#chaos is soil for creativity

[eobe]

So, I noticed the Chaos Squad stole armor from Commander Fox and Commander Wolffe 😂✨🫶 (check out for context and gorgeous art!)

And because I have waaaaaay too much fun with them, I got inspired, couldn‘t resist and thought myself of which clones I would steal their armor 🤔

Hmmmm, my favorite colors are turquoise or teal and my favorite clone armor design is that from my dear Captain Keeli, but there‘s another beautiful teal colored armor on Ryloth… 🤷🏽‍♀️

My little stealth mission was only successful, because Lupe and Aev got busted! So I could run for my life and really got away with fat prey hehehe 😜

Sorry, Captains. Not sorry oops 😬

So who's the sneaky subject running away?

Still working on my OC, but here we are with first glimpse 🤩 Hope you like this little thief hehe 😜

I didn't abandon my ALT text mission, I'm just struggling how to combine things. Only few of my old artworks left and I'll do them, I'm a bit proud 🥹

Taglist, I don't know if you want to see OC art, too – tell me, if not, I won't be mad 🫶: @eclec-tech @lonewolflupe @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @vrycurious @dystopicjumpsuit @chaicilatte @groguandthebadbatch @justanotherdikutsimp @ladylucksrogue

Chaos squad tag: @ghostymarni 🤪🫶

Howzer tag: @morerandombullshit ah, better late than never!

[queen-mabs-revenge]

communist generative ai boosters on this website truly like

[eggwhiteswithspinach]

Monday: Chaos is fertile soil for creativity

#poetry

[eobe]

🤩 You‘re so cuuuute! 😂 Looking for more Chaos Squad members 🤷🏽‍♀️ Sounds fun, vod.

Hmmm, but whose armor to steal… 🤔 My favorite color is turquoise / teal, but Captain Keeli is 🫠 maybe my OC has two missions on Ryloth… 👀 Time to show my OC?

CT-9513 @lonewolflupe + CT-9387 reporting for chaos!!

[letterful]

Romanticism is the primitive, the untutored, it is youth, life, the exuberant sense of life of the natural man, but it is also pallor, fever, disease, decadence, the maladie de siècle, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, the Dance of Death, indeed Death itself. It is Shelley's dome of many-coloured glass, and it is also his white radiance of eternity. It is the confused teeming fullness and richness of life, Fülle des Lebens, inexhaustible multiplicity, turbulence, violence, conflict, chaos, but also it is peace, oneness with the great `I Am', harmony with the natural order, the music of the spheres, dissolution in the eternal all-containing spirit. It is the strange, the exotic, the grotesque, the mysterious, the supernatural, ruins, moonlight, enchanted castles, hunting horns, elves, giants, griffins, falling water, the old mill on the Floss, darkness and the powers of darkness, phantoms, vampires, nameless terror, the irrational, the unutterable.

Also it is the familiar, the sense of one's unique tradition, joy in the smiling aspect of everyday nature, and the accustomed sights and sounds of contented, simple, rural folk — the sane and happy wisdom of rosy-checked sons of the soil. It is the ancient, the historic, it is Gothic cathedrals, mists of antiquity, ancient roots and the old order with its unanalysable qualities, its profound but inexpressible loyalties, the impalpable, the imponderable.

Also it is the pursuit of novelty, revolutionary change, concern with the fleeting present, desire to live in the moment, rejection of knowledge, past and future, the pastoral idyll of happy innocence, joy in the passing instant, a sense of timelessness. It is nostalgia, it is reverie, it is intoxicating dreams, it is sweet melancholy and bitter melancholy, solitude, the sufferings of exile, the sense of alienation, roaming in remote places, especially the East, and in remote times, especially the Middle Ages.

But also it is happy co-operation in a common creative effort, the sense of forming part of a Church, a class, a party, a tradition, a great and all-containing symmetrical hierarchy, knights and retainers, the ranks of the Church, organic social ties, mystic unity, one faith, one land, one blood, `la terre et les morts', as Barrès said, the great society of the dead and the living and the yet unborn. It is the Toryism of Scott and Southey and Wordsworth, and it is the radicalism of Shelley, Büchner and Stendhal. It is Chateaubriand's aesthetic medievalism, and it is Michelet's loathing of the Middle Ages. It is Carlyle's worship of authority, and Hugo's hatred of authority. It is extreme nature mysticism, and extreme anti-naturalist aestheticism. It is energy, force, will, youth, life, étalage du moi; it is also self-torture, self-annihilation, suicide. It is the primitive, the unsophisticated, the bosom of nature, green fields, cow-bells, murmuring brooks, the infinite blue sky.

No less, however, it is also dandyism, the desire to dress up, red waistcoats, green wigs, blue hair, which the followers of people like Gérard de Nerval wore in Paris at a certain period. It is the lobster which Nerval led about on a string in the streets of Paris. It is wild exhibitionism, eccentricity, it is the battle of Ernani, it is ennui, it is taedium vitae, it is the death of Sardanopolis, whether painted by Delacroix, or written about by Berlioz or Byron. It is the convulsion of great empires, wars, slaughter and the crashing of worlds. It is the romantic hero — the rebel, l'homme fatale, the damned soul, the Corsairs, Manfreds, Giaours, Laras, Cains, all the population of Byron's heroic poems. It is Melmoth, it is Jean Sbogar, all the outcasts and Ishmaels as well as the golden-hearted courtesans and the noble-hearted convicts of nineteenth-century fiction. It is drinking out of the human skull, it is Berlioz who said he wanted to climb Vesuvius in order to commune with a kindred soul. It is Satanic revels, cynical irony, diabolical laughter, black heroes, but also Blake's vision of God and his angels, the great Christian society, the eternal order, and `the starry heavens which can scarce express the infinite and eternal of the Christian soul'.

It is, in short, unity and multiplicity. It is fidelity to the particular, in the paintings of nature for example, and also mysterious tantalising vagueness of outline. It is beauty and ugliness. It is art for art's sake, and art as an instrument of social salvation. It is strength and weakness, individualism and collectivism, purity and corruption, revolution and reaction, peace and war, love of life and love of death.

— from Isaiah Berlin's The Roots of Romanticism.

[dead-dolphins]

𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

Summary: In the hellish trenches of Marley, Eren is haunted by thoughts of Mikasa. Unable to resist, he finds himself touching himself as he stares at the mirage of her created by his mind.

Word Count: 1797

Read under cut.

Dear @juloved Happy Birthday, July! 🎉 I just want to take a moment to tell you how much your friendship means to me. You’ve been such an incredible source of support, always there to encourage and inspire me, no matter what. Your artistic vision is something truly special, and I’ve learned so much from you—not just about creativity, but about how to be a better friend and person. You bring so much light into the lives of everyone around you, and I’m so grateful to have you in mine. I hope this day is filled with all the love, joy, and magic you deserve.  Cheers to many more years of friendship, growth, and beautiful moments together. 💖 Also, I wrote something small for you, and I really hope you like it. It’s just a little piece, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about, and I wanted to share it with you (since you kind of encouraged this at some point haha). 😊 Ro.

This trench was a wretched place. Cold mud clung to his boots, weighing them down with every step, while the bitter, metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid stench of gunpowder, lingering in the air like a constant reminder of death. Eren’s fingers dug into the wet earth, gripping the damp soil as though it might anchor him, but even the ground seemed to betray him. His body felt like stone—heavy, immobile, and numb from exhaustion. The battle raged in the distance; the occasional rumble of artillery and the sharp crack of gunfire barely pierced the suffocating fog of silence around him.

In this moment, in this graveyard of lives, it was the oppressive quiet that consumed him. The chaos of the world outside—the war, the carnage—blurred into distant echoes, insignificant against the suffocating weight of his thoughts. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough stone wall of the trench. The jagged edges scraped his skin, but he barely felt it. Pain had long since become meaningless. Over the years, he had learned to block out the shrieking thrum of war, to numb himself to the horror gnawing at his sanity. Survival had demanded it.

But tonight, his mind refused to be silenced.

Tonight, all he could see was her.

Mikasa.

Her face and her voice haunted him like a phantom he couldn’t escape. “What am I to you, Mikasa?” he had asked once, his voice a ragged whisper of vulnerability he would never admit to anyone, not even himself. It was a question that had gnawed at him, clawed at his soul, but one he had always feared hearing the answer to.

When she had said “family,” his world shattered. He could still feel the weight of that word, heavy and sharp, like a jagged splinter lodged deep within his chest. Family. That was all he could ever be to her. She hadn’t even hesitated, hadn’t seen the longing in his eyes or the silent plea written in his every breath.

Family. It was the cruelest truth she could have given him. A truth that sliced through him with such brutality he wondered if he could ever recover. His breath had caught in his throat, his chest tightening, but the words he needed—the ones that might have changed everything—died on his tongue. The realization hit him like a blow: he would never be more to her than what she had already named him.

The next day, he had walked away. He left her behind, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like an unbearable burden. The finality of it—the certainty that nothing would ever be the same—settled over him like a thick, suffocating fog. He had chosen this path, convinced it was for the best.

But now, in the cold silence of the trench, he knew better.

He would never be her love. He would never be the one to hold her, to stand beside her. He had let her go, and now he was paying the price.

The memories wouldn’t let him go. Mikasa’s smile, soft and warm, still lit up the darkest corners of his mind. He could see the way she had looked at him with quiet intensity, as though she could see straight through him, holding him together when everything else in his world was falling apart.

He had let her slip away. He had taken for granted the one thing he now found himself aching for. Now, all that remained were the fragments of a truth he could never speak aloud.

She would move on. She would live her life, build a future, without him.

And he? He would be bound to this war, to the mission he had chosen. When it was all over—when the dust settled and the world moved on—he would be forgotten.

Mikasa would never be his.

Never.

So, with that true burning in his chest, Eren squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, the fatigue, the suffocating weight of the war. But in the darkness, her face appeared once more—vivid and clear, like a cruel temptation he couldn’t resist.

Mikasa.

Her image materialised before him, standing in the midst of the trench, as if she had stepped from his mind. The cold air seemed to wrap around her, but her presence was warm, alluring. She stood just beyond his reach, her dark eyes fixed on him with a quiet intensity that felt like it could pierce through him. 

And because he was still a man, despite being a fool, Eren couldn’t deny the effect such a lovely image had on him. It wasn’t just emotional, nor was it spiritual—it went deeper, stirring something raw and undeniable within him. It was physical, primal, a pull that tightened his chest and set his blood alight. Something carnal that only a man in love and painfully doomed like him could feel.

The bulge in his pants grew with every passing moment as his appreciation for Mikasa deepened, and suddenly, the need for her became unbearable—so overwhelming it consumed his every thought. The grime and sweat that clung to his body only seemed to heighten his craving for human connection, for the touch of someone who could momentarily alleviate the crushing solitude of his existence in this unrelenting war. 

His hands trembled as they reached for the front of his trousers. He cursed under his breath, but there was no stopping it—not now. He needed this. He needed to feel something, and the image of Mikasa his mind conjured was the only thing that could bring him a fleeting sense of completeness. So he imagined her standing before him in the damp trench, naked and exposed, every curve of her athletic form etched in his mind. Her breath quickened as she stood there, the contours of her body becoming all too real in his desperate thoughts.

He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, letting them drop to his ankles. His cock, thick and long, sprang free, standing at attention like a soldier awaiting orders. The tip was a shade darker than the rest, already glistening with precum that formed a delicate strand as he began to stroke himself. He thought of her tight, wet pussy, the way it would clench around him if he ever had the chance to bury himself inside her.

Mikasa, with her sculpted abs and powerful thighs, was the embodiment of everything he desired. He envisioned her leaning over a bed, her ass, firm and round, pressing against his groin as she whispered sweet nothings that sounded like moans of pleasure. Her voice was a symphony that resonated through his body, setting every nerve on fire. He knew that if he ever had the chance to fuck her, it would be an experience that would be etched into his soul. An experience that would be too hard to forget.

Soon his hand moved faster, his strokes becoming more erratic as the tension grew. He could almost feel her hand around his shaft, guiding him in and out of her warm, velvety depths. Her walls would tighten around him, urging him closer to climax, but he knew he couldn’t cum yet. He had to hold out, to savour this moment of stolen pleasure amidst the chaos of war. His breath hitched as he pictured her leaning back, giving him a clear view of her tight, pink asshole, puckered and begging for his touch. It was something he had never seen before, but the thought of it sent his mind reeling.

With his eyes growing cloudy, he pictured bringing his other hand to his mouth and licked his fingers before reaching down to trace circles around her tight little hole. She gasped, and he knew he had found a spot that made her tremble. He pushed his middle finger in slowly, feeling the resistance before she relaxed, allowing him to delve deeper. Her moans grew louder, and he knew she was close, too. He added another finger, scissoring them apart to prepare her for what was to come.

“Mikasa,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Take me in.”

Her body tensed, and she pushed back, taking him to the hilt. He could feel her cunt clench around his fingers, her muscles rippling with pleasure. Her breath was hot against his neck, her teeth grazing his skin.

“Eren,” she moaned, her voice a sweet agony.

At this point, he didn’t know if it was real or just in his mind, but he didn’t care. All he knew was that this was what he needed, what he craved. The feel of her tightening around him, the sound of her gasping his name. He could feel himself getting closer, his balls drawn up tight against his body. But he wouldn’t let go yet. He wanted to feel her come apart first.

He curled his fingers inside her, hitting that magical spot that made her legs tremble. Her breath hitched, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from screaming out his name. Her ass was like a vice around his finger, squeezing him as she rode the edge of ecstasy.

“I’m going to cum,” she whimpered in his mind, and the words were like a trigger.

With a roar, Eren pulled his hand away and stroked his cock, his cum spurting out in thick ropes. He pumped himself dry, his body shaking with the force of his release. As he came back down, his breath ragged, he realised that the only thing he wanted more than freedom was her.

When it was over, he felt no relief. Only emptiness. He slumped back against the wall, his hands falling limp at his sides. The night around him was still, the distant echoes of gunfire a faint reminder of where he was, of the war that had stolen everything from him.

He stared at the sky, his vision blurred with unshed tears. She would never know. She would never know how much he wanted her, how much he had always wanted her. And now, as he sat in this trench, surrounded by death and despair, he knew he would never have the chance to tell her.

He had chosen this path. He had chosen to leave her behind, to protect her in the only way he knew how. But it had cost him everything. It had cost him her.

The thought was a dagger to his heart, twisting with every beat. He would never see her again, never hear her voice, never hold her hand. She would move on, live a life free of the burden he had become.

And he? He would die here, alone in the dark, clinging to the memory of a love that would never be.

[irishmammonagenda]

Boop!- Obey Me x Reader

Summary: You go on a mission to boop, as per usual chaos ensues. Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: Female Reader (implied), i dont really think there's anything else but if you can see something lmk and i'll add a warning

very obviously inspired by tumblr's boop event

dividers by @saradika-graphics

"Hello Michael!" You greet, signature foxy grin on your face. Michael looks up from where he's playing Connect Four with a man in robes and waves at you.

"Hiya MC!" He puts the palms of his hands on the soft cloud ground and leans back on them, he's bare chested in the heat, though he's adorned himself with waist beads and arm bands, firm muscles on display. His long curly blond hair is in intricate braids, small ornaments threaded through it. He grins up at you, bright red eyes shining under the light of the Celestial sun. "What's brought ya up to the Celestial Realm today?"

"I am evil. I am very evil Michael." You say seriously.

The other man laughs, though not unkindly. His tanned skin shimmers ethereally under the light, dark brown eyes stare up at you, rich like soil after the morning due. Dark waves and soft curls frame his face, some soft stubble one his jawline, barely noticeable. "I'm sure you're not evil." He says kindly.

You stare at him, before smiling as well, touched. "Aww thanks! And you are?"

The man smiles, reaching his hand up, Michael takes that time to sneakily move one of the coins the man had put down a slot over. "I'm Jesus, it's nice to meet you MC."

You cough. "You're Jesus?"

"Yes." He nods, "A lot of people are shocked when they first meet me...something about expecting me to look like Da Vinci's gay lover."

You nod, dumbfounded.

Michael, sensing your inner turmoil, and also needing to keep Jesus' attention elsewhere so he could continue cheating- winning creatively in Connect 4, clears his throat, "So what's brought you to the Celestial Realm and made you claim that you're evil?"

This makes you grin, "Well, my dearest Michael....have you heard of boops?"

Michael straightens up a little bit, Jesus watches him intently, before fixing the board to its original state whilst the Archangel is distracted.

"No I have not...Why, what are they?" Michael asks, signature mischievous grin on his face. "They sound fun."

"Well I'm glad you asked Michael!" You grin, before leaning in and whispering into his ear. The added proximity made you realise he smelt of pine cone and fresh rain.

Michael giggles evilly, turning over to Jesus, before reaching a dark, jewel adorned hand and booping his nose. "Boop!"

Jesus just smiles, Crucifixion was worse. "It's your go, Michael."

"Oh of course! MC wait for this game to be over! I have...uh..business to attend to in the Devildom!"

You and Jesus share a look.

Michael looks over at you two, "You coming Jesus?"

The man smiles gently, "No thanks, I'm still traumatised from that one time when Satan tormented me in the desert."

"Oh okay...." Michael deflates the tiniest smidge before looking back at the board, spluttering. "Hey you moved the pieces!"

Jesus snorts, "Yeah, I moved the pieces back from where you tried to cheat."

"Lying's a sin." Michael huffs.

Jesus laughs, "Was that an admition of guilt?"

Michael falls onto his back dramatically, dark skin shining in the Celestial Realm's blessed light. "Ugh! Woe is me! This is worse than the time that one Irish kid got me confused with Michael Collins!"

Jesus pats his shoulder in pity. "Easter's a hard time for all of us."

Michael blinks at the scars on Jesus' palms from the nails and bites back a very bad Cross joke. "You could say that again."

After the game of Connect 4 ended, (Michael lost) you and the Archangel said your goodbyes to Jesus and began your journey down to the Devildom. Michael walks beside you, a good bit taller than you. Michael having swapped out his less than covering attire for a flowy white flare sleeved top that you'd imagine a pirate or a Victorian would wear, the lace buttons are undone for the most part, as per usual. You'd come to learn that the Archangel hated top buttons with a burning passion.

"I call Lucikins." Michael says with about as much seriousness as a 10 year old calling shotgun on the front seat of the car. So very serious.

"Fine. I call Mammon." You reply, looking up at him, as if daring him to try and boop your first man before you could. He pouts, but relents.

"I call Satan then." Michael blinks back at you with crimson eyes.

"No why?" You sulk.

Michael shrugs. "He's my nephew. I get to boop his nose it's the law."

"No it's not."

"Yeah it is!"

"Prove it then." You huff.

Michael turns around and you hear fidgeting before he hands you a paper napkin with writing on it. You notice the fountain pen he sneakily snuck back into his trouser pocket and glare at him, before reading the napkin.

The Eleventh Commandment: Thou shall let Michael boop his nephew's nose.

You hum, "Something's telling me this is fake."

Michael gasps incredulously, as if offended by the very notion, he places a hand over his breast, where his heart is. "How dareth thou! Truly, 'tis a crime against nature to speak such filth about the Holy Word. A crime against God I daresay!"

"Okayy...drama king."

Michael gasps again. "Alas! Thou speaketh such filth! Such blasphemy to thee! Thy words...such horrors! Cursed are thou amongst humankind!"

You deadpan. "I'm taking away your Shakespeare rights."

"Try it I dare you." Michael challenges, red eyes gleaming with something predatory. "You can boop Simeon."

You grin. "Yay!"

"I call Luke."

Your grin drops. "What the frickety flip that's my son."

Michael's brows furrow. "He's my son too what the flip."

You gasp, bringing your hands to your mouth. "Did we?..."

Michael's eyes widen, he pulls his top up and counts his ribs, losing count several times because you keep adding random numbers in. He looks up at you.

"Did we have a child out of Wedlock?!"

You and Michael look at each other in object horror. Both conveniently ignoring the fact that Luke technically came into existence millennias before you.

"I think we did...." You place your hand over your brow like a Victorian woman seeing the ankles of her secret lesbian lover for the first time.

Michael follows suit.

"Michael....I fear we might be sinners...."

"Well you know what they say in the human world MC...." Michael sniffles, looking away from you dramatically. "Sinner sinner chicken dinner...."

You pause, breaking character. "Is it not Winner winner chicken dinner?"

Michael shrugs. "Not like I care."

You parrot his movement, shrugging your shoulders back as well, before the horror creeps back onto your expression. "But...Simeon and Barbatos also see Luke as their son...."

Michael looks at you wide eyed, grabbing you by the shoulders, "MC! We have to count their ribs!"

You put your head in your hands, "Two angels, a demon and a human with angel blood that's somehow an angel....our son is a hybrid!"

Michael gasps. "Hybrid princess?"

You do a double take. "Why do you know what gacha is." You breath out, looking at Michael in genuine fear.

"I wasn't a gacha kid don't worry! Levi was though! He'd show me his little Gacha stories that he made...." Michael looks nostalgic. "Such an adorable little weirdo....he gets it from Lucifer y'know."

"If I described Lucifer as an adorable little weirdo I think he'd skin me alive."

"That sounds like a you problem." Michael grins.

You and Michael continue your journey down to the Devildom, only this time he's giving you a piggy back ride because you annoyed him until he agreed. Strong hands hold your thighs to keep you from falling, as your arms are wrapped around his neck.

You had been 'calling' people to boop.

"I call Diavolo."

"Deal." Michael nods, trying and failing to twist his head around to face you because you're on his back and he's not an owl. "I don't want to accidentally start another Celestial War by booping the Prince and acting King of the Devildom's nose."

"That's surprisingly a good reason."

"Fuck you mean surprisingly?" Michael scoffs, though there's no real bite to it. "I'm always having good reasons."

"Yeah and I'm the spawn of Satan." You say sarcastically, human world side winning over for a second, until you remember that Satan is in fact a real person and that you are in fact now in the Devildom.

Michael laughs, "You know who Satan's the spawn of? Lucifer."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"What's he gonna do? Bully me while I'm in a desert? Jokes on him, I hate sand and don't go anywhere near it."

"I don't feel safe anymore, we're gonna get jumped."

Michael laughs.

"I call Levi, I need to return an anime to him anyway." Michael breaks the silence.

"You borrow animes from Levi?"

"Yeah sometimes, me and Saint Peter watch animes at the gates of Heaven when it's a slow day and not a lot of souls are being guided into it."

"Nah imagine dying and waking up in heaven to see the people at the gates watching anime."

Michael sticks out his tongue, though stops when he remembers you're on his back and can't see it.

"I call Barbatos."

Michael sighs in relief, carrying you through the streets of the Devildom. "Thank God, you can have him. Good luck with that."

"Go fuck yourself Michael. I call Thirteen."

Michael gasps excitedly. "Tell her I say hi!"

"Tell her yourself."

Michael huffs. "You're so mean to me MC."

You bite his neck, really embodying your inner feral street cat. He yelps. "Don't try to steal my wife, next time I'll bite your jugular pretty boy."

Michael laughs, "I am quite pretty..." He flips his hair, the intricate golden braids and curls hit you in the face, seeing as you're still on his back. You let out a sound similar to a feral street cat coughing up a hairball, he laughs again. "Also I'm pretty sure Thirteen is a lesbian."

You perk up. "Oh yay! You should be the priest at our wedding Michael. You don't have a choice."

"Fine." The archangel huffs, his plump lips pouty. "But only if Luke's the flower boy."

"I was gonna make him the ring boy giver person." You reply, playing with one of the ornaments braided into Michael's hair.

"Even better!"

Moments of comfortable silence last before you decide to break it because you're evil and have no moral code whatsoever.

"Michael you can have Solomon."

Said Archangel halts. Dropping you off of his back before turning to look at you, now strewn out on the ground. He puts his hand over his brow like a Victorian man who just saw the ankles of his gay lover. (Probably Solomon: You'd decided.)

"No! How couldeth thou?" He sighs dramatically before it just turns exhasperated. "Those rumours just died down...."

You jump up off of the ground, wiping the soil from your clothes, "They have?! Dammit!"

Michael deadpans at you, pulling at a golden coil of hair and letting it be stretched straight before letting go and watching it bounce back up into a curl again. "I hate you."

"That's harsh."

After having separated from Michael, you sneak into your First Man's room. He sits lazily, lounging on his bed and scrolling mindlessly through his DDD. So enraptured he doesn't even notice your presence just yet until you press your finger to his nose.

"Boop!"

"ARGHH-" he screeches, jumping atleast five feet in the air before realising it was you and scoffing. "Oh...It's you...o-of course ye'd wanna boop the Great Mammon's nose! That'll cost ya!" He huffs, trying to avoid the initial embarassment of you seeing him so uncool!

"Boop!" You boop him again, he grins stupidly like an idiot inlove, before snapping out of it and putting his 'too cool for this' persona back on.

"T-that'll cost ye! MC!" He stutters, trying to cover his blush.

"Oh will it now?" You raise a brow before bringing your lips to his nose and pecking it there, pulling away again in less than a second. "Boop."

He pulls you in for a hug before you can pull away completely. You grin, having reduced the Avatar of Greed to a blushy pile of mush in your arms.

Take that Alpha Male podcasters who think women want dominant mean men who suck and hate them. Everyone knows all women want a Mammon.

You and Michael meet back up again. Michael having a scratch on his leg.

"Satan did not like the fact that I booped him at first...until I gave him an emergency kitten that I put in a cage nearby like 5 minutes before." Michael says, noticing that you noticed the scratch. "He almost bit me! He's definitely Lucikin's son!"

You point and laugh at him. He pouts, before interlocking your arms. "Purgatory hall?"

"Purgatory hall." You nod.

Michael knocks on the door. Luke answers it before gasping like a child on christmas. "Michael! Hi!" He hugs the Archangel who laughs and picks him up.

The blond boy notices you at that point, he smiles brightly. "Oh MC! Hi!"

"Hiya Luke!" You smile at him, booping his nose. "Boop!"

"Michael follows suit. "Boop!"

Luke blinks before grumbling. "I'm not a child..." He then turns his head back towards Michael who's still holding him. "Boop!"

Michael laughs. "Do MC now!" With that he quickly moves closer to you, Luke still in his arms, and the young angel boops your nose too. You all grin, laughing. Luke just ecstatic that Michael was able to visit. And he brought you too!

You end up watching a movie together, all three of you. Simeon comes home halfway through it. Having had to visit a publishers. Michael hides behind the door and when Simeon opens it, the dark skinned angel pops out, booping the poor man. "Boop!"

Simeon blinks at him. Michael smirks lightheartedly "Get booped Loserboy."

Simeon smiles, his gaze turning toward you." MC would you lie any help with your Solomon x Michael fanfiction? I heard from Satan that you two were on hiatus."

Michael groans. "Traitors!"

You laugh. "Get fanficked Loserboy."

Michael grins, putting on faux dramatics. "You both suck I'm going back into Luke! At least he's actually cool."

After a lovely movie with Luke, Simeon and Michael, you run away to a cave because why not?

After entering Thirteen's very lovely abode, and avoiding all of the traps laid out for Solomon, you finally catch a glimpse of her vibrant ombre hair.

"Hiya Tee!" You grin, pouncing on her and pulling her into a hug. The reaper, who's clearly batshit insane doesn't even flinch, she just laughs, hugging you back even tighter.

"MC! To what do I owe the pleasure babes?"

You giggle michieviously before bringing your hand up and, "Boop!"

She grins wider, bloodied emerald eyes staring back at you so lovingly, hints of playful devilry in her expression.

"Oh let me try! Boop!" She says before pulling you in for a kiss that makes your knees feel weak.

When you both pull away to catch a breath, you breathe out breathlessly. "That was a super boop....an evil boop even..." You say, face burning red, you know she feels the red hotness of your cheeks.

She just laughs. Tilting her head, some strands of hair falling into her face. "You want another one?"

You've never nodded quicker in your life.

"How in Diavolo's name did you get in here?" Lucifer asks, looking up from the work on his desk. He quickly closes over the confidential files and paperwork, turning his head to Michael once more. Blood red eyes narrowed at their counterpart's.

Michael approaches the Demon at a speed that could rival Mammon's. In an instant he's beside the raven-haired man. "Awww Lucikins don´t worry about it! Boop!"

Lucifer swallows thickly, and flicks his gaze to Michael. Despite having the glare of a thousand suns on him, Michael continues grinning. "Did you...did you just boop my nose?..." The Avatar of Pride asks in a low voice.

"I'm not too sure if I did..." Michael puts his fingers to his chin in mock thought, before grinning, pointer finger in the air. "I'll have to do it again to make sure!" The Archangel exclaims before booping his younger brother on the nose. "Boop!"

Lucifer growls. "Michael-"

"Yes, Lucikins?"

"Michael I am going to kill you."

The elder only laughed, "Awww classic Lucikins! Still in his teenage angst phase!"

"I did not have a teenage angst phase." Lucifer glares, huffing embarassedly, turning away and picking up his quill in an attempt to turn away from this god awful conversation.

Michael gives him a knowing look. "Don't make me pull out the photos."

His head snaps back to his elder brother. "What photos?"

"The photos of you with the wolf cut, the ones with you and the eyeliner, the ones where you're all dressed up in your little emo costumes..." Michael wipes a tear from his eye. "Oh...you were so adorable! Always threatening to murder me...! Glad to see that my wittle baby brother hasn't changed!" The Archangel exclaims, pinching his younger brother's cheeks and making them squish up, Lucifer felt his face flush with embarrassment. Michael laughed, he looked like a chipmunk!

"...'m no' a 'ittle ba'y bro'er! you'r tw' minu'es ol'er than 'ee!" Lucifer tries to shout, but with Michael pushing his cheeks together, it comes out muffled and distorted.

"All I heard is that you said I'm the best big brother in the three realms and you love me very much!"

Lucifer glares at him. A glare that doesn't hold any weight seeing as Michael is still squishing his cheeks together and he still looks like a chipmunk.

With enough squirming and fighting, Lucifer finally manages to get out of his brother's grip, he rubs his cheeks, staring daggers at the angel. "I would never say that. I'm not your baby brother. I'm not Lucikins. You're two minutes older than me yet two centuries more immature." He says venomously.

Too bad Michael's poison proof.

The Archangel laughs, "You're not my baby brother? Huh? Who's bed did you climb in when you were scared of the thunder back in the Celestial Realm?"

Lucifer bristles, swallowing thickly, "That's irrelevant."

"Sureee." Michael grins, though it's softer around the edges, Lucifer feels it too.

Lightning flashes in the Celestial realm. Long before Mammon had even been born. Thunder roars, a small whimper sounds. Lucifer sits in his bed, covers over his head, gripping a pillow tightly. Barely even a cherub, he takes the slight break in the storm to gather the courage to waddle over to his twin's bed.

"Mikey?" Lucifer whispers in the darkness, gripping onto the poles of the bed with his tiny pale hands. "Mikey...you awake?" He says through gapped teeth, a slight lisp in his voice. The gap between his two front teeth would close with time.

The sheets rustle, a young Michael groans, also barely a cherub his voice is as high pitched and childlike as his brother's. "Luci...go to sleep..." The slightly older cherub says, eyes still closed.

"Can't Mikey...'s too loud.." Lucifer whispers, black hair sticking to his forehead in a slight sheen of sweat. As if to prove his point, thunder roars again, lightning flashes. Lucifer whimpers, gripping the pole tighter.

Michael sits up sleepily, short curly hair tied in the tiniest protective braids possible, some small blond coils escaping their confines at the edges of his head. The older cherub wipes a small, chubby hand over his eyes and yawns before opening his duvet up just enough so that Lucifer could climb in.

"Make sure...go to sleep Lucikins..." Michael whispers tiredly, covering his yawning mouth before abandoning his teddy bear and putting his arm around his little brother instead.

Thunder sounds again. Lucifer stiffens and lets out a small sound. "Mikey...'m scared..." He grips onto his twins matching pajamas tightly with his tiny little hands.

Michael grins sleepily, red eyes staring into his twins same coloured ones. "Don't worry Lucikins! 'm always gonna p'tect you! That's wha' big brothers are for!"

The thunder still sounds, Lucifer still stiffens slightly,but surrounded by the warmth and comfort of his twin, he manages to sleep soundly.

After all the madness and badness. (Devil face emoji) You and Michael meet up in a Devildom café.

"That was productive!" The Archangel grins.

"Indeed it was Michael....indeed it was...." You say, a blissed out look on your face.

Michael arches a brow, "Is that one of Thirteen's leather jackets?"

"Maybe..." You say dreamily, playing with the sleeves.

Michael just laughs at you. "Get it, I guess! Anyway wanna watch Gilmore Girls with me? I need to catch up with Raphael...he's a few episodes ahead of me."

"Of course I do."

Michael brings his hands together in an imitation of a fly on a wall doing the hand thing. "Excellent."

.

.

.

"Do you think Luke's going to grow up to open a coffee shop?"

"Nah, he'd open a bakery."

this is utter bullshit and utter dogshit idek

[transgenderer]

There were two kinds of landscape characteristic of the inner planets of the Sun: the purposeful and the desolate. Purpose informed every scene on Earth, the planet that produced life, because every detail there had its "benefit," its teleology. True, it did not always— but billions of years of organic labor had accomplished much: thus flowers possessed color for the purpose of attracting insects, and clouds existed for the purpose of dropping rain on pastures and forests. Every form and thing was explained by some benefit, whereas what was clearly devoid of any benefit, like the icebergs of Antarctica or the mountain chains, constituted an enclave of desolation, an exception to the rule, a wild though possibly attractive waste. But even this was not certain, because man— undertaking the deflection of the course of rivers to irrigate areas of drought, or warming the polar regions— paid for the improvement of some territories with the abandonment of others, thereby upsetting the climatic equilibrium of the biosphere, which had been adjusted so painstakingly (though with seeming indifference) by the efforts of natural evolution. It was not that the ocean depths served the creatures there with darkness, to protect them from attack— a darkness they could light, as they needed, with luminescence— but vice versa: the darkness gave rise precisely to those that were pressure-resistant and could illuminate themselves.

On planets overgrown with life it was only in the depths, in caves and grottoes, that the creative power of nature could timidly express itself, a power that, not harnessed to any adaptational requirement, or hemmed in, in the struggle for survival, by the competition of its own results, could create— over billions of years, with infinite patience, in droplets of hardening salt solutions— phantasmagoric forests of stalactites and stalagmites. But on such globes this was a deviation from the planetary labors, a deviation locked away in vaults of rock and therefore unable to reveal its vigor. Hence the impression that such places were not usual in nature but, rather, spawning grounds for monstrosities only on the fringe of things. Infrequent exceptions to the statistical rule of chaos.

In turn, on globes parched like Mars or, like Mercury, immersed in a violent solar wind, the surfaces, due to that rarefied but incessant exhalation from the mother star, were lifeless wastes, since all raised forms were eroded by the fiery heat and reduced to dust that filled the crater basins. It was only in places where eternal, still death reigned, where neither the sieves nor the mills of natural selection were at work, shaping every creature to fit the rigors of survival, that an amazing realm opened up— of compositions of matter that did not imitate anything, that were not controlled by anything, and that went beyond the framework of the human imagination.

imagination. For this reason, the fantastic landscapes of Titan were a shock to the first explorers. People equated order with life, and chaos with a dreary inanimateness. One had to stand on the outer planets— on Titan, the greatest of their moons— to appreciate the full error of this dichotomy-dogma. The strange formations of Titan, whether relatively safe or treacherous, were ordinary rubble heaps of chaos when viewed from a distance and a height. But they did not appear so when one set foot on the soil of this moon. The intense cold of this whole sector of space, in which the Sun shone but gave no heat, proved to be not a throttle but a spur to the creativity of matter. The cold, indeed, slowed the creativity, but in that very slowing gave it an opportunity to display its talent, providing a dimension that was indispensable to a nature untouched by life and unwarmed by sun: time— time on a scale where one million centuries, or two million, was of no significance.

The raw materials here were the same chemical elements as on Earth. But on Earth they had entered the servitude, so to speak, of biological evolution and only in that context amazed man with subtlety— the subtlety of the complex bondings that combined to form organisms and the interdependent hierarchies of species. It was therefore thought that high complexity was a property not of all matter but only of living matter, and that chaos in the inorganic state produced nothing more than haphazard volcanic spasms, lava flows, rains of sulfurous ash.

The Roembden Crater had cracked, once, at the northeast on its large circle. Then a glacier of frozen gas crept through the gap. In the following millennia, the glacier retreated, leaving on that furrowed terrain mineral deposits— the delight and vexation of the crystallographers and other, no less dumbfounded scientists. It was indeed a sight to see. The pilot (now operator of a strider) faced a sloping plain ringed by distant mountains and strewn with … with what, exactly? It was as if the gates of unearthly museums had been flung open and the remains of decrepit monsters had been dumped in a cascade of bones. Or were these the aborted, insane blueprints for monsters, each one more fantastic than the last? The shattered fragments of creatures that only some accident had kept from participating in the cycles of life? He saw enormous ribs, or they could have been the skeletons of spiders whose tibiae eagerly gripped blood-speckled, bulbous eggs; mandibles that clung to each other with crystal fangs; the platelike vertebrae of spinal columns, as if spilled out in coin rolls from the bodies of prehistoric reptiles after their decay.

This eerie scene was best viewed, in all its wealth, from the height of the Digla. The area near Roembden was called, by the people there, the Cemetery— and in fact the landscape seemed a battlefield of ancient struggles, a burial ground that was an exuberant tangle of rotting skeletons. Parvis saw the smooth surfaces of joints that could have emerged from the carcass of some mountainous monstrosity. One could even make out on them the reddish, bloodclotted places where the tendons had been attached. Nearby were draped skin coverings, with bits of hair that the wind gently combed and lay in changing waves. Through the mist loomed more many-storied arthropods, gnawing through one another even in death. From faceted, mirrorlike blocks thrusted antlers, also gleaming, among a spill of femurs and skulls of a dirty-white color. He saw this, realizing that the images that arose in his brain, the macabre associations, were only an illusion, a trick of the eyes shocked by the strangeness. If he dug methodically in his memory, he would probably remember which compounds yielded— in a billion-year chemistry— precisely these forms that, stained with hematites, impersonated bloody bones, or that went beyond the modest accomplishments of terrestrial asbestos to create an iridescent fluff as of the most delicate fleece. But such sober analysis would have no effect on what the eyes saw.

For the very reason that here nothing served a purpose— not ever, not to anyone— and that here no

guillotine of evolution was in play, amputating from every genotype whatever did not contribute to survival, nature, constrained neither by the life she bore nor by the death she inflicted, could achieve liberation, displaying a prodigality characteristic of herself, a limitless wastefulness, a brute magnificence that was useless, an eternal power of creation without a goal, without a need, without a meaning. This truth, gradually penetrating the observer, was more unsettling than the impression that he was witness to a cosmic mimicry of death, or that these were in fact the mortal remains of unknown beings that lay beneath the stormy horizon. So one had to turn upside down one's natural way of thinking, which was capable of going only in one direction: these shapes were similar to bones, ribs, skulls, and fangs not because they had once served life— they never had— but only because the skeletons of terrestrial vertebrates, and their fur, and the chitinous armor of the insects, and the shells of the mollusks all possessed the same architectonics, the same symmetry and grace, since Nature could produce this just as well where neither life nor life's purposefulness had ever existed, or ever would.

-Lem, Fiasco

i really love this excerpt in concept, i think ive posted it before, but empirically it seems false, which is weird. if we consider a very large system we see elaborate structure, long distant current-cycles in the ocean, or the great red spot, or all sorts of sun stuff. but at the human scale, on other planets, we dont see much structure at all. we just see rocks, in plain convex shapes.

[xoxoaydb]

Tumblr has been like a secret garden for me since my teenage years, hidden away from the chaos of the outside world. Within its walls, I found a sanctuary where the flowers of creativity bloomed and the trees of acceptance provided shade from the harsh sun of judgment. The winding paths of the community led me to kindred spirits, each one a vibrant blossom in this shared refuge. Here, the soil was rich with diverse ideas, and the air was filled with the fragrance of open conversation. This garden has grown with me, its lush greenery offering a comforting embrace, a place where I could always retreat to nurture my thoughts and dreams—safe from the storms beyond its borders.

[voidkittyloona]

Creation of Pandora

A bible-esque telling of the myth of Pandora's creation. No beta, I wrote this in like 1 hr bc im fuckin slow and in pain

Gods of the Pantheon: Myciliatrapaconti/Pandora - Goddess of the world tree + the Planet's heart Cadallion/Camazotz/Cadaver - God of Life, Death, and Rebirth Vixxiennen/ViVi/Azzy - God of Love, Lust, Creativity, and War Qalianna/Celadon/Leif - Goddess of the Forests, Jungles, Flora, Food, and the Hunt Raxion/Symbiont/Reggie - God of Rot, Mushrooms, Medicine, Drugs, and Pestilence

In the beginning, there was nothing but Harmony. Her world barren and empty

Then she plucked a seed from her soul and planted it in her rich soils, and from it grew Life.

And her son was born.

He created mortal souls to populate the world, but with no bodies to inhabit, they stagnated became listless.

He asked his mother to fill the world with creatures, so his souls can know happiness and play.

And so she planted another seed, and from it grew Love.

Her second son was born.

He looked upon the barren lands and took the sacred soil into his hands. He mixed it with his holy blood and tears to form clay, and from it he crafted the first creatures for the souls to inhabit. All equals who lived in Harmony.

But then the bodies Love created started to wither and cry, their hearts filled with suffering and their bodies weakening.

They required sustenance to live, but the world was barren and had nothing for them but clay and soil to eat.

So life and love turned to their mother and asked her to fill the world with food for their creations.

She nodded, and Harmony planted yet another seed.

From it, grew Flora.

Upon her birth, the world burst into vibrant greenery with tall trees that bore sweet fruits and nuts, and low bushes ripe with nourishing berries. Medicinal herbs grew to heal mortal pains, and grasses grew to cushion their paws. Flowers filled the world with sweetness and color, and the mortals knew true happiness.

The world was so abundant and lush, the mortals had more than they could ever eat. And still, the greenery grew, overtaking the mortals making it harder and harder for them to gather for how dense the foliage became.

And so Life, Love, and Flora begged their mother to stem the growth to find a way to get rid of the plants the mortals couldn’t eat.

Their mother agreed, so she made a clearing and planted a final seed. And from it grew Rot.

Her final child was born.

Upon his birth, the undergrowth and leaf litter started to decay. Strands of silk spread far and wide beneath the soil, and mushrooms, and mold, and insects crawled out to devour what the mortals could not. Slowly clearing the lands of overgrowth until the mortals could breathe again.

And so gods and mortals alike breathed a heavy sigh, for the world was finally in Harmony and abundance once again. As it should be.

For a time the world stayed in Harmony, the mortals living and falling in love, multiplying as they partook of the abundant lands, with rot eating away at what they could not.

Until there wasn’t enough.

The mortals grew unhappy and cramped as they multiplied. They wanted more, but only for themselves. They hated how they had to share their dwindling resources with the other races, fighting the seasons and each other for enough to sustain their growing numbers that exploded in the times of abundance.

And so they began to fight.

And fight.

And fight.

Each battle warped their love into hatred, each wound grew deeper and deeper until Life bore something new called Death. Fires burned the dense forests and jungles, ruining their food and starving them. And in their wake, sickness took hold.

Harmony was enraged. For her utopia gave way to Discord.

How DARE her children’s creations take advantage of the utopia they were given?!

How DARE they sow seeds of chaos and strife into their harmony?!

From her rage and sorrow she bore another seed, but as it grew and as it bloomed, a child was not made, but a curse.

A darkness that warped her home and poisoned her children.

Life became Death.

Love became War.

Flora became Carnage.

Rot became Pestilence.

And Harmony became Chaos.

Her children suffered, as did their creations. She looked upon the world she created and wept.

And wept.

And wept.

Until the lands flooded. Her tears forming great rivers and creeks, pooling into lakes and oceans.

Her tears divided the lands and culled their creations, until only a handful remained.

As she wept her children looked upon their home and came to an agreement. In Chaos there is Harmony. They just had to get a little creative.

Death paved the way for new Life to blossom, culling the weak and sick and old so there's space for the young.

War made Love more intimate and special, mortals learning how to protect their partners and families and fight for the hearts of their beloveds.

Pestilence kept mortal lives short, sweet, and meaningful, allowing the corpses to Rot and nourish the depleted soils.

Carnage felled mighty beasts to nourish the living, their rotting bones allowing Flora to grow once again to feed the living.

For many years the siblings worked together to make the best of their curse, and turn it into a blessing.

And when their mother dried her tears and looked upon her world once more, all things were both in Chaos… and in Harmony.

And she was proud.

She planted her roots where she sat, embracing both sides of her children and their creations in her boughs. She vowed to keep eternal watch, and to be there when needed as either Harmony, or Chaos.

For she is Pandora. A they are her People.

[mistytarot0919]

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜Colours symbolistic in tarot

©mistytarot0919 - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, alter, or repost my work.

Please REBLOG if you find this information useful! ༄˖°🪐.ೃ࿔*

Colours play a significant role in tarot readings, as they can carry rich symbolism and add layers of meaning to the cards. Different colours can evoke emotions, represent elements, and convey themes within a reading.

By paying attention to the colors present in the tarot cards drawn during a reading, you can tap into a deeper level of interpretation and understanding.

These colours can help illuminate the underlying themes and messages within the cards, enhancing the overall reading experience.

It's important to remember that the meanings and interpretations of colours in tarot can vary from reader to reader, so it's helpful to study and understand the specific colour symbolism of the deck you are using, as well as develop your own intuition and understanding of colour meanings.

Colours can influence human behaviour.

Colours can influence human perceptions.

Colours can influence the taste of food.

Colours can influence attractiveness.

Here are some common interpretations of colours in tarot:

White - is purity

the starting point

innocence

completion and healing

dazzle

emptiness

new intellectual territory

purification

peace

truth and sincerity

cleansing

spirituality

clarity

wholeness and joy

perfect union and purification

colour of God or the colour of death

mortal chill

egotism

hope, faith

Grey - is conservative

unconscious state ( ‘shadow’)

lack of prejudice

neutral

unknown outcome

uniformity

depression

dullness

unsettling

stressful

Black - is authority and mystery

the unknown

visible shadow

mental or emotional darkness

new territory

protection

creative magma

chaos

regression

death impulse

oppression

negativity

sadness

mourning

loss

guilt

emptiness

mystery

Red - attracts the human eye

heart

mentality or disposition

will

love

blood and soil

energy

passion

material world

activity

animal realm

animal violence

health, strength,

physical energy

courage

intense emotions

sexuality

aggression

temper

leadership

Yellow - is a happy colour

consciousness

joie-de-vivre

illumination

self-expression, self-esteem

clairvoyance

awareness

active intelligence

aridity

dry mind without emotions

madness

destruction

envy

mental dissonance (’shrillness’)

confidence

mental activity

memory

communication

ability to rationalise

conscious

Gold - related to royalty, wealth, and money

sun

being conscious

eternity

envy

greed

dazzling

Orange - feelings of enthusiasm and excitement

vitality

warmth

arbitrariness

creativity

impulse

a passionate approach

drive

activity

ambition

enthusiasm

warmth

Blue - is the most used office colour

indifference

coolness

the blues

sentimentality

inebriation

spirituality

inner peace and harmony

truth

clarity

receptivity to the earthly power

despotism

tyranny

a balanced spiritual understanding

healing

peace

psychic, philosophy

religion

subconscious

communication

Light Blue -  tranquility and peace

air

open sky/heavens

clearwater

spirituality

idolization

receptivity to the celestial power

dependence upon the father

immobility

Green - is the most restful colour

nature

freshness

youth

auspiciousness

inexperience

immaturity

growth

eternity

connected to the celestial power

the plant realm

dependence upon the mother

envy

harmony

balance

money

prosperity

fertility

healing

peace

Dark Green - is the colour of the natural world

close to nature

vegetative

protracted

long-lasting

nurturing nature connected to the terestrial powers

absorption

Beige - simplicity, comfort, wisdom and trust

the human body

corporeality

 person that is sensitive, determined, resilient, and dependable

Brown - health, nurturing, and dependability

down-to-earth

“son-of-the-soil”

grounded

animals

Earth

wholesome

stability

stagnation

material world

Violet - energies and mindfulness

borderline experience

intuition

psychic abilities

spiritual awakening

ancient wisdom

third eye chakra where psychic vision and inner eye reside

supreme wisdom

colour of sacrifice

wisdom

sacrifice

death

compassion

power

spirituality

nobility

Flesh

colour of living

the present life

example of ambiguous

both good and bad

humanity

life carnal pleasure

animal violence

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡oopsie you already reached the end ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡

[baphometsss]

say what you will about ghilan'nain's fuckery but one of the reasons she's my favourite of the evanuris is because she represents the chaos of nature. when she said 'all that i am belongs to all of creation' i felt that in my soul. she's all the ugliness and terror and monstrosity that characterises nature and evolution. in some ways she is the perfect representation of nature and the gory ordeal of living in a stinky meat sack

sometimes it's beautiful and breath-taking like the halla and other times it's terrible and horrifying like the darkspawn

sometimes nature is beautiful like lilies and sunsets and cute little baby sea otters and other times it's gross like flies eating shit and insects eating their mates' heads mid-fuck

the point is that good/evil and beautiful/disgusting are very human (mortal) viewpoints on this stuff; in fact, there is no good or evil in nature because nature has no concept of it. we have those concepts because we need them to survive, but they're not universal, and even if they were we're not evolved enough as animals to fully comprehend it all

ghilly doesn't have those concepts because she is nature, she is creation; although we don't get confirmation of what her original spirit nature was, the fact that she says 'all that i am belongs to all of creation' suggests that she was creation or creativity itself. she was also not of the first of the people so she possibly doesn't have a clear understanding of it herself

i'm kind of going off-topic here but one of the reasons why i love the dirtcore/gremlincore subculture is because it's about celebrating the less charismatic side of nature. when i say i am a dirt worshipping heathen i mean it. i'm trans; i know what it's like for people to hate you just for existing, like people hate spiders and snails and flies just for existing. but if we didn't have them, our ecosystem would be in a lot of trouble and it is! a lot of the species you hate are declining! vultures! wasps! practically any insect you can think of! animals that depend on healthy soil which is being eroded by intensive farming practices! you might celebrate this but you won't be when you can't get food on your table because there are no pollinators, no insects or fungi to break down waste, no rotting matter to fertilise the soil

anyway yeah ghilan'nain was a stroke of genius and i wish they'd delved into her a little more. how she revelled in perverting the world by taking a body. how she marvelled at the way sinew and bone and muscle can be mixed and matched. i wanna know all about her time in the abyss with andruil too. what were those weird little fucks getting up to? alas it will have to live rent free in my head forever

[cognitivejustice]

The current landscape of hyper-local urban farming across Asia

Globally, urban farming is evolving as cities seek innovative solutions to sustainably feed their growing urban populations. Techniques like vertical farming and hydroponics are at the forefront, allowing crops to be grown in layered setups or water-based environments, minimizing land use, and reducing water consumption.  

Urban farming in Asia presents a rich tapestry of approaches, each shaped by the unique challenges and priorities of the region’s diverse cultures and economies. The rapid urbanization and dense population clusters in Asia make urban agriculture not just a choice but a necessity, driving innovation and adaptation in several key areas. 

China 

China has become a leader in urban agriculture through heavy investment in technology and substantial government support. Initiatives like the Nanjing Green Towers, which incorporate plant life into skyscraper designs, exemplify how urban farming can be integrated into the urban landscape.  

The government has also implemented policies that encourage the development of urban farming, providing subsidies for technology such as hydroponics and aquaponics, which are vital in areas with contaminated soil or water scarcity. 

Japan 

With its limited arable land, Japan has turned to creative solutions to maximize space, such as rooftop gardens and sophisticated indoor farming facilities.  

One notable example is the Pasona Urban Farm, an office building in Tokyo where employees cultivate over 200 species of fruits, vegetables, and rice used in the building’s cafeterias.  

This not only maximizes limited space but also reduces employee stress and improves air quality. 

Singapore 

Singapore’s approach is highly strategic, with urban farming a crucial component of its national food security strategy. The city-state, known for its limited space, has developed cutting-edge vertical farming methods that are now being adopted globally.  

The government supports these innovations through grants and incentives, which has led to the success of vertical farms. These farms use tiered systems to grow vegetables close to residential areas, drastically reducing the need for food transportation and thereby lowering carbon emissions. 

India 

In contrast to the technology-driven approaches seen in other parts of Asia, India’s urban farming is largely community-driven and focuses on achieving food self-sufficiency.  

Projects like the Mumbai Port Trust Garden take unused urban spaces and convert them into flourishing community gardens. These projects are often supported by non-governmental organizations and focus on employing women, thus providing both social and economic benefits. 

Thailand 

Thailand’s urban farming initiatives often blend traditional agricultural practices with modern techniques to enhance food security in urban areas. In Bangkok, projects like the Chao Phraya Sky Park demonstrate how public spaces can be transformed into productive green areas that encourage community farming. These initiatives are supported by both local municipalities and private sectors, which see urban farming as a way to reduce food import dependency and improve urban ecological balance. 

The Philippines 

In the Philippines, urban farming is an adaptive response to urban poverty and food insecurity. Metro Manila hosts numerous community garden projects that are often grassroots-driven, with local government units providing support through land and resources. These gardens supply food and serve as educational platforms to teach urban residents about sustainable practices and nutritional awareness. 

[liah-sims]

🌿 Rooted & Rising: A Realistic Sims 4 Legacy Challenge

Ten generations of healing, growing, and thriving through struggle, self-discovery, and soft power.

🌱 Generation One: The Seedling

"From soil and sorrow, something new begins."

Traits: Gloomy | Creative | Loyal | Nature Lover | ♓ Pisces Aspiration: Painter Extraordinaire or Freelance Botanist Career: Freelance Artist or Gardener

Goals:

Begin on an empty lot with only §1,800 (no building cheats).

Build a tiny home (Tier 3 or 2) and gradually expand.

Grow at least 10 different plant types; create a thriving garden.

Reach level 10 in Gardening or Painting.

Sell only produce/art to earn income until mid-adulthood.

Keep a daily or weekly journal via the Writing skill or notebook mod.

Adopt a stray animal as a source of companionship.

Fall in love with a Sim who shares a core trait or aspiration.

Don’t get married until reaching Level 10 in career or primary skill.

Have only one child, raised intentionally and with deep emotional bonds.

🌼 Generation Two: The Bloom

"They grew in soil they didn’t choose."

Traits: Overachiever | Neat | Perfectionist | Ambitious | ♍ Virgo Aspiration: Academic Career: Education or Law

Goals:

Enroll in University and graduate with an A in a relevant degree (Education or History).

Work a part-time job throughout university (barista, retail, etc.).

Live in on-campus housing and maintain a GPA above a B average.

Join an organization or club (Debate Guild, Spirit Corps, etc.).

Date one Sim in college, break up after graduation.

Reach level 10 in Logic and Research & Debate.

Move into a mid-size suburban home and decorate it neatly and practically.

Marry young (within 3 days of becoming an adult).

Have 2–3 children and push them academically or skill-wise.

Teach parenting values actively: discipline, conflict resolution, etc.

🔥 Generation Three: The Burnt Branch

"Some trees don’t break—they burn."

Traits: Hot-Headed | Romantic | Self-Destructive | Outgoing | ♈ Aries Aspiration: Serial Romantic Career: Mixologist or Entertainer (Comedian branch)

Goals:

Drop out of university or never attend.

Live in the city and switch apartments at least twice.

Reach level 5 of Charisma and Mischief before adulthood.

Go on 5+ dates before committing to anyone.

Get engaged quickly, then have it called off (cheating is optional).

Struggle with a vice: alcohol (Mixology), woohoo addiction, or fame.

Have a child with someone you’re not in a stable relationship with.

Get into at least 3 public fights or arguments.

Have a near-death experience (fire, drowning, etc.) and reflect/change.

Slowly reconnect with one estranged family member or best friend.

🌊 Generation Four: The Rainmaker

"After the fire, someone has to plant again."

Traits: Green Fiend | Family-Oriented | Proper | Responsible | ♋ Cancer Aspiration: Big Happy Family Career: Civil Designer or Social Worker (mod)

Goals:

Start in a fixer-upper home; gradually renovate with eco-items.

Reach level 10 in Parenting and Gardening.

Host family dinners every week (or game nights).

Use the eco footprint system: make your neighborhood green.

Marry your best friend and stay together for life.

Adopt or foster at least one child.

Never get into a physical fight.

Raise 3–4 children using positive reinforcement and good parenting milestones.

Win a Neighborhood Action Plan vote at least twice.

Master at least one side hobby (knitting, baking, candle making, etc.).

🌪 Generation Five: The Storm

"I am the chaos my ancestors warned you about."

Traits: Erratic | Ambitious | Rebellious | Genius | ♏ Scorpio Aspiration: Public Enemy or Mastermind (mod) Career: Criminal (Boss) or Secret Agent (Villain)

Goals:

Reach level 10 in Logic and Mischief.

Live a double life: professional by day, shady dealings at night.

Join a secret society or club (Renegades, Paragons, Secret Agents).

Start a side hustle: hacking, underground club, illegal gambling, etc.

Sabotage one engagement/marriage (yours or someone else’s).

Get arrested or fined at least once.

Have a child with a romantic partner, then raise the child alone for a while.

Have your arc be redemption-based: either betray your old crew or go clean.

Move into a high-tech or bunker-style house.

Leave behind a mysterious letter or object for your child to discover.

🌫 Generation Six: The Fog

"The world never felt solid beneath my feet."

Traits: Loner | Overthinker | Melancholy | Bookworm | ♓ Pisces Aspiration: Inner Peace or Bestselling Author Career: Writer (Novelist or Poet) or Freelance

Goals:

Live in a tiny, cluttered apartment or cottage alone until at least mid-adulthood.

Write 5+ books of different genres, including poetry or memoir.

Paint or photograph your dreams/emotions at least weekly.

Reach level 10 in Writing and Painting (or Photography).

Meditate, journal, or garden to manage emotions.

Go through one heartbreak that inspires a major creative breakthrough.

Attend therapy or participate in wellness practices regularly.

Fall in love with a fellow artist or gentle soul later in life.

Publish a best-selling book that is an ode to your family or trauma.

Be remembered more for your art than your presence.

🌕 Generation Seven: The Moonlight

"I was raised by shadows, but I shine differently."

Traits: Dreamy | Loyal | Cat Lover | Empath | ♋ Cancer Aspiration: Soulmate or Super Parent Career: Paranormal Investigator or Stay-at-Home Parent

Goals:

Have a cozy cottage-style home with magical, vintage, or whimsical décor.

Own multiple cats and become soulbound to at least one.

Raise 3+ children using gentle parenting and emotional bonding.

Use the Wellness skill, crystals, or spiritual practices regularly.

Reach level 10 in Medium and Wellness (or Parenting).

Fall in love with someone who makes you feel emotionally safe.

Host family dinners, moon rituals, or storytelling nights.

Paint the nursery or build a magical playroom for the kids.

Write letters to your future descendants or keep a grimoire/journal.

Leave behind a family heirloom or spellbook for Gen 10.

🛠 Generation Eight: The Builder

"If it breaks, I build it better."

Traits: Handy | Stoic | Responsible | Perfectionist | ♑ Capricorn Aspiration: Mansion Baron or Nerd Brain Career: Engineer or Tech Guru

Goals:

Build a house from scratch using only your own Sim’s income.

Max Handiness, Logic, and Programming.

Invent 3+ gadgets or robotics if using Discover University.

Delay romance until you’re established in your career.

Avoid emotional vulnerability; be seen as “the reliable one.”

Marry someone who challenges your worldview (opposites attract).

Raise kids with high expectations—explore emotional consequences.

Fix every broken item in your house without calling for help.

Complete at least 1 unique invention or structure (rocket, invention, bunker).

Be the family’s fixer—repair old bonds or homes.

🌻 Generation Nine: The Wildflower

"I am not my roots—I am who I choose to be."

Traits: Free Spirit | Clumsy | Nature Lover | Adventurous | ♐ Sagittarius Aspiration: Outdoor Enthusiast or World-Famous Traveler Career: Conservationist or Freelance/None

Goals:

Travel and live in at least 3 different worlds (Sulani, Selvadorada, Mt. Komorebi, etc.).

Collect items from every place visited (photos, bugs, treasures).

Avoid “traditional” jobs—live off odd gigs, writing, or gardening.

Refuse to settle down or own a home until adulthood.

Have a chosen family of friends from different walks of life.

Experiment with relationships (polyamory, open, single parenting).

Break a family cycle: divorce, emotional distance, perfectionism, etc.

Live in a van, tent, or minimal home at some point.

Adopt a stray animal during your travels.

Reflect on family legacy with a bittersweet mix of pride and detachment.

🌳 Generation Ten: The Tree

"Everything they survived became my soil."

Traits: Wise | Family-Oriented | Empath | Charismatic | ♉ Taurus Aspiration: Renaissance Sim or Custom Legacy Builder Career: Any (must master 3+ careers or skills)

Goals:

Stay on the original legacy lot and restore it to full glory.

Max at least 3 major skills or have a Sim complete 3 careers.

Create a family tree room or ancestral memorial garden.

Interview elders, read old journals, and collect family heirlooms.

Host a final family reunion with as many relatives as possible.

Have 3–5 children and choose an heir based on storytelling, not traits.

Reach level 10 in Parenting, Charisma, and one chosen hobby skill.

Take one final vacation with the entire household before elderhood.

Write a biography or history book about your legacy family.

Die peacefully surrounded by loved ones, knowing your roots held strong.

[reachoutandtouchfaith-pccw]

THE TOWER — Micah Bell's Tarot Card Hex

What the title says — a hex based on the Tower tarot card. A hex for two to create a vortex of misfortune, locking them in a state of perpetual conflict and instability. When woven with malicious intent, such a ritual makes it impossible for them to regain control of their lives or find a semblance of peace. A witch might choose to hex a duo for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, it is to disrupt the bond between the two, making them arch-rivals or bitter enemies. In other cases, it stems from a shared responsibility in an act of transgression against you or nature. So, gather now — if you dare — and immerse yourself in this fearsome spell. It is not for the faint of heart. Only those with an iron will, unwavering and unyielding in the face of darkness, should proceed.

Picture credit goes to @varoneatseyes. She worked hard on this.

Participants:

One. Fellow conspirators may spectate and, if their hearts are emboldened by chaos, even join the ritual, though it is written to be solitary.

Ingredients:

The Tower Tarot Card. Marked with stark images of ruin and awakening devastation, this card, a symbol of crumbling fortresses, is the final arbiter of fate in this ritual.

Dirt. Preferably collected from the grave of a notorious blonde Wild West outlaw, but if you don't know any outlaw graves near you, regular dirt shall do. That outlaw embodies the raw, unforgiving spirit needed. Their path, as wild and unbridled as the dust storms that once swept across forgotten frontier towns, holds secrets and remnants of power, so this soil is the ideal dirt.

Cayenne Pepper. Known in the realms of both food and magic for its burning touch, cayenne causes discomfort, anxiety, and general pain that’s hard to pin down or get rid of for your targets. If you don’t have cayenne pepper, any powdered hot pepper will do (in fact, the hotter the pepper, the worse it gets for your targets).

Black Salt. An ancient substance imbued with the essence of the inversion of luck, black salt is usually salt mixed with ashes, charcoal, and black pepper. This substance, as dark and as potent as the night, forms the adhesive in the mixture.

Blade. A sharp knife or any bladed implement that resonates with you — if you have made the pact, use the same blade you used.

Unholy Space. A roaring campfire is essential. Its unpredictable flames form the medium into which the ritual's energies will be unleashed, consuming the physical and spiritual remnants of order and exhaling the promise of chaos.

Instructions:

Don Your Clown Attire. Before commencing the rite, gaze deeply into the mirror and put on your garments as if they were your battle dress — a badge of your willingness to laugh in the face of your enemy. Apply clown makeup in erratic splashes of color, each smear a symbol of creativity unleashed from the constraints of conformity. As you stand draped in your absurd costume, allow yourself to see beyond the physical — this is about unveiling your inner self, that riotous flame that thrives in anarchy. You are not merely wearing the garb, you are it. Your reflection in the mirror shows not a performer but a harbinger of chaos, ready to face the targets with a jester’s grin and a heart full of hate.

Prepare Your Space. In the witching hour, when the skies weep black and the wind whispers secrets of ancient betrayals, there exists a moment where fate can be bent, destinies shattered, and legacies burned to ash. This is the realm where the most potent hexes of despair and downfall are born. In a clearing beneath a gnarled oak and the distant howl of a madman, you must draw a circle of black salt around yourself and the campfire. This circle anchors each dark intention to the very pulse of the earth.

Call Upon the Elements. With the stage set, secure the blade and, turning widdershins (also known as counterclockwise), point the blade to each cardinal point of the compass. These invocations call upon the elemental forces. First is North, the invocation appealing to the natural cycle of ruin. “Spirits from the trees that grow upon the leas, be kind to me.��� Next is West, the invocation calling forth the murkiness of fate. “Swamp spirits hateful, to people fateful, be kind to me.” Then it is South, the invocation calling upon the inevitability of demolition. “Spirits of fire, destructive in your ire, be kind to me.” Last is East, the invocation summoning the energies of the atmosphere. “Spirits of the air, foul and black, not fair, be kind to me.” The blade is a tool which allows you to slice through the mundane to reach the deeper currents of energy.

Begin the Invocation. Breathe in the smoky winds of destruction, the fiery sparks of vengeance, and the whisper of deliciously evil souls. Stand within your circle, arms spread as if to embrace the raw power of chaos. Look not to the heavens but down into the vices running in the veins of the earth. Have your voice be steady enough to feed the flames of the hex. “Built on lies… everythin' always is. Built on secrets and deceit. Sooner or later, it all comes crashin' down. And when it does… it's a beautiful sight to behold. Lightning strikes, the foundations crack, the walls crumble. There's no hidin' from it now. I embrace the chaos… I welcome the destruction. By the power of the Tower, by the lightning that shatters the sky, by the earthquake that shakes the earth, I command this destruction to continue!"

Reach for the Tarot Card. Feel the cold promise within its imagery — a reminder of the inevitable collapse of your targets. With trembling resolve, dip the card into the mixture prepared before you: a swirling blend of outlaw earth, cayenne pepper’s searing intensity, and the insidious depth of black salt. As the tarot card submerges into this concoction, feel its edges tremble with the weight of impending upheaval. Allow the ancient malediction to seep into the very fibers of the tarot card, suffusing it with the combined essences of the fallen, the renegade, and the wicked. The mixture will cling to its surface like the scars of betrayal, darkened by the rage of those who have suffered at the hand of destiny’s unyielding march. In that slow plunge, your energies align with those of broken dreams and shattered illusions.

Cast into the Fire. This is a signal to the gathering shadows that a terrible fate is soon to be cast. Under the dim shimmer of the moon, the snapping of twigs and the chirp of distant crickets serve as the hymn of nature’s acceptance of your intent. Gather every ounce of wrath and cast the card into the ravenous flames of the campfire. “Flames… they purify. They cleanse. They consume. But they also punish. They are the perfect vessel for retribution. Let them carry my anger, my hatred, my desire for vengeance. Cast in the blaze of irreversible fate. There's no turnin' back now. Once the flames are lit, there's no puttin' them out. The wheels are in motion and nothin' can stop what's comin'. The downfall of the targets, now wrought, has begun. Let them feel the heat. Let them feel the pain. Let them feel the consequences of their actions. Let their world burn. Let their hopes turn to ashes. Let their dreams be consumed by the fire. Let them suffer as I have suffered!" In that moment, as the campfire roars in approval and the night takes heed, the irreversible cascade of events begins.

Visualization of the Bell Gang. In your mind’s eye, see a vast, stormy night filled with swirling, dark clouds. Breathe in the charged energy of the atmosphere, feeling the coolness of the air on your skin. Before you is a towering, ancient structure standing firm against the turbulent winds. Now, notice that the tower is in disarray, its stone walls are fractured and crumbling under the force of relentless lightning. This tower, once a symbol of unyielding strength, now represents sudden upheaval. Imagine the bolts splitting the dark sky, illuminating shards of stone that tumble around in a surreal dance of chaos. Now, shift your focus to the figure at the heart of this tempest — Micah Bell standing with a roguish demeanor. His features are accentuated — sharp eyes filled with mischief and a knowing smirk that hints at both the wild unpredictability of fate and his own unpredictability. Imagine him leaning casually against a fractured remnant of the tower. Notice the subtle details: his rugged attire, the worn leather that whispers of countless past misdeeds, and his hands firmly grasping smoking revolvers. At the same time, his gaze lifts slowly toward the stormy heavens, laughing maniacally.

Incantate the Final Words. “Rootin’, tootin’, toil n’ shootin’, fire burn and cowboy bootin’. Eye of newt and spicy beans, toe of frog and denim jeans, whiskey, grits, n’ fallen spire tossed into my banefyre. With the tannin’ of my hide, somethin’ wicked this way rides. I am the herald of your undoing, (name of targets), you goddamn parasites. Embers to ash, fortunes to dust, all that was built falls apart in fright and rust.” Let each syllable resound with turbulence — it is the shattering of their luck, a tipping point where they begin to unravel.

Thank the Elements. Secure the blade and, turning clockwise, point the blade to each cardinal point of the compass. First is East. “Spirits of the air, foul and black, not fair, thank you for being kind to me.” Next is South. “Spirits of fire, destructive in your ire, thank you for being kind to me.” Then it is West. “Swamp spirits hateful, to people fateful, thank you for being kind to me.” Last is North. “Spirits from the trees that grow upon the leas, thank you for being kind to me.” The blade is a tool which allows you to slice through the mundane to reach the deeper currents of energy.

Aftermath. Almost as soon as the last ember dies in the fire, like the first cracks that signal an impending collapse, the earliest signs of turmoil will be subtle — flickering moments of bad luck, inexplicable quarrels, and small but significant disruptions in their routines. There will be a sense of doom that slowly permeates their days, as if the foundations of everything they rely on are beginning to shift imperceptibly. As time passes, these disturbances will intensify. The targets will find themselves trapped in a spiraling cycle of conflict and misfortune. Their bond, once perhaps strong or at least neutral, will fracture into animosity — they shall become reluctant adversaries, their every interaction laced with tension and bitterness. The hex shall enforce this perpetual state of instability, making it nearly impossible for them to regain any semblance of control or harmony. Gradually, every decision they make will be accompanied by setbacks — relationships will falter, opportunities will vanish, and the specter of chaos will loom in every shadow. Where once they might have found moments of inner peace or clarity, they will now face internal battles that mirror the literal destruction painted by the Tower tarot card. The constant strain shall wear down their resilience, leaving behind scars both seen and unseen. Their judgment, creativity, and overall well-being shall suffer as the hex gnaws at the very core of their existence.

Additional Notes:

Considered a card that is both chaotic and destructive, the Tower in the tarot deck stands as a powerful symbol of upheaval, transformation, and the sudden collapse of long-held systems. The imagery on the Tower card typically depicts a tall edifice stricken by lightning, its top falling and inhabitants (such as Arthur and John in this case) leaping from its shattered windows. This dramatic scene captures the essence of shock, representing crises that force individuals to face abrupt, life-altering changes. The chaos and violence suggested by the Tower are not merely about physical destruction, they delve deep into the psychological realm, representing the shattering of internal certainties and the selves.

People who incorporate tarot cards into their manifestation practices are drawn to their rich symbolic power and energetic resonance, which extend far beyond their use for divination. Tarot cards are loaded with archetypal imagery and themes that can serve as focal points for intent. When you select a card that embodies a particular force or facet of existence, the card becomes an energetic anchor for that intention. Its symbolic imagery enables PCCWs to channel and direct energies toward manifesting their desired outcome. So, since tarot cards offer flexibility by serving both as tools for foretelling possible outcomes and as mystical objects that embody the magical forces invoked during a spell, I spellwrote Micah a tarot spell with his Tower just like I did with Sean MacGuire and his Wheel of Fortune.

There are a few environmental concerns. The ritual requires constructing a campfire in an outdoor clearing which could pose a risk of an uncontrolled wildfire. It's important to use a designated fire pit or area where fire restrictions allow campfires, and always ensure proper extinguishing once the ritual is completed. While occasional small campfires have minimal impact, repeated or large-scale fires can contribute to local air pollution and have a negative effect on both health and local ecosystems. After the ritual, there may be remnants — the tarot card, namely — that need to be properly disposed of or recycled. Lastly, setting up the ritual in a natural clearing might disturb local wildlife or damage vegetation, so it’s advisable to select an area that is already designated for activities to avoid impacts on sensitive habitats or wildlife.

In the wake of your workings, the hex becomes more than mere words or actions — it transforms into a persistent force that challenges the structural fabric. Its aftershocks are felt as the slow drift into chaos where every step taken by its targets is etched with misfortune. Let its echo be a call for vigilance: magic is intricate, and its energies can continue to influence long after the ritual has faded. Monitor its effects with a discerning eye, ready to adjust, realign, or temper the unleashed chaos with thoughtful intention. The hex is an expression of magic — it breathes, it evolves, and it waits for the next moment of reckoning.

May your path be as thoughtful as it is brave, and may the fires forever guide you — ever in the ruin, ever in the echo of the malefic rites. To all who dare to embrace this ritual, note that invoking the forces of chaos means dancing with the unpredictable — remain vigilant and mindful of the energy you unleash. Ensure that your intent is upheld with clarity and purpose — the ritual is a powerful conduit for transformation, use its might wisely. In your call upon energies and forces, let respect for the natural world be your partner in the process — exercise care in your surroundings, ensuring that your practices do not disturb the delicate balance of the earth. May you tread with wisdom and power, knowing that each step you take into the heart of chaos is a step towards vengeance. Stay strong, and let every ripple of misfortune be a lesson to your targets in the inexorable dance of fate.

And with that, I leave these pieces of information here so you can do what you want with them: either hex someone or not. The choice is yours. Just be careful which path you decide to take and make sure not to get caught. And feel free to ask me questions in the comments section down below. Take care and beware Micah Bell the Third. - Alfie

[theresattrpgforthat]

are there any ttrpgs about bees? bonus points if they involve bee evolution

THEME: Bees

Hello friend! Gosh, there’s so many games about bees.

Sting Operation, by My name is Grant.

There’s a patient on the table slipping away. The only thing keeping the Grim Reaper at bay is you: a sentient swarm of bees. They laughed when you left the hive for medical school, but nobody’s laughing now. No, nothing has ever been more serious than this.

Sting Operation is a TTRPG for 1-4 players, plus a GM. It's about sexy doctors being dramatic medical heroes and also about swarms of bees in little masks and gloves. There’s nothing a sexy doctor who is also a swarm of bees can’t do.

You are a sexy swarm of bees that left the hive for medical school, and now your patient’s life is on the line. You may have to sacrifice bees from your colony to bring them back from the brink. In this case, your bees will be represented by dice - 25 dice, to be exact. You will use these dice as a diminishing pool of resources, in your desperate attempt to save a life.

No One SurvHives, by Paddy Hutchinson.

The wasps destroyed your old hive. Will your strength and determination bee enough to take revenge, and move on? No One SurvHives is a short form collaborative game about bees. There's some dice rolling, sort of like playing bee-chicken with yourself. 

This game is probably the most full of puns out of this entire lot, which is a tall order. You’re a group of bees getting ready to battle with the Wasps, through the power of friendship. You’ll help each-other prepare, while also noting signs of hope and signs of impending doom. The more dice you manage to prepare, the more you’ll have to throw against the Wasps in the final showdown. The dice will tell you how it goes!

Where the Sky’s as Red as Honey, by Mitchell Daily.

The Hive, once a perfectly synchronized and efficient society, was thrown into chaos with the death of its Queen. The Queen's death also meant the first recognition of personal identity for most of the Hive.

The Hive has an opportunity to make itself whatever it wishes. Will the members of the Hive recapture the structures lost with the Queen, or create something new? Will they rebuild on familiar soil, or find a new sky as red as honey? The Hive will have to reckon with its fate quickly as invaders hover at the edges of the system.

This is a game that I recommend playing with people you are comfortable with. It’s a game in which the death of the Queen means that the Hive is losing honey, and you will have to enter dangerous situations in order to keep your community alive. The game uses one set of polyhedral dice, but those dice are optional; the creator includes ways to play that don’t require them at all. There are a few possible endings for this game, depending on whether the hive wants to aim for freedom, or whether you decide to elect a new Queen.

This game is likely the longest one on this list, with a guide for bee creation, a list of different actions with which you can explore your newfound freedom, and a cycle of play to follow to help you decide what happens next. This game feels like more of an emotional experience, and in one way, I think it’s the closest to an evolution of sorts - although the evolution is a personal one, rather than a physical one. If you want to try something a bit experimental, with the chance to end up feeling very personal, you might want to check out this game.

Bee-On Genesis, by paladinosaur.

You play an insect (or other arthropod) piloting the discarded exoskeleton of a much larger arthropod around, like a giant robot mech. All you need is a few d6s, a DM, and a bit of creativity and you've got all it takes to play Bee-on Genesis: An Insect Mech TTRPG!

You’re not necessarily bees in this game, but you absolutely can be! You are all tiny insects piloting the bones of former predators in order to protect a city that you love. I think the premise of replicating a mech story using insect characters is a real treat, and the rolling 2d6 on a staggered success really indicates some hints of Powered by the Apocalypse sitting in the bones of this ruleset.

(Also you can fight Jeff Bee-zos)

6b, by dietcokestan.

In this game, your group plays a swarm of six bees. What I love about this game is that each bee (represented by a different player) embodies a different stat - and is named accordingly! So you could be a Charisma bee named Bombshell, a Constitution bee named Beast, a Strength bee named Buster, etc. Work as a team to locate Something Sweet, and be careful not to take too much damage - you’re only bees after all! There’s even optional rules that allow for dice other than d6’s, as well as rewards if you use a bee pun. Very cute!

I’m a Bee!, by shardsofblue.

You’re a bee looking for flowers. First you roll (or choose or make up) what happens, then you write about it. 

I'm a bee! is a solo journaling game about being a bee who is looking for flowers. While you look, you have feelings and you write about them.

This is an adorable little solo game with a number of random roll-tables to help you generate the beginning of your bee’s day. One of the most important things you’ll roll for is how you’re feeling that day. Are you irritated? Joyful? Guilty? Why? The game also has some lovely illustrations of different kinds of bees and flowers - and if you buy the game above the price point, the creator donates to the Honeybee Conservancy!

Games I’ve Recommended Before

Bees in Mechs, by Fleet Detrik.