#campaign: The Fickle Family

[jellisdraws]

More of these friends because I have the brainrot

[buttercuparry]

URGENT: 2 GAZAN GFM, EXTREMELY LOW ON FUNDS

Long post but I need your attention!!

I am here to bring attention to 2 fundraisers which have been stagnating for a long time.  I am generally wary of punching together more than one fundraiser in a post because more often than not, even if the textpost gets sufficiently boosted, with notes reaching upto 4k or above, there  isn’t really a difference made in the fundraisers themselves. But still I am attempting something here. Please cooperate and have the patience to completely read through to reach the poll at the end. That is the most important thing here !! If done right,we can truly help these gfms. We are attempting to raise at least 2k for each of the families and it would not be possible without your participation. 

1. Alaa Amsee, reblogged by 90-ghost , has been struggling with her gfm since May. With only 5.18% of her goal raised till now, Alaa has begun to despair. Alaa has 2 beautiful children- Maria and Hazem, both of whom have fallen sick due to lack of access to proper sanitation. Alaa herself has contracted Hepatitis A and is very weak, because she cannot keep down even the meager amount of food she has access to. The family is malnourished, starving, tired from fighting illnesses without access to medical care. On top of that- they are facing bombing in Deir al-Balah currently!! They have almost lost hope of finding any sort of help from the Tumblr community. Alaa says that Hazem, who is only 3 years old, has started to talk only of war, bombs and tanks. Please donate and help soothe the heart of a mother. 

2. Mohammad Iwais is an entrepreneur from Gaza, who once lived a beautiful life. But soon his nightmare began when his house was bombed in the genocide. Not only that, the occupation has also murdered 10 of his family members- his sister was on death’s door too, after being shot by a quadcopter bullet. Luckily she survived, but Mohammed knows that luck is a very fickle thing in Gaza and he cannot bear to lose any more of his family members. After the smear campaign against Gazans, Mohammad was worried. He was ( in fact he still is) ready to lose every facet of his privacy. He hates it, but says if this is how his humanity can be judged, then so be it.  Please don’t make him go through such humiliation. Help him evacuate himself and the rest of his family. You can find all relevant info on the vetting here.

On tumblr we often have events where we get to push the silly buttons. The site went wild on April fool boops and vanilla extract. I want you to show the same energy here too- this is about someone’s life. Remember we are trying to raise at least 2k for each of these gfm. Please click on the relevant  option after you donate/boost and mention the fundraiser falling behind in the polls. 

Boost the post so that it can reach people! It is important please! Make sure you donate too, if possible.

[madnessr]

Vagabond

Vagabond — wandering from place to place without any settled home

Poly Lost Boys x GN Reader Synopsis: Forgiveness is a fickle thing. When four souls find each other, the world finds its equilibrium once more; until the absence of another tips the scale forever. What happens when a familiar face shows itself back at the boardwalk after twenty years of absence?

Warnings: slight angst, lots of historical information in the beginning

Word Count: 3k

By issuing the Declaration of Independence, adopted by the Continental Congress on July 4th, 1776, the 13 American colonies severed their political connections to Great Britain. 

You had been ten during the conflicts between America and Great Britain, young and impressionable. Your family came with Puritans, who set sail to America back in 1630. Unlike the Pilgrims, who had left ten years earlier, the Puritans did not break with the Church of England but sought to reform it. All that happened before you were born; your ancestors had settled down and spread their roots into American soil. 

You recalled little of the American Revolution; after all, you were very young back then, but you remember December 15th, 1791, vividly. Your mother couldn't stop crying that day, and your father had pulled out the oldest whiskey they had that day. America was finally severed from the tyrannical rule of George III. 

You came to understand the significance of those dates more as you aged, growing into a strong individual as you helped your family on their farm. You never intended to marry; it wasn't something you had ever desired or looked forward to. The same year you had gotten married was the day you lost your immortality; both events are related but not necessarily connected. You were introduced to the vampiric community in New Orleans, a city that used the day to sleep off the mistakes you made throughout the rambunctious night. 

You had lived through the formation of the Constitution of the United States of America in 1787 when the founding fathers sought to implement more structure into the now independent country. 

The infamous whiskey rebellion. American drunks apparently were not too keen about Alexander Hamilton implementing a liquor tax to try and raise money for the national debt; asserting the federal government's power back in 1794. 

Only nine years later, the Louisiana Purchase happened in 1803. The small land purchase for only $27 million created room for the states of Louisiana, Missouri, Arkansas, Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, and Oklahoma, along with most of Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and Minnesota.

Throughout the 1810s and 1830s, you had moved on from New Orleans and left for New York, seeking human connections and reconnecting with the younger generations. During that time, the Battle of New Orleans in 1815 and the Monroe Doctrine in 1823 seemed to fly past you. 

Then, signed on February 2nd, 1848, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo finally brought closure to the Mexican-American war. At this time, you were no stranger to political conflicts anymore, and the stench of blood and sweat staining battlefields was, unfortunately, no stranger. 

Life moved on regardless, no matter the horrid realities life provided. For a short while, life had finally come to a stand-still, guns tucked away as the world in America resumed its development. Until April 12th, 1861, Confederate troops fired on Fort Sumter in South Carolina's Charleston Harbor at 4:30 A.M., A day that changed America forever, the beginning of the American Civil War. 

The Emancipation Proclamation, The First Conscription Act, The Battle of Chancellorsville, The Vicksburg Campaign, The Gettysburg Campaign, The Battle of Chickamauga, The Battle of Chattanooga, The Siege of Knoxville. The list continued, and the coppery smell of wasted humanity tainted the air, the wind carrying the cries of victims throughout the nation. 

The war ended in the Spring of 1865. Robert E. Lee surrendered the last major Confederate army to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse on April 9th, 1865.

The number of soldiers who died throughout those four years eventually got estimated to be around 620,000.

Only 47 years later, on July 28th, 1914, the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, beginning the cruel trench warfare of World War I. In early April 1917, America aided the effort to join a war to end all wars. You had entered the war effort, like everyone capable at the time; from soldiers to nurses, everyone gave aid. 

On November 11th, 1918, the war ended. Although the Allies won, you found no reason to celebrate. Not when mothers sold their homes since there wasn't a reason to have a multiple-bedroom house anymore, when graveyards overflowed with the dead, when people mourned their losses, when mothers' only answer to their missing sons was a notice declaring their child missing in action. 

The stock market crashed in 1929, kicking off the Great Depression that would last for more than a decade. 

On September 1st, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Kicking off World War II and beginning one of the most brutal warfare's, Blitzkrieg. On May 8th, 1945, Germany surrendered. After the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered on September 2nd, 1945, and the Second World War came to an end.

The war ended, and the surviving soldiers returned with missing limbs and broken spirits. You were a firm believer that humans were not meant to witness so much death; it tainted them; it dulled them. Although you were a vampire, a creature supposedly made for horror, you could not forget what you had witnessed in only the span of 21 years. 

You were 201 years old now, relatively young in the grand scheme of time, but you had lived through a few of the greatest horrors the world had ever seen. 

189 years of traversing the lands, you watched grow in a desperate search to find one of your own. Since you were turned and left New Orleans, you had not met a single vampire. You watched with sorrowful wisdom in your eyes as the world passed through you, virginity in people's expressions you wish you had. A gaze untainted by warfare, civil unrest, and brutality. 

Although you have met the occasional human to brighten your own world, it did not cure you. Your search was desolate—fruitless. 

Your feet had carried you to Santa Carla, the year now being 1963, and just as the five stages of grief had settled on acceptance. You bumped into a group of four rambunctious bikers that would change your life forever. That had been the first time you had met, and you had continued to live together, going on to live through the Civil Rights movement and grieving the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

But on August 12th, 1967, you left Santa Carla. Your absence is only justified by a delicately written letter standing in your place. You had grown to love the boys, but you had lived differently compared to them. 

Marko and Paul were younger vampires than you, having been turned while The Great Depression was bulldozing America. Dwanye had been older, abandoning his immortality in the 18th century along with David. All of them possessed the innate ability to move on from the past, a talent you, unfortunately, did not possess. 

No matter how hard you tried, you could not find peace or excitement in the future. The uncertainty corrupted you, tormented you and your experiences, so you left. Not with the intent to abandon but to sort out whatever you had to sort out. Away from the prying eyes of those you loved, those who you did not want—couldn't disappoint.  

Santa Carla, the town you had never been able to forget. It was 1987 now; twenty years had passed since you had seen the four vampires. You had missed them—a melancholic weight having nestled its way into your heart ever since you left. You regretted the way you had left through a simple letter. A cowardly move; you were wise enough to understand that. But at the time, you couldn't bring yourself to say it to them. How could you? Look someone in the eyes, someone like you—your own pack that never did anything but love you—and tell them you were leaving? 

You didn't have the heart, and if you were a little more honest, you didn't have it now, either. But you missed them more than your hurt pride by walking what felt like a walk of shame as you wandered around the busy boardwalk. One thing you never could get used to was the constant shift in fashion, it felt like the ins became the outs overnight, and you never were able to keep up with it. 

Bright colors were the most fashionable now, with teased hair and loud makeup. You enjoyed it, your knowing eyes watching over the crowd. The smell of hairspray permeated the air, wafting towards you as you passed people. Bulky and oversized clothes were spotted throughout the crowds, some men and women wearing specific member-only jackets. Ah, it seems the surfer nazis still haven't given up on Santa Carla yet. 

The amusement park was new; back in 1867, the boardwalk had small shops littered around—like a market. Originally it mostly sold food and groceries, fish caught fresh from the sea, and farmers selling their produce. 

How has the pier changed so significantly? If it wasn't for the bold, attention-seeking sign that said Santa Carla Boardwalk; you would've thought you were at the wrong address. But stepping on those old wooden floorboards of the pier that occasionally creaked or sunk under your feet was an all too familiar feeling. The smell of salt, rotting seaweed that had washed onto the shore, and the fresh street food made you feel all too at home. 

It felt like you had never really left. 

Your appearance had changed quite a bit since you left Santa Carla, so you didn't expect either the boys or Max to really recognize you. But although you were willing to stay under the radar for the boys, Max was another story. He was a head vampire, a coven leader, and therefore needed to be notified of your presence. 

Entering Max's video store made you feel nostalgic, the same old grimy bell still hanging atop the doorframe signaling your arrival; you had been the one to put that there to originally annoy Max. You were surprised he kept it. The wooden floorboards and furniture gave off a distinct, homey smell. You had been there when the store was built, and the shiny coating across the floors now had grown mat, occasional wood panels brighter in color than before. 

"I never thought I'd meet the day I saw you walk through those doors again." 

Turning around, you met the stern gaze of Max. His outfit made you smile, a desperate attempt at blending in with the crowd. Max was always a stickler for blending in; if he had no intention of turning you; you had no business knowing who; or rather what, he was. 

"It's good to see you." 

"I'm flattered, but I doubt that I am the sole reason you returned." Max always carried that knowing tone, as if he's watched out every move you'd make before you made them. It reminded you that Max had a coven before the boys and you, one he rarely conversed about. Perhaps Max really had seen this turn out before, but analyzing that surprised expression, you could only assume who had left never did come back. 

"How right you are," You sighed, shoulders dropping as you hopped onto the cashier counter. It was before opening, meaning you and Max had some time to chat privately. 

"Twenty years is a long time," Max hummed, a low and almost chiding tone. "What made you come back?" 

"To us, it isn't," You weakly argued back. The cumbersome feeling, or rather an awareness that you were in the wrong, was nearly unbearable. You were smart enough to understand that denial was a fruitless endeavor, and yet you couldn't help but let those desperate attempts escape you. 

"For people waiting for you, it's an eternity." Max sighed in a calm but chiding tone. Although Max never did have to scold you the way he did with the boys, from not committing arson to preventing fights. Max instead focused his guidance towards you on a more emotional level, the morality; a bit ironic being taught by a vampire—but he did his best. 

You glanced outside, through the glass walls of Max's shop, watching the bustling crowd pass you. Twenty years to a vampire was nothing, but somehow the short span of time felt arduous. Why did you come back?

"I never intended on staying away forever. I knew that when the time was right, I'd return." You explained, stealing a quick glance at Max. The older man had a frown etched onto his face, eyebrows furrowed as his own gaze lingered on the rambunctious humans outside. So unaware of the constant and unrelenting passage of time. It was cruel to be immortal; the passage of time no longer hindered you. But emotions are bendable and are the only aspect of ourselves that remains from who we were. Emotions were mortal. 

"Santa Carla has changed, Y/N. It is not what you left behind; they are not the same as they were alongside you." Max recalled, his voice disapproving. 

You knew Max was correct; you knew deep in your wrenching and twisting gut. You jumped off the counter, your feet hitting the floor like gravity had shifted around you, sinking your body into the floor. "I know," you knew; perhaps the boys didn't even want to see you; they could curse you out and send your name to hell for all eternity. They deserved to do it too. 

But they loved you once, and perhaps you can't help shake the feeling that they might love you again this time too. 

Max sighed, walking over to his front door and twisting the closed sign around, and pronouncing the store now open. Each tap of his foot, synced with his steps, was like a thundering echo inside you. It prompted you to get up and to provide closure for the others. You reach the door, opening midway before Max leaves you with some parting advice. 

"I hope you find what you came here for, Y/N. But the time might be right for you now, but it might not be for them."

You nodded, not looking back as you walked out of the store. The air was warmer, humid from the ocean breeze mixing into the air, the notorious assassin for any styled and teased hair due.

Laughter was one of your favorite sounds. As cliche as that might sound, it felt rejuvenating to hear. Whether it was a loud cackle mimicking the call of a hyena or a high-pitched wheeze or whistle. There was a beauty in people's expressions, how their noses tended to scrunch up, or how others held their stomachs and nearly doubled over. Laughter was infectious, and you loved observing the dopamine spread to others. Strangers connecting over a similar sense of joy; there was a beauty in it. 

The boardwalk was filled with it, people brushing shoulders against shoulders as they walked. Groups cackling and shoving each other as they enjoyed the youngness of the evening. Music booming from different directions, punks blasting the newest rap or metal music, hippies tuning out to a gentle jam, but the loudest seemed to be a distant concert down the boardwalk and closer to the pier. Like a bee sensing some honey, you followed. Dodging the occasional passerby, ducking out of the way from shop owners lugging their merchandise around. 

The music got louder, and a small thread of excitement seemed to push you further, faster. Your small stroll transformed into a quickened step, your ears guiding you and your eyes following the crowd. The music was loud; a tight smosh-like pit had formed before the stage where people grind and brushed against each other to the beat of the music. 

Looking around, you scanned the faces of teenagers and young adults. There was an eager but dreaded nervousness to your gaze at the thought of seeing a face that looked familiar. But it wasn't your eyes that caught their presence, but rather your sense of smell. 

 Copper. 

Although it was harder to pick up when the wind stills its prancing, the occasional breeze led you further towards the pier. Away from the smosh pit, and where people stood to enjoy the music but not risk getting mulled over by a hormonal teenager. 

There they stood, strikingly familiar. Although some of the fashion had changed, most of their originality stayed intact. That tiny red flag tied around Dwayne's waist was something the two of you had stolen from a stingy bar owner back in 1964; Markos jacket still had all too familiar patches sewn into its denim fabric; Paul still wore those bracelets you gave him, and David wore the most prominent reminder of you, his oversized coat. 

The wind picked up around you, a cold and mocking breeze flowing through your hair and betraying your presence to the four men you had left behind all those years ago. One by one, heads lifted, smiling ceased, and laughter died. Although you had spent years preparing yourself for this moment, nothing felt so gut-wrenchingly real than standing before them. 

How do you look someone in the eyes after you've abandoned them?

How do you move past that moment when the world around you stills and halts. When you lose yourself in the blear of the world when mortality reaches its hand around your heart and squeezes. A vice-like grip, a feeling blooming within your chest so heavy–so unspeakable. When you see those eyes, recognize the sorrow behind them and realize you were the perpetrator. You were the one who put that agony, that sadness there.

The burden of your actions ties itself around your throat like a noose, tight and unyielding, as you realize the cruelty was done by none other than yourself. And there is no way, in any shape or form, you could reverse the damage you've done. Pain is immortal, it might yield to its throbbing, but it never forgets. 

A world with your boys back in 1967 exists now only in your memory. The four men, cold as the autumn waters, were your reality now. 

"Hello, boys."

[is-today-tomorrow-in-nz]

Why Nikolai fails as a leader

I made a post about why I cannot accept Alina as a protagonist here. I wanted to continue the trend and do the same with the other members of the Righteous Gang. I will start with Nikolai this time.

This is a long read so, brace yourselves.

Nikolai Lanstov is a character I enjoyed reading very much and he is the only member of the Righteous Gang that I find likeable. He is shown as an inventor, visionary, a lawless pirate and a prince who threw away his cushy life to support his country. LB proposes him as an alternative- the 'good' leader opposed to the 'evil' Darkling. However, as the story progresses, we cannot help but see several parallels between them. Both are clever, have a thirst for power(not for themselves), are patriotic and posses an opportunistic nature.

So what differentiates our 'Good' King from the Dark Lord? The short answer is LB and her plot armour.

In other words, the 'goodness' in Nikolai that is supposed to make him better than the Darkling is never put under trial. Even though, Nikolai as a character has enough traits in him to make him swing easily towards the 'evil side', LB restricts his character to his goodness and devices a plot armour in such way that his morals and ideals are rarely threatened.

Let me point out a few key instances where LB restricts Nikolai's character growth to keep up his clean image:

Nikolai's bid for the throne: Ever since Sturmhond's true identity as Nikolai is revealed, we are shown of his ambition to take over the throne of Ravka. We also see the ground work he had laid since his days as a soldier in the First Army but his plans just stops there. After re-entering Ravka, his only plan is to solely rely on Alina(a fickle person at best) accepting his hand in marriage, kickstarting his campaign for the throne. With the Darkling on the run and the country in shambles, we see no tangible efforts from him even when the situation calls for it He neither strong arms Vasily(or the King) nor does he march in and seize the throne. He does nothing but attend meetings and act as an underling to Vasily. For someone who loves Ravka enough to give up his princehood and live his days as a pirate in the sea, we don't see him doing much to aid the said country when it is in literal chaos.

So how does Nikolai secure the throne?

Answer: The Darkling does it for him.

LB had already established Nikolai as a morally grey character. So why didn't she let Nikolai blackmail his father or brother to position himself in the throne? The country is in shambles and the entire population is looking for a miracle. Marching in with the Sun Summoner, his First Army supporters and seizing the throne is obviously the correct step here and yet we don't see Nikolai doing that or rather LB doesn't let him do that because if she did, then how can she differentiate her hero from the villain?

Nikolai's when faced with the truth about his parents: For once, we are given an excellent opportunity to see how good and righteous Nikolai is. He learns the truth about his dear father, aka the rapist King. He also learns how his mother had been turning a blind eye to his crimes for years. And he, their only remaining son, is placed is in a position to dole out judgement for their crimes.

How does Nikolai punish his family?

Answer: He doesn't.

He shamelessly uses the opportunity to establish himself as the King and sends his parents on a nice, luxury retirement to the colonies. So where did his sense of justice go? How is he the 'good' King when his first instinct is to pardon his kin and not hold them accountable? Isn't that what self-righteous, non-Darklings supposed to do? And the way LB later twists this on the Darkling is laughable. Nikolai literally denies Genya her justice and yet the Darkling is blamed for it. Instead of Nikolai shouldering the responsibility for his actions(by extension his family's), the entire fault is solely placed on the Darkling. What is one more evil deed to his list of crimes, eh Miss LB?

Nikolai on Mal's insubordination. Why does he allow Mal(much later we see it with Zoya too), a literal nobody, to talk and treat him the way he does? He was well within his rights as a prince to demand Mal's blood and yet time and time again he lets Mal walk scot-free? Why? Because he is different? Because he wants Alina to see him in a positive light? To present himself as a better prospect? Because he is a good person at heart that doesn't want to force Alina into something and 'win' her over? So kissing Alina without her consent, in a public event no less, was an act of chivalry?

Answer: Because if he acted, it would make him look as 'bad' as the Darkling. The Darkling would have never accepted insubordination from anyone let alone a nobody tracker from the First Army. He demands respect as any good leader should. Punishment for insubordination is not as 'evil' act as LB perceives it to be. It has been existing since the dawn of time and it exists even in today's modern society. You cannot mouth off figures of authority without consequences. And yet LB cannot have that because Nikolai is not the Darkling. He is different, he is 'good'.

*****

Throughout the trilogy and duology, through several mouth-pieces, LB keeps telling us how much of a good person Nikolai is and yet when presented with an actual moral dilemma, she does not allow him to make a decision that would sully his 'goodness'. So how can we, as readers, call him 'good' when he is never presented with a trolley problem?

LB keeps shooting Nikolai in the knee to keep him from growing. Because if he did, then we would see how he was no different from the Darkling. The 'evilness' of the Darkling stems from the fact that he had to make hard choices since the day he was born. He had taken up an cause that no one before him did and so being 'good' was never an option for him because the only choices he had were preserving his soul or preserving his community. And he chose the latter and this is where Nikolai fails as a leader. Nikolai never had to make a choice of sacrificing a few for the goodness of many. LB swathes him in plot armour after plot armour that by the end of the duology he is almost as virtuous as Virgin Mary.

It's a shame that LB's views of the world are restricted to black and white. Had she understood the nuances of morality, she would not have maimed one of her strong characters.

A good King shows strength, courage and fights for his country. He commands respect from his subordinates and strives to improve the lives of his subjects. A good leader does not hesitate to use any tools at his disposal to get results he needs- diplomacy, violence, threats, warfare etc. A good leader will always puts his people first before his morals and more importantly does not give up his crown to Daenerys Targaryen knock-offs. By making Nikolai's character cling to his cloak of morality, LB makes him look like a people-pleasing child rather than a formidable leader he has the potential to be.

In conclusion, as much as I like Nikolai as a character, I would say Uther Pendragon made a better King to Camelot than Nikolai did to Ravka.

[ghelgheli]

agree with everything you said but iran is not imperialist. ethnonationalist theocracy sure but where are you getting imperialism from. empire =\ imperialist, would you call russia imperialist?

The Iranian state is not even half a century removed from being a formal empire: Pahlavi Iran was "The Imperial State of Iran" and recalled imperial possessions lost to Tsarist Russia another century prior. But setting aside nomenclature, which is fickle and floats—It's exactly that ethnonationalism which forms the logic of what I have been calling imperialism, even if there are not formal imperial possessions involved.

The consolidation of "irani" national identity through the 19th century went together with heightening of the core's exploitative and even colonial relationship to its periphery. This relationship can be traced back centuries to the earliest period of "reclaimed" Iranian rule of the region in the case of e.g. the forced displacement of Kurds to Khorāsān under early 16th century Safavid shahs. With the latest, industrial stage of Iranian statecraft and nation-building, the economic nature of this exploitation has been accelerated and what autonomy the peripheries previously had is restrained by the growing military apparatus the IRI commands.

The country's oil reserves are heavily concentrated in the province of Khuzestan, home to the city of Ahwaz/Ahvaz and most of the nearly two million or so Iranian Arabs. This is a region that is obviously of great economic significance. Strikes in 1978 played a major role in precipitating the fall of the Pahlavi dynasty, and in a pattern that will be familiar to the people who know, many of the communists and worker's parties responsible were put down by the subsequent IRI that owed its existence to them. Labour rights in the region remain suppressed; little of the wealth extracted from factories there is seen by the ethnic minorities that compose much of the working population, making its way instead to the private monopolies of the core; Ahwaz itself is sickeningly and dangerously polluted as reward for the riches it yields. What is this exploitation but imperialism?

And what of the constant harassment and material extortion of Kurdish kolbars carrying goods across the mountains in Kurdistan? The pāsdārān/IRGC often "confiscate" the possessions of people working to move essential wares within their families and communities, if they don't kill them outright, citing border violations if they make any excuses at all. This only exacerbates the ongoing economic deprivation of both Rojhilat/Iranian Kurdistan and Kurds in nearby parts of greater Kurdistan, whose economies and societies are disrupted by the border. Seems pretty imperialist to me.

Meanwhile, the national hero Qassem Soleimani is in fact reviled by many of the people who actually lived in those regions of Syria and Iraq that were his remit. He was known not only for his opposition to US imperialism and campaigns against Da'esh, but also for overseeing violence against protesters in the region and serving as the figurehead of Iranian intervention in local people's movements. Exertion of military force on other nations beyond the boundaries of the state, in the interest of developing its political and economic sphere—what would you call this?

Don't misunderstand me: the solution is not reactionary intervention in Iran, and anyone who tries to leverage these facts to advocate for US-collaborationist separatism is just a would-be comprador. But the political economy of Iran relies on an ongoing imperialism that is only the latest stage of an imperial legacy.

[king-bito]

Meet Rhyme, my new campaign character for the desert themed 5e d&d. Shu is a non binary Air Genasi with a fickle personality, they struggle to uphold their teachings as a Sun Soul Monk when faced with ass holes who deserve to be punched in the face!

Tbh? Mood.

I'm excited to bring a less angsty character to the party and really challenge the groups sombre dynamics with this family loving air head with a billion siblings, 3 parents and a knack for finding trouble.

I just have to wait another week and a half for the next game...

Artbyme <3

[wineworshipped]

The Laughing God

His name is Dionysus. Liber, Bromius, Bacchus too, yes, but always Dionysus first and foremost. God of wine, fertility, excess, ecstasy, theatre, release, rebirth, madness, and the wild joys of total liberation. The original uninhibited god, born of mortal Semele and immortal Zeus, aegis-bearer, twice-born and full of mirth. The dithyramb is beat in his honor; maneads and bacchants dance in the wild wood for his pleasures. Such is the glory of great Dionysus, madcap lord of the midnight revels.

—Well. Such was the glory of Dionysus, lord of the torches. It’s Dio nowdays. Dio Theoinos among the mortal crowds, hot-shot producer/director and King of the Great White Way. (Dɪᴏɴysᴜs is awfully stiff and old-timey, don’t you think? Something a little catchier was in order for the new age.) Unseated from Olympus like the rest of his family when the new deities came into power, he’s done pretty well for himself since; he has a big media following, a handful of accidental cults, a few modern maneads—nothing spectacular, but certainly enough to get by on. A bit of prayer here and there, a few starving artists looking for a bit of luck, and bam!, he’s back in business. Maybe not running at full capacity, but not exactly putzing around on empty.

Dio is about what you’d expect of him; formerly a blinding force of joy and freedom, he still upholds the right to artistic expression and creativity…it just comes a little more tempered at his advanced age and decreased popularity. He is often surly and unamused, feeling usurped, and while quick to offense, he is equally quick to forgive. Dionysus is a fickle god at best. Sassy, snarky, witty, and sharp-tongued, Dio spends much of his time among the mortal rabble, and has picked up a few of their habits; but being immortal, he tries not to get too attached.

name: Dio(nysus), Bacchus, Bromius, Liber, Cisseus

alias: Dio Theoinos (usually)

pronouns: he/him (usually)

pantheon: Greek, Roman

familial status: Youngest of the Olympians (two uncles, one father, the Bitch, two aunts, two sisters, a sister-aunt-why are you trying to dissect ancient myth here?, two brothers—it’s actually quite a lot.)

age: Immortal

residence: New York City, New York; Los Angeles, California; Naxos, Greece; Olympus; wherever story demands

martial status: Widowed* Single

orientation: a bisexual disaster

face: Alan Cumming (Dio & most variants)

build: Svelt

height: 5’10” (sometimes up to 6′8″ For Dramatic Effect™️)

hair: Changes with the day. He prefers keeping dark hair or going “distinguished” grey.

eyes: Merlot. (It’s a wine thing.)

postive: philanthropic (…well, to a greater degree than the rest of his family), creative, artistic, loyal, individualistic, (relatively) open-minded, readily accepting, etc.

negative: arrogant, conceited, self-important, self-righteous, pompous, egotistical, narcissistic, fickle, non-committal…the list goes on.

*According to myth, Dionysus married the mortal woman Ariadne of Crete…but, unable to bear the grief of separation from her love, Theseus of Athens, she died. Or ascended to heaven. The story’s a little split on that one. Dio…doesn’t like thinking of himself as “widowed”.

myers-briggs

ENFP: The Campaigner.

extraverted, intuitive, feeling, prospecting, turbulent

Strengths: curious, observant, energetic & enthusiastic, excellent communicator, knows how to relax, very popular & friendly

Weaknesses: poor practical skills, difficulty focusing, overthinks things, gets stressed easily, highly emotional, independent to a fault

moral alignment

Chaotic Good: “The Rebel”

combines a good heart with a free spirit

[sam-glade]

Happy WBW! For Spooky Season, what's something creepy about your world? (Creepy up for interpretation. 🙃)

Happy WBW, Tori!

Where do I start... I've got a fair share of bloodsucking or haunting creatures, but I definitely under-utilise them. But to be a bit more setting-specific:

CW: mind control and manipulation, intrusive thoughts

The mechanic of beliefs shaping reality has implications. If you're famous enough to be considered a living legend, popular beliefs about you will force your hand, to the point of stabbing a member of your found family, if people believe they've betrayed you. But! This is a very fickle tool. E.g. if a legend says 'this person is unkillable, except by a glass blade', and over time people forget the second part... yeah, there's no way to kill them. Between Days of Dusk and The Truth Teller, Anthea becomes known as the Tyrant Prince, through a smear campaign against her. It gets to the point where she'd rather die than introduce laws the reputation forces her to.

There are three half-brothers with exceptionally powerful Swords. One of them forces people to believe anything he says, and the lies are contagious - even if you hear it second-hand, you'll believe it. But no, lying to the protagonist would be too simple. He'd rather lie to the protag's friends and let them gaslight him. The second brother forces others to follow his orders, not puppeteering them, but making them want to do his bidding, even being excited at the prospect. And the last one created illusions, which are most believable when they induce fear.

The Nameless, the demon possessing Lissan in the first book, has a hobby - to supply all sorts of creative ways Lissan could kill anyone around him. That goes on for a better part of a year. Have an example below:

Marta emerged from the deer path, holding her skirt close to her legs with one hand, and a laden basket in the other. Her eyes darted around the yard while her breath puffed in front of her mouth. Lissan’s heart clenched as he drank the sight of her. The face reddened by the evening chill. The orange skirt with brown hem. The brown bodice with green and red embroidery — she’d made it last winter, and he remembered how much she’d enjoyed stitching the patterns by the feeble light of an oil lamp. The string of large wooden beads, dyed bright red. The colour’s wrong. He reacted with confusion, and berated himself for it. The being explained smugly: Blood’s darker than that. Slit her throat and you’ll see. Lissan flinched. “No.” Just a little nick then? See how sharp your Sword is?

[spiltwines]

*     ◟    :    〔   barbara  palvin  ,      cis  woman    +   she/her    〕      cilla    buchanan ,      some say you’re a  twenty -  seven  year  old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  captivating  and  fickle,  one can’t help but think of  john  wayne  by   cigarettes  after  sex  when you walk by.    are you still a    principal  ballerina  at    the  new  york  city  ballet  company,     even with your reputation as  the  intangible  concept?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    airy  laughter  ringing  above  the  room,  a   distant  smile  that  never  quite  meets  longing  eyes,  a  lifetime  of  opulence  without  a  shred  of  warmth,    although we can’t help but think of   daisy  buchanan  (the  great  gatsby),   sally  bowles  (cabaret),  and  lady  brett  ashley  (the  sun  also  rises)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.   

full name : priscilla 'cilla' lee buchanan.

gender & pronouns : cis woman, she/her.

age : twenty - seven.

date of birth : january 25th.

zodiac : aquarius sun, libra moon, sagittarius rising, leo venus.

tarot : the empress, ace of wands.

occupation : principal ballerina, aspiring artist, heiress.

sexuality : bisexual.

immediate family : richard buchanan ( father, deceased ), eleanor buchanan ( mother ), adam buchanan ( brother ).

traits : compassionate, sensual, salacious, reckless, captivating, hedonistic, epicurean, playful, aloof, discreet, engaging, tempestuous, intangible.

assumed associates : burning gods ( via family & the new york city ballet. )

tw death, drugs.

to  understand  the  full  scope  of  the  buchanan  legacy,  we’d  have  to  reach  back  several  decades  —  tracing  back  to  a  great  grandfather  as  vice  president,  uncles  and  cousins  who  served  as  aides,  mentors,  and  senators  alike  —   an  entire  lineage  of  postured  reverence  that  became  increasingly  marred  by  a  tendency  to  dip  their  hands  into  campaign  funds,  take  out  rivals  by  any  means  necessary,  betray  the  adoring  public  they’d  swore  to  protect.  it’s  all  about  as  ugly  and  sensationalized  as  one  could  fathom  from  a  family  that  burned  brighter  than  the  kennedys,  after  all.  even  now,  in  the  midst  of  a  new  era,  the  buchanan  name  remains  synonymous  with  scandal  and  political  intrigue.  the  recent  passing  of  richard  buchanan,  cilla’s  father,  also  left  the  family  vulnerable  to  probing  wounds,  and  a  longtime  affiliation  with  the  burning  gods  certainly  hasn’t  helped  quell  the  rumors  that  perhaps  there’s  more  to  the  story  than  the  american  royalty  is  willing  to  let  on.

you  know  those  people  who  just  seem  completely  intangible?  playful,  sweet,  yet  wholly  unaffected?   that’s  the  case  of  cilla  buchanan.  in  comparison  to  the  rumors  of  ruthless  foul  play  that  all  those  who  came  before  her  inspired,  her  penchant  for  salacious  displays  and  public,  impassioned  affairs  brought  some  much  needed  levity  to  the  name.  while  the  elder  buchanans  despised  her  shameless  promiscuity  and  tabloid  fodder,  others  could  appreciate  the  welcome  distraction  for  what  it  was.  cilla’s  always  been  floating  on  air,  more  than  satisfied  to  keep  as  much  of  a  distance  between  herself  and  any  political  rumblings.  her  art  had  always  been  cilla’s  true  passion,  but  her  family  considered  the  prospect  utterly  vulgar  and  shoved  her  towards  something  more  refined,  respectable:  ballet.  and  she’s  always  been  good,  lithe  and  malleable,  truly  talented  with  minimal  effort,  but  the  passion’s  never  been  there.  as  far  as  cilla’s  considered,  dancing  is  the  best  way  to  keep  access  to  an  overflowing  trust  fund  and  keep  anyone  from  asking  too  many  questions  about  her  future  . . .  which  had  always  felt  like  a  big,  bright  question  mark  at  best.

she’s  never  felt  real,  and  she’s  never  let  the  world  around  her  stay  still  long  enough  to  let  her  feet  touch  the  ground.  kind  and  warm,  the  antithesis  of  whatever  the  family  way  is  supposed  to  be,  but  also  reckless,  a  magnet  for  trouble,  rarely  on  time  and  always  just  out  of  reach.  prone to partying all night and using whatever necessary to keep herself propped together for rehearsals. her  face  might  be  just  something  close  to  inescapable  around  the  upper  crust  of  the  city,  but  there’s  always  something  more  simmering  beneath  the  surface  of  cilla  buchanan.  the  true  mystery  is  whether  or  not  she’ll  allow  anyone  to  dig  that  deep.

connections.

cilla sells some of her art under an anonymous pseudonym, and it'd be fun to have someone who might be a fan and/or patron, perhaps without even knowing who she is.

close friends of all kinds!

party friends, plsssss.

lovers, friends with benefits, exes, she has them all and she has them in spades. the more chaotic, the better, because she never takes a safe bet as far as love and passion are concerned.

enemies, namely to the buchanan name. let's party w it!

the one that got away. cilla likes to fuck up perfectly good relationships, so duhhh let's do it.

i'll think of more tbh!!

[britcision]

My players finally got to this part so here’s a lil fey folk story I wrote for our game! It’s the Feywild’s story about the Incursion, a level 20 boss fight that occurred pre-campaign

———————

The Three Sisters

When the days were long and the nights were deep, there lived three sisters in the Feywild. Born of the Dawn they grew tall and strong, until one by one they went their way into the mortal world.

The eldest had a heart of song and a spine of steel, rigid and unchangeable and she looked at the world and made it play to her tune. But her bonds were too strong, her back too straight, and she could not bend herself to the ways of that world and so they hunted her.

The youngest opened her heart to the dark places and heard their call, and stepped forth to do all of the good that the shadows can hide. She looked at what her eldest sister wrought and joined the hounds that hunted her, decrying what was spilled in her wake. She was rigid too, armoured in metal and she did not know how to bend any more than her sister did.

Ah, but the middle sister. She had the heart of the true Feywild, fickle and changing, flowing with the sea and moving with the wind. She did as she pleased, filled her heart with Chaos and the wild places, and danced over all the lands of that world.

She watched her sisters quarrel, saw how their hard, unyielding backs brought them to struggle after struggle. Not for she, light as a breeze and following only the tides of chaos that flowed long before there were stars. She could flit away, avoid their fighting and busy herself in creations of her own.

Through time on time the sisters clashed, and the middle sister chose which path suited her best, as all the wise do. Sometimes with her musical, cruel older sister. Sometimes with the dark, sweet younger.

None could ever emerge the winner, for even with those who joined the younger sister to aid her, her power was no greater than her older sisters. And neither elder nor younger could bend to see where their paths might uncross.

None dared come between them when the sisters clashed for their blood held true, and neither elder nor younger could stand to allow any not of their blood to end their feud. Trapped they were, in iron rules and mortal laws, unable to see how they might be freed.

And then one day the younger sister learned of a threat beyond all the planes. A foolish celestial, seeking power beyond even that so easily given to the gods, looking to tear the mortal world asunder and use its death to push them into ruler of all that was left.

And seeing this, knowing what would come if they were ever to set but a foot on this plane, the younger sister was finally able to swallow her pride. This was beyond family, beyond feud, beyond even the Feywild itself; this was death for all.

And so she went to her sisters and told them what she had learned. The three had all found their own places, their own alliances, and having come together they now split apart further than ever before, into all of the planes.

The eldest sister roused heroes of the material plane and the celestial, called to the creatures of magic and the worlds within.

The younger sister reached out into the abyssal and infernal planes, to the elemental planes and the lands between.

The middle sister called out into the astral sea for those who lived beyond the stars, for that chaos beyond creation, and to our own people of the Feywild.

All came to answer that call, whatever their old allegiances, for it has long been known that the mortal world holds the key. To tear it apart is to displace all other planes in their spin, and the power gained from this most fragile of the worlds would be explosive.

It could not be allowed to happen.

And the three sisters stood, with the might of the Feywild and all other worlds behind them, and made the final plan; to use the first crack as celestial foot touched mortal earth, and take that first spike to drive the fool and its followers beyond the edge of the planes themselves, wiping them from time.

The eldest sister called the time, playing her great violin and leading a band of seven bards in weaving the spell. The middle sister let herself open wider than ever before, poured the chaos of her birth into the spell to give it power. And the youngest sister took her blade in hand and with her companions drove the fool back into the trap, removing all trace of their existence.

But nothing comes without a cost, and many fey lives were lost that day in the battle as realms sundered. The fool had known there would be resistance and raised its own army, and then the great crack as time itself was rent in twain unleashed cataclysms that felled many more.

All of the realms felt the break, bits and pieces tumbling and falling into one another, and to this day there are now many places where one may simply step from one plane to the next, without even a touch of magic. But the planes are not all kind and good as ours, and to walk too loosely in such places can only mean death.

Many heroes from all the realms gave their lives that the rest might live, and they are honoured in every place that a realm breaks. But they are not all that was lost in the battle.

Something was stolen from the youngest sister at her moment of victory, as the fool and his follower fell back into that place beyond the worlds. Something was taken, left behind in that dark place forever beyond the reach of time and memory, and though the sister survived she was ever changed.

She was still boned in steel, rigid and unable to bend, and so like all rigid things when the tension breaks she was shattered and fell in shards into the dark which claimed her.

The eldest too has not been seen since that day, but the days are still long, and the nights are still deep, and in time, who can say?

[bard-druid-multiclass]

❧ VIGGO SOLHEIM

Tiefling of Zariel, Bard of the College of Swords

❧ Tarokka Card: The Mists

❧ Major Arcana: The Sun

❧ MBTI: Assertive Campaigner (ENFP-A)

IN MATTERS OF PERSON…

❧ Age: 23

❧ Gender: Masculine AMAB

❧ Romantic Orientation: Panromantic

❧ Sexuality: Pansexual

❧ Tadpoled?: Yes

❧ Height: 6’2” (~188cm)

❧ Hair Color: Ashen Black

❧ Iris Color: Shocking Blue

❧ Sclera Color: Black

❧ Tattoos?: Yes

❧ Makeup?: Yes

❧ Facial Hair?: Yes

❧ Pubic Hair?: Yes

IN MATTERS OF WAR…

❧ Alignment: CG

❧ Weapon of Choice: A well-worn dueling sword

❧ AC: 16

❧ Armor Proficiency: L

❧ Spell Save DC: 16

❧ CR: 10

❧ Violent or Tame?: Tame

❧ Merciful or Cruel?: Merciful

❧ Diplomatic or Commandeering?: Diplomatic

❧ Magic or Martial?: Mixed

❧ Finesse or Brutality?: Finesse

❧ Opportunism or Etiquette?: Etiquette

❧ Wary or Fearless?: Fearless

❧ Fear response?: Flight

❧ A knife in the front or a knife in the back?: Back

❧ The swift death or the slow demise?: Swift death

IN MATTERS OF PEACE…

❧ Place of Origin: Elturel

❧ Current Residence: Wandering

❧ Occupation: Knight Errant (self-proclaimed)

❧ Family, Living: None

❧ Family, Dead: Parents, Siblings

❧ Religious?: No

❧ Romance?: N/A

❧ Compassion or Dispassion?: Compassion

❧ Vociferous or Reticent?: Vociferous

❧ Obedient or Recalcitrant?: Recalcitrant

❧ Fatalist or Self-Determining?: Self-Determining

❧ Optimist or Pessimist?: Optimist

❧ Angelic or Red-Handed?: Angelic

❧ Patient or Impatient?: Impatient

❧ Laconic or Loquacious?: Loquacious

❧ Fickle or Unwavering?: Fickle

❧ Devout or Areligious?: Areligious

❧ Wild or Controlled?: Wild

❧ Temperamental or Hard to Anger?: Hard to Anger

❧ Resolved or Indecisive?: Resolved

OPINIONS ON…

❧ Undead?: Negative

❧ Celestials?: Neutral

❧ Elementals?: Neutral

❧ Beasts?: Neutral

❧ Fiends?: Negative

❧ Humanoids?: Neutral

❧ Aberrations?: Negative

❧ Monstrosities?: Neutral

❧ Constructs?: Neutral

❧ Dragons?: Neutral

❧ Giants?: Neutral

❧ Oozes?: Neutral

❧ Plants?: Neutral

❧ Fey?: Neutral

❧ Magic?: Positive

BIOGRAPHY

To be updated

[jellisdraws]

Pent!

My Elven Rogue/Bard gestalt character for the Fickle Family campaign. She once was the lead of a punk band called Lights of Ill Omen, but after a disastrous fire at an oversold show, she has turned to means of direct action to overthrow the current collusion between the criminal element and nobility of the city of Ungren.

I dig the hell out of her design and I’m super excited to be playing pathfinder again. You’ll be seeing more of her!

[capricious-and-caprine]

Sociolinguistics

I was speaking with Student Support. I mentioned my sociolinguistics MOOC.

Language can give us hints on the attitudes of certain concepts.

We use the word 'commit' to describe suicide. This is redolent of the days in which suicide was a crime. It's no longer a crime; hence, the language should change.

Language is dynamic: we do not speak Middle Ages English, do we? Some words are obsolete. So, yes, we can make up words - neopronouns, vernacular, anything. It's not symptomatic of being snowflakes when we campaign for language to change. Usage dictates language, not vice versa.

Attempt suicide, then? Attempt has connotations of a failure, and in my case that would be apt. I feel abandoned. There is nothing left to lose when you are abandoned. Does the government care?

How effective is guilt-tripping a suicidal person that people do it all the time? 'Think about how much your family would miss you'. Family is fickle. I am aware of the spurious unconditional love people espouse. If I informed people of my dark thoughts and their frequency, they would soon grow tired of me.

[wangxianficfinder]

Non-Cultivator Wei Wuxian

~*~

and his wanting grows teeth by yukla (T, 25k, wangxian, AU in canon setting, lwj is a traveling cultivator, wwx is the adopted son of a village chief, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pining, the smallest bit of mystery, typical jiang family dynamics, warmth and belonging and the conflict between duty and desires, light elements of horror)

The Blacksmith of Yiling by Aki_no_hikari (G, 18k, wangxian, canon divergence, WWX not found by JFM, found family, minor character death, beginning of wangxian)

Inkstone by PorcelainBlue (T, 7k, WangXian, Non-Yunmeng WWX, Artist WWX)

Moonlight as My Guide by BromeliadDreams (M, 32k, WangXian, Case Fic, Body Horror, Modern with Magic, Academia, (book) canon-typical desecration of the dead, background/implied xiyao, grey-ace wwx, Talisman expert and Post-Doc WWX)

This Tornado Loves You by FeelsForBreakfast (M, 8k, WangXian, Modern AU, YL WWX, LWJ's Yiling Laozu kink, Horror, modern cultivation au, Pizza Hut, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Modern with Magic, [Podfic] This Tornado Loves You by Rionaa)

Secrets of Yunmeng's Lotus Lakes by Cy_an_Blue (G, 73k, WangXian, One-Sided SuXian, Omega WWX, Mermaid WWX, Cultivator LWJ, teenage WWX, teenage LWJ, No War AU, Non-Traditional A/B/O Dynamics Falling In Love, Getting Together, Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Awkwardness, Injury Recovery, accidental injury, Accidental Stabbing, Cultivation Accidents, Near Death Experiences, waterborne abyss, Kidnapping, Non-Explicit Torture, Mentions of major injury, Fluff, Attempted Sexual Assault, Courtship, Courting Rituals)

❤️Seen and not heard by eatmyass (E, 51k, WangXian, Case Fic, No Sunshot Campaign, AU in canon setting, Kid Fic, dadxian, Strangers to Lovers, Found Family, POV LWJ, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Falling in love in metaphors)

~*~

Non-Cultivator Lan Wangji

~*~

The Missing Second Jade by wayward_wing (M, 21k, WangXian, Fluff and Smut, Falling In Love, Getting Together, A/B/O Dynamics, Omega LWJ, Alpha WWX, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, Madam Lán Lives, Non-Cultivator LWJ, YL WWX, Protective WWX, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, OOC LWJ, cause he wasn’t raised in the Lan Sect, Dirty Talk, Anal Fingering, Mpreg, Happy Ending, Dom/sub Undertones, WangXian Have a Breeding Kink, Jealous LWJ)

By folly or fickle fate by Vrishchika (M, 10k, WIP, WangXian, Single Parent LWJ, Modern Cultivation, Cultivator WWX, Non-Cultivator LWJ, Cultivation Sect Politics, BAMF WWX, Donghua Influences, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Characters Mentally Swooning over Beauty and Competence, soft Wangxian)

How We Love by wayward_wing (M, 8k, WangXian, Concubine LWJ, Cultivator WWX, Younger LWJ, Older WWX, Bottom LWJ, Top WWX, Omega LWJ, Alpha WWX, Mpreg, First Meetings, Getting Together, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst Happy Ending, Lan Wangji w/ others, Its for his job, Smut, mention of pregnancy termination, non-con elements, READ NOTES, Sexual Content)

My Boy Builds Coffins by enbysaurus_rex (Not Rated, 48k, WangXian, Coffin Maker AU, YL WWX, Location: Yílíng, LWJ builds coffins, Autistic LWJ, falling in love over a coffin, Hurt WWX, Mutual Pining, LWJ Has Feelings, Deathscapes, Death as a bittersweet community thing, accidental ecofiction, Farmer LWJ)

[robininthelabyrinth]

Delight in Misery (ao3) - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 (interlude)

The Lotus Pier was a free and unrestrained place in comparison with the Cloud Recesses, and there was no similar prohibition on raising pets. This was a good thing, largely because Lan Wangji had recently started to think of his little found family primarily in animal metaphors.

It was, he concluded, because of the way Mo Xuanyu followed Jiang Cheng around like an imprinted duckling, with stars in his eyes and an unfortunate tendency to try to emulate his actions while possessing exactly none of the temperament required to pull any of it off.

Indeed, watching him wheezing his way through a threat to break Jin Ling’s legs was a sight worth seeing, especially with Lan Sizhui patting him on the back and encouraging him when he temporarily got stuck stuttering on the word ‘legs’.

Jiang Cheng, for all his faults and imperfections, could be terrifying when he wished to be, the blood of the battlefields of the Sunshot Campaign forever impressed upon his bones; with Zidian to hand, he could look commanding and fearsome, decisive and harsh, and with his sharp looks and sharper scowl, he cut a fine picture - even if Lan Wangji knew the truth, that behind all that sharpness was the soul of a grumpy marshmallow.

Mo Xuanyu, with his wild thatch-like hair that couldn’t be controlled no matter their joint efforts and even wilder and far more questionable taste in appearance, couldn’t hope to match him, and really ought to stop trying.

Naturally, Jin Ling looked about as convinced about the threats as he ever was when Jiang Cheng said it, meaning of course that he didn’t care one whit, but despite their initial concerns, he took to Mo Xuanyu quite well. Lan Wangji was initially puzzled by it, given their conflicting personalities, but Jiang Cheng insightfully (for once) pointed out that it was most likely that Jin Ling was willing to forgive quite a lot in exchange for having another person dressed in Lanling Jin gold around to make him feel less awkward about it.

The two of them together were two little goldfinches strutting around in a sea of purple – or, perhaps more accurately, two golden roly-poly puppies bounding around, tails wagging, trying to befriend the Jiang sect’s army of sleek haughty purple cats. They were accompanied, of course, by a small, gentle crane with a most un-Lan-like taste for spicy fish with radishes and absolutely no head for water travel.

(They were working with Lan Sizhui on that. He lived in the Jiang sect now; he couldn’t spend his whole life being seasick!)

“What does that make you, then?” Jiang Cheng asked when Lan Wangji – after incessant prodding – mentioned his thoughts on the subject of their growing nest. “Master Rabbit?”

Lan Wangji glared, but didn’t object to the characterization; regardless of his personality, there was good reason to make the association. This was largely because Lan Xichen had recently embarked on a mission to capture the rabbits Lan Wangji had been – not raising, precisely, because pets were forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, but feeding on occasion when he had the time. He had brought them to Lan Wangji’s new “residence” at the Lotus Pier as a housewarming gift.

(Lan Wangji had no intention of moving out of Wei Wuxian’s bedroom, of course, but Jiang Cheng had long ago exercised his authority as sect leader to clear out the rooms just beyond it to create a small additional courtyard for him, in which he could exercise and meditate without being too far from the main quarters of the Jiang sect leader. As a result, the only change involved in his new, public, and above-board decision to reside in the Louts Pier was adding a new entranceway to make it appear as though they lived in separate albeit adjoining houses rather than living together in just one. Of course, it being the Lotus Pier, the new entranceway involved constructing not only a gate but a new bridge…)

“What exactly are we supposed to do with a bunch of rabbits?” Jiang Cheng had demanded at the time, staring down at them - there were rather more than Lan Wangji had remembered there being, but he supposed that was the nature of rabbits.

“I have no idea,” Lan Xichen had replied, smiling broadly. “But Wangji likes them.”

Lan Wangji had pretended that neither of them existed, and also that he was urgently needed elsewhere.

Later, Jiang Cheng had cornered him, demanding an explanation or else the rabbits would be sent down to the kitchens to be repurposed, and Lan Wangji had reluctantly confessed that they were from the burrow first established by the two wild rabbits Wei Wuxian had caught for him all those years ago.

Naturally there was no more talk of repurposing after that, and three sets of rabbit coops – far more than the rabbits Lan Wangji actually possessed required – mysteriously appeared in his small courtyard the next day.

“Wouldn’t want the stupid things to drown,” Jiang Cheng had grumbled when confronted with the evidence of his sentimentality. “If they attacked your garden and tried to burrow down they’d only hit water, and then where would we be? Awash in bunny corpses, that’s where, and that’s just unsanitary. I have a duty as sect leader to preserve the public health, you know.”

Lan Wangji had initially had some difficulty determining what type of animal Jiang Cheng was. He was as prickly as a porcupine, as standoffish as a hedgehog, as fickle as a cat, as graceful and vicious as an angry goose…

Recently, however, Lan Wangji had met a merchant from the south who had been selling a type of bird he called zishuiji, or purple swamphens – the merchant claimed that they were descended from the famous zhanniao, the poisonfeather zhen bird noted for their purple bellies, scarlet beaks, and deadly venom. Although Lan Wangji was moderately certain that the man was exaggerating for the sake of a sale, he had found himself compelled to purchase several sets to house in one of the empty rabbit coops, now moved to be placed in the main courtyard, nominally to be nearer to the waterways but mostly so that they’d be easily accessible to everyone - and, of course, to subtly harass Jiang Cheng.

It turned out that zishuiji could apparently be treated in much the same way as chickens. They were highly adaptable, but thrived best near water; they were generally shy around humans, but vicious in defending their territory, capable of biting and mobbing when provoked; and they preferred to raise their eggs with company –

Truly, he had found the right bird for Jiang Cheng.

(Not to mention the euphonious imagery of a purple hen strutting around with its purple lighting, zishuiji with zidian...truly, a picture meant for the ages. Lan Wangji determined at once to make a painting of it and insist Jiang Cheng hang it on some wall. Maybe even one of the ones in the main hall, where strangers could see.)

“Some of these are getting used for food,” Jiang Cheng insisted with a glare. “Some of the rabbits, too. There are no rules against the killing of livestock here, you hear me?”

Mo Xuanyu fell in love with them immediately – Jiang Cheng’s theory was that he was entranced by their iridescent feathers, while Lan Wangji’s view was that he recognized the innate Jiang Cheng-ness of them – and quickly took charge of their care, although Lan Sizhui and Jin Ling routinely assisted in collecting eggs.

Jiang Cheng reluctantly admitted, after some time, that the purchase had been a good one, if only because it served to settle their little awkward duckling into place, finally allowing Mo Xuanyu some sense of stability, as if having some type of small duty for which he was responsible was all he needed to believe that he wouldn’t be forced back to Lanling or to Mo village, his original place of origin, which he somehow feared even more than the backstabbing snakepit of Koi Tower.

(“You need to stop calling him a duckling,” Jiang Cheng said, quivering with laughter. “Do you know that could also mean…no, I’m not saying it. Anyway, he’s such an impressionable brat. Did you see what he did with that make-up he bought? He really does look a bit...”

From this, Lan Wangji inferred that the nickname was both extremely apt, extremely unfortunate, and had permanently stuck.)

In fact, despite initial concerns, it had been surprisingly comfortable to bring Mo Xuanyu into their lives at the Lotus Pier.

He was grateful and happy to be there, which helped; Lan Sizhui was welcoming, and Jin Ling somewhat reluctantly accepting, each for their own reasons, which helped more.

Best of all, he was at just the right age to be a regular disciple, and the current Jiang sect was especially welcoming to outsiders, having been cobbled together from a wide range of previously rogue cultivators and the small handful of survivors of the previous sect’s massacres. It improved Mo Xuanyu’s mood tremendously to be around boys and girls his own age, doing the same thing as them, without the weight of Lanling Jin’s expectations on his shoulders even if he sometimes wore their colors.

“He’s never going to be the most martially inclined,” Jiang Cheng opined after a small period of observation. “But he might make a decent administrator.”

Lan Wangji glanced at him sidelong in silent question, since Mo Xuanyu had not displayed any especially notable scholastic talents either. He had started cultivating fairly late, although obviously not as late as Jin Guangyao, but he lacked the other man’s genius for organization and management. Moreover, while his studies did admittedly exceeded the low bar set in Lan Wangji’s mind by Nie Huaisang’s miserable performance, that was a very low bar indeed.

(Nie Huaisang wasn’t stupid, he reminded himself once again. He was in fact extremely clever. And yet, even knowing what he knew, it was so easy to forget…)

“He’s kind and thoughtful of the well-being of others,” Jiang Cheng said, averting his gaze and pretending his cheeks weren’t tinting red. “Calligraphy and math, people skills, that can all be learned, but at least he has the important part down…I told you to stop doing that.”

Lan Wangji ignored him and continued to smile.

“Freak,” Jiang Cheng muttered, then shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone actually listens to you. Least of all me!”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. That part was Jiang Cheng’s own fault – he’d been using Lan Wangji as a sounding board more or less from the beginning, and started making him do some of his paperwork as soon as he’d been regularly awake for more than a shichen at a time under the barely plausible claim that it was good for him to exercise his hands. Now that Lan Wangji was officially out of seclusion, Jiang Cheng had promptly shoveled even more work at him – despite the fact that they were supposedly at each other’s throats.

The Jiang disciples that had not been in the loop – most of them, to Lan Wangji’s mild surprise – adjusted quickly, especially after they noticed the long-suffering expressions on the faces of Jiang Cheng’s immediate deputies. They had remained wary for a while, possibly expecting Lan Wangji to seek to implement the Lan sect rules at any moment, but after a time he had managed to win their confidence through his efficient administration and respect for their customs.

He did…rather a lot, actually. He reviewed the sect’s accounts along with Jiang Cheng, managed certain negotiations, oversaw the continuing reconstruction efforts, reviewed submitted proposals –

All things that the Lan sect did as well, but which had never come to him before. Lan Wangji suspected that in many cases, they did not even come to his brother or his uncle, who were nominally in charge of such things; the Lan sect disdained such worldly affairs, while the Jiang sect embraced them.

Although while he was on the subject of being above worldly affairs, it occured to him that he had not had an opportunity to take Bichen out recently, and it would be good to do so. He would need to come up with some excuse to insist on Jiang Cheng accompanying him for a night hunt sometime soon, some reason that would stand up to scrutiny from the outside.

As for convincing Jiang Cheng himself, however, that would be no problem.

“We are going night-hunting soon,” he informed Jiang Cheng, who looked appalled by the very thought.

“You’re joking, right?” he demanded. “Do you know how much work we have to do? The yearly update with the dyer’s guild is –”

“Not for another two months, and preparation typically takes only two weeks.”

“Reconstruction –”

“Does not require constant supervision at this stage.”

“The – there’s training –”

Lan Wangji attempted to convey his feelings on the validity of that excuse entirely through his facial expression, and it must have worked because Jiang Cheng crumbled at once, grumbling to himself.

“Who’ll we leave the children with?” he tried. “Especially with Xuanyu being so new – oh, all right. It’s weak and I know it, you don’t have to give me that judgmental look of yours.”

“If Jiang Wanyin believes that his skills have gotten so rusty that he would be unable to keep up…”

“I’m going to break your legs,” Jiang Cheng hissed at him. “I’m going to – to – oh, wait, actually, there is a reason we can’t go just yet. We’re expecting honored guests!”

Lan Wangji arched his eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t have seen the report yet, it’s still on our desk,” Jiang Cheng said. “You know of the Baixue Temple, right?”

Lan Wangji looked askance, indicating that he had of course heard of the temple, a renowned place of learning, but that he presumed that that was not what Jiang Cheng meant and also that perhaps Jiang Cheng would like to get to the point at some time before their deaths from old age.

“Fuck you too,” Jiang Cheng said conversationally, having learned the nuances of Lan Wangji’s expressions by now. “It was attacked recently, and rumor has it that it was Xue Yang that did it. Yes, the same Xue Yang who did the Chang clan massacre, the one the Jin sect was protecting before they washed their hands of him.”

Lan Wangji frowned.

“They made it through with relatively minimal casualties,” Jiang Cheng assured him. “Out of luck, mostly – when Xue Yang disappeared before his trial, the Nie sect made sure word got out everywhere, and Lianfeng-zun, who might’ve quashed it, even helped spread them, instead. From what I understand, Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen returned to Baixue Temple to make sure it wouldn’t be attacked over their part in Xue Yang’s initial arrest, as it later turned out to be - truly, evil is mundane and predictable. They led the defensive efforts and saved many lives.”

Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen –

Lan Wangji had heard Jiang Cheng speak of them before, of course. Rogue cultivators of considerable fame, who had refused all offers to join any of the sects, major or minor, but instead professed a desire to start a cultivation school of the old-fashioned sort, valuing affinity and merit over blood relation.

Not that that was what had caught the attention of Lan Wangj, or of Jiang Cheng for that matter.

Rather, it was said that Xiao Xingchen was a disciple of Baoshan Sanren, the famous immortal that lived secluded on the mountain. That made him Wei Wuxian’s martial uncle, and both of them were shamelessly interested in all things relating even tangentially to Wei Wuxian, however indirectly.

Jiang Cheng had sent several invitations for a visit back when the Chang clan disaster had happened. None had been accepted, which was probably all for the best – he had had to stop inviting them on account of how they’d angered the Jin sect over the matter.

(It had caused Jiang Cheng no end of nightmares, the feeling of complicity in a massacre just like the one that had destroyed his own sect sending him into a spiral of self-hatred, questioning his own morality and righteousness, wondering if his ancestors were judging him and finding him wanting, wondering if Wei Wuxian was –

It had not been a good time, a thankfully temporary reversion back to the bad days closer to the start. But Jiang Cheng was better now.)

“Why accept an invitation now?” Lan Wangji asked.

“They’re planning on hunting him down, I think, and having learned a little bit from last time, they want to get as many allies on board as possible in advance,” Jiang Cheng said, and shook his head at the depressing need to account for worldly politics when seeking to live a righteous life. A lesson hard-learned, for both of them. “They wrote to me first, this time. In return, I plan to indicate that they are welcome to come to the Lotus Pier to try to convince me – we’ll agree to help them, of course, but it’ll be nice to share a meal with them. Maybe some stories.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said. “And entertainment, of course.”

Jiang Cheng looked at him.

“We should take them night-hunting,” Lan Wangji elaborated, and Jiang Cheng scowled at him.

“There are oxen less stubborn than you! Donkeys! Geese!”

Lan Wangji was not a goose. A crane, perhaps, like Lan Sizhui – gentle and graceful and well-educated, with a sharp beak that most people overlooked.

He suspected Jiang Cheng would argue instead for the goose.

“I will write to my brother,” he said, opting to change the subject. “Xue Yang is a sensitive subject for his sworn brothers, as you know. It would be best to prepare him should they resume their fight with each other.”

“Oh, that’s just what we need,” Jiang Cheng grumbled. “Lianfeng-zun and Chifeng-zun at each other’s throats again…did I tell you about the series of small but extremely irritating disasters that happened that time I was at Koi Tower? The room flooding, the too-thick incense, the – the thing with the cat –”

“I also recall you coming back from a night-hunt with Chifeng-zun with an expression suggesting that someone had put the fear of death into you, yes,” Lan Wangji said.

“It’s Chifeng-zun. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding any circumstances where he could have the same talk with you!”

Lan Wangji did not deny it. As he was not a sect leader, he could avoid such things with much greater ease than poor Jiang Cheng – who was glaring again.

“You should try harder to get along with him,” he remarked, and Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed even further. “You have many things in common –”

“Lan Wangji. You are, as A-Yuan’s father, permitted to set up as many playdates for him as you’d like. You are not permitted to do the same for me.”

Lan Wangji nodded, indicating that would give that all the consideration it deserved, namely none.

Jiang Cheng made a sound not unlike the whistling of a boiling pot.

Lan Wangji decided that a triumphant but timely retreat was appropriate.

[the-mystic-dragon]

OC Interview: Vraeen

Draw (or use an old drawing, don't worry!) or take a screen of your character in an interview setting and make them answer the following questions!

I was tagged by @long-journey, who is the rightful creator of this original post :) Thank you!!

INTRODUCTION:

1. Can you introduce yourself?: "Hello, I'm Vraeen. Most civilians know me as the Commander, the Champion of Aurene." She gave a small smile.

2. What is your gender identity, orientation and relationship status? "Well, gender identity has always been a fluid and fickle thing with sylvari race. However, I identity as a female." She pauses for a moment, tilting her head to the side in thought. "O-Orientation? Do you mean who I like?" She whispered to the interviewer, light laughter in her quizzical tone. "I believe the term is bisexual regarding myself on that matter. I'm single as well."

3. Where and when were you born?: "I was born- well sylvari aren't born in the natural sequence other races are. We are created by the Pale Tree, we come out of pods-" She stopped herself for a moment, waving her hand briefly to dismiss the tangent. "I awoke at night towards the end of the summer. I remember waking up right outside of the Grove, everything was glowing in Caledon. It was beautiful."

4. What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?: "I prefer my axe and dagger, one of the weapons I had found when I was able to control my new soulbeast capabilities in the Crystal Desert. I keep my short bow on me as well, when I need to create some distance between a foe and myself. My style would entail a quick and powerful take down for enemies, not before they are hit with traps and the nature below turning against them."

5. Lastly, are you happy?: She gave the interviewer an icy gaze for a few minutes. "Hm, you don't seem to have any hesitance with personal questions do you? I suppose I am, Tyria is still surviving."

FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

1. What's your family like? What is your relationship with them?: "Some sylvari say our race are brothers and sisters to one another, family members that span across generations and generations. I.. don't think I have any close brothers or sisters of my kind. Not in my generation, at least."

"Caithe I would consider an older sister, a mentor who has guided me through challenges in my sapling days. Our relationship was.. nice at first, we hit a rough part during the Maguuma campaign. It wasn't good. After some time passed, we were able to mend it. I'm glad I have her in my life, she's important to me."

2. Have you ever ran away from home?: "Ran away wouldn't be the terms I would use to describe my path. I was drawn away, a feeling gripped me like a tether pulling me to where I needed to be."

3. Would you consider marriage or having children?: "No, my responsibilities wouldn't let me be able to manage those things." She sighed. "I have not had any interest in marriage or children though."

4. Do you secretly hate one of your friends?: "In the past, I will admit I harbored deep resentment for Caithe for an action she did. I was blinded by anger, stress, and confusion while dealing with chaos in the thick jungle. I made sure she knew." She shook her head, casting her gaze down to the ground for a moment. "Those feelings only occured for a while however, I do not hate any friends I have."

5. Which friend knows everything about you?: "Caithe, Canach, and Aurene."

ASKED BY FANS:

1. Are you literate? Have you been to school?: "There are mentors in the Grove to teach saplings about valuable lessons in life. I... never went to those classes though." She paused, a light chuckle erupting from her lips. "I have not been to what other races consider traditional schooling I suppose, I have learned all I can from my experiences in the world and my time in the Priory."

2. The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?: "Predictions? I cannot recall any I have made."

3. What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?: "You are asking a sylvari? I'd have quite a collection of occurrences! We would be here for awhile. Let's just say, when I was younger it was appreciated to have a helpful ally in the Priory answer numerous questions I had."

4. Do you have mental health or physical issues?: "Is that information you must know?"

5. What is your current main goal?: "Learn all I can about the Elder Dragon magic we are dealing with. Keep Tyria safe."

CHOICES:

1. Drink or food?: "Can I say both? There are so many flavors I have yet to try."

2. Cats or dogs?: She rested her hand over her chest, leaning back in her chair with her mouth agape in surprise. "I am a ranger, I love all animals equally."

While she shifted back to a comfortable position in her seat, she mumbled under her breath. "Cats."

3. Early bird or night owl?: "I am a Nightbloom, I prefer the night."

4. Optimist or pessimist?: "I am a optimist."

5. Sassy or sarcastic?: "Oh goodness, Canach has been a great teacher in these personal qualities. I'd like to say I am a bit of both, lots of banter and jokes between us. It never ends."

HAVE YOU EVER:

1. Been caught sneaking out: "In my early days in the Priory, Magister Sieran and I would sneak out of the fortress to explore and find new ruins or artifacts." She reminisced with a small smile, her eyes glossing over. "Gixx looked like he was about to- how do you say- blow a gasket, when he saw us creeping back in."

She leaned over to the interviewer, a hand over the side of her face to shield her mouth. "He may not show it, but he truly cares for every member of the Priory. It's just behind his no nonsense exterior." She whispered in a low tone, a small smirk on her face.

2. Broke a bone: "In my line of work, I have broken a few unfortunately."

3. Received flowers: "Yes I have! I have had quite a handful sent to or given to me by thankful citizens. It is such a kind gesture."

4. Ghosted someone: "Ghosted? What does that mean?"

Vraeen stepped off to the side; a hushed, short conversation was heard for a few minutes before she returned to her seat.

"I have done that to an assistant- er, bodyguard-" She was cut off by banging and people squabbling in the background. A deep, cool voice interjected up in a sharp shout. "HEY-- WAIT- VRAEEN-"

"Excuse me, I was speaking," she spoke up again, glaring towards the area of commotion in the background. "A charr associate that aids Dragons Watch, Valdoru Bladerend; who has graciously made her presence known off on the sidelines, did not get off to a great start with me when we first met in the Far Shiverspeaks. I tried to disappear off her radar a few times, but Ash Legion charr... they are hard to shake. They have skilled talents in stealth."

5. Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn't get: "Oh, many times. It took a little bit of time before I learned the meaning behind certain jokes, I was still gaining knowledge about aspects of life. Conversations included."

I tag (with no obligation of course!):

@cousinslavellan

@commander-wame

@commander-triangle

@commanders-sole-braincell

@astralarias

@commander-pleur

@kerra-and-company