” the Queen interrupted, causing your simmering vexation to spike into a rolling boil. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

You understood Queen Alicent’s opinion but couldn’t quell the rise of frustrated tears at her words. It was not her place to order your mother. She was a wife to the King, a consort, and whatever jurisdiction she had was given to her by a man. She held no real power, and remembering that would do her well.

As if Alicent heard your thoughts, her amber eyes flicked to you. You felt your stomach lurch as the bread you had earlier threatened to decorate the stone floor. You did not like the Queen after what she did to your mother and her obsession with you. Her possessiveness was something you never understood, nor did you want to. Whatever the Queen had twisted and distorted you to be inside her mind was not something you desired to give fruit to, disregarding her pleading looks as you focused on the Lord before you. 

Ser Vaemond turned to stare smugly at Rhaenyra, continuing with his rant of blood purity and superiority. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, but you still wouldn’t recognize it.”

A tugging at your bell sleeve brought your attention to Jace, noting how you unconsciously scratched at your scalp. Suddenly, you realized that in the moment’s intensity with Aemond, you had dropped your headpiece in the hall. Swiftly nodding that you were all right, Jace began to stroke the back of your clenched knuckles in a silent gesture of support. Your hand had long forgotten its comforting touch as it blanched from ire.

“This is about the future and survival of my House, not yours,” Vaemond finished, staring hard at your Luke as you cringed.

Jace did not let the Lord or the three people frighten you for long, subtly shifting to block him and all other stares from view like the moat of iron spikes surrounding Maegor’s Holdfast. Why were they all looking at you? The Lords and Ladies. Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena. You silently willed them to stop, but it was for naught. 

The Lord turned from Luke, his prideful grin duller as he addressed the Queen and Hand. “This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my House and line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor,” Vaemond finally concluded, taking a few steps back, “the Lord of Driftmark, the Lord of the Tides.”

“Thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Otto concluded atop a throne that was not his as the second son gave one last grimace toward your family.

With the retreating of the Lord, you were given the perfect view of the Green children, the eldest still very much disinterested in what was happening around him, shifting on his feet as if he was itching to leave the room, which you supposed was true. The second child was attempting to dissociate from the world around her, uncomfortable with the animosity between the two houses, her golden dress the opposite of her appearance. The third and final member seemed to match his Mother and Grandsire, an air of superiority radiating from his toned body that sent shivers to your core. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” the Hand called, “you may now speak for your son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon.”

Your mother approached before the steps of the Iron Throne, her body language openly depicting her ire at the whole matter. Her complete disregard for the seriousness of the situation caused you to crack a smile, looking at Jace in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“If I am forced to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding this court that nearly twenty years ago in this very room-”

Your mother’s remarks were cut short by the creaking of hinges, the grand doors to the Great Hall opening to reveal the rhythmic tapping of a cane.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of The Andals, the Roynar, The First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Gasps echoed through the expansive room as all eyes turned to your mother. She gazed in astonishment as her father appeared in public for the first time in years. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, half his face concealed by a golden mask, made his way across the grand throne room, causing a stir among the onlookers.

You recalled that six years ago, there was only a tiny sore on his cheek, such a minuscule gash that festered and grew to eat away at his flesh until you could see the rotting teeth within his skull. Tears pricked at your eyes as you listened to the steady tapping of your Grandsire, your heart unable to watch the hunched figure.

The Hand seemed more shocked than any. His stoic face of pride morphed into one of stunned surprise as your Grandsire made his way to the bottom steps of the Iron Throne. 

“I will sit on the throne today,” the King rasped, his entire weight resting on the dragon head of his walking stick.

“Your Grace,” Otto reluctantly acknowledged, gaping wide as he took his place next to his daughter and her children.

A kingsguard quickly rushed to the side of his ruler, briefly assisting before Viserys weakly shoved him away. You couldn’t watch this—watch someone once so full of joy and love for his kin struggle to walk the stairs of his ancestors as you nestled your face into Jace’s shoulder. The sound of fallen metal echoed in the room, bringing your attention upward. Your Grandsire’s crown had fallen onto the stairs before the throne as a quiet grunt of discontent puffed past his chapped lips. Daemon was behind his brother before anyone was the wiser, assisting the last remnants of his late parents’ love to his ruling seat and placing the golden Crown of Jaehaerys on the remaining tatters of silver hair.

While you indulged in a lavish meal of quail and lamb on the breathtaking island of Dragonstone, you could aid him, but unfortunately, you were unaware of his plight. Overcome with remorse for not setting aside your troubles to support your Grandsire, you shed tears uncontrollably.

“Sister, you’re crying,” he whispered below the shell of your ear. You nodded silently, whipping away the stray water that collected on your warm cheek.

Jace knew your strong aversion to displaying any hint of vulnerability through tears. He recognized that you viewed it as a manifestation of a perceived girlish weakness that you deemed incompatible with your role as heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He felt helpless as he witnessed you, unable to offer the solace he longed to provide.

Staring at both of you with a fierce scowl across his narrow pink lips, Aemond believed you deserved to experience pain. However, he struggled with his emotions, attempting to quash the pang piercing his dark heart. Aemond envisioned himself as the unyielding pillar, braving the tumultuous waves during a tempest at sea. He saw himself as your shelter from the salty waters, ready to wipe away any tears that adorned your skin. Jacaerys was far from being a man deserving of a princess, unlike…

The Prince’s chest rumbled with a grunt of discontent as he resisted completing his thought despite knowing the truth in his heart. Upon hearing the sound, Aegon glanced at his brother with a perplexed expression and followed his line of sight with a mix of understanding and bitterness, forming a frown on his face.

“I must admit my confusion,” your Grandsire spoke, his frail voice reverberating through the high walls of the hall. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.” You did not need to look at Vaemond to see his outrage. You could sense it from where you stood twenty paces away, your tears slowly drying as you gazed at the disappointed Queen. “The only one present who might offer keener insights into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

Everyone turned to the woman as she processed her cousin’s words. “Indeed, your grace,” she nodded, taking a moment to look at her brother-in-law. 

Eyes followed the Queen Who Never Was as she spoke, her voice so smooth and elegant you felt envy for it at the back of your mind. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark passes through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son, Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed.”

The atmosphere in the room was charged with a tumult of emotions. Anger, betrayal, shock, and relief swirled around the Great Hall like a powerful storm. Ser Vaemond was furious, deeply hurt by his good sister’s words. To him, being a true Velaryon meant everything, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his bastard nephew, born from a woman pretending to be virtuous, tarnishing his family’s name and the honor of the realm. He was resolute in his refusal to accept this situation. Vaemond’s bloodline was solid and pure, unyielding like the sea.

“Princess Rhaenyra has informed me of her desire to marry her son Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Princess Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

The speed at which your head whipped towards Jace was almost otherworldly, nearly causing you to stumble. His face reflected your shock, his mouth hanging open like a fish before he turned to glance at your mother. A serene smile graced her pink lips, and she quickly lowered her gaze while placing a protective hand over her swollen stomach.

Apart from your mother, no one else seemed to share the same sense of pride. The Queen’s expression soured even more than you thought possible, and the Hand remained stunned by the sudden turn of events as you withdrew your hand from Jace’s.

Aegon had suddenly perked up at the revelation, uncharacteristically grinning as he watched the drama unfold while Aemond observed your misfortune with barely concealed satisfaction. You couldn’t pinpoint why he had an abrupt interest in the conversation. He no doubt enjoyed the misfortune of others, even if it was his kin. 

“Well,” the King spoke, his breathing now calmed, “the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

The entire family breathed a sigh of relief, their shared sense of burden and responsibility slowly dissipating as they watched the weight of the future shift onto the Greens. In that moment, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt for not shouldering the load yourself. Princess Rhaenys, with an almost irritated yet dignified stride, stood beside her eldest granddaughter, her presence exuding a complex mix of annoyance and pride.

Though you hadn’t moved from your spot beside your twin, you felt like a league away from him, gaping blankly at the glistening steel swords running over the steps like a river. The longer you studied them, the more they began to contort, seeing viscous crimson liquid melt down the blades. The future you had planned with your brother was impaled to the hilt. 

A scoff cut through the moment of joy, your head directed to the sound. “You break the law, centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond spoke, venom laced within every syllable. “But you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.” 

Your brown orbs flickered from the man to the King. “Allow it?” Viserys echoed, testing the word on his dry tongue. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

The thick, oppressive silence enveloped the scene, defying even the sharpness of Darksister’s blade. Every individual present held their breath, their anticipation palpable as they waited to witness the outcome.

“That is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine!” the second son shouted, causing everyone to jump in fright.

“Go to your chambers,” Rhaenyra ordered you and your brothers before swiftly turning her attention to Vaemond. “You have said enough.” 

None of you obeyed.

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson,” your Grandsire declared. “And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” 

“You,” Vaemond stated, taking menacing steps forward, “may run your House as you see fit, but you will not decide my future. My House survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides.” 

He turned to your family, feet firmly planted with the grip on his longsword. Your look stared fire at his, jaw clenched as he spat his vitriol. “And Gods be damned, I will not see it end on account of this…” 

You arched your head to the side, eyes widening in defiance as you silently urged him to speak the words that yearned to escape his lips. However, he disregarded you, considering you nothing more than a mere girl in a world dominated by men, a lost cause. You resolved to shed any lingering guilt about your intentions at that moment.

“Say it,” Daemon’s soft and menacing timbre whispered.

Onlookers scrutinized with bated breath as Vaemond considered his words, his gaze flickering from your father to you, Jace, your mother, and Luke. A sneer slowly pulled his lips, righting his posture as he bellowed.

“Her children are bastards!” 

You inhaled a near-inaudible growl from your throat as you took a charged step forward, only to be yanked back by Jace before you could do something you would regret. Soft murmurs sounded, the Greens all sharing the same look of begrudging disappointment. Jace seemed just as furious as you, his lips curling into a snarl.

“And they,” he glared at you, then at your mother, his jaw tensing, “are whores.” 

Your gaze immediately flicked to Aegon and then Aemond, your body independently moving as the crowd gasped. Aemond’s eye was no longer bright purple but a near black, shining like dragonglass shards. Despite this window into his soul, his outward appearance reached an unusual sereness. Thin lips parted as you noticed the faintest twitch, a tic you realized indicated his rage. 

“You have said your piece, Lord Vaemond,” Queen Alicent declared, fists humbly clasped over her clothed emerald green stomach. “The king has affirmed his decision, and you will do well to respect it without saying lies about the young princess.”

Did people know of what happened between you and Aegon and that of your brother? 

They couldn’t have. You took steps to ensure your image to the public aligned with their ideals. You studied in the Citadel, for Seven’s sake! Your mind raced with the possibility of your secrets being discovered, the chance that the realm would know of your sins before marriage. At the time, it did not seem to be a mistake as you and Jace believed you would be married, but now, just as it seemed like all things did, it slipped through your fingers like the sand that lined the shores of Blackwater Bay.

Aemond watched as you mindlessly attempted to run toward Vaemond like a combat-trained man. He thought it would be entertaining to watch you claw the Velaryon Lord’s eyes out and contemplated in admired silence how reckless you could become when enraged, wondering how far that wrath would take you.

You were unable to hear the sound of raised voices expressing articles of treason, threats of violence, and the unsheathing of a sword until you felt blood splatter on your cheekbone, seeing the sliced head of Vaemond Velaryon laying a few paces from your feet. Jace pulled your face to his chest as you gasped in shock, clutching his arms like he was the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of grotesque insanity. 

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon declared, looking at the limp corpse below.

Studying his uncle in brief awe, Aemond’s violet eye flickered from the decapitated corpse to that of the assailant. He moved to see Jace’s feeble attempt at protecting you from the gore that lay leaking into the stones, mouth curling in disdain as he scoffed. Your brother was to be the one to protect you from harm, physical or emotional, yet he was incapable of doing that.

Momentarily, Aemond thought of coming to your side, knowing that he was a worthy enough man to be what you needed, and if not that, then only to spite Jacaerys. He shook the fleeting thought away with a grunt, scorn filling his heart. 

“Disarm him!” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard yelled, his fellow members drawing their weapons.

You chose who you thought worthy that night on Driftmark when you stood by idly as Luke ripped his eye from the socket.

“No need,” your stepfather cooly protested, wiping the blood of his kin from his blade and exiting the room.

Your eyes could not leave the bleeding form of Vaemond Velaryon, the top half of his dreaded white hair discarded as the crimson liquid pooled around him. Viserys groaned above, collapsing onto the Iron Throne like a sack of bones from the effort of living. Alicent and your mother ran to his aide.

“Niece.”

You expected to see Aemond come and continue his taunts from before, but instead, you saw Aegon standing before you, his square face etched with worry. You would have thought him handsome had he not done what he did and become the man he had become as you merely stared at him, your mind blank and body numb. 

How could he show you such concern, knowing how much pain he caused you? What could you say to him after everything that transpired? After he effectively distorted the pure view of your world into betrayal and anguish. He most likely wanted to use you as he did to the maids of the Keep. You thought you might as well let him. That was how you felt now that the one man you willingly gave your body to with the expected outcome of marriage was bound to another. That same disgusting sensation you had the following days after your assault came rushing back as if you were that scared little girl again.

You did not want to feel that weak again and parted your lips to speak the venom he deserved to hear. Suddenly, you found your throat too dry as you swallowed the air instead. Aegon extended a hand to yours in what you believed to be a comforting gesture, fingers brushing each other as terror surged through your limbs. 

Your sights glanced at the corpse as the hilt of Vaemond’s sword glinted in the light. You could end this here and now. End the torment. End the constant uncertainty that would be your mother’s secession. Your demise would be of no consequence.

“Sister,” Jace called, his tone clipped and brown eyes wide. The same eyes you had looking back at you. “Mother wants us in our chambers to prepare for supper.” 

You recoiled as if your limb was scorched when you swiftly pulled it away from Aegon. With a curt nod to your twin, you allowed him to take you. Walking out of the Great Hall, you made a conscious effort not to glance back, keenly aware of the intensity of Aegon’s piercing stare as it followed the contours of your womanly form. You were sure that this encounter wouldn’t be the last, and the prospect of it propelled you to seek solace in the comforting embrace of your twin.

The twilight had descended upon King’s Landing, casting the city in a hazy glow. Despite the late hour, the flagstone streets teemed with activity as revelers roamed for company, their laughter mingling with the clinking of coins. Meanwhile, you found yourself clutching a goblet of fiery spirits, hoping to steady your frayed nerves as you sat between your imposing eldest uncle and your sweet twin.

The dining hall exuded an air of palpable tension, with hushed conversations among family members punctuating the room as servants bustled about, preparing for the day’s last meal. Everyone waited in quiet anticipation for the arrival of the King, their faces adorned with joyous and restrained smiles, marking the festivities of new beginnings. However, amidst this atmosphere of hopeful anticipation, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of disquiet. In mere hours, it seemed as though everything you had worked for was unraveling before your eyes.

You were intended to enter into matrimony with Jace just as Visenya married her younger brother Aegon. As twins, you shared an unbreakable bond, with one heart and one soul inhabiting two bodies. No other individual in existence was as ideally suited for you.

As you watched your brothers’ interactions with their betrothed, you couldn’t help but notice the sour expression on your face. Each brother was dutiful and respectful, engaging in hushed conversations with their betrothed about the future and what it might hold. You felt a mix of confusion and offense as you pondered why Jace had swiftly embraced being bound to another after spending years with you as his unspoken wife.

Your eyes locked with Aemond’s from across the opulent room as he conversed with his brother, a sly smirk on his lips. He seemed to revel in your displeasure at taking your brother from you. With an exasperated sigh, you leaned back in your ornate high chair, surveying the sumptuous spread of food before you, each dish tempting you with its rich aromas and vibrant colors.

Growing increasingly impatient for your Grandsire’s arrival, you couldn’t resist the allure of a plump, purple grape sitting on the nearby platter. As you reached for it, your mother reprimanded you.

The air was heavy with the scent of wine as you had already consumed three cups before the arrival of the King, his face wearing a grim expression. Your Grandsire was brought into the grand hall, seated on a makeshift throne, and everyone in the room rose in respect for his position. His crown, a symbol of his authority, had been long forgotten as he was placed between the Queen and your mother. You noticed sores on him that you hadn’t seen before, standing out more prominently in the grandeur of the dining hall. The sight made your eyes prickle with the threat of tears, and your stomach churned with unease.

Despite being seated, he leaned heavily onto his cane, the weight of his extravagant Targaryen robes bearing down on his frail body. You fought back tears, refusing to show any vulnerability in front of those who held little respect for you.

“This is an occasion of celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our Houses,” your grandfather began, a thick rasp to his voice. “A toast to the young Princes and their betrothed. May you find yours yet, granddaughter.” 

You sat there, forcing back your tears and lifting your glass as the joyful cheers filled the room. The dreams you had shared with Jace seemed to shatter with each sip of wine. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, Jace’s fleeting smile towards Baela deepened your sense of loss. It wasn’t their engagement that bothered you, but rather the uncontrollable circumstances that had brought it about. Still, some of you couldn’t help but resent the pair.

A sudden rancid sweetness wafted into your nose as you saw Aegon lean over you, wrapping his hand around the back of your chair and whispering to your twin. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” he teased with a lopsided grin. You observed him with wide eyes that danced from your uncle to your twin, hyper-aware of every breath and twitch of his limbs.

Jace stiffened beside you as he clenched his fist atop the table, barely containing his ire. It was only a matter of time before he lost his patience. You saw his hand move to connect with yours like always when he was stressed, but you moved to place it on your lap, instinctively turning your face away from his. 

“It seems your twin doesn’t share the same sentiment,” Aegon softly declared so only the two of you could hear, lips moving into a downward smirk as he watched the silent dispute between siblings, victoriously sitting upright in his seat.

“Let us toast Prince Lucerys as well. The future Lord of the Tides,” your Grandsire continued as you felt the touch of another. Your posture became stiff as Aegon’s fingers wrapped around yours in a vice-like grip, no doubt only to spite Jace as you struggled to break free without causing attention.

Taking advantage of the momentary quiet, your eldest uncle mocked Jace again, moving your hand so he could see it. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle. Where to put your cock and all that?”

Rage welled inside your chest at Aegon’s words, and you feared as you looked into your brother’s eyes that he would spill your affairs in anger. Without thinking of appearances, you dug your nails into Aegon’s hand, causing him to yelp as he released you. 

“You can play the jester as you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed,” Jace noiselessly snapped in return as your uncle hummed in acquiescence, cradling his injured hand and wounded pride.

Aemond’s eye was trained on the scene before him as he intently observed the three of you. His face remained a practiced impassivity; the only sign of his inner emotions was his finger wrapping on the table. Aemond took a sip of his wine to disguise his chuckle. His brother should know better than to test you. Even as children, you were not one to take things idly.

“It both gladdens my heart,” the King spoke, his voice straining without much effort, “and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table, the faces most dear to me in all the world.” Viserys looked toward his left, your mother, stepfather, and brothers in his sight. Your hand gripped the stem of your glass, ignoring the heated glares from across the table. “We’ve grown so distant from each other in years past.”

You forced yourself to hide the scoff at his words, taking another long drink. And why would that be? Perhaps it was because of the Queen’s unwavering grudge against your mother that festered into a hatred of her mere existence, his son raping you at such a young age you didn’t understand what it was, or the permanent injury of a young boy that never received the justice he deserved.

Viserys paused his speech, wheezing and supporting his weight on the table as a hand came to remove his mask. The sight was nothing you could have imagined. The space where his bright purple eye should be was a hollow hole of partially healed and rotting flesh. The wound on his cheek had eaten away at the skin and muscle, revealing his decaying grey teeth.

“My face is no longer handsome if it ever was.” Phlegm was stuck within your Grandsire’s throat, creating an almost repulsive noise as he spoke. “Tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father...”

Aegon met the regards of a man who was his father only in name. His glare was dark, filled with anger you had never seen before, yet Aemond couldn’t bear to look at what he became—his father’s desperation, his mouth curling into a sneer. 

Pain radiated suddenly from your lap, stare snapping to see your eldest uncle’s hand unexpectedly gripping your thigh, his digits digging into the flesh. It was in retaliation as you attempted to pry him off, but it was useless as Aegon secured his grip, no doubt leaving bruises in his wake. You bit your lip, concealing the painful scowl that curled your lips and arched your brows. It was hard to focus on anything other than your skin aching to be free of your body, not wanting to cause a scene.

“...who may not walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold your feelings in your hearts. The Crown cannot stand strong as long as the House of The Dragon remains divided.”

Aemond’s single violet eye turned to you, your stares locking with thousands of unsaid emotions, unsaid truths as you fidgeted, trying in vain to remove Aegon.

“Set aside your grievances!” Viserys declared passionately, startling those at the table and causing you to break your revere momentarily. “If not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Silence fell across the table as the King stumbled into his seat, the metal of his mask and cutlery clanging as Alicent dutifully came to his aid. Your mother stood abruptly, not giving the room to process the King’s words as her chair scraped against the stone floor. With a goblet in her hand, all eyes turned to her.

“I wish to raise my cup to her grace, the Queen,” she started, her eyes downcast. You watched your mother skeptically, brown orbs flickering from her to Alicent. “I love my father, but I must admit no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife.”

The Queen stared at her old friend, so full of emotions. Years of harbored pain and resentment from events you did not know, bleeding from her chest and onto her finely tailored green dress.

“She has tended to him with unwavering devotion, love, and honor; for that, she has my gratitude. And my apology,” your mother concluded, returning to her seat.

You felt like you were intruding on an intimate moment between lost lovers, the happy moments of their history flashing before each of their minds’ eyes. Turning to Aemond again, you realized he did not remove his stare from you. His ametrine eye was a glassy pool, yet his face was stoic to everyone. You were sure you mirrored him, though you were not as skilled at hiding emotions, your chin slightly quivering.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We’re both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we allow,” Alicent confessed, her voice barely stuttering. “I raise my cup to you and your House. You’ll make a fine Queen.”

Otto’s disapproving stare did not go unnoticed by you, and Aemond reflected on his expression. Each person raised their goblets individually, taking sips in honor of their current and future Queen.

Aegon threw his drink back twice, going for a third time, but stopped once he caught sight of you. Droplets of Arbor Gold slipped past your lips, and you lurched forward to see the liquid before it ran down to the aperture of your chest. The Prince swallowed audibly, his throat clicking as his trousers grew tight.

Memories from your childhood of meals spent with your eldest uncle where he would wipe whatever remnants you had on your mouth came flooding to mind. You realized then that these gestures were not ones of kindness but a sick, disgusting act that he used to groom you and take pleasure from. Gripping the pristine knife that rested atop the fine mahogany table, you dreamed of having his blood spewing from between his lips as you plunged it into his neck. 

Taking another swig of your wine, you felt nothing but dry air hit your moist tongue. Aegon noticed it, smiling in an almost feline nature as he took the glass from you. 

“Worry not, niece. May your mouth never run dry in my presence,” he declared and went to the pitcher between Baela and Jace. “I regret the disappointment you will soon suffer,” you heard him whisper into your cousin’s ear. “But if you wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.” 

The clatter of cutlery sliced through the air as your brother stood, all eyes turning to him. You tried to placate Jace as he clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white and ignoring your kind touches. Everyone watched with keen eyes as on the other end of the table, Aemond stood, seeming to size up with your brother like a cat arching its spine. Placing your cup of wine in front of you, Aegon sat, dragging his fingertips across your neck and making you shudder in disgust. 

Realizing that Jace had captured the attention of everyone surrounding the table, he cleared his throat, stalling for time. You glanced at him with an uneasy feeling, looking back to Aemond as he refused to sit.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth,” Jace began, and you struggled to keep your incredulous expression at bay. “And as men, I hope we may be friends and allies. To you and your families, good health, dear uncles.” 

He concluded the toast as he and the rest raised their cups to their worried lips. Playfully, albeit awkwardly, Jace punched your eldest uncle in the shoulder as you struggled to keep your laughter at bay, sinking your teeth into your lip.

“To you as well,” Aegon begrudgingly replied, and you flicked a mocking look at him. He refused to meet you.

The screech of a chair sounded in the dining hall, and you turned your head to see your sweet Aunt Helaena abruptly standing with her cup in hand. “I would like to make a toast to Baela and Rhaena. They will be married soon. It isn’t so bad. He mostly ignores you, except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Daemon’s chuckle pierced through the unease, the three full goblets of wine gone to your head as you stifled one of your own, hiding it behind your digits. Aegon refused to meet anyone’s gaze, finding his half-eaten plate much more interesting than the people before him. Helaena looked to you for support, ensuring that what she said was good as you smiled. You forgot how much you cared for your aunt and admired her thinly veiled jab at Aegon’s lack of duties.

Supper commenced, and you wasted no time feasting, eating the savory vegetables cooked in butter and smothered in rich spices. Smoked cheeses, both hard and soft, found their way to your plate, nearly moaning at their hearty combination with slices of meat. The frigid environment from before left and was replaced with the warmth of laughter and music. Even the old King himself wore a smile on his cracked grey lips.

You ignored the piercing regard burning your face, focusing on your mother and stepfather. Daemon whispered something into your mother’s ear, gently grasping her lithe fingers as she giggled, and a blush bloomed. The sight caused an ache to rise in your chest. The hollowness of your heart knocked on your ribs. You longingly desired to find a love like theirs. Your brother was stolen from you to secure all your inheritances, and while you understood it, nothing could make the hurt lessen.

Ignoring the fist cinching around your lungs, you downed your half-empty goblet of Arbor Gold, summoning a servant to refill it. You did not want to feel like this anymore—the ache, the throbbing in your head and heart. It was too much to bear. In the times of your melancholia, days were spent with a swirling storm of thoughts and memories of your childhood in the Keep—the bullying, your rape, to that of Driftmark filled with blood and boyish screams. They plagued your mind like a disease, culturing into an amalgamation of sadness, rage, guilt, self-mutilation, and isolation until you no longer wanted to live.

Jace rose from his seat with a groan from the wood and excused himself from his betrothed. You thought he might offer you a dance; he knew how much you loved to do so, but the idea sank like the food past your lips as he went to Helaena, extending a hand. Aegon stared at the pair as they went to the open space, his face one of surprise as you brought your cup to your lips, swallowing a smirk. It served him right. His treatment of Helaena, or lack thereof, was appalling. Though he may not be in a marriage of love, she was still his sister and the dreamy-eyed Princess deserved more.

A glimmer of gold suddenly drew your gaze, jolting you from contemplation. Viserys' magnificent mask gleamed in the flickering candlelight, his head tilting to one side as he visibly battled a wave of pain. Without hesitation, Queen Alicent signaled for the guards to accompany him back to his chambers. You observed with a concerned expression trailing behind as they carefully took the ornate wooden throne out of the grand dining hall. 

You caught Aemond’s gaze. It was impossible not to as it flicked from Helaena dancing to you. He looked like a barely concealed storm about the burst, as if he debated whether to slit your throat because of your existence or continue what he had started in the corridor. Your uncle had changed so much within six years that you didn’t recognize him, and you supposed it was the same for you. Two people who grew so close were suddenly torn apart by an unfinished tragedy where anger was left to decay until its rot took control. 

You worried that things would never be able to be put aside like your Grandsire wished if this wall of silence and grudges was not destroyed. Hate between your families would stay the same and cause the successful usurpation of your mother’s rightful throne. Deciding to swallow your pride and hurt, you stood, wanting to extend the broken branch of goodwill to Aemond, but Aegon refused to let you move. His arm pushed you back down into your seat with a look that sent tears of shocked terror into your eyes. You felt helpless under his gaze as a thinly veiled look of madness replaced a toothy grin gleaming in the candlelight.

“Won’t you give the courtesy of a dance, niece?” he asked with a dangerous lilt that hinted at something more. There was no room for refusal as he hoisted you from your chair. This was undoubtedly a jab at Jace for inviting Helaena as you watched your twin halt his movements. 

Ever since Aegon was a boy, he has been awful when sharing what he thinks is his. You recalled the many times you would ask to play with his wooden toys only to get smacked in the head with it or worse. It was as comforting as it was unnerving that parts of him were still the same.

Eyes flicking at Aemond, you pleaded for him to stand and make good on his promise to protect you from your eldest uncle, but he remained still, unmoving like the statues you compared him to. You were right here, mere steps away and by his side. He could insert himself and put an end to Aegon’s torture. After all, you would be indebted to him if he did, and what more could Aemond possibly desire than to have his bastard niece that he so despises at his mercy? 

“Aemond still hates you for what Luke did,” Aegon softly declared as you moved your attention to him. “I’m not. My ire is directed at those who caused this hatred to fester between us. You and I were friends once.” 

“Indeed, once. ‘Twas long ago now,” you quipped with venom like the pit vipers in Dorne.

Your uncle was a skilled dancer despite the plethora of alcohol he drank, twirling you with a grace you did not possess as you stumbled from nerves and firewater. Aemond did not know where to focus, gaze flicking from Helaena and Jace to you and Aegon so fast that he felt disoriented. He didn’t understand why he was so concerned. It wasn’t like he could do anything to separate you and his brother without acquiring Aegon’s jests hours later, yet he couldn’t control his anxiety as his finger nervously tapped the wooden table.

Bringing you close as you tripped, Aegon pressed your body against his as you felt the real reason behind his words, swaying to the music that made you want to scream and pull your hair from its roots.

“Things could return to how they were before. We could ride our dragons together, visit far-off lands, and spend our days in the Godswood eating those orange cakes you like. We’d be friends and even more so. Would that not be splendid?” the eldest Prince suggested with a grin.

There was nothing for you to do but endure this for the sake of appearances as you caught sight of a pair of amber eyes watching you, a slight upturn to her plump lips. Queen Alicent knew what her son did to you yet observed with a smile that you could interpret as one of maternal love. It enraged you. She was no better than her son. You hated her beyond words for the times you ever thought of her more than another Lord who cared not for the struggles of women.

Aemond no longer held his attention on you but that of Jace and Helaena, seeming to be unbothered by your childhood rapist and bully putting his hands in places that would be a sin. He would not save you now. It was up to you to defend yourself once more.

“You ended whatever smidge of camaraderie we had when you debased me at the top of Maegor’s battlements,” you spat as you moved away from him, only for Aegon to bring you back into another elegant dance. The Prince rolled his purple eyes, the indigo circles underneath them becoming prominent.

“We seem to have different recollections of that night,” he exasperatedly sighed as if you were nothing more than a child bothering their parents with unfounded fears. “I recall how we as children laughed and drank beside each other and how you said, yes, as I slipped my hand betwixt your thighs.”

Gasping, you shoved Aegon away as his hands traveled past your navel, suddenly hearing a chair screech in response. Aemond stood with his body squared toward the two of you as the room went silent. All twelve faces turned to him. You stared with bated breath as Aegon slipped his hand across your back, returning to his chair and taking a nonchalant sip of his drink.

Would Aemond finally stand against Aegon for all the wrong he committed to the both of you? 

Pleading wordlessly, your body flushed as he stared unabashedly, tears of intensity pricking your eyes. The light of hope inside your chest was snuffed out as the servants brought a roasted pig onto the table. Luke could not contain his immature giggles as it was placed before Aemond, reminding him of the cruel jape he, Aegon, and Jace did. Whatever anger Aemond felt at his older brother soon turned into one of injustice for what Luke did all these years ago. You thought your younger brother knew better than this and sighed in defeat, all prospects of an amiable future between the Greens and Blacks disintegrating.

“Final tribute,” Aemond began, a lethal sway to his words. “To the health of my niece and nephews. Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and the Gods’ Light.” Your uncle’s single eye traveled to each of you, a stare so severe you felt yourself recoil inside of your being as you ran an unconscious hand through your scalp. “Each of them is handsome, wise, virtuous, and…” 

Aemond stuttered as he came to you, making the fatal mistake of losing himself within the depths of your comforting irises. He could see the water collecting at your lashes as your eyes turned into murky pools, threatening to drown him if he stared for a moment longer. He directed his attention at Luke, his ire becoming apparent as memories of your brothers and Aegon’s laughs bounced off the Dragonpit walls, soon turning into screams and red covering his vision. He felt the pain of losing an eye as if it was happening again and tightened his fist around his goblet, forcing the pain to fuel his rage. 

“And strong,” Aemond concluded as you released a disappointed sigh, focusing on anything but your uncle. “Come! Let us drain our cups to these four strong children.”

You understood what he was trying to do without speaking. His hurt was so fierce that it blinded all sense, leading him to react rashly. Aemond was forcing you to choose between your family and your affection for him, a situation that the Prince knew would play out as before. You knew what was expected of you; it was the same as last time. You would always choose your family over him. Duty was a sacrifice; you must sacrifice the memories of a bright-eyed boy with freckled cheeks and a love for reading and stolen kisses. The Aemond was no longer there, and you needed to accept that.

“I dare you to say that again,” Jace proclaimed, his chin held high and shoulders back. Your brother was ever the picture of a strong king, sending a warmth to your heart that was crushed with reality. 

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?” Aemond jabbed back as your head snapped to him. He could make whatever cruel taunts he desired at you but would not bring your brother into this. 

“A man lies dead for spouting such lies. What do you think will happen to you?” you snapped a vicious clip to your words. Before Aemond could respond, your brother stormed to him without a second thought, chest to chest, as his fist slammed across Aemond’s cheek. 

Gasping in surprise, you went to the two of them as you saw Luke’s face become one with a plate of food, hesitating for a moment until your twin was shoved to the ground. You marched toward Aemond with fire in your veins and an intent to harm as shouts erupted from your mother and Queen Alicent for everyone to stop. You all ignored them, Aegon swiftly coming behind you, lifting and swinging you by the waist as if you were no more than a doll. Jace tried to reach for you, but your uncle spun around, giggling in your ear at your attempts to break free as you became nauseous.

You realized this was all a joke to Aegon. He truly did not understand that what he did to you as children was wrong. 

Aegon couldn’t hide the excitement in his stomach at having you so close once more as you squirmed in his hold, burying his nose into your neck with a grin. He wondered if you would writhe like this if he had you naked between his bedsheets. 

Soon, the guards draped in metal armor and red robes pulled Jace and Luke away from their uncles as Aegon came face to face with Daemon. Unlike Aemond, your eldest uncle was not one to challenge others to fisticuffs as his laughter ceased. Your stepfather need only to flash your uncle a look for him to let you go, raising his arms in surrender as Daemon observed you to ensure you weren’t hurt. 

“Why would you say such a thing before these people?” you heard Queen Alicent hotly scold Aemond, looking behind his lithe shoulder to where your mother held your body close to hers. 

Scoffing, your uncle cocked his head, staring down at his mother with a challenging look. “I was merely expressing my pride in my family, mother. Though it seems my niece and nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs,” he enunciated pointedly, glancing to where the three of you were restrained. 

“I’ll cut out your tongue!” you shouted as Jace broke free from the guards, coming behind you in support. Daemon halted you in your tracks, his touch gentle yet firm as he placed a hand on your arm. As you paused to regain your composure, you couldn’t help but notice the deep creases on his forehead, a sign of his genuine concern. You shrugged off his touch, refusing to succumb to paternal overtures because he intervened when Aegon was rough with you.

Your mother looked to the floor, a dejected expression on her porcelain features you couldn’t understand before she spoke to the three of you. “Go to your quarters. All of you, now.”

As you and Jace made your way out, you couldn’t help but notice the tense standoff between Daemon and Aemond. Your stepfather, casually leaning on his hips with one hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, exuded an air of calculated confidence. 

Standing in the doorway, you felt a flutter of anxiety in your heart, wondering what would unfold between the two men. You were curious to know if the two Targaryen men decided to brawl and whether you would go to your uncle or stepfather. There was a palpable sense of anticipation as Daemon glanced at where you stood, expressing a knowing look deep within his lilac eyes. He had already sent one person’s loved one to the Stranger. What was one more?

Sharing a look of frustration from you to your stepfather, Aemond grunted in displeasure, following your steps out of the dining hall. Jace checked himself into your shoulder as he forced you forward, refusing to let you dwell on the scene behind you. 

Masterlist of Series

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I know we're upset with Aemond's behavior, but it'll make that character arch much sweeter. We can only have the enemies-to-lovers trope with them being enemies first! I feel bad for the poor MC. First, she's forced to return to the scene of a traumatic experience, forced to see her rapist, and then finds out the man she thought she was going to marry her whole life is engaged to someone else! Baby girl is going through it. Let's get this girl some therapy. (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠)

We're starting to see how Aegon and Alicent might have begun to harbor some unhealthy traits regarding our reader. Don't worry. It'll get much worse from here on out! Thank you so much for reading!

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[balo-badartist]

You've probably been asked this a million times, but how do you render? Or I guess a better question is how do you decide where to put colors because it's always so masterfully done!!!

For rendering, firstly: what is the mood I’m going for? For my Hero’s Shade piece, I kept the rendering rough, relying on rough brushstrokes and brushes with color jitter to create colored texture, and then leaving it alone before it becomes too refined. For my Zelda illustration, I kept it clean and dewy. I render based on intent, mood, and characterization.

To master rendering, I would suggest doing in depth texture studies. Below is an example of my student’s work where she’s in the process of doing this:

Mastering how to render different textures by doing exact studies from photographs of things such as: metal, fabrics, rocks, wood, etc will excel your rendering abilities.

BUT AND THIS IS SUPER IMPORTANT: the thing I notice about most artists with like godly rendering skills is that their rendering sometimes excels beyond their drawing abilities. Then they use their rendering as a crutch to carry their poor drawing skills: the drawing is like the bones, the architecture. If you have a poor drawing with excellent rendering, the piece will look good to the average enjoyer, but it will unfortunately fall flat to artistic peers.

In saying all of this: it’s super duper important to note that, when trying to make objectively appealing art, it has hierarchies of importance and I’ll tell you the order:

Perspective placement and proportion are the first part. It’s basically the drawing part! The architecture and bones of the artwork. The anatomy, the form, the silhouette, negative space, and overall design of the sketch, composition, lineart, etc, they all sort of fall under this.

Value is below this, and to master value I suggest master shading the sphere.

Highlight, direct light, core shadow, reflective tone, cast shadow, etc.

Color is below all of this. You can be wrong with color but not wrong with value is what’s usually said.

As for coloring, it’s a lot harder for me to explain other than to refer to how I use grays a lot. Color is a lot less step by step to explain you see, so I’ll try to explain, but I’m sorry if it lacks much sense! The reason why I’m able to get away with using strong/bold saturations without it being overwhelming is that I use the grays to carry the strong saturations. It’s important to remember that the human eye can get tired; it’s why we blink even when our eyes don’t feel dry. It’s a moment of pause, a moment lacking in stimulation. You have to have areas of high stimulation (high saturation, texture in rendering, sharp edges) paired with areas of low stimulation (low saturation, smooth rendering without detail, and lost or fuzzy edges). This is why I argue that art does indeed have rules, but only so much as our own brain and eyes have rules; it’s our brain and eyes that perceives the art, and our brains have a very broad and universal mode of operation. Same with art. That’s why art is objective and yet also subjective! But this is a tangent.

As for color, it’s again with mood, but I usually rely on contrasting colors more than anything: warm or cool for light or shadows, one is super saturated while the other is typically desaturated. Hope that makes sense! It’s all about balance: one element/color must have a foil to counter it. And when you chose your main colors, if you wish to add a few extra colors for dynamism, it’s your best bet to chose the colors right next to the main color you’re using on the color wheel. For instance, if you choose red and green as your color scheme, and you need more details in the green shadows as an example, use a combo of blue-gray variations to add more color and saturation variation. In contrast, for your red lighted areas, maybe I would use a light gray orange to introduce new colors in.

Idk if any of that makes sense, I’m not exactly the most gifted teacher when it comes to trying to break everything down, which is why I’m trying to learn how to teach 🤣 I’ll get the hang of it one day maybe 😆 Hope some of this helps answer how I personally approach it, and mind you it’s important to learn from actual masters who have been doing this for decades!

[mariacallous]

The only information Ysqueibel Yonaiquer Peñaloza Chirinos’ family has received about him in the past three months came from former Republican congressman Matt Gaetz.

Gaetz probably didn’t mean to help. But last month, as part of a propaganda video for the far-right One America News Network, he took a tour of the infamous El Salvadoran prison to which President Donald Trump has sent hundreds of U.S. immigrants for indefinite detention, without charge, trial or sentencing: El Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, or CECOT. By the time Gaetz arrived, the men Trump had rendered to the prison had already been there for two months.

It happens quickly: The OANN camera pans across a cluster of cells Gaetz says are being used to hold the people Trump sent to El Salvador. Many chant “Libertad!” Some press their hands together in prayer, pleading.

Peñaloza’s face flashes on screen, framed by two metal bars. He looks mournful, almost crying, and does not say anything. But he does what most others are doing, opening and closing his fingers over a closed thumb, making what his lawyers say is an internationally recognized hand symbol for distress — a flashing “send help” request popularized by domestic violence advocacy groups during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Peñaloza’s mother, Ydalys Chirinos-Polanco, spotted him in the video. She already knew he was at the prison — Peñaloza’s olive branch tattoo was visible in the initial March 15 footage of the U.S. CECOT detainees — but she hadn’t seen him since then.

Peñaloza’s only encounter with the law in the United States had been a traffic ticket, she said.

“I felt a lot of pain,” Chirinos recalled to HuffPost on a video call Wednesday, speaking in Spanish and through tears. “But at the same time — a lot of happiness to see that he is alive and that he had the strength to stand up.”

A month later, she hasn’t seen any more of her son.

In his absence, the U.S. government has worked to remove Peñaloza, who is Venezuelan, from domestic immigration court entirely. Six days after Gaetz’s prison tour, an immigration judge granted the Department of Homeland Security’s request to dismiss Peñaloza’s case. As far as the United States immigration court system is concerned, he does not exist.

At least 24 people sent to CECOT have had their immigration cases dismissed in their absence, Michelle Brané, the executive director of Together & Free, a nonprofit working to identify and track CECOT detainees, told HuffPost. The actual number may be higher — and it is unclear how many cases have pending dismissal requests from DHS that have not received rulings from immigration judges, who are technically Justice Department employees rather than members of an independent court system.

Some immigration judges are pushing back. Last week, one such judge denied a DHS motion to dismiss a CECOT detainee’s immigration case, saying the Trump administration had “essentially rid itself of its opposing party.” But that is a rare exception to the trend.

The dismissal of immigration cases for the CECOT detainees is yet another example of the Trump administration working to erase any trace of them in the United States, even though hundreds had ongoing legal cases here when they were disappeared.

Without that legal toehold in the U.S. immigration system, CECOT detainees risk falling not only outside the purview of U.S. law but outside of any legal recognition whatsoever.

[genacity]

DAY SIX. BURNING TIES

ft. simon “ghost” riley — call of duty

you and your partner ghost have to train on how to get out of hostage situations. luckily for you, you’re good at tying knots.

ruling. suggestive — mature content

content warnings. sadist! reader, masochist! ghost, bondage, temperature/wax play, nothing actually inherently sexual ?? besides vocabulary and the fact ghost has his cock out

an. this is short and bad bcs tbh i didn’t wanna write this one and idk how to write ghost. enjoy

kinktober 2023 masterlist

simon groaned as you held the lit candle over his exposed skin. grunting against the restraints you had so effortlessly used to tie him flush against the metal pole that rendered him near motionless.

you were supposed to be training for a hostage situation— said that tying him up was supposed to help.

and now, he was staring at his flush cock being illuminated by the light of a long, flickering candle. where the hell did you even get one of those?

but he didn’t dare question it. not when his eyes were watching as the wax slowly began to melt down and—

“fuck!” simon thrashed against the ties with a loud groan as the drop of wax fell right onto his lower abdomen. he gulped, panting as he tried to find his way out of the rope restraints.

“hurry up,” you prompted. “if you’re this slow in a real situation, by now you’d might as well be dead.”

he hissed. “can’t help it, it’s— shit!” simon was promptly cut off as another drop of wax hit his skin, just at the base of his cock. “fuck, that hurts!”

you laughed as he jolted from another fresh splat of wax hit his skin. “this hurts? wow, i’d expected a lot more from you.” you chuckled, and ghost grunted in response.

the ropes slowly began to loosen around his wrists. good, he was close to freeing himself somehow. simon couldn’t take any more of this— never had this been a way he’d trained to handle a hostage situation.

a large glob of fresh wax dripped down from the burning candle right down onto the base of his cock and right then and there he could have screamed. when you proposed the idea of using wax to better the training, never did he imagine it would hurt so bad.

it was borderline cruel the way you laughed as he struggled. the way you just sat and watched him nearly cry at every drop of wax that hit his skin.

simon was just about to free himself from the restraints holding his arms down when a drop of wax hit his tip and he moaned.

not out of pain. this was a pleasurable moan. not like before, when every noise was a grunt or groan of pain. this was a rough, strained, unmistakable noise of pleasure.

your eyebrows raised and simon froze, no longer struggling to move. “what was that?”

“nothin’.” he dismissed, continuing to writhe against the ropes. but you bent down and held the candle just above his twitching cock— reddening tip flushing from the heat beating down from the candle onto his skin.

“that was not nothing.” you insisted. “did that feel good, simon?”

you tipped the candle as another fresh drip of wax dribbled from the tip of the candle and simon visibly began to panic. it clung to the rim, threatening to fall, and when it did, fresh onto his shaft, he jolted and moaned again.

you couldn’t stifle your laughter. not when you watched his hips buck up, thick cock nearly tearing through the flame and burning himself. it would have if you hadn’t pulled it back.

“oh my god.” you snickered. he panted, still focused on trying to escape the confinements of the rope.

“this ain’t funny, y/n.” simon grumbled, but was promptly cut off by another droplet of wax onto his balls and he choked. “ah. hey, fuck.” his expressions and reactions were just too good to stop short.

good thing you brought a few more candles.

[capicola323427]

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!

Fun fact, in making this image it was surprisingly my most easiest yet visually pleasing work. I've always viewed at as a graph like this

Of course, that isn't true! It's more like this

That is to say, I believe this illustration allowed me to focus on the efficient fundamentals I built!

Everything here was rendered with only three brushes. All of them the default brushes that come with CSP. Which includes Pastel, Airbrush, and Mechanical Pencil. Because it was a lineless style, that means I could be a lot more forgiving of mistakes here and there. Something doesn't look right? All I gotta do is add a little more with the GPen to the shape. Or can I just draw an outline in the color I want and fill it in with the bucket tool with a area scaling of 0.10! I have to practice more with lineless styles, it is fun! Rendering was a breeze too.

Which was a simple process of:

Create shape > Shade with Airbrush > Highlight with Airbrush > Shade with Pastel > Multiply Shading > Lower Multiply Layer Opacity > Overlay with Textured Fill > Move Textured Fill Layer > Finished!

It's a few steps, but once you get into the groove, it becomes very efficient. I'm sure there's ways I could shave off a few layers, like combining the Airbrush process into two layers instead of one but ehhh sometimes I do it, sometimes I don't. Usually, the bigger the shape the more likely I'll use more layers and the smaller the shape the less likely I'll use more layers! Of course, this process isn't a concrete ruling. Sometimes, I'll use more layers for extra things like the bell required more layers for rendering the shininess of metal! Anyways, I would like to believe I did a decent job at recreating the feel, the vibe, and or general look of an old Christmas Card that's more retro in nature. With a focus on simple shapes, a lineless rendering style, and using textured brushes to render, I think I got it down packed. I used a tiny bit of Chromatic Aberration to give it a little bit of a visual pop, and brighten up the colors. It's subtle, but it works.

Oh, and here's something cool! To get a more embossed Christmas Card feel, I used a new tool that came with Clip Studio Paint!

N O R M A L M A P !

Cool, right? I use a pirated copy of Clip Studio Paint 3.0 and it comes with a tool that allows you to create normal maps from illustrations. Which, from what Google tells me: "A normal map is a texture mapping technique used to add surface details to 3D models without altering their geometry" ...Neat!

Anyways, here's what it looks like

Freaky, right?

It looks like an embossed letter when you set a layer color to it too!

Anyways, I overlayed it on top of the finished illustration, set it to multiply and set the layer color to a warm yellow and it gives it not only texture but a sense of depth too! It's super cool, if you digitally paint you should try it!

With Normal Map Overlay Effect

Without Normal Map Overlay Effect

It's subtle but it's there.

Anyways, that's enough blathering from me! Merry Christmas everyone! I'll be answering some asks this week, so stay tuned!!!

[beommieternity]

𝕬𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

SYNOPSIS: It was said that angels were the messengers of god sent to spread his word. But no one could have thought that their god was anything but benevolent.

And the angel has no choice but to spread evil, even if it costs him his life.

—In which, Choi Beomgyu rules a dystopian land with fragmented memories, people and hearts.

PAIRINGS: choi beomgyu x reader

CHAPTER WARNINGS: ANGST, implied violence and abuse, violence and abuse, hallucinations, implied induced memory loss, murder, gun use, minor character death, imprisonment, more violence, blood, kind of unproofread/unedited (pls let me know if I forgot anything!)

WORD COUNT: 4.1k words

Notes: I thought I'd let you guys have it early while I'm still not too busy, cause apparently I will also be unavailable on the 20th

———————————

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1

The air was thick, thick with a silence so palpable that your breaths became ragged. All that surrounded you was nothing but silence and an eerie, creeping darkness. There was nothing to see, and there was nothing to hear, but there was something to feel.

Your wrists and ankles ached, only being soothed by the uncanny coldness of metal and damp concrete. Your arms stung; the pain akin to having been dragged against rough terrain. Your throat was dry, and your hands felt calloused. Your feet pulsed as if you walked for miles, but the last thing you recalled was watching television at home. Your heart raced as you slowly woke up from your dazed state and gained sobriety.

You were rendered blind and deaf, with no recollection of events prior to your circumstance. You were laid on the cold floor, the stone damp with what you could only describe as filth. The air reeked of the stench of fresh and dried blood; shivers traveled down your spine, you didn't know whose blood it was.

Am I dead? you pondered. But the pain felt too fresh, too raw. Your body ached too much to be dreaming, yet your mind was too aware to be dead. Questions flooded your mind as your open eyes that can see nothing but black darted across a sea of emptiness. Your breaths grew shorter, faster, and the sound of ringing filled your ears. Your heart thumped loud and hard, as if wishing to break free of the chains you were in. You thrashed against cold metal and concrete, not hearing the clanking of chains made by your own movements. You had no voice; all your throat could muster was a miserable croak pleading for help. Your gut started to ache as you moved more and more, the pain so blinding that all you could do was writhe inwards, unable to give yourself any comfort.

And there was nothing you could do. You were fatigued and confused, all that was left for you to do was your already strained eyes and succumb to the unending darkness.

Time ticked, and you grew number to the aches of your mind and body. You have lost all sense, the only thing left for you to feel being the smell of iron. You could no longer tell if your eyes were open or closed, nor could you feel if the small pebbles on the concrete floor piercing your skin. There was nothing to hear but your shallow breaths as you teetered between awake and asleep.

But then there was sound.

The hard, and almost calculated steps of a person in a far-off distance, followed by an entourage of inferiors. The air shifted to one of fear and command, your breath hitching as the steps slowly grew louder. You heard chains shift, and small voices pleading for life and death. The once silent darkness grew louder by the minute, yet the first step you heard remained your only focus. The steps were consistent, almost following a metronome's increments per tick. They were heavy, the sound of each step softly echoing against what you assumed was nothing.

Then it halts.

The pleading and rustling carried on, repeated words almost sounding like a chant, yet the silence grew thicker as soon as the steps halted. You felt the shadow of a presence loom over you, and you were certain it was the one whose steps caught your attention.

A deep voice spoke. "Open it," the voice was firm, the tone undeniably masculine. The sounds of metal against metal followed by a soft creak hummed through your ears. A few more steps and he came closer, and what loomed over you before finally towered over your pitiful figure on the ground.

He was close, eye level. Your eyes were still rendered blind yet you could feel the intensity of his gaze against the darkness. His short minty breaths hit your burning skin, and you could feel his hand trail your face. It was gentle, almost loving, as if he was admiring a delicate sculpture presented before him. You stayed still, cautious of what was to come from the stranger.

A sharp pang hit your jaw as clothed fingers gripped your chin, and a small groan escaped you.

"Could you tell me your name?" the man spoke, his voice cold and daunting. Your legs grew weak and your jaw slack. Your name? You didn't know your name. You stayed silent, mouth slightly ajar against his grip, mind numb from thirst and hunger.

"Answer me," he hissed, venom laced in his every word. "Or so help me, I will put you through what I already put you through before."

"I- I don't know," you squeaked, words hitching in your throat. It was the truth. You didn't know who you were, or where you've been, why you're here or how you got here. All that you remember was the darkness welcoming you from the moment you woke up.

Your mind grew hazier as his grip tightened against your face, you could hear his sounds of disbelief, as if this was the most ironic situation he could be in. And in his impatience, he tugged at your eyes, voices of disapproval following behind him.

"So, you don't know who you are, but could you per chance recognize me?"

Blinding white flashed before you, barely registering that you were finally able to see who you had been talking to.

Right in front of you was a man with dark eyes so piercing, they almost swallowed you whole. His dark hair cascaded against his neck, a great contrast to the stark white uniform he was wearing. His face was mesmerizing, seemingly sculpted by God himself, in a way he actually was. It wasn't something you would easily forget.

And in that moment, it was impossible to not recognize such a face. Choi Beomgyu. Choi Beomgyu, descendant of the Messiah that had saved the world from imminent destruction and its cruelest fates. Choi Beomgyu, the current chief in command of the disciples, the head angel tasked to spread the Messiah's word and benevolence. Choi Beomgyu, the man who was given the highest regard for not only his poise and elegance, but also his capabilities as a leader. Choi Beomgyu, the man loved by all.

Yet here he was, gripping you as if you were some filthy beast to be treated with no respect.

You could do nothing but stare, confused at this turn of events. Who on earth wouldn't recognize him? But a sinking feeling engulfed you when you stared at him. His eyes, so dark, they were almost black; their usual warmth that one would see during city gatherings was gone. His hazel irises that glowed in sunlight eclipsed into an abyss in this strange place. His gaze and the almost playful smirk that danced across his pink lips was dangerous. Almost as if he was hoping that you'd answer incorrectly if there was a correct answer at all. The answer was clear to you, but is that answer the one he was hoping for?

"With that look in your eyes, I already know the answer."

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and his head dropped into a low chuckle. His gloved hand let go of your face, and returned to his side.

"One final dosage and she should be free to leave. Make sure she has no recollection of this place, and make sure no hiccups occur when you're transporting her. Is that understood?" he stood up from his place in front of you, shadow towering over your figure once again. His words were cold, venom seeping in as he uttered his final phrases, his tone sending a warning.

The soldiers stiffened, eyes darting between each other, nervous.

A click was heard, and even with just his back facing you, you could see a gun being pointed at the chest of one of the men.

His voice was low, guttural, harsh. "I asked you, or was I not clear?"

The man stumbled back as Choi Beomgyu inched closer, gun being poked at his chest after each word. The soldier tried to remain unfazed, clad in a black uniform with gold accents, the gun almost merging in color. There was irony in the scene, a sad and pitiful irony.

In front of you were two men: one clad in the uniform and color of "heaven," cocking a gun with sinister intentions at a man covered in the representations of evil and greed.

"Alright, not answering? Let me rephrase. Why did you not follow protocol?"

"I believe I followed it to the best of my abilities. Sir," he answered with conviction, eyes refusing to waver yet refusing to meet his superior's.

It was not the answer Choi Beomgyu was looking for.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five gunshots echoed through the halls, and the wailing in the background ceased in an instant. Blood pooled on the white tile outside the prison cell, while it seeped through the textured concrete inside. The air reeked of it, and it all came from the body of the man dressed in darkness.

Beomgyu was heaving. His breaths were the slightest quicker and shorter, and his eyes, almost glassy, showed the slightest bit of shock. There was the almost unnoticeable tremble in his fingers as he put his gun back in its holster. The slight scrunch of his eyebrows as he watched the body bleed. Almost as if he was in disbelief. Something so easy to miss, but it was there. The fear was there.

"You should have followed protocol…" he muttered to himself, unheard by everyone else. A sigh escaped him as he stared.

"Dispose of him," he said, feeling the words getting caught in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Two men, wearing the same uniform, carried the body away, wordless.

"As for you," he turned to face you. His face suddenly seemed to sag, his eyes drooped, and his right covered in blood. His white coat was covered in deep red splatters. He looked disheveled, uncomposed, a more striking contrast than blood on white cloth. "Five more dosages. She is not to remember anything that transpired today and the days before. Prepare her profile for discharge in the meantime. Assure that her injuries heal until then."

You looked at him, in disbelief. A man was dead, and nobody is screaming at the injustice. Choi Beomgyu killed him, with no remorse, no hesitation. Who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you?

And he looked back, the same dark eyes, the same soft features, the same white branding, now with blood scattered around it. It didn't make any sense. The disciple of the Messiah, an Angel, killed a man. Choi Beomgyu, known for his kindness and grace, was a murderer.

There was no light, not in his eyes nor on his stained porcelain skin, as his eyes met yours. Your mouth was ajar from the events, yet his face was even more stoic than it was before.

He turned, abruptly, as if running from your gaze.

"And put her blindfold back on, she has no business to be seeing the dungeons."

Then he was gone and darkness welcomed you once more.

—•—

You awaken in your bed. Your head was pounding, and your throat ached from dryness. Your eyes scanned to see your room: a bed covered in navy sheets, books neatly stacked atop one another, an empty bin, photos of family and friends on a string hung on the wall, cabinets with articles of clothing hung on its handles, white curtains bright from the light outside. A photo fell from the wall, the wooden clothespin that held it on the string losing its grip. Your sheets smelled faintly of an unfamiliar fabric softener, and your room was organized. Too organized.

An odd feeling washed through your system. "What happened?" you whispered to yourself. You couldn't recall anything from yesterday or the weeks, or the months before that. Everything felt like a blank slate, and you were just born with nothing to fill in the gap.

There was a knock on the door. "Sweetie, come on down, breakfast's ready," a voice spoke from the door, tone cheery and warm.

"Mom?" you softly spoke to yourself, in disbelief. It felt surreal, the fact that your mother was just outside your door, asking you to eat breakfast when you didn't even know what you ate the day before.

You stood from your bed, slowly, cautious to what may come your way. There was a faint hum outside as you put your ear against the door frame. The scent of waffles wafted through your senses as it seeped through the gaps between the hinges.

A light growl came from your stomach, and you decide to let weakness consume you.

The smell of food was stronger outside.

You trudged down stairs, taking caution with every step.

There was a welcoming warmth in the air, the scent of batter being toasted in an iron, and the sweet aroma of maple syrup that was poured on steaming bread entered your nostrils. There was a light zest as your mother put fresh fruit on a plate. The kitchen was consumed by warm sunlight and your mother’s faint humming, with birds outside seemingly singing along as they chirped and danced around on the decades old tree in your yard. The walls were tinted orange, and your silver fridge turned into the shade of cool bronze from the yellow light of the sun. It was bright, calming, reassuring.

It almost made you believe that this gaping hole inside of you was only the result of a nightmare.

You shook your head at the silly thought. What you felt wasn’t the result of some odd farce, you were sure of that. Right?

But what happened yesterday? What happened in the past week?

You went to the new coffee shop down the street, it was pretty good.

“Sweetie, you went to the new café down the street, right? How was it?” your mother asked, a sing-song tone in her voice. “Your father was hoping to buy his morning coffee next week there.”

You went to a coffee shop yesterday? How come I don’t remem—

“Sweetie?”

You turned to look at your mother, her face tilted in hinted confusion. “Are you alright?”

The scent of caffeine was suddenly hard to ignore as the pot your mother was making came to a full boil.

You went to a coffee shop yesterday, the one down the street. The coffee was smooth. The beans used were high quality, and its aroma was impeccable. But it was bitter, so horribly bitter that the only taste you could compare it to was dirty dish water.

“Uh… yeah, I’m fine. Still a little sleepy, is all,” you answered, your voice barely audible. “The coffee was fine, nothing special. It was a little bitter for my taste, but dad does like his coffee really bitter.”

“Oh? That’s great then! I’ll tell him to give it a shot,” your mother smiled at her small pun. “Speaking of, dear, call your father in for breakfast. He’s in the living room.”

You turn your head away from your mom, startled at your own words.

The memory was vivid, too vivid. As if it was something you actually did. Yet, your body has no recollection of doing so. But the taste of the coffee was so real, so bitter, so bitter you can almost still feel it against your tongue. But you don’t recall going outside, nor do you recall drinking anything. Yet, your mind was telling you otherwise, a voice echoing inside your head telling you ‘You had coffee yesterday, aroma so strong and beans so pure… it’s bitter taste sure leaves an impression, doesn’t it?’

You had coffee yesterday. The day before that you met up with friends.

You had pasta together, chatted about your jobs. You felt horrible, you didn’t have one yet. You were fresh off the podium with a bachelor’s degree and nobody was willing to take you in.

You graduated a few months ago, with Latin honors at that, yet here you are struggling because your resume is empty. No extracurriculars, no charities. You’re nothing but a textbook printed in human form, no experience or input offered. Just raw information with nothing new to offer.

You applied to another job yesterday; in the café you went to. Your parents didn’t know it. You hoped they’ll never find out. You didn’t want them to pity you any longer.

You’re so worthle—

Thud.

You stumbled out of your thoughts, hands seeking stability from the entryway walls. You were distraught, bothered. You almost forgot about the odd, unelevated floor of your living room. It was dark, the thick velvet curtains were drawn against bright window sills.

You heard the television humming softly in the background, its screen the only source of light in the small space.

“Dad?”

You looked up to see your father peacefully snoring against the morning news’ chatter. You inched closer, almost tiptoeing your way to see his face.

He was unfamiliar, haggard. His face was riddled with gray stubble; his eyebrows were furrowed as he muttered through his snores, a small line of drool slowly oozing out of the side of his mouth. His hair was messy and oily, as if he hadn’t showered in days. A bottle of beer was in his hands, its contents spilled on the floor.

Didn’t dad have a day job? What happened?

“In other news, the Palace of Eden has announced the name of the potential next archangel. Dubbed ‘the angel in stark white,’ the head of the disciples has been currently named Disciple Cael. He has been….”

Your eyes flickered to the old TV, pupils dilating at the intense light.

The image of a man was plastered on the screen: cheeks and nose tinted pink at the harsh cold of December winds, brows furrowed against the lights ahead of him, pale skin stained with the slightest hint of amber honey, an innate warm radiated from his appearance and the dutiful smile he sent out as he spoke through the podium mic of the mansion he called home. But his eyes were empty; its color reached depths no ocean could compare to, and no light dared to seep through. His smile never reached his eyes. His words never reached your mind; none of his sentences were decoded for you to understand, but his voice traveled like silk through your ears. It was akin to the finest chocolate you could find, smooth and light enough to melt on your tongue but with the right amount of bittersweetness to give its flavor more depth.

He was unnervingly mesmerizing.

“But could you, per chance, recognize me?”

“I don’t know who you are…” you murmur. “Are you…”

—•—

“Choi Beomgyu.”

A loud thud was heard across the room as Beomgyu hit the cold white walls.

“Do you have any idea what lengths I have gone through to give you this position?”

His father held his collar high, tight against his neck. His arms were limp against his sides as the older man spat profanities at him. His abdomen ached from each throw that was put against stomach.

“Why did you hesitate? Huh?”

Beomgyu couldn’t see anything but an odd blur of his surroundings. His ears rang from the impact, and the world was spinning before his eyes. A foot stepped on his ribcage, the pressure increasing with every passing second. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t hear. His body ached from fatigue and abuse. The floor was cold against his gloved hands, his clothed torso and his covered legs. His father’s foot was heavy and rough; its sole rubbed and dirtied his pristine costume with the blood and ashes of people who sat too close to the sun, yet never saw the gates of paradise. A futile effort, much like him never managing to escape the hellish clutches of his father. His ears kept ringing, no words his father spoke ever made it past his dizzying stupor. He felt his body being raised from the floor, and he was able to take in painful, shallow breaths. He felt a sharp pang against his skull, and warmth seeped into his hair. His vision morphed from haze to slowly consuming unconsciousness. The last thing he heard was his father’s harsh words, and he couldn’t see past the blurry haze of a man he once admired.

—

He heard cameras flashing in eagerness, people murmuring in anticipation, his father chuckling as the older man patted his back. He saw the crowd outside the capitol’s gates, civilians gazing at the palace doors in awe and hope. He heard children being scolded by their mothers as they jumped in piles of snow, children running and roaming free outside Eden’s gates. There were men with eyes squinted and brows furrowed, some with hands shaking from carrying an umbrella to cover their loved ones from either the winter sun or the light drizzle of falling snow. Everyone looked paler as bright white snow reflected onto their faces, with cheeks and noses tinted red from the cold. Within the gates were guards clad in black and gold, their weapons strapped against straight backs. It looked freezing, yet here they all were waiting for him to come out.

His hands let go of the heavy curtain, and he watched as it dropped from grasp and back into its initial state.

He hears the children, laughing and playing without a single care in the world. They were coming closer, and closer; their laughs growing louder and louder as they slowly morphed into cackling and weeps of men he used to mourn.

It will all come to a point that he will have to kill those children too.

And Beomgyu hesitated. No words came out of his mouth for the first minute that he stood in front of the expectant crowd. He could feel his father’s burning gaze, most probably aggravated at his silence. He couldn’t move as he stared at the people beyond the gates. There was a pit in his stomach slowly growing heavier, as if boulders were being added by the minute. He couldn’t speak as he felt the hands of the of everyone he’s ever killed clawing at his throat, wanting to get back from the pits of hell he’s burned them in.

Gloomy skies were overhead the people he was supposed to speak to, and there, just beyond the horizon was a hill with a singular ginkgo tree. It stood tall and proud, leaves as yellow as the middle of fall. Its leaves flew with the wind, and the little golden fans littered the dull heavens with stars.

He stared and calmed, the breeze that glittered was a sign. This was the path for him, and that breeze was leading him to a future as glorious as gold.

Was it? What foolish thoughts! It was what he was made for, his sole purpose.

He took a deep breath, and his mouth opened to speak. It was rehearsed, unconvincing. He didn’t believe anything that he was saying. It was for the best, for the sake of everyone who lived within the walls of paradise.

He looked at the crowd, listening to him in intent. The children were silent, eyes sparkling against bright lights and once more he hesitated. He saw the light in their eyes, reminiscent of his when he too was wee lad. He looked at everyone’s faces as he spoke, his own in a smile that was done hundreds of times before. But there in the crowd, was a woman, one with a face so unmistakably familiar, standing alone. Her eyes were sunken, and her mouth was frowned. Then it morphed into something more remarkable, something forever etched in the depths of his mind. Eyes wide, brows raised, mouth agape. Her hair was ragged and soaked. Her cheeks were hollow, and there in her chest was a bleeding wound, a small hole with blood gushing out of it.

It was the face of his mother as she died, contorted in disappointment and fear.

He blinked, and blinked, and blinked. The crowd slowly blurred but the face of the first person he has ever taken the life of stayed and remained as vivid as the day he shot her. He blinked once more, and his father was no longer beside him, the cameras were no longer flashing and his hands and clothes were stained brown and red from soil and his mother’s blood. Right beside him was a gun, his weapon, his guilt.

"Beommie, look over there. This should be your first time seeing a sunset, right?"

He looked at the horizon, hoping to feel the setting sun’s comfort, yet he was met with darkness, darkness so immense that he had no choice but to succumb to it.

—————————— note: alr hi i'm back! sorry that took quite some time, it's literally march now lmao. but I had a free week and typed like crazy so I hope you all liked it! i can't exactly say when chapter 2 will be but it will be on your way somewhat soon (???) anyway love you, bye <33 thank you so much for giving this a try :DD —sky

Taglist: @woncheecks @sxmmerberries

[fantasyfantasygames]

TECHNOLOGIC

TECHNOLOGIC, d4ffft, 2018

People will license the oddest things.

TECHNOLOGIC (capitals mandatory) is an RPG based on the work of Daft Punk. It's a cyberware game, but not cyberpunk, despite the name of the band. Your characters have quit their grinding day-to-day office or factory jobs, and are now traveling through a slightly trippy, slightly eccentric world to find meaning in their lives.

Attributes are, of course, Harder, Better, Faster, and Stronger. The last two are self-explanatory. Harder is the social attribute, and Better is the mental one.

Skills are taken from the title track, as it were. There's Buy It (wealth), Fix It (repair), Print It (crafting via 3d printers), Leave It (running), Pause It (for distracting people from what they're doing), Work It (sex appeal), etc. Some of them are overly broad, like Use It, which applies to almost all tech in a tech-heavy game, or overly narrow, like Jam-Unlock It in a game with no breakdown rules.

The game engine is very matrix-driven. It's actually pretty reminiscent of the FASERIP success table, if you're familiar with that. You roll, cross-index your stat and your opponent's stat, and end up with a colored result. From best to worst, the results are Fuchsia, Magenta, Indigo, Azure, Teal, and Lime. The first table might get you your final result, or it might tell you to roll on a second table. That might or might not send you to a third table. You get a handful of Get Lucky points, which can move you up to +3 shifts on your color result. The game has a mild "death spiral" (not that combat is a big part of the game), and penalties you pick up from Indigo or Azure successes slowly mean that you get a Fuchsia result and are out of the action.

I gave it a dozen or so rolls, and it seemed to work fine, but I feel like it's too much. It takes too long to resolve, and it takes too many rolls to get the final outcome. You could get the same results with a single, much simpler table and a d100 roll, or maybe contested d20 rolls and using the difference to determine success.

As the game progresses you pick up "Fragments of Time", which are moments that are particularly meaningful to your character. These serve multiple purposes:

They provide roleplaying fodder for how your character should act toward and react to other people.

They provide you a set of Get Lucky points that you can use in situations related to those specific moments

Adding or removing a Fragment gives you XP to spend.

That's probably my favorite part of the game. Those of you who have heard me wax rhapsodic about Tenra Bansho Zero and its marvelous character development mechanics probably guessed that already. (Seriously, read TBZ, the Kiai / Aiki / Fates / Karma loop is my favorite.)

Sadly, the book contains no art. The layout is decent, but apparently while d4ffft got permission to use lyrics and song titles they didn't manage to secure the rights to any imagery and decided to just go to press without it (which, fair). This is one of the few books I feel like could benefit from some early 2000s Poser art. It just feels like the exact right venue for it, you know? Put in some badly rendered metallic scenery with an overly-smooth facsimile of a human being.

@chubbycrowgames made a quick random character generator, so if you do happen to pick up TECHNOLOGIC there's some existing support for it.