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tildeathiwillwrite · 6 months

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Confrontation (Magician's Bait, Part 4)

WoW Birthday Whump Event Day 11: Used as bait / Held for ransom / "It's a trap!"

WoW Birthday Whump Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

Happy birthday to @writer-of-worlds! 🎉🎉🎉

TW: kidnapping, magic whump, referenced past whump, blindness, deception, trouble breathing

first part | <- previous part | next part ->

Context: Damian's rescuer approaches, and his captor brings him out of his cell to witness her defeat of Caiya Ebony. But something's... off about the whole thing.

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The whispering was beginning to grow unbearable.

Damian didn’t know what the Stalker had in mind with this particular spell. It didn’t seem to do anything useful besides incessant noise. Perhaps that was the point.

The words were familiar yet strange, like someone mumbling in his secondary language, using unknown rhetoric. No matter how hard he tried, Damian could not recognize any words. They were not human, not elvish. Draigo, perhaps?

He knew that he did not know the exact dialect of the whispering, but that did not stop his mind from grasping at vowels and grammar for a translation.

This was possibly worse than when she’d starved him.

After the day Damian had pleaded with her for water, the Stalker had come in daily as always. But along with temporarily freeing him from his bonds, she also muttered two runes in quick succession. And his hunger and thirst would evaporate like mist in the sunlight.

At least the dehydration had been natural, a normal process of his bodily functions from lack of water. This was not.

Damian wished, not for the first time, that his hands were free so he could cover his ears and block out the unbearable noise. The hissed “s” sounds, the sharp “t” and “p” and “c”, it all drilled into his skull like a sharp, thick needle. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, ignoring the pain as his skin, bruised from many performances of the same exercise, protested yet another assault.

But it was the only thing he could do to distract himself.

The door abruptly opened, slamming into the wall. Damian flinched, his body straining against the ropes binding him to the chair. He’d been so focused on tuning out the whispering that he hadn’t noticed the approaching footsteps of his captor.

The Stalker’s first words were a rune, spoken with the same harsh tone as everything else. Damian exhaled in relief when the voices were immediately silenced.

His relief was short-lived.

“My outer wards have finally been disabled,” the Stalker said, not bothering to disguise her glee. “Your rescuer approaches, princeling.”

Damian closed his eyes, trying to hide the despair washing over him, threatening to drown him.

She cackled at his resignation. “Oh, princeling,” the Stalker teased, “did you really think a savior would never arrive? Do you really place so little value upon yourself?”

“I suppose… it was too much to hope they’d never find me.”

His captor’s laughter was strangely beautiful for someone with such ill intentions. “I can’t believe,” she said, gasping for air, “you are still so naive! So naive! This is the heir to the throne of Caenum!”

She spoke a rune, and the ropes binding Damian to the chair vanished, leaving only the ones tying his wrists together. The Stalker yanked him to his feet by the shoulder and dragged him out of the cell. He stumbled over the uneven ground, trying to keep his footing despite her cruel pace.

They walked along a corridor, he guessed, judging by the straightness of the path and the way their footsteps echoed off the nearby walls. The air was colder here than in the cell, and Damian thought he detected the faintest scent of rain. Long ago, he had assumed they were underground, but they mustn't be too far from the surface.

His first indication that they had entered a large room was how the sound of their footsteps changed. The second was the abrupt right turn the Stalker made. The sudden change in movement caught him off-guard, and he stumbled.

Hands bound behind his back, Damian couldn’t catch himself, and the Stalker didn’t bother to keep her grip on him as he fell past her. His knees stung from the impact, and shockwaves of pain traveled up and down his body when his shoulder hit the ground.

The Stalker didn’t help him back to his feet. Instead, another spoken rune reached his ears, and a rope wound itself around the bonds on his wrists, tethering him to what he assumed was the wall.

Air displaced around him as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. He ignored it. When he finally maneuvered his body the right way, the touch of the Stalker’s hand on his face startled him.

She placed both her hands over his unseeing eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” she said softly in his ear, “about how you won’t be able to properly witness the defeat of the magician who’s come to save you.” He didn’t need to see her face to know she was grinning maniacally. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”

Damian had gotten used to the runes having very mild effects. Ropes appeared, hunger and thirst banished, incessant whispering voices, all of them were simple and had one purpose.

So he had thought, anyway.

For one thing, the Stalker spoke multiple runes in quick succession. Three or four, perhaps? Damian lost track as a headache appeared in the form of pressure behind his eyes. Her hands on his face became cold, as if they had changed into ice. He gasped as the pressure intensified, almost like his eyes were about to burst from their sockets.

Just when he feared it would never end, the Stalker pulled away, and the pressure abruptly vanished. His sight returned slowly, similar to how his eyes would adjust from light to darkness or darkness to light. The Stalker retreated, leaving him to his own devices as he examined his surroundings.

He was attached to the wall of a large circular room, almost like an arena. The ceiling was higher than he expected for an underground room, tall enough that Damian doubted he could touch it even if he jumped. The floor was broken stone, and an entire portion had collapsed completely, leaving a pit halfway across the room.

The room was well-lit despite the absence of a light source. Runes again, no doubt. Several openings in the walls lead into corridors, all identical. Damian considered the state of the room, the corridors, and what he recalled of his cell. “We’re in the catacombs, aren’t we?”

The Stalker smirked. “Well done, princeling.” She couldn’t have been much older than Damian, with long black hair tied back into an elegant braid so complex it had to have been done with magic. She wore practical but expensive clothing: black trousers and a deep blue blouse, with a dark brown duster overtop. All had numerous pockets, and she had a pair of knives strapped at her sides.

Those knives probably had dozens of runes inscribed upon the blades. Damian vaguely recalled Caiya mentioning that designing the runes for her knife was considered a ‘final exam’ for a magician. And that it was to be used as a tool for carving runes or preparing food, not as a weapon.

Damian suspected the Stalker didn’t ascribe to such moral teachings.

As if in response to his thoughts, the Stalker casually drew one of the knives, flipping it between her fingers with the sort of ease that comes from experience. She noticed him staring, her smirk widening into a maniacal grin. “Soon enough, princeling, you’ll be begging for me to drive this into your throat.”

Damian swallowed uneasily at the thought. “You…” he stammered, “you’ll be waiting a long time for that.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “We’ll see about—” she cut herself off and sheathed the knife. “My last ward’s been tripped. Your savior has arrived.”

Damian stiffened, glancing around hurriedly, searching each tunnel and corridor. Perhaps if he could warn Caiya before she got there—

Movement in the corridor directly across from where he was seated caught his eye. It couldn’t be the Stalker, for she was beside him, enjoying his fear.

“Stop!” Damian shouted. His words bounced off the stone walls. “It’s a trap! She won’t—!”

The Stalker spoke a sharp rune. The air abruptly left his lungs, halting his pleas. Damian gasped for breath, panicking as his lungs refused to expand. She tsked softly. “None of that, princeling.”

He finally managed to inhale, but the air escaped as quickly as he drew it in, bringing barely enough oxygen to stay conscious. The Stalker shook her head at his predicament, her smile vanishing as she turned away.

Damian watched as Caiya stepped out of the corridor. Her head was covered by a gray cowl, hiding her face. From this distance, he couldn’t make out much detail, but he thought the markings on the cowl were runes painted onto the cloth in red ink. Or blood. Her knife was strapped to her right thigh, and she wore brown trousers and a green, mottled jacket beneath the cowl.

A spoken rune broke the tense silence. Immediately, the entrance to every corridor shimmered, a magical barrier blocking all paths in and out. No escape. They were trapped.

“Took you long enough!” The Stalker called, her hands on her hips. “Are you really so incompetent that you do not know a simple tracking spell?”

Caiya cocked her head but said nothing in reply. Something’s off, Damian realized as he struggled for air. She never resists a chance to have the last word.

The Stalker stepped forward, waving her hand at Damian behind her. “Well, Miss Ebony, no matter what means you used to get here, the ends still remain the same. I challenge you to a duel. To the death. Winner gets to keep the princeling and her life.” She stuck out her hand mockingly despite the magician being several meters away.

The magician regarded her in silence. Slowly, she raised her hand and removed the cowl, casting it to the side. The rune-marked cloth slid across the floor and fell into the pit. “I accept your terms,” the girl—who was very much not Caiya Ebony—said in a soft voice that carried across the room.

“Swear on it,” the Stalker insisted. She must not have known what Caiya looked like. Or she didn’t care.

“You challenged me. Swear it first.”

“I, Natali Tallis—” Damian flinched at the name, that of a famous long-deceased magician— “swear on my life that the victor of this duel will walk away with her life and the life of the prince.”

The ghost of a smile touched the edges of the girl’s lips. “I, Reese Takari, accept these terms.” With those words, she drew the knife at her side. “Allez!”

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds

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molagboop · 6 months

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Life on ZDR, Volume IV: Death and Spirituality

Welcome back to another episode of "What's In My Head(canon)?". Today, I'm talking about dead people and the Chozo who take care of them.

Inheritance isn't the only significance the Ancestors possess, oh no. They play a greater role in the tribe's spiritual beliefs.

Dead people. Who takes care of them?

Corpses. They need to be disposed of! If you're a Mawkin and you've got a body you need handled, chances are, you'll call for the Order of the Cairn.

A coroner from the Order of the Cairn carrying a tell-tale gourd lamp.

These shrouded carrion-seekers are an offshoot of the priesthood dedicated to caring for the deceased. Some parents tell their children that the souls of bad Chozo fuel the light of their lanterns, but it's really just butterfly oil.

Quiet types are usually drawn to the job. They dress dramatically, but they're mostly harmless. Mostly. They wield cudgels, which they occasionally use to swat away hungry scavengers while collecting corpses in remote locations.

Defiling corpses and graves is strictly taboo. In this vein, consuming the flesh of the honored dead without their express consent is an unspeakable crime: only two individuals have ever been punished for it in the tribe's history. One of the offenders was the lich-lord* Shasskal, who believed that he could take on the power of deceased Warlords through ritual consumption of their flesh. Records of this period are poorly managed, but a surviving manuscript holds that Shasskal "compounded these foul blasphemies and bid [the Honored Dead] to his command". His manuscripts were gathered and sealed away with his remains.

Traditional "necromancers" already don't play the rules, but Warrior-Magicians? That's just downright unfair. Necromancers should be scrawny and clever, not skull-crushingly jacked!

*This moniker is derived from a portmanteau of the phrases "zissva malaga kaskri haibar" and "Ninu man cumane oskoro ve elar": roughly "Accursed devourer [of] consecrated flesh" and "[he] who commands [that which] sees no rest" respectively. It's an easy English alternative, in the very least.

And who should keep these records but the Eyes of the Shroud, who are dutifully charged with watching over the Accursed: Mawkin who died in disgrace. If a Mawkin dishonors their tribe, standard procedure is to execute them, cremate the body, then use three quarters of the ashes to fire a ceramic vessel to hold the last of the corpse dust (however, there have been cases where individuals were scorned in this way posthumously). This practice is very much a holdover from the old days, but it is taken very seriously.

Who you are and what you accomplished in life not only affects how you're remembered, but how your remains are interred.

The Ancestors and the Priesthood

Priests are very decorated individuals. The Mawkin value their ancestors, so the individuals who tend to their needs must be honored accordingly.

The Mawkin believe their ancestors persist after death. Not necessarily in an "oo spooky ghost" kind of way, but they're still around. Not that they can't stick around in a spooky ghost kind of way, because they absolutely can; Samus learned this the hard way on Tallon IV. Sometimes, they guide their descendants in minor ways: maybe a leaf in the wind that a grandson may notice, one he happens to be moving the same direction as and leads him towards a benign experience that sets off a chain of events and changes the course of his life for the better. Other times, they send portents of events yet to come and subtly suggest how to circumvent them, no big deal. Sometimes, the message is as simple as "hey, you left the lights on"... though they usually don't pipe up for things that trivial.

The latter of these two brands of message is usually delivered to the priesthood, who spend much of their time inhaling substances that are believed to make them more susceptible to the whims of the departed. They train their entire lives to interpret messages sent by the dead, most of which they "hear" in passing, rather than simply being approached by a dead person for the sole purpose of sending a message (though it can happen). The Ancestors almost never speak directly to people; they suggest what they want through gesture and signs sent in dreams.

No one can agree whether the priests are actually "walking the spiritual plane" or not, but Bird Magic exists (which the Mawkin actively weaponize; their greatest leaders wield huge arm-mounted Bird Magic-powered guns for crying out loud), so the Mawkin don't really question it. It's been done forever, and much of what the priests say is helpful... or at least they haven't yet been egregiously wrong. There have been theses written on what might be happening during this "communion", stacks and stacks of papers documenting the effects of holy compounds on the brain during inhalation, and miles of theories posited by thousands of scholars throughout the course of history. But all conclusions are riddled with conjecture.

Most of what these priests are smoking is burned as incense, usually in a little decorative bowl or lidded pot. The older priests have diffusers which they rig to absolutely saturate the air during rituals. If you're eight years-old, and you're going through the spiritual portion of your first maturity rites, you're bound to sit in a room with an old guy wearing more layers than you've ever seen on a person in your life, breathing in the densest, most cloying air ever to pass through your lungs. Like, "how much of this is even oxygen at this point" thick.

The Mawkin have identified numerous chemical compounds that their priests find useful, and know of ways to synthesize them in a pinch. There are three compounds associated with communication beyond the physical realm:

Mathor Root

This hardy little root opens a priest's mind to the will of the Ancestors. Most days, a priest might burn some mathor and go about their day, perhaps go for a stroll and see whatever signs are sent their way. Vapors from burning mathor are pretty spicy, and the dry, smoky consistency can be difficult for the unacquainted to get past. The root contains hallucinogenic compounds that make colors seem brighter, heighten one's attentiveness to subtle noises, and bolster wakefulness, among other side effects.

A priest who is administering a youth's maturity rites will inhale a bunch of this stuff before the rite actually happens because the substance burned while the kid is in the room induces a state similar to REM sleep, and the waking compounds in mathor dampen the soporific qualities of the dreaming vapor. The priest wants to experience the plane-shattering effects of both substances so they can monitor the fledgling's journey without inserting themself into the narrative.

If the priest needs to intervene, they can, but they're not disrupting the kid by remaining awake. The priest gets to walk around the room feeling subtle vibrations in the air, tasting the colors, and narrating the scene to no one in particular.

That last part is especially useful because the spirits don't usually talk, and when they do, it's especially inaudible to those who aren't "attuned to the spirits", (read: they don't smoke enough of this stuff to know how to perceive the words), so if someone on the other side of the veil has a particularly pertinent message for the kid, the priest's voice in the waking world can help deliver these words to their not-quite-asleep little ears.

Ralis Oil

Speaking of which: ralis oil. The whole fungus can be used here, but the cap of this mushroom contains the highest concentration of the good stuff, especially in younger stalks. When you burn ralis, you'll begin to feel drowsy and descend into a state comparable to lucid dreaming. The hallucinogens will make everything wonkier than your standard dream, and you may encounter the silent spirits of long-dead relatives, but otherwise, it's just as surreal as an ordinary dream.

During a ralis trip, one can be rather easily awakened, as they're not experiencing deep sleep. It is of utmost importance that one under the influence of ralis vapor is not awakened in the middle of their dream unless by a trained priest. Either they ride it out for the duration of their unconsciousness, or you get someone who knows what they're doing to slowly ease them into the waking world. People have died from interruptions; it's not a pretty death.

Ralis is most often diffused during rituals such as the aforementioned rites of maturity, but priests will inhale the fumes if they feel there's something that's trying to be conveyed to them, but can't be effectively communicated through other means. The worst offenders in this regard are the spirits of Warlords long past.

That's right: ralis is most often used to listen to complaints from the Mawkin's dead leaders. But the Greatest of the Mawkin's Ancestors won't just speak to anybody. Sure, they appear in Joe Schmoe's non-drug-induced dreams every now and then, but when they really need to talk, they want to see the high priests or their apprentices: the old hens and rooks who are going blind, losing sensation in their limbs, and are having difficulties ambulating unassisted (All problems that seem to disappear when they fill the room with smoke. These compounds are stiff).

These dream-meetings are immensely sacred events and occur in utter isolation. Not a peep from the outside world is to reach the dreamer's ears, not a single light is to be left on, save for whatever flame is still burning near the source of the fumes or however many candles are required by the circumstance.

Usually, if the Warlord is to hear a message from his predecessors, it's delivered by whichever priest facilitated communication between the Old Ones and the tribe. They'll arrange to see Raven Beak and arrive in full regalia to tell him every last detail of their communication with the old Warlords: what did they see, what did they hear, who was there, were any words spoken, what could they deduce from the encounter, any symbolism, etc.

But if it's not a priest they want, it's the High Lord himself. When the Lord Commander is called to commune with the Ancestors, they are locked in a vault with its own isolated ventilation system behind an 8-inch thick metal door. The accommodations are luxurious, and nobody is allowed in or out until the sacred words have been received. Raven Beak could count the amount of times he's had to lock himself in a dark room with nothing but his thoughts, his smallclothes, and a diffuser for company on four hands. Most of the time, the Ancestors delivered important information. Other times, they're... less than helpful. But that's a tale for another time.

#headcanons #Mawkin #circa 2022 #chozo #if the warrior-magician in the second image looks like they're missing an arm that's because they are #straight up just lost one #leave it to me to take two years to post a headcanon #date of conception: March 24 2022

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statecryptids · 7 months

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TALES FROM THE MAGICIAN’S SKULL edited by Howard Andrew Jones

“Tales From The Magician’s Skull” is a magazine of Sword and Sorcery fiction drawing deep from the vein of classic pulps like Weird Tales and Amazing Stories. For those unfamiliar with the term, Sword and Sorcery is a darker, more personal brand of fantasy. In contrast to Tolkien-inspired high fantasy with its epic heroes performing feats of great magic amid world-shaking plots, Sword and Sorcery concerns heroes of often gray morality just trying to survive in a dangerous world where magic, if it exists, is usually dangerous and mistrusted. This is not to say there is no heroism in Sword and Sorcery, just that it is on a smaller, individual scale.

In addition to classic pulps, the magazine also takes artistic and literary influence from mass-market paperback fantasies of the 70s and 80s, and that most quintessential of fantasy creations- Dungeons and Dragons (and other RPGs of a similar theme). The magazine fully embraces this connection by providing gaming statistics for monsters, spells and magical items featured in each story, all of them formatted for Dungeon Crawl Classics, or DCC, the flagship RPG from the magazine’s publisher, Goodman Games, which emulates the style of classic 1st and 2nd edition Dungeons & Dragons from the 70s and 80s.

This is especially fitting as D&D itself was heavily by influenced Sword and Sorcery fiction. The original edition of the game included Appendix N, a list of the literary works that had inspired its main creator, Gary Gygax. Appendix N includes the classic authors you’d expect, such as Robert E. Howard, Fritz Leiber, J. R. R. Tolkien, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Michael Moorcock. But there are also more diverse and unusual writers such as Fletcher Pratt, Sterling Lanier and John Belloir. The Magician’s Skull reprints this short but seminal list at the back of the magazine so readers can follow their own literary journeys.

Another excellent inclusion in The Magician’s Skull is an extensive appendix of used bookstores from all over the US where readers can find those Appendix N classics along with other bibliophilic treasures. I’m pleased to see that the Dawn Treader from my own hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan is in there. Though, sadly, no sign of the Book Barn from Niantic in my current state of Connecticut.

Lastly, The Magician’s Skull also features a directory of “Kindred Souls”- groups, gaming and otherwise, from around the world who share the editors’ tastes in classic sword and sorcery.

The authors featured in this first outing are all old hands at sword and sorcery. Several of the stories are but single episodes in the long careers of established characters, though you don’t need to have read their other adventures to enjoy these tales.

The magazine is abundantly illustrated throughout with full-page drawings for each tale along with architectural plans for some of the tombs, towers and other buildings.

Issues of “Tales From the Magician’s Skull” are available as print and PDF copies from goodman-games.com

#book review #sword and sorcery #fantasy fiction

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bracketsoffear · 20 days

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Web Leitner Reading List

The full list of submissions for the Web Leitner bracket. Bold titles are ones which were accepted to appear in the bracket. Synopses and propaganda can be found below the cut. Be warned, however, that these may contain spoilers!

Adams, Douglas: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Attanasio, A. A.: In Other Worlds Austen, Jane: Emma Awad, Mona: Bunny

Burlew, Rich: The Order of the Stick: Blood Runs in the Family

Chainani, Soman: The School for Good and Evil Christie, Agatha: Curtain Christie, Agatha: The ABC Murders Christie, Agatha: The Moving Finger Clark, Mary Higgins and Alafair Burke: The Cinderella Murder Collodi, Carlo: The Adventures of Pinocchio

de Burgh Miller, Jon: Dying in the Sun Douglass, Ryan: The Taking of Jake Livingston

Fink, Joseph and Jeffery Cranor: The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home Frost, Robert: Design

Gaiman, Neil: American Gods Gran, Sara: Come Closer

Hale, Shannon & Dean Hale: Ever After High: The Legend of Shadow High Heller, Joseph: Catch-22 Howitt, Mary: The Spider and the Fly

Ibsen, Henrik: A Doll’s House

James, E.L.: 50 Shades of Gray James, M.R.: The Ash-Tree Jones, Diana Wynne: Black Maria

Katsu, Alma: The Fervor King, Stephen: Misery

Lermontov, Mikhail: A Hero of Our Time (Last Chapter) Lewis, Richard: The Spiders

Machiavelli, Niccolò: The Prince Maugham, Somerset: The Magician Muir, Tamsyn: Gideon the Ninth

Nabokov, Vladimir: Lolita

Orwell, George: Nineteen Eighty-Four

Pinborough, Sarah: Breeding Ground & Feeding Ground Pinkwater, Daniel: Young Adult Novel Pirandello, Luigi: Six Characters in Search of an Author Pratchett, Terry: Witches Abroad Pratchett, Terry and Neil Gaiman: Good Omens Punko: Stagtown

Shakespeare, William: Macbeth Sophocles: Oedipus Rex

White, E.B.: Charlotte's Web Wong, David: This Book is Full of Spiders

Adams, Douglas: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

"The fundamental interconnectedness of all things" is an extremely Webby concept.

Attanasio, A. A.: In Other Worlds

It's about a species of brain-earing alien spiders called Zotl who take over and control people by attaching to the back of their skulls and burrowing into the pain centre of their brains.

Austen, Jane: Emma

The story centers around Emma Woodhouse, a would-be matchmaker who delights in meddling with the lives of those around her -- with dire results.

Awad, Mona: Bunny

Samantha Heather Mackey couldn't be more of an outsider in her small, highly selective MFA program at New England's Warren University. A scholarship student who prefers the company of her dark imagination to that of most people, she is utterly repelled by the rest of her fiction writing cohort--a clique of unbearably twee rich girls who call each other "Bunny," and seem to move and speak as one.

But everything changes when Samantha receives an invitation to the Bunnies' fabled "Smut Salon," and finds herself inexplicably drawn to their front door--ditching her only friend, Ava, in the process. As Samantha plunges deeper and deeper into the Bunnies' sinister yet saccharine world, beginning to take part in the ritualistic off-campus "Workshop" where they conjure their monstrous creations, the edges of reality begin to blur. Soon, her friendships with Ava and the Bunnies will be brought into deadly collision.

The spellbinding new novel from one of our most fearless chroniclers of the female experience, Bunny is a down-the-rabbit-hole tale of loneliness and belonging, friendship and desire, and the fantastic and terrible power of the imagination.

Burlew, Rich: The Order of the Stick: Blood Runs in the Family

The Order heads to the Western Continent in search of Girard's Gate, only to get entangled with the Empire of Blood, a tyrannical draconian state--literally, it's ruled by a dragon. But the real power behind the throne is General Tarquin, who turns out to be the bard Elan's dad. Tarquin, being a diabolical mastermind who’s just as genre savvy as Elan, has figured out that ruling openly will only lead to being overthrown, and thus has engineered a grand scheme with his partners to take over the entire continent using their puppet states. He doesn't even mind that Elan wants to overthrow him for being an enslaving dictator--if he wins, he rules as a king, and if he loses, he goes down in history as a LEGEND. Tarquin follows the Order as they try to reach the Gate, using it as a test for his other son Nale--a scheming villain like him, who has continually dissapointed Tarquin. When the Gate is blown up, he meets up with Elan and Nale, finds out that Nale killed his best friend, confirms that Nale wants nothing more from him...and stabs his son dead right in front of Elan because he's an inconvenience. Then he decides to kill Elan's good friend Roy so Elan can be the leader of the party.

Tarquin is essentially a railroading DM in charge of a nation. He's an old white guy with self-centered, old-fashioned, and implicitly misogynistic and racist ideas of how the story is "supposed" to go--he's the Big Bad, Elan is the Hero, and they're destined to have a big epic showdown. But Tarquin isn't the main villain, Elan wants to be a support player, and Roy is the leader; so when Tarquin's plans are defied, he does everything in his power to steer things back on the rails by force, to the point of threatening to kill everyone Elan loves and chop off his hand just to properly motivate him.

Chainani, Soman: The School for Good and Evil

The first kidnappings happened two hundred years before. Some years it was two boys taken, some years two girls, sometimes one of each. But if at first the choices seemed random, soon the pattern became clear. One was always beautiful and good, the child every parent wanted as their own. The other was homely and odd, an outcast from birth. An opposing pair, plucked from youth and spirited away.

This year, best friends Sophie and Agatha are about to discover where all the lost children go: the fabled School for Good & Evil, where ordinary boys and girls are trained to be fairy tale heroes and villains. As the most beautiful girl in Gavaldon, Sophie has dreamed of being kidnapped into an enchanted world her whole life. With her pink dresses, glass slippers, and devotion to good deeds, she knows she’ll earn top marks at the School for Good and graduate a storybook princess. Meanwhile Agatha, with her shapeless black frocks, wicked pet cat, and dislike of nearly everyone, seems a natural fit for the School for Evil.

I think this series is extremely web-like because it presents a world where people have extremely predestined paths in life with either being a good or bad story character. And they are stuck on the path that is chosen for them even when trying to rebel. Also, there is the connection with children's stories(cough Mr Spider cough) and the series villains are very potting and manipulative.

Christie, Agatha: Curtain

Curtain has a serial killer known only as X before their identity is revealed. X has never actually killed anyone themselves — instead, they're a master of manipulation, preying on the fears of others and driving them into a state in which they decide to kill, but are completely unaware that they're being manipulated to do so.

Christie, Agatha: The ABC Murders

When Alice Asher is murdered in Andover, Hercule Poirot is already looking into the clues. Alphabetically speaking, it's one letter down, twenty-five to go. There's a serial killer on the loose. His macabre calling card is to leave the ABC Railway Guide beside each victim's body. But if A is for Alice Asher, bludgeoned to death in Andover, and B is for Betty Bernard, strangled with her belt on the beach at Bexhill, who will then be Victim C? More importantly, why is this happening?

Spoilers: the true murderer, Franklin Clarke tricks a mentally unstable man, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, into thinking he is a murderer. Making Cust feel trapped and controlled by his illness. Clarke also manipulates the entire country into thinking there is some out-of-control serial killer when he was just trying to cover up inheritance murder. So schemes, mass manipulation and control. Very Web book.

Christie, Agatha: The Moving Finger

Ok so the pollrunner themself has said that Miss Marple was their personal fave for the Web Avatar bracket, and this is definitely one of the webbiest Marple mysteries. It's about a bunch of poison-pen letters in a small village that drive the residents to suspect and accuse one another of committing the crime -- or guessing at what might have been in their neighbor's letter. Soon, accusations turn to blackmail and deaths as the culprit weaves their web around the peaceful village of Lymstock...

Clark, Mary Higgins and Alafair Burke: The Cinderella Murder

Actress Madison Meyer is obsessed with fame, to the point it's rumoured she helped cover up her friend's murder or even killed her herself to get her role, and she still has the nerve to act like a diva on Under Suspicion's set even though she hasn't had any significant roles in a decade and is supposed appearing on the show to solve her friend's murder. Actor Keith Ratner was a playboy with a drinking problem when he started out, though he's genuinely managed to clean up his act, albeit by getting involved with a shifty megachurch, and some people still think he murdered his girlfriend. Televangelist Martin Collins is a money-hungry Control Freak who rules his congregation with an iron fist and uses their donations to fund personal luxuries, and that's the least of his misdeeds. Frank Parker is known for being a demanding director who mostly gets involved in Under Suspicion because he doesn't want people to boycott his movies thinking he murdered a 19-year-old college student, although he did prevent his wife from starring in a sleazy movie that left the replacement actress humiliated and has stayed married for ten years (quite a record for Hollywood). And at the centre of it all is the so-called Cinderella Murder, with a young aspiring actress on her way to an audition ending up strangled to death and the crime going unsolved for twenty years, with all kinds of salacious rumours surrounding the case.

Collodi, Carlo: The Adventures of Pinocchio

This is the story of Pinocchio, filled with harrowing yet inspiring adventures. Carved by a poor man named Geppetto, Pinocchio is a wooden puppet that comes to life. He soon leaves his maker and commences a journey of misadventures.

Pinocchio has a good heart, but he is disobedient and lazy and often has poor judgment. And when he lies, Pinocchio's nose grows longer! Follow this mischievous puppet as he goes to the "Field of Miracles", where he plants gold coins to try to make his wealth grow. Thrill as he is pursued by assassins. And marvel as he becomes the unwitting star of a circus show and lives a life of ease in the "Land of Boobies," where boys can play all day and never have to go to school. Of course, Pinocchio gets into trouble along the way.

From the villainous Cat and Fox, who try to steal his gold coins, to the gigantic Dogfish, a terrifying sea monster that swallows him, Pinocchio encounters menacing characters who often lead him to trouble. But Pinocchio also befriends a good Fairy who loves him and wants to help him escape his misfortunes. She even promises the puppet that if he learns to be good, to study, and to work hard, he will become a real boy. Can Pinocchio turn his life around? And will he ever see his "papa," Geppetto again?

de Burgh Miller, Jon: Dying in the Sun

Synopsis: "It was the city of angels, and the angels were screaming...

Los Angeles, 1947: multi-millionaire movie producer Harold Reitman has been murdered and the LAPD are convinced that drug dealer Robert Chate is the killer. Detective William Fletcher isn't so sure — he believes that the man who calls himself the Doctor has a stronger connection to the crime than he's letting on.

While the Doctor assists the police with their enquiries, Star Light Pictures are preparing to release their most eagerly anticipated movie yet, Dying in the Sun, a film that rumours say will change the motion-picture industry for ever. Suspecting that the film holds secrets more terrifying then anyone could ever have imagined, the Doctor decides to do everything in his power to stop it from being released. In Hollywood, however, it is the movie studios that hold all the power... "

Why it's Web: Well, we already know that TV and film are pretty Web-aligned (Lagorio, that one line from Annabelle), so that's a start. The villains of the series create film stars by chemically enhancing their charisma to the point where they can hypnotize people into doing unspeakable things just by asking them -- but the stars, in turn, are under the sway of their alien masters. It's a pretty good metaphor for Hollywood, and a pretty good plot for the Web.

Douglass, Ryan: The Taking of Jake Livingston

Jake Livingston is one of the only Black kids at St. Clair Prep, one of the others being his infinitely more popular older brother. It’s hard enough fitting in but to make matters worse and definitely more complicated, Jake can see the dead. In fact he sees the dead around him all the time. Most are harmless. Stuck in their death loops as they relive their deaths over and over again, they don’t interact often with people. But then Jake meets Sawyer. A troubled teen who shot and killed six kids at a local high school last year before taking his own life. Now a powerful, vengeful ghost, he has plans for his afterlife–plans that include Jake. Suddenly, everything Jake knows about ghosts and the rules to life itself go out the window as Sawyer begins haunting him and bodies turn up in his neighborhood. High school soon becomes a survival game–one Jake is not sure he’s going to win.

Fink, Joseph and Jeffery Cranor: The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home

It's framed like a biography that the Faceleed Old Woman is telling Craig, the descendant of the man who killed her. After she dies, as a sort of ghost, she haunts and attempts to kill her murderer, but she fails. She then spends the rest of time manipulating and killing all of his descendants. She is constantly doing things that they don't notice to get them to have kids, etc, and then when they get old enough, causes an accident so the first born son always dies. The villain, and TFOW murderer is also a manipulator. He gets her on a wild goose chase for years to find out who killed her father, and managed to trick her into a situation where he could kill her.

Frost, Robert: Design

"What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?-- If design govern in a thing so small."

Link: https://poets.org/poem/design

Gaiman, Neil: American Gods

When a man named Shadow Moon gets out of prison, he finds that everything he planned to do as a free man has been destroyed. His wife and best friend are dead and he has no job prospects. Because of this, he is forced to accept work from a strange and enigmatic man named Mr. Wednesday.

Shadow soon learns of a brewing war in American between the old (religious and mythological) gods and the new (technological) gods. Both sides want him for their own.

Throughout the novel, Shadow is pulled along by different forces rather than through his own agency, and near the end he finds that the web he is caught in was spun before his birth.

Gran, Sara: Come Closer

A recurrent, unidentifiable noise in her apartment. A memo to her boss that's replaced by obscene insults. Amanda - a successful architect in a happy marriage - finds her life going off kilter by degrees. She starts smoking again, and one night for no reason, without even the knowledge that she's doing it, she burns her husband with a cigarette. At night she dreams of a beautiful woman with pointed teeth on the shore of a blood-red sea. The new voice in Amanda's head, the one that tells her to steal things and talk to strange men in bars, is strange and frightening, and Amanda struggles to wrest back control of her life. Is she possessed by a demon, or is she simply insane?

Hale, Shannon & Dean Hale: Ever After High: The Legend of Shadow High

Now, Ever After High itself is very Web. The children of famous fairytales being destiny-bound to relive their stories or go 'poof' is the driving force behind all the books' conflicts.

However, Shadow High takes it to another level. The narrators, who were present throughout the series, are more influential within the story. Even the straight-laced narrator parents who believe only in observing stories leave 'plop devices' to coerce characters in or out of making decisions. The titular Shadow High is a school for narrators run by antagonist Ms. Direction after a narrator schism between those who observe stories and those who control them. Ms. Direction uses 'unmaking lava' that turns characters and props into the words that compose them, destroying them so that they can be made again in her vision. She also uses narration to compel characters into doing her bidding. The narrator of the book, Brooke Page, is the daughter of the other books' narrators and has frequent arguments with her parents between chapters about why she can't intervene in the story to help the characters. Brooke ultimately does this in the book's climax by climbing the Fourth Wall and asking the reader for help, turning the book into a choose-your-own-adventure and having the reader write in how Ms. Direction is ultimately defeated.

Also, it's a crossover with Monster High so Frankie Stein and Draculaura are there.

Heller, Joseph: Catch-22

Set in Italy during World War II, this is the story of the incomparable, malingering bombardier, Yossarian, a hero who is furious because thousands of people he has never met are trying to kill him. But his real problem is not the enemy—it is his own army, which keeps increasing the number of missions the men must fly to complete their service. Yet if Yossarian makes any attempt to excuse himself from the perilous missions he’s assigned, he’ll be in violation of Catch-22, a hilariously sinister bureaucratic rule: a man is considered insane if he willingly continues to fly dangerous combat missions, but if he makes a formal request to be removed from duty, he is proven sane and therefore ineligible to be relieved.

Howitt, Mary: The Spider and the Fly

The poem itself was referenced in the podcast with regard to the Web on multiple occasions. Also, the illustrations? Fucking hell. This is the irl 'A Guest for Mr. Spider'.

Ibsen, Henrik: A Doll’s House

A Doll's House (Norwegian: Et dukkehjem; also translated as A Doll House) is a three-act play in prose by Henrik Ibsen. It premiered at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, Denmark, on 21 December 1879, having been published earlier that month. The play is significant for its critical attitude toward 19th century marriage norms. It aroused great controversy at the time, as it concludes with the protagonist, Nora, leaving her husband and children because she wants to discover herself. Ibsen was inspired by the belief that "a woman cannot be herself in modern society," since it is "an exclusively male society, with laws made by men and with prosecutors and judges who assess feminine conduct from a masculine standpoint." Its ideas can also be seen as having a wider application: Michael Meyer argued that the play's theme is not women's rights, but rather "the need of every individual to find out the kind of person he or she really is and to strive to become that person." In a speech given to the Norwegian Association for Women's Rights in 1898, Ibsen insisted that he "must disclaim the honor of having consciously worked for the women's rights movement," since he wrote "without any conscious thought of making propaganda," his task having been "the description of humanity."

James, E.L.: 50 Shades of Gray

okay not to get too blue, but BDSM is kinda web-coded, and that goes double for the deeply coercive and unsafe dynamics shown here.

James, M.R.: The Ash-Tree

Spiders with baby heads eat a dude.

Jones, Diana Wynne: Black Maria

On the surface, Aunt Maria seems like a cuddly old lady, all chit-chat and lace doilies and unadulterated NICEness!

When Mig and her family go for a short visit, they soon learn that Aunt Maria rules the place with a rod of sweetness that’s tougher than iron and deadlier than poison. Life revolves around tea parties, while the men are all grey-suited zombies who fade into the background, and the other children seem like clones.

The short visit becomes a long stay, and when all talk of going home ceases, Mig despairs! Things go from bad to worse when Mig’s brother Chris tries to rebel, but is changed into a wolf.

Mig is convinced that Aunt Maria must be a witch – but who will believe her? It’s up to Mig to figure out what’s going on. Maybe the ghost who haunts the downstairs bedroom holds the key?

Katsu, Alma: The Fervor

A psychological and supernatural twist on the horrors of the Japanese American internment camps in World War II.

1944: As World War II rages on, the threat has come to the home front. In a remote corner of Idaho, Meiko Briggs and her daughter, Aiko, are desperate to return home. Following Meiko's husband's enlistment as an air force pilot in the Pacific months prior, Meiko and Aiko were taken from their home in Seattle and sent to one of the internment camps in the West. It didn’t matter that Aiko was American-born: They were Japanese, and therefore considered a threat by the American government.

Mother and daughter attempt to hold on to elements of their old life in the camp when a mysterious disease begins to spread among those interned. What starts as a minor cold quickly becomes spontaneous fits of violence and aggression, even death. And when a disconcerting team of doctors arrive, nearly more threatening than the illness itself, Meiko and her daughter team up with a newspaper reporter and widowed missionary to investigate, and it becomes clear to them that something more sinister is afoot, a demon from the stories of Meiko’s childhood, hell-bent on infiltrating their already strange world.

Inspired by the Japanese yokai and the jorogumo spider demon, The Fervor explores a supernatural threat beyond what anyone saw coming; the danger of demonization, a mysterious contagion, and the search to stop its spread before it’s too late.

King, Stephen: Misery

Paul Sheldon, author of a series of historical romances, wakes up in a secluded farmhouse in Colorado with broken legs and Annie Wilkes, a disappointed fan, hovering over him with drugs, ax, and blowtorch and demanding he bring his heroine back to life

Lermontov, Mikhail: A Hero of Our Time (Last Chapter)

The last chapter of A Hero of Our Time is titled The Fatalist - someone who holds the belief that all events are predetermined and therefore inevitable. The characters in it are debating whether or not Fatalism is a valid worldview, and Lieutenant Vulic decides to test it. He states that everything is predetermined and our actions do not matter, loads the gun, points it at his forehead and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. Later that same night Vulic gets killed by a drunk Cossack.

In high school we had to write multiple essays on this chapter and argue whether or not we think free will exists and is Fatalism valid. It caused me a huge existential crisis. I recommend reading this chapter if you are in mood for a crisis, as it is short, free and available online here https://www.ibiblio.org/eldritch/myl/hero.htm

Lewis, Richard: The Spiders

Imagine a spider as big as a Goliath bird-eater with masticating jaws, venom that first paralyzes and then kills, a hard crabshell-like exoskeleton, and two evil eyes that you can see looking at you. Now imagine that's just the drone in a social system similar to an ant or bee colony — its job is to find food and bring it back to the hive, which consists of some even larger spiders and an enormous queen. This is what the protagonists of the book have to deal with in order to save England, where the spiders are slowly advancing from the country into the cities.

Machiavelli, Niccolò: The Prince

The single most famous political treatise and the first entirely secular work of The Renaissance. At the time it was first published, The Prince was seen as extremely scandalous for its endorsement of ruthlessness and amorality. Nevertheless, it quickly became popular with politicians and remains highly influential in Western politics today. While best known for the quote "And here comes in the question whether it is better to be loved rather than feared, or feared rather than loved. It might perhaps be answered that we should wish to be both; but since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved," he also emphasized the importance of inspiring love and respect, or at least not inspiring hatred. It is not a guide to how to most effectively be an asshole; it is simply a treatise in exercising political pragmatism. The fact that people like to connect those two ideas, that is what makes this Webby.

Maugham, Somerset: The Magician

The Magician is about a soon-to-be-married couple, Margaret and Arthur, crossing paths with the titular magician, Oliver Haddo, and getting their lives turned upside down. Oliver uses his knowledge of arcane magic to seduce Margaret, get her to run away with him, and to completely suppress her free will. Her friends find her and help her escape but she is almost catatonic until one night she feels Oliver's call and runs away again, unable to resist. Throughout the novel Oliver Haddo is often described as weaving webs of lies and manipulation, and his charisma allows him to effectively manipulate any crowd.

Muir, Tamsyn: Gideon the Ninth

(Keeping it vague bc spoilers) one of the characters is not what they seem and has been pulling strings and manipulating people the whole time to get what they want. All the twists and turns in the book also feel very web adjacent.

Nabokov, Vladimir: Lolita

Awe and exhilaration—along with heartbreak and mordant wit—abound in Lolita, which tells the story of the aging Humbert Humbert's obsession for the nymphet Dolores Haze. Lolita is also the story of a hypercivilized European colliding with the cheerful barbarism of postwar America.

Most of all, it is a meditation on love—love as outrage and hallucination, madness and transformation.

Orwell, George: Nineteen Eighty-Four

It tells the story of Winston Smith, a citizen of the miserable society of Oceania, who is trying to rebel against the Party and its omnipresent symbol, Big Brother.

The Party desires absolute control over the citizens to the point where they try to change the language to make sure the people cannot even think of rebellion. That is extremely Web.

Pinborough, Sarah: Breeding Ground & Feeding Ground

The world is changing. Women everywhere are giving birth to a new life form — hideous spidery nightmares that live to kill — and feed. As England becomes a series of web-shrouded ghost towns, those left alive must band together in order to survive and find a way to fight back . . . In a sleepy English village Matt Edge and those he has gathered together head for a secret government facility in the hope of finding refuge and answers there, only to find some of their problems are just beginning. In London, a group of schoolboys must take on a crazed drugs lord, determined to create an empire from the wreckage of the city, in order to escape . . . . . . and everywhere, for each of them, the Widows are waiting . . .’

Pinkwater, Daniel: Young Adult Novel

The Wild Dada Ducks members cause all sorts of mischief around their junior high school, but although the boys are not bad, they like to pretend that they are true dadaists with unintentional and irrational behavior. This story centers around their ongoing story of Kevin Shapiro, a character they invented to explore nihilism and tragedy. When they discover that a student actually named Kevin Shapiro attends their school, they make it their mission to make him popular and succeed beyond their wildest dreams as Kevin becomes a dictator.

Pirandello, Luigi: Six Characters in Search of an Author

First performed in 1923, this intellectual comedy introduces six individuals to a stage where a company of actors has assembled for a rehearsal. Claiming to be the incomplete, unused creations of an author's imagination, they demand lines for a story that will explain the details of their lives. In ensuing scenes, these "real-life characters," all professing to be part of an extended family, produce a drama of sorts — punctuated by disagreements, interruptions, and arguments. In the end they are dismissed by the irate manager, their dilemma unsolved and the "truth" a matter of individual viewpoints.

A tour de force exploring the many faces of reality, this classic is now available in an inexpensive edition that will be welcomed by amateur theatrical groups as well as students of drama.

Pratchett, Terry: Witches Abroad

The villain rules her fairy-tale kingdom with an iron fist, using coercive magic and the force of law alike to ensure that everyone follows out the narrative threads she has assigned them. Toymakers must be cheerful and whistling, wolves must be lurking in the woods to assault guileless travelers, and cinder-sweeping girls must marry the prince -- whether they want to or not.

***

Once upon a time there was a fairy godmother named Desiderata who had a good heart, a wise head, and poor planning skills—which unfortunately left the Princess Emberella in the care of her other (not quite so good and wise) godmother when DEATH came for Desiderata. So now it's up to Magrat Garlick, Granny Weatherwax, and Nanny Ogg to hop on broomsticks and make for far-distant Genua to ensure the servant girl doesn't marry the Prince.

But the road to Genua is bumpy, and along the way the trio of witches encounters the occasional vampire, werewolf, and falling house (well this is a fairy tale, after all). The trouble really begins once these reluctant foster-godmothers arrive in Genua and must outwit their power-hungry counterpart who'll stop at nothing to achieve a proper "happy ending"—even if it means destroying a kingdom.

What the bad guy in this book is trying to do, that is molding an entire kingdom into perfect fairy-tale roles, is imo extremely Web plan.

Pratchett, Terry and Neil Gaiman: Good Omens

The book is filled with references to double agents and Cold War era spying. Both sides of the angelic war are trying to manipulate the other, and everything is being predicted by a rare book passed down for generations. There's also continuous talk of G-d's ineffible plan, which is never fully explained but might be pulling some strings.

Punko: Stagtown

The goop below makes me do shit

Shakespeare, William: Macbeth

The play takes place in the Scottish Highlands. Fresh from putting down a rebellion against King Duncan, Lord Macbeth meets three witches who hail him as the future king. His scheming and ambitious wife convinces him to make the prophecy come true by killing Duncan.

Well, it's a play so we already get Web theatre motives. And like is Macbeth in control of his life is he not controlled by witches, by fate, by his wife I think this is a Web story.

Sophocles: Oedipus Rex

The whole point of the tragedy is that no one can fight fate. No matter the lengths everyone goes through to avoid the prophecy, it still comes true.

White, E.B.: Charlotte's Web

Okay, so it's not the scariest book. However, the plot is ultimately about a spider using cunning words and showmanship to persuade a bunch of humans to do her bidding. That's statement material for sure.

***

The titular Charlotte saves Wilbur, a runt pig from slaughter by writing words in her web and making him famous. At the end of the novel, Wilbur wins a special prize at the country fair thanks to Charlotte, and she dies, leaving her spider eggs to Wilbur.

It's not just that Charlotte's a spider, she is actually a genuinely good web avatar. She manipulates a whole farm, and then a town into thinking Wilbur is something special so he doesn't get killed. She literally weaves a web. She is very dedicated to Wilbur's success, so much so that when she dies, it's sort implied that she kept herself alive until Wilbur was confirmed to be survive and the farm wouldn't kill her

Wong, David: This Book is Full of Spiders

It's all there in the title! The book is full of spiders that attack and control people, spreading through the population like a zombie plague.

#leitner tournament #reading list #web poll

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theskeletontarot · 8 months

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Behold the Empress, the ultimate plant mama, cosmic nurturer of creative abundance and connection wrapped in a blanket of blooming abundance. Despite the absence of flesh, she exudes an approachable warmth, cradling the essence of growth and abundance in her skeletal arms, a testament to the fertile energy she radiates. A crown of stars adorns her skull, whispering tales of celestial connection.

Her throne, a seat of nature's finest, is the heartbeat of creation. The wheat at her feet dances in the breeze, a symbol of fruitful harvest and prosperity. The Empress herself, a gentle guardian, beckons you into the embrace of her motherly wisdom.

With every petal, every leaf, and the pomegranates on her cape, she weaves a tale of growth, fertility, and the cyclical dance of seasons.

She (and the other gendered cards in this deck) is just a skeleton. She is able to gender bend. While the Empress represents the a feminine parental love, the manifestation of that femininity is highly up for interpretation.

As the next step after The Magician and The High Priestess, she represents the marriage of the two. The Empress is basically the queen of creativity and love, and her vibe is like a warm hug from the universe. Hanging out with her is like getting a pep talk from your coolest, plant-loving friend. So, if you draw the Empress card, get ready to embrace the good stuff – love, creativity, and all the beautiful chaos that life throws your way. 🌸✨

When The Empress shows up for you, consider:

what seeds you need to sow. new projects? new relationships? she's saying, "bring them to my garden, tend them, and they will flourish."

what is the world you want to live in? she invites us to imagine the futures we desire and expect pleasure and passion in return.

are old longings or unfinished business hanging around? maybe it's time to water those seeds.

giving extra love to the people, creatures (and plants!) in your life today

reviewing where you are in your life's cycles. is it time to prune? fertilize?

what negative feelings or patterns can you compost?

If you read cards in reverse and The Empress shows up for you upside down, consider her shadow sides:

emotional numbness

attachment issues

dwelling on the past

watering unhelpful seeds like distrust

"love" that hurts others

#The skeleton tarot #tarot decks #indie tarot #major arcana #illustrations #pen and ink #blank and white art #artist #art #artists on Tumblr #queer artist #nonbinary artist #tarotblr #The Empress #skeleton art #skull art #dark art

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herbalinz-of-yesteryear · 2 years

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6 Tarot cards for a Hallowed Eve

For the spirits of inspiration from everywhere. A little gift for some dear birbs @jawanaka @andordean @xuelingxu @nananarc @do-androids-dream-ao3acc One for each of your favorite character(s). Feeling naughty so I will leave y’all to guess which card is for which birb ( ��° ͜ʖ ͡°) If ye be wondering the extra card, wonder ye no more; tis for moi 👹

If you feel like it, choose any card for its symbolism or face value, major or minor, and pass it on (tag me plzz)! Drabble or sketch. Let’s have some fun?

1. The Magician

The heart of The Magician is a cautionary tale. Once, long ago, when the worlds collided at the will of the Gifted, when he chalked up the matter of Destiny on blackboards as though it was no more than a subject, one which can be studied from a safe distance. He thought he had years and years of learning, perfecting. Of loving. He aged, without withering, without adding lines to his chiseled face, without surrendering one shade less of the aquamarine in his eyes to the fade. He learned without understanding, perfected where perfection bore no meaning, and loved only the stars reflected in the pond. So when the fateful day came and he realized that she had finally, irrevocably, left—their homeland, the promise made for Posterity, hopes and dreams (whose, he would not admit), and ultimately, him. He realized his unlined hands held nothing but quicksand.

2. The Emperor

White. They say everyone start their lives as a white canvas, later, life dabbles and dashes its paint. Their lives started just the same. Before there was black and gold, before there was silver and steel, before the reasons of states and fates of the world, there was white. The incandescence of a dream. The memories of winter. When they collide, when they cross the veil made of wounds and scars—both on rough skins and inside softer hearts—the world returns to that singularity again, even for a moment: brighter than stars bursting into life, the light shines on them. And all is peace on earth.

3. The Hierophant

He couldn’t have guessed her name if he tried. At first, he thought it ludicrous he would ever wanted to try—he thought he knew her kind: angry, arrogant, all edge and revenge. He only needed her to get back to his rightful place. He didn’t need her to ask if he was holdin’ alright, if he had found a place to eat. He didn’t need her to listen to his story of bakeneko, to ask after his childhood. He didn’t need her to come back when all his plans collapsed. She did.

So when she breathed her name against his ear, all the neon nights of The City rolling up in her circuitry veins into one, futureless and heady with dreams—nothing nothing nothing existed besides the electric eyes. When she woke, beside him, her pale hair blanketed them both like snow.

4. The Lovers

She is a princess, he serves her father. When they met for the first time, the seasons were ending, so was the world. When they kissed for the first time, the world was green and growing, their clothes were dripping wet and they spoke of drowners. And there was a chest of treasure like from the olden tales, jewels sparkled in front of them. But the only treasure they found was in each other’s eyes. Emerald and Tiger’s Eye.

5. The Chariot

From the burning ash of defiance my dreams of vengeance was forged. From the shadows of the self-anointed mighty, the machinations of the dark one spread its talons across the galaxy. When the world changes, reborn in a black steel fire, I will be its first flame. I am The Chariot. I don’t look back, and I never stop.

6. The World

Riders masked with skull forever chasing behind the hooves of your horse called you Death. The people whose futures were pushed to the far corners of reservations looked to your spring-grass eyes and called you Hope, heralded you as the Wheel of Fortune. The spirit of lochs bore you like the whirlwind you have always made to be, passed the strangely mournful bells of Cintra and the pyres of Novigrad. The blue-green beak of your messenger cut through the biting blizzard, their wings of azure summoned the winds of spring. Everywhere you go, eyes of star, from the steps of Chaos sprouts life. You are no Death, no Empress, no Wheel of Fortune. Out of all paths, one. And you never lose your own. You are—

—The World.

#happy halloween #halloween 2022 #tag game i guess #emhyr var emreis #geralt of rivia #cirilla fiona elen riannon #avallac'h #morvran voorhis #darth maul #goro takemura #writing

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idanwyn-et-al · 1 year

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There was a fair maiden/she lived all alone. (The Nixie's Tale, Part 2.)

For Eras, a geas binding the Nixie has prevented from revealing her story in full. As her current crew and friends continue to unravel this geas, the Nixie creates these crystalline memories; they are available for any to access within the ship.

((♪ ))

I was a magician.

This is what I remember, second. Lullabies: a babe’s first memories, dim and wordless like moss beneath the towering boughs of one’s mother. The spark of aether: a babe’s second impressions; a connection to life itself, freedom and cage in the same roving package, like one’s father. Scents of one’s first surroundings; the cleats that secure the mooring ropes of recollections, separating one from mother and father, becoming one’s own person with one’s own perspective.

Gentle, everyday gifts from the gods; the hallmark of the Age of Prayer, when I was born. They lived in everything around us: the crackling embers of the hearth; the eddies of wind that heralded weather’s changing; the thousand-thousand songs of mycelial filaments connecting plants beneath rich black soil. Too, they lived in spears of levin that rent blossomfruit trees asunder; the rustling of carrion birds picking scraps of scaled flesh from my father’s skull; the spiderwebbing cracks of ice across the waves that heralded the return of the Autumn Queen’s reavers. The shamans of my island walked closest to the gods and all their boons and burdens, but to know the gods was all of our birthrights. Yet another gift of ours that the reavers claimed as their own.

If only I had known that they were not alone in their rapacious appetites. That in comparison to the great Empire that fished me up from the sea Eras later, the Autumn Queen was no greater than a hedge witch. But even though I was a magician, the gift of clairvoyance was not bequeathed unto me, when I still walked the land to which I was born.

My final act as Himawari, the girl with cedar-green skin and sand-white scales, was to trap the Autumn Queen’s fleet within the shamans’ great undersea temple, calling upon the nixie-spirits of the river delta to aid me. The ships are still there today; suspended, half-broken, their crew members frozen for thousands of years within my song, augmented by the ice they carried in their northern blood. Because I was not a shaman, I, too, was trapped in this song of my own making; rolled within clear blue crystal like a grain of sand within an oyster’s protective pearl. I was cast away from my ancestral home and foes alike, trundled by the ocean’s currents along the seabed, the last glimmers of sunlight above receding until all that remained was the dim blue glow of my self-made prison.

I thought every thought that my mind could conjure. I clung to language; to spells; to lullabies and roving freedom and the smells of home and hearth. I tried to remain who I was; tried to remain part of the land and all its gifts, even as the great, silent beasts of the dark drifted past me, testing my crystal-pearl with teeth and tentacles. Finding it unbreakable, some carried me as an aegis; others carried me as a lure, using me to draw in half-blind creatures of darkness starving for light. Over time, I forgot my shape; I was nothing but blue crystal, born of a now-lost tribe and the spirits they shared life with. There was neither past nor future; only each moment, stretching out in blue-tinted darkness, its unbroken sameness occasionally jostled by some leviathan of the depths.

I was a magician trapped within my own threads of magic. An errant appliqué separated from the greater tapestry of the frozen reavers and their vessels, my physical form unravelling within the crystal-pearl, my flesh taking on qualities of the life that surrounded me. I hungered like they did, you see; to remain alive, despite the improbability of such a goal in crushing blackness.

One day, an unfamiliar sound scraped my crystal-pearl, harsher and sharper than teeth. I remembered a sensation I had forgotten; that of ascent. I was rising through the waters, clutched in some sort of shining claw. My crystal-pearl rotated within the claw until my eyes faced the surface, and I saw light. Impossibly-bright after the abyss, it grew nearer and nearer, partially occluded by a dark form riddled with red and blue lines of a different sort of light. I was pulled above the waves for the first time in centuries, and onto the deck of what I would later learn to be a battleship of the Allagan Empire.

They studied me, the men and women of the Empire, from outside the crystal-pearl. I was moved often, far from the sea, sometimes even into the heavens above. I could not understand how this was possible; at first, I thought these were the gods I dimly recalled from my youth, wearing elaborate robes and examining me with what I assumed to be holy relics. Once, I saw myself projected onto a screen in the middle of the air. I would not have known it was me if the tattered remnants of my colorful island robes hadn’t been floating around my… fins?! I had begun to change; to take on the physical qualities of the depths in which I’d tumbled for so long. My legs had begun to fuse into a finned tail, just like the nixies of the river; my pale scales were now the same color as my green skin; the webbing between my fingers, always present on those from my home isle, had grown larger, and each finger was tipped with squid-beak claws.

I did not know what they sought from me. After hundreds of years in the ocean’s solitude, there always seemed to be too much happening at once; my mind could not keep up. They spoke to me, sometimes; drilled tiny holes in my crystal-pearl and fed snaking tubes within them to reach me. I did not feel any pain; I had not felt anything since my own spell collided with the Autumn Queen’s protections and trapped me within my crystalline home. I did not understand the Allagan language, at first; but they kept me for so very long, and eventually I understood more than I did not. I watched some of their researchers, as I learned they were called, go from youth to old age before vanishing, replaced by a new crop. Sometimes, there were copies of the same researcher over and over again; clones, brought about in the Empire’s later years. It is difficult to recount these things now with the knowledge that hindsight brings; at the time, it felt like being in the deep sea all over again, with no concept of past nor future, only the brightly-lit chaos of each day, self-contained.

I was a magician, and now my magic was theirs. Another rapacious empire, come to claim the gifts of my birth.

Of all those who researched me, one was preeminent. I do not know what he looked like before he wore the elaborate plumed hat, the silver skull-like mask with chains for a mouth, the riotous varicolored coat. Amon, he was called, and he assured me he would give me purpose. He said I was a special being, indeed; that I would assist one Master Sari in his most holy endeavor; to lay enemy magicians to waste, that the Allagan Empire might reign forever more.

Amon gave me a voice; the voice I still bear to this day, when I am not in my own domain. It is not Himawari’s voice, I do not think; but then again, I do not remember what I originally sounded like; only that I was a musician, and a magician. Over the centuries, my crystal-pearl had absorbed the endless droning of the clipped-emotionless-mechanical voices around me; now, my voice was another in the chorus. My physical form within the crystal-pearl continued to grow and change; I knew this because the researchers became smaller, more distant, until eventually, they built walkways, each a story apart, so they could access all of me.

Master Sari took over the project. He was a magician, too; a powerful one, who had learned how to conquer what he called summoners, magicians from another isle, now under Allag’s yoke. I knew that I should be upset about this, but the grain of sand that was Himawari had not yet had time to lament this ironic twist of fate. As he settled me carefully within the center of a half-constructed ship tethered to an isle floating above the clouds, he told me of my great duty, zealous rapture enlarging his eyes. I was to bear his own summoners into battle against the remaining Meracydian insurgents. I would be a living ship’s core that could connect with each carefully-crafted soldier, tribes of summoners conscripted and corralled, their birthrights used against their former countrymen.

“It will help them to be able to refer to you by name, my dear. What is your name, exactly?” He paused, hands above the console, his self-constructed summoner’s horn pointed right at me. It was the first time any Allagan had ever asked me that question.

I was a musician, long ago. I was a magician, more recently, but still long ago. I could not remember my name, but I could remember my magicks. “Nixie”, I replied, in the voice Amon had given me; the voice for a creature molded in equal parts by the ocean’s ink-black crucible and the empire that had harnessed the sun's refulgence.

#ffxiv nixie #my writing #idanwyn wolkdraega #ffxiv rp #ffxiv writers #o glorious allag lost #and meracydia still dreams

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wyvernsoup · 1 month

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Worldbuilding with me: the Erebus 🦋🕷🍄

Yes, it's what the Underdark is called. It expands below the elven nations and it reaches below the frontiers of the Golden Mountains (a dwarven kingdom) and the Twilight Hills (a halfling conglomerate). It is mostly dark, there are a few connections to the surface called "Godmouths". The biggest Godmouth falls between the Twilight Hills and the Sacred Forest of the Wood elves. It is where a big river ends, it's waterfalls lead into the Oasis.

The Oasis is the thing that sits just below the waterfalls of the biggest Godmouth, the fall has become a tranquil lake. The daylight that comes from the Godmouth makes the Oasis the brightest place in the Erebus. The vegetation that grows around the Oasis is similar to that of the surface, but with the twisted mutations inflicted by the Erebus' radiation. It also serves as the "center" of the Erebus.

Closest to The Oasis, to the west, is the Crystal Caves of the Deep Gnomes. As opposed to their surface Halflings counterparts, these people possess a unique connection to magic. Their monotheistic religion tells the tale of the goddess Mother, The Magician Moth-goddess who was once the caretaker of the moonlight. She took her people underground fleeing from the light of the other gods above after losing her partner, filled with sadness. The Deep Gnomes have grown attuned to the magical crystals, they polish them to enchanted mirror-like computers. Since most of the crystals of the city-Cave reflect a lot of light, plus their enchantments, their city is the most bright in the Erebus... and also the safest. They establish the most conections and trade routes with the people of the surface, specially since they control all the floating crystals that work as elevators in the biggest Godmouth.

To the east of The Oasis, is a big dangerous desert of dust called the Godgrave. It is full of dust, fine sediments, detritus, dead spores and bones, giant fossilized bones. The titans that died here are a mistery , some belong to what can only be dragons, but the beasts that once lived here were far too large, it is called Godgrave because there are old tales of gods coming here to die, specially the tale of the drow goddess Arachne. The Godgrave is dangerous, only carnivorous predators live here and ocasionally white bioluminescent mushrooms grow from the remains of a recent corpse, luring curious creatures into a hunter's trap. The marrow of some fossilized ribs or skulls house not only dangerous animals, but also murderous bandits and cults.

Across the Godgrave to the east is Rette, the old Drow City, built in black rock. A recent collapse of the cavern cielings has destroyed part of the city-state, and the Drow are rebuilding it. Due to their lack of magic they are the species that most rely on science and technology. Their architecture and technology is built in a dark-medieval and diesel-punk fashion. There is a mix of brutish and soft elements, swords and decorated machine-guns for their hunters, and spider-silk veils and robes for the monks that forever-mourn their deceased spider goddess. They live in social symbiosis with the giant and sentient spiders, both the Drow and the Spiders are considered to be the children of Arachne.

South of the Oasis is the Tartarus, a huge "sea" of nothing, a void in which things float somehow. It looks like an empty chasm, it has an abrupt cliff as "shore". The Crystal City and Rette both have harbors to the Tartarus. If you look into the abyss below and afar you will see a faint purple glow, radiation seems to come from it. By some strange mechanism, most things that "fall" into the Tartarus tends to float as if there was an ocean there, with invisible and imperceptible currents, waves and tides. No ship has ever returned from the void south, so most voyages dont go very far from the cliffline. Ships do "fish" the strange creatures that fly-swim in the Tartarus: wyrms, flying whales and giant nautili. There is just one real-water river that dies into the Tartarus, but its water does flow down, into the purple void below.

North to the Oasis is a mushroom forest. The United Colonies of Mycelium is settled here. Infinite species of fungi that have grown big enough to have a consciousness and some humanoid fungi "people". Their society is enigmatic, they seem to value music, poetry and when they speak they do so in rhymes. They are extremely peaceful and have only participated once in a war when they were directly attacked by drow and duergar, ending it quickly with an invasion of spores that obliterated their adversaries. Centuries later, they now live in peace with everyone, as long as there is a mutaul protection from the dangers of the Godgrave. The Mycelium feed on the decay of the waste from the cities... and ocasional lost wanderer.

Farthest north of the Oasis is the Forge. The city of the Duergar. They also have a "we followed a god down below," but in their case, it was to hunt the Centipede God of Lies. The Centipede tricked a whole kingdom of dwarves that lived in the Golden Mountains. The Queen was deceived into believing there was treasure below the mountains, and so they caved until they reached the Erebus. When they got there, they found out the Centepide tricked them into mining a cozy tunnel. So they decided to take revenge, the Queen used the Centipede's own lies to deceived him into a trap and fall into the "Godblood", a lake of magma. Doing so changed the dwarves forever, as they absorbed some of the God's power. They are the dwarves that live the longest and also possess unique illusion magic, some even can become invisible. The city state they built here is called The Forge: a fortress of brutalist architecture and industrial aesthetic, they use the Godblood as a power-source.

Three of the four sentient species of the Erebus all have similar stories of "chasing" a god into the deep dark caves. The Deep Gnomes accompanied their mourning moth goddess, Mother; the Drow followed their ill spider goddess, Arachne; and the Duergar followed their trickster god and victim, the Centipede. The Mycelium were down here just chilling and probably feeding on whatever decided to die here.

The three species that "descended" were all changed in similar ways physically and magically: they all gained purple-ish, grey or black skin tones. They can all see in the dark and are resistant to the radiation of the Tartarus, however, their eyes and skin are more sensible to the harm of sunlight, that is why they rarely go to the surface. The Deep Gnomes have eyes the color of amethysts, the Drow have ruby-red eyes and the Duergar pure-black-onyx. The Gnomes adapted to the magic around them, stored in the giant crystals, geode caverns and precious materials, the Drow lost the elven conection to magic with the death of their goddess (while also becoming resistant), and the Duergar absorbed the trickery and part of the lifespan of the god they punished.

#drow #duergar #deep gnome #gnome #elf #fantasy #worldbuilding #underdark

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artmann100 · 1 year

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Goodman Games Spotlight of the Day!

Goodman Games' latest issue of its swords-and-sorcery anthology magazine is now available!

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dergullen · 2 years

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Short Story News - The Skull!

Short Story News – The Skull!

I was excited to take delivery of #9 of Tales from the Magician’s Skull yesterday. It contains my story, ‘The Glass Dragon’ – in the final slot no less! There’s a lot to like about Magician’s Skull. It’s a large-format print magazine, each issue is a lovely production, with every story illustrated. And for gamers one or two of the creatures in each tale are worked up as playable monsters. From my…

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jamesdavisnicoll · 2 years

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Bundle of Holding Quick Deal: Tales From the Magician's Skull This all-new Magician's Skull Quick Deal brings 8 issues of Tales From the Magician's Skull + Cubicles of the Skull, a high-spirited booklet of quotations from your host, the Immortal Skull. https://bundleofholding.com/quick/MagiciansSkull

#bundleofholding

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tildeathiwillwrite · 5 months

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Getting Stabbed Hurts, Who'd have thought? (Magician's Bait, Part 6)

Whumpril Day 22 (Stoicism Breaks), Day 27 ("Please don't go")

Whumpril Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

first part | <- previous part

TW: stab wounds, stitches mention, disorientation, death mention, burns mention, dizziness

Context: Reese wakes up after passing out to find Luc binding her wounds. Damian is okay (for now).

-----

Reese’s head pounded like her skull was being used as a child’s drum set. Everything else was numb, but her head spun even before she opened her eyes. She lay face down, head resting against something hard and cold. Her arms were limp at her sides, and her left side throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

She lethargically turned her head and stared blankly ahead, prodding her tired mind to focus on her surroundings. The catacomb entrance… I’m at the catacomb entrance. We made it out… but how…?

Two people were seated on the ground opposite her, a woman with curly red hair pulled back into a braid and a man with wavy black hair. Both were facing away from her, and the woman was… painting the man’s arm?

Caiya… that’s Caiya Ebony. She must be painting healing runes of some sort. And he’s the prince. Why had it taken her so long to realize—?

“Reese?”

She blinked, eyes flicking to her left, where she found Luc. He knelt at her side, pressing something onto her back. Bandages?

Luc’s smile looked forced. “How… how are you feeling?”

She groaned softly. “Remind me… never get into a knife fight with a magician. Never again.”

“The wound looks worse than it is,” he said softly, “I had to give you emergency stitches. We would’ve gotten you some healing runes too, but, y’know….”

“How’d you spin that to Caiya?”

Luc scowled. “She hasn’t stopped fussing over His Highness since he dragged you out of the tunnel. You were both in pretty bad shape, he’s malnourished and weakened, but you were the one who was unconscious. He tried to get her to help you first, if it helps.”

Reese made to push herself upright, but Luc stopped her. “Hold on, let me help you.” He slowly lifted her from the ground and propped her against a nearby wall. “I need to finish tying your bandages, and then we can get you something to prevent infection.”

She hissed through her teeth at a sudden spike of pain from the wound in her back. “Do you have anything that can stop the pain?”

“Nothing that I haven’t already given you.”

Silence presided between them for a few minutes while Luc wound the bandages around Reese’s torso. She listened idly to snatches of the conversation between Damian and Caiya while ignoring the throbbing in her head and the twinging in her back.

“I told you, Caiya,” Damian said patiently, “she said her name was Natali Tallis.”

“And need I tell you,” Caiya snapped, “that ‘Natali Tallis’ died nearly a decade ago? Her body was burned and mangled almost beyond recognition due to a backfire in her rune structure.”

Damian sighed and took a cautious sip of water. “But can you deny that the description matches? Is it possible that she faked her death somehow?”

Caiya froze mid-stroke, her brush dripping ink onto the ground. She flicked her wrist, finishing the rune with a quick and precise stroke before putting the brush away with a huff. “I was there, Your Highness. I was the one who had to check her pulse to declare if she was dead.”

She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Now can you see why I find it so hard to believe she had lived?”

Damian stared at her for a long moment. He took a deep breath and glanced at the rune she’d drawn on his forearm. The cuts left on his wrist from the rough ropes had closed, leaving only faint scars. “Who’s to say she died from the knife to the heart, then?”

Impossible.

Luc glanced over at the pair. “Should we go and check, if you’re not certain?”

“I don’t know,” Damian said softly, “you never really know with Stalkers, do you—?”

“It’s not possible,” Reese stated.

“But—”

“It’s not!” she snapped, wincing. “I stabbed her through the heart, yes. But any healing runes she might have used, written or spoken, would not have worked. She wounded me with the knife first. I then pierced her heart using the same knife. That knife was dripping with my own blood. It would have weakened, if not completely nullified her magic. She didn’t survive.”

Damian nodded in understanding, but Caiya frowned in confusion.

“Was that why you got stabbed?!” Luc hissed under his breath as he tied the loose ends of the bandages together, securing the binding.

“You think I meant to get stabbed?”

“I seem to recall our first lesson being ‘Don’t Get Stabbed, Reese’.”

Reese snorted and immediately regretted it. “Ow….”

Luc slowly rose to his feet, the concern evident on his face. “Do you think you can stand? We should get you home.”

She stared at him for a long moment before seizing his arm and hauling herself up, ignoring the way the wound in her back throbbed as she moved the damaged muscles. Her head spun, and Reese tightened her grip on Luc’s arm even as he grabbed her shoulder to stabilize her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, “I’ve been through worse.”

He sighed. “If you really think you’re alright, I should escort the prince home before anything else happens.”

Reese blinked. “I….”

Luc started to step away, but she stopped him. “Please… please don’t go and leave me alone.”

“You sure? Because if you’re not feeling up to it I can—”

“I’m sure.” She took a step forward, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth. “I just… I don’t know. I just don’t want to be left alone.”

Luc nodded in understanding. “Of course. I can have an experienced doctor reevaluate your stitches at the palace.” He smiled reassuringly. “Not that I don’t trust my own work… but I have to admit my hands were shaky.”

Damian rose to his feet, Caiya quickly following suit. He joined them near the wall, absently rubbing at the scars on his wrists. The ink on his arm was fading as the magic did its work. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I can take on a sang with nothing but my bare hands,” Reese said sarcastically.

He grinned. “I’d like to see that fight.”

Luc made a face. “I wouldn’t. But my money’s on the sang.”

“It’s your money,” Damian said, chuckling. “Your apprentice fought well against Natali, despite the injury. You should be very proud.”

Reese held up a hand. “Uh… I’m not his apprentice.” She glanced at Luc. “Right?”

The Watcher raised his eyebrows in an expression of reluctant agreement. “Well… he’s not wrong… and I might’ve slipped a few of Hector’s lessons into our training sessions… wasn’t on purpose, I swear!”

She punched him in the shoulder. “I’m sure Father’ll be thrilled to hear that.”

“Celestials, he’s gonna kill me when he finds out about what I asked you to do.”

Reese shrugged. “Hey, I agreed to do it. Just tell him I volunteered so he blames me rather than you. But the Watcher’s apprentice thing? Dunno.”

Luc sighed through his nose. “Let’s burn that bridge when it comes to it, okay? Right now we need to be getting somewhere safer than just outside the catacombs.”

Damian nodded. “Of course, Watcher.”

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @whumpril

Thank you for reading this whump ficlet! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :3

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