#does that still add a read more?

[queen-mabs-revenge]

both cool and gross video of caterpillar poop below

yeah call me precious but with the sheer amount of poop on this bag, i think i'm gonna pass on kale in my soup tonight.

[daisy-mooon]

"I want Annabeth to be blonde :(" then pick up a PJO book and read it you dumb fuck

[madbard]

Sanctity

A Killer Sans story.

Every child dreamed of the Angel.

When Sans was young, he had imagined it as a skeleton, beaming with all the radiance of the stolen sun. Each evening, he kneeled beside his father and whispered the poetic words of prophecy, voice faltering at first, then growing steady as the tale of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. Later, he would kneel with his brother while his father vanished into the lab. Each night, he dreamed of the moment when the Angel would tear down the barrier, at last letting the bright and deadly sunshine in.

Everything could be attributed to the Angel. If a monster was successful, it was because they had a place in the prophecy, an important role which would contribute to their eventual freedom. If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. They were not the Angel’s chosen and would never be free.

(Did Sans have a place in that prophecy? If he was chosen, then why was he so fragile? Why would it be so difficult for him to make it to that future? Sans had asked his father that one night, after their prayer. Nothing would ever break that silence.)

When Gaster’s final experiment went up in flames, Sans imagined it made a light brighter than the sun. He imagined its light was like the palm of the Angel, taking his father with it – or casting him, finally, into the infinite darkness of the earth. He spread his father’s ashes on the remnants of the lab and then, as an afterthought, on his younger brother’s scarf. He laughed at the funeral, quietly. He shook the chill hands of fear and doubt from his soul. He had faith.

(Some monsters whispered that the prophecy had been interpreted incorrectly. They whispered that the Angel would indeed free them – that their dust would one day mix with the river and thus find its way to the ocean. Sans ignored them as best he could.)

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeleton. But lounging at his post one day in early adulthood, he was surprised to see it take the guise of a child. He was even more surprised when no one else seemed to see it for what it truly was. It turned to him, looked him in the eyes. Then raised a single finger to its lips.

Sans followed the Angel. He watched it navigate through each encounter with kindness and grace. He watched it befriend his brother, the captain of the guard, the royal scientist, and even the king. He watched it destroy the barrier and finally baptize his people in the all-destroying light of the sun. He felt its eyes upon him, and in that moment knew the gaze of something truly unlike himself. Come and see, those eyes said. He saw the prophecy come true.

He stood with his brother in the light of the Angel, the light of the long-awaited sun. For a moment, he thought himself in heaven.

Then he woke in hell.

That first time, he didn’t even see the Angel arrive in Snowdin. His eyelights flickered slowly as he wandered the icy streets in a daze. The air was still, and thick with a scent he refused to recognize. They had escaped, hadn’t they? After years of prayer and service, monsterkind was finally free. His mouth curved around a quiet, desperate prayer. This had to be a dream…

Just outside of Snowdin, he found his brother’s scarf.

Funny, how these things worked. Sans’ first impulse was to find the Angel. Something had gone wrong, certainly – something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. But he had seen the Angel treat his brother with kindness. It would have protected him… right?

Perhaps he already knew…

“Sans.”

Sans spun around, gripping Papyrus’ scarf. The Angel stood behind him, eyes almost as wide as its smile. A silver knife glinted in its grip. His whispered prayer froze as his eyes went dark. He stood still.

“what happened?”

“Nothing much. And everything.” The Angel stepped forward. “Give that to me.”

“where’s papyrus?”

“Free.” The Angel took another step forward, and Sans felt a chill creep up his spine. “You remember being free, don’t you?”

“i…”

“Don’t you want to be free again?” This time, Sans didn’t have time to respond. Its knife had already slashed through his chest.

The second time, Sans woke in the early hours of the morning. He took a shortcut into the woods, stepping onto the abandoned path which led to the hidden door. Even so, he didn’t quite understand. Even so, he didn’t quite believe. Fear made a nest in his ribcage.

This time, the Angel killed him first, separating his head from his shoulders, and Sans woke up back at home.

If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. Sans fell again and again. Each time he died, the Angel would say something different, something new. It spoke of the sun’s rays, the way they warmed at first then burned and bleached and ruined. It spoke of the sins of the surface, the suffering of the Underground. It spoke of an endless loop, from which they would never be free. “Better to end it now,” the Angel whispered, wiping blood from its blade as Sans crumpled to the ground.

The loop continued endlessly. Bit by bit, Sans stopped praying.

The loop continued endlessly. He began to fight back.

The loop continued endlessly. The angel’s words changed.

“Do you know the difference between an angel and a god?” the Angel asked once, after Sans dodged its blade. Sweat dripped down his skull, and the air seemed to frost his ribcage as he gasped for breath.

“sorry. i god no idea.” The knife whistled past his ear, and a hushed “angel’s sake” escaped his mouth before he growled and swallowed the word.

“I’ll give you a hint.” It attacked once more, and this time it didn’t miss. It walked over to his dissolving form and whispered to him. “An angel is a servant. A god serves no one.” It stepped back. He died.

This time, the Angel approached him with an altogether different kind of smile.

“But what is a god without an angel?”

Sans said no in every way he could imagine. Loop after loop, death after death. He joked and danced around the question. He sent another attack. At his lowest, he pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Angels live forever.”

“when everyone else is dead?”

“Angels are never alone.”

“i wouldn’t be alone if it wasn’t for you.”

“Angels are powerful. They are beautiful and loved.”

“heh, that’s kind of a loaded comment, isn’t it?”

“Angels know their purpose.”

“what would a lazybones like me want with a purpose?”

“Gods are tireless. I can keep going forever, and nothing will ever change.”

“…”

“You were made to serve me.”

The funny thing about prayer? Repetition makes it meaningless. There is performance to it, certainly. There is what prayer symbolizes, there is the essential power of routine. But once the words become instinctive, the meaning can’t help but diminish. After enough repetition, prayer becomes little more than muscle memory for the weary. And when the weary recite it, how then can they hope to see God?

Sans kneeled in the hallway, bones aching, magic all but spent. Somewhere before this moment lay the memory of the sun, the way he had rested in its blinding light. Even before that, the echoes of evenings spent in prayer with his father, torn carpet barely cushioning his bones. Those memories were lost now, or buried. So many deaths – had there truly been anything before this? Could there ever be anything after? Sans didn’t know. Eventually, he no longer cared.

“and if i said yes?”

It paused and stared at him. A chuckle started low in its throat, stopped just behind its teeth. Sans wished he could feel a twinge of anger or fear at the sound. He just felt tired.

“Just for one round. Just to try something new.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that makes a difference.” The god stepped forward, knife glinting in its hand. Sans closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow. Instead, he felt the warm handle slide into his skeletal grip. “Go forth, my angel. Do as your god commands.”

There was a momentary darkness. He woke at the foot of his bed, hands folded. Eyes dark.

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeletal figure. After maturing, he discarded that image as a figment of childhood’s vivid ego. For a moment in time, doesn’t every child worship a god that looks like them?

Sans was not a god. Through the snow, the water and the flame, he became the angel of death. The flash of his knife answered prayers, scattered dust in the river that it may one day reach the ocean. He remained by his god, always. He watched, as if outside himself, as his knife found the faithful and the faithless alike. He watched his brother die.

“That prayer, in his final moments – you know, before he forgave and spared you. Didn’t you teach him that?”

“…”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s hypocritical when you’re the one that killed him.”

“shut up.”

“Ooh.” The god smiled and leaned forward. “But it’s new, isn’t it? Isn’t it better?”

“no. no, it isn’t.”

“Hm.” The god nodded. “Do it again.”

The funny thing about prayer? Its meaning is only found through repetition. Sans scoured through the Underground again and again, knife faltering at first, then growing steady as the path of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. He made a sacrament of death, and his god glutted itself on the dust in his path. He became something truly unlike himself – did that now make him holy?

Holy enough, he decided, waking among flowers with his soul burning bright outside his body, a strange tarry fluid dripping from his eyes. Holy enough for this.

It seemed to know what he was planning. At least, it didn’t look surprised when he brandished his weapon. Nor did it fight back. It only spoke. “You know, you were nothing before me. And you will be nothing after.”

How easy, to kill a god. In the end, how stupidly simple. The Angel laughed as he killed his god with its own gleaming knife, and it laughed too, bright blood staining its teeth.

“i killed you.” The Angel giggled. “does that make me god now?” The god lay still. Its chest had stopped moving a long time ago. The Angel finished his prayer anyway. He had to be certain. “actually, nah, not sure i like that… hey, i’ll figure it out.” The Angel rose to his feet, staggered a bit, then bowed his head. “go to hell.”

What is an angel without a god? From then on, the Angel drifted from world to world. He recited prayer as he always did, utterly divorced from meaning. His knife brought whatever his victims chose, and he learned to see the afterlife in their dimming eyes – the reflection of paradise or punishment, a final acknowledgment of the waiting dark. He laughed in the moment before a creature crumpled to dust – something about it made his soul sting, sharply. It made him feel alive.

Sometimes the Angel would glance over his shoulder, searching for his god’s approval. When he caught himself doing this, his posture would stiffen suddenly, and he would cease his prayer. In those rare moments, a victim might escape. In that way, news spread through the multiverse of his arrival – though ‘Angel’ was not the word they used.

Even to the multiverse’s darkest corners, the Angel slowly became known, and this filled certain people with a cool excitement. Gods watched on and wondered where his allegiance might fall. But this Angel had little patience for deities.

“Aren’t you just fantastic!” The Angel paused, then straightened, turning through the snow of decimated universe to face a small, skeletal figure, dressed in a stained scarf and splattered with ink. “A Sans who no longer believes in anything, but still sees himself as the Angel! A Sans for whom death has become prayer, because prayer never led to anything but death. Odd, definitely – I’d guess your creator was feeling pretty ambitious when they made you…” The skeleton tilted their head. “I’m not sure they succeeded.”

“who are you?”

“Ink! God of Creation. You see, I helped make this universe, so… whoa there, let’s not be too hasty!’ The Angel had raised his knife and taken a smooth step forward.

“god, you say?”

“Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t have said – wow, you’re quick!” Ink swung a massive brush through the air and the Angel’s knife skittered across the brushstroke’s obsidian surface. “Look, sloppy or not I think you came from a place of real excitement and love! I’d like to –”

Ink never finished his sentence. Blinking, the Angel darted around the obsidian shield and raised his knife to stab this god in the chest. He managed to spill a vial of red paint, so much like blood that he smirked, believing for a moment that he had already won. Retribution was brutal and swift.

The Angel no longer felt fear. His god had cured him of that, through the endless resets. Still, Ink’s rapid-fire attacks quickly had him on the defensive, constantly dodging and side-stepping to avoid strike after inky dark strike from the god’s strange weapon. Each time he brandished his knife, he was ambushed by a new attack from a new direction, all coinciding on his form as he struggled to fight back, struggled to survive.

Was this the true power of a god? Something cold settled in the Angel’s soul, causing it to fizzle. He began to seriously consider retreat.

But to where?

The Angel tried to step into another world, but Ink was on him the moment his portal closed, taking advantage of the snow’s blinding afterimage to dig a painted blade into his back. It was dark here, and cold – far colder than Snowdin ever had been. Another blow, and the Angel’s soul shuddered again. This time, he felt fear.

Was this it? Was this where he died?

Another blow.

Perhaps this was right. Perhaps this was what he deserved…

Another blow and sparks flew from his soul, igniting terror and pain. This time the Angel screamed. This time, his mouth shaped a word he’d sworn to never say again.

“ANGEL!!!”

Ink lunged forward, but before his final blow could land something warm and strong gripped the Angel’s ankle and dragged him into the infinite darkness of the earth.

When the Angel woke, he imagined for a moment that he was dead. His sockets could not focus because there was nothing to focus on – the world seemed to have vanished into a brilliant white expanse. He lay there, soul burning, weeping black, emotionless tears. A minute? A year? If the figure hadn’t spoken, the Angel might have lain there forever.

“Greetings, little angel. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The Angel leapt to his feet. Across from him stood a strange, dark figure. At first, he might have guessed that it was a skeleton – but a tarry black fluid not unlike the Angel’s tears covered every bit of the monster’s body, leaving only a single teal light to stare into his sockets. The Angel might not have recognized Ink’s power, but he could feel this monster’s strength – could feel it in the way the very air seemed to bristle against his presence. This was no mortal. This was beyond anything the Angel had seen.

“what have you heard?”

“In general? Ah, little one, that would require some time.” A fluid black tentacle slipped from the creature’s spine and wrapped around the Angel’s shoulders, immobilizing him. The Angel was still. “But you were asking what I had heard about you. So I will oblige. I have heard that you are a harbinger of death. Some have gone so far as to call you an angel, but I know better than that. After all, what is an angel without a god?”

“i already killed my god. i don’t need another.”

“I do not desire your worship. Besides, there is a title which suits me far better than god.”

“what do you want?”

“A fighter. Someone with little respect for the likes of Dream and Ink, who would aid me in destroying my enemies.”

“you want me to kill gods for you? i would do that anyway.”

“Well then, little god-killer. I have a place for you, if you’ll take it.”

“…and if i say no?”

“Then I shall leave you in the first universe that opens up beneath our feet. You will be free to cause whatever destruction you wish. But if you choose to follow me – oh, you will see and experience far greater things than you could ever imagine.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Very well. You may return to your dreary existence. But you are limited when you fight alone. You will be more powerful at my side.” The figure extended a tarry hand. “I am not like the other gods. I have no need for angels. But you aren’t exactly an angel anymore… are you?”

The god killer stared at the dark figure, stared at his extended, toxic hand. The dead grass beneath his knees felt like torn carpet. He remembered a different hand, a hollow palm. Prayer was simpler then. The words didn’t yet matter, not like his father’s cool hand on his skull, not like his brother’s chirping voice. The angel wasn’t present in that space. It was only them.

His soul flickered.

“no.” Killer rose to his feet, meeting those deadly teal eyelights. Viscous black fluid burned into his hand. “i’m not.”

The prophecy was fulfilled. The Angel was dead. And for the first time, a prayer was granted.

End credits music:

[melon-official]

She wails as though a part of her has died.

oh man. i picked up the sidestory to @just-a-carrot's five-arc horror epic a couple days ago and i'm so glad i did. i'll probably be talking nonstop and/or drawing about it for days

there's a handful of whiteboard doodles with other characters under the cut, but rly i just wanted to pay a homage to the scene that hit me the hardest... enjoy

[wildflowercryptid]

messed around some new brushes so here's a bunch of dg doodles, (feat. two of the characters from one of the fancase ideas i've been muddling over.)

— credit to @whisperingrockers for harrow's fantastic design once again!

[no-light-left-on]

I often wonder about the quote-unquote logistics of Corvo the Black/Emily the Butcher endings. Emily makes more sense to me, in a way, carving her way through the empire only to come back with blood caked under her fingernails and realising that she did everything her father refused to do 15 years ago. but why did Corvo have a similar choice?

what happens to the statues later? does Emily keep her father trapped in stone? does Corvo look at his daughter, frozen in the moment and considers freeing her? is he at his deathbed when he finally reaches out and cups Emily's cheek, freeing her into a carcass of an empire that he gutted for her, in her name, in the name of her mother?

when I first heard of the endings I thought that if you reach very high chaos, you are locked into this choice - Corvo or Emily tries to free the other and the stone just doesn't budge. they are trapped. the quest is over but the world knows that the bloodshed was extreme and this is the punishment they have to face

[ofdarklands]

level 90 at last!

so! about black mage

i've been thinking how to describe playing black mage, and i think the simile i used this morning in chat works well enough:

black mage feels like trying to run with a pot full of boiling water in my hands. with other jobs i feel light and agile, but black mage plays like how seeing emet selch as solus run would feel. look at that guy go. i didn't know spines could do that! you can hear his knees crunch, also

mechanically, it's really not nearly as bad as i feared it to be, even though i don't think i'd managed to figure out a decent rotation myself on the first or even third try so, thank you internet people for the guides!

anyway, the boiling pot wheezing trot sensation is not unique to it, though it is the most noticeable of all the casting classes i've played. i'd say rdm>summoner>whm>>blm in increasing awkwardness

so, while i acknowledge that blm is an optimizer's paradise to get the Biggest Booms, probably, playing it feels like it's almost fighting against the game instead of flowing with it and due to that it's just not very enjoyable, for me. it's got the same inflexible rotation that makes dragoon my least played class despite it being very canon for mitr'a

and from a physical perspective my fingers are not very precise on the keyboard, so i tend to fuck up the routine by accident quite often and then i have to correct it or start over and eeeehhhhhh. and my can't-remember-to-click-despair situation. dunno what the problem is with that one, to be quite honest. brain said no i guess :( that one's on me

woops this got longer than i thought so have a readmore

the good:

aforementioned big damages, when i manage to keep the rotation on track. sadly not as much of a plus for me, personally, but it's relevant still

against one enemy, getting immersed in the rotation can be pretty fun, until the 5 aoes come, the boss leaves the arena, and i sigh deeply while creakily running around, not casting

lasso spell goes brrr. it's got a very funny sound effect, in my heart

the 'return to leylines' spell is also great. i've used it mostly to instantly dodge when there's more than 2 sequential aoes. you can play around with these two spells

shoutout to the simplified job gauge for letting you actually understand anything about it. sure it's 3.5 things to keep track of, but for 2 of them you get informed about their readiness with convenient sounds and flashing borders so whatever

big staff to hit people with

cone hat funny

big lb meteorites. very good very cackling

the bad:

moving feels heavy, even when using the instant cast abilities. i keep lagging behind the group even in normal content, and sometimes clicking the right person to yeet to can be a bit hard in alliances or wall to walls. this class needs to do some cardio

clicking fire IV 3 times, then 1 fire I then fire IV 3 more times is. very boring. sorry. rotation 40 years long and rigid like the brutalism. the funnest parts are the thunder procs and the ice phase before going back to fire and the occasional instant cast. oh you sneezed and misclicked and dropped your fire badge thingies on the floor? sorry idiot you get to start over from the top, but sadder this time

this one i only noticed here at the end, but i feel it's very important, maybe more than the rotation: the best and biggest animations it has are the ones for the ice spells, which you use the least. xenoglossy, foul and flare are also good. amplifier, manafont and triple cast feel nice and dramatic to use. paradox i just got but it's also nice with the color mix. the rest i don't even remember, had to go cast them on a dummy. it's fireballs and fire columns it's all fireballs! the blm animations have a lot of boom but they need more heft, if that makes sense? more flying shit going from you to the target, shit shrapneling from the target, rings of fire, fiery eldritch runes, anything. if rdm can shoot 50 explosive roses at a guy for some reason and drk can summon shields of runes, blm can do something fancy also. casting a finisher skill called 'despair' should look like i'm sucking their souls out through a straw

also more casting positions. summoner has a lot and they're pretty different! they got floating symbols and shit. blm has 'slightly crouched' and 'staff held high' in variation 1 and 2, and that's about it from what i can tell besides the selfbuff ones. add some evil runes at least. the paradox wide armed one (i think you float a little?) is a good addition though

anyway, final verdict: it's a good class, but it's very rigid and inflexible to get Big Damages, which is not an exciting exchange, for me. i prefer to be nimble and do less damage but have a more varied and forgiving rng based rotation. also more utility skills! i miss peloton or having a group shield or heal, or even rdm's rez; makes me feel actually useful instead of being just a giant cone hat that produces flamethrower on command. i don't think i'll play it too often, i'm afraid, even though it's a perfectly alright class, and i'm sure i'll get better with time

HOWEVER. if dawntrail allows blm to throw meteorites outside of lbs i might reconsider. they can be small! even magical molotov cocktails if we must. but i want physical flamming objects to hit my enemies and i want to see the animations do that with some flair. just ole fire and spite booms and a couple icicles is not enough. i want to flatten them

[nerosdayinanime]

wait. random idea. Pathetic(blame candy) muzan & kokushibo are exes from Centuries ago and he has Complaints hed like to talk about w him but all hes getting to now is Nakime. hes so sick of his bullshit and just enduring it and goes to kagaya like 'i have to kill kibutsuji. ill help you kill him & the other upper moons just PLEASE im so sick of this shit. i need to kill him' 'well you arent killing me so ill give you the benefit of doubt-'

since they broke up he's hacked at the curse to the point he can snap it Whenever without muzan noticing, he finally did so & went to kagaya bc he can Feel shit's gonna pick up soon. he has his memories but he Ignores Them bc hes ashamed and kinda projecting it onto muzan. he has to kill muzan to kill his shame kinda fucked up coping mechanism yk?

the hashira try to kill him On Sight together but he calmly deflects everything while explaining hes working with them to kill kibutsuji. reluctant acceptance with the note from kagaya giving him a pass. most of them fully believe its a trap tho.

koku seeing tanjiro & his earrings and starting to approach, giyuu already has his blade lodged in his neck as a warning/threat & tanjiro staring at him in shock like 'HUH?? THE MAN FROM MY DREAMS?? HES A DEMON NOW? WAIT WHATS HE DOING HERE-'

[sexynetra]

I’m on day 2 of my draw a portrait of Marcia a day with no artistic training or knowledge until I become good at art and specifically good at drawing Marcia challenge and I think it’s going very well so far :) it still doesn’t look like her but I think it’s a marked improvement from yesterdays drawing!

[isekyaaa]

I'm going to say again like I know it is really dumb to feel this way, but I finally put into words why I get so annoyed when people ask me for a part 2 to one of my works. Like I explained once to people that writing is a very slow and arduous task for me, but it's more than that?

Picture you are an artist working on a painting. You spend months on it to get everything just right. You pour time and energy into getting the perfect composition, the perfect lighting, the perfect shades etc. And then finally, you finish it. After a year, you finally finished your masterpiece. And your work is a hit. People really like it. But then.... Someone comes up to you and says, "Gosh, I really love this painting! But you know what? I love it so much that I think the painting is much too small. You know what? You should add on two extra feet of canvas onto the right side of your painting. That way, you can add on more to your painting and it'll be even bigger and more enjoyable!"

To me, that's what it feels like when someone asks for a part two. Like this last fic honest to God I started on more than a year ago. Granted, I'd pick it up and put it back down, but I put a lot of work into making sure everything was as perfect as possible. It's not an amazing fic, mind you, but it still gave me a lot of trouble. But eventually I finished it into a COMPLETE work. It's a finished painting. That's the story I wanted to tell in its entirety.

I get why people want a part two. I get that the story ends to leave you wanting to know what happens next. But that's the point. That's the story I wanted to tell. It's complete. This isn't supposed to be pure romance. It's supposed to be more on the comedic side. But when people ask for a part two, it's like they're telling me that they're not satisfied with my artwork, that it's not perfect and needs more work for it to become perfect. It's like they're ignoring all the year's worth of effort I put into making sure the composition, wording, humor, etc was just right. Not only that. I should put another year's worth of work into making it truly perfect. It's insulting and exhausting.

Granted, like I said, I do understand people completely do not intend to make me feel this way. I'm not irritated with these people directly. I know it's supposed to be a compliment. But like.... Maybe it's because I'm prideful but I really can't help but be insulted. It's telling me that I didn't do a good job as a writer.

[bxtonpxss]

Spirit Box || Headcanon || Reishi

Opacho is constantly and unwillingly bombarded by other people's thoughts and due to her being so young, she is unable to block them out. She does however, know how to ignore them.

The only time a person's thought's really bother her is when they think extremely loudly or tend to ramble on and on about useless unnecessary things. Also if they happen to think too loud and wake her up from sleep.

A person's thoughts are not always clear to Opacho, even though she can hear them. If a person is having a tough time trying to get their thoughts together or having a rough time mentally, it makes it harder for her to understand. So it helps out greatly when the person actually speaks their mind about whatever it is they're thinking or feeling at the time for her to get an even clearer picture.

Despite the heavy burden placed upon her, Opacho isn't really bothered that often by her ability. She'll have her moments where she gets headaches or hears something that would upset her or make her uncomfortable but for the most part she remains unbothered.

As revealed to Hao, she actually doesn't like it when other people read her mind.

Unless explicitly asked, stated, or she feels comfortable enough around the person to tell them. Opacho doesn't let others know she can read minds, aware of the repercussions she could potentially face.

[hananono]

been having like. idk some kind of internal crisis i guess lately where the life path im being expected to follow and the actual state of the system (living in the imperial core and inescapably benefitting from the oppression and harm caused to others just by existing even if i move somewhere else) are brushing up against each other and im like. fuck man what do i do! i still have to get up every day and look for a job even though people are being murdered en masse for the maintenance of a system that exists to bring me cheap products that fall apart in a month. fuck this stupid baka life i guess.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Hes so silly and we love him for it

[analyzingadventure]

[Ni/digitalgate02 here] See, this is what i've been thinking for ages and i don't like to limit myself into what is stated on wikimon and other fansites' databases to make lines... They're not a mandatory rule, and with things like the new TCG DigiCa they just embraced the wild combos you can make and evolution rules are by card color and not by specific lines (tho they do have some... suggestions now on the cards, i think?)

i also like the wild combos like Tailmon's OG Adv/02 line?? Which is slime → cat blob → puppy → cat → angel woman → PINK FLUFFY DRAGON

I wish we had more things like these... At least consistent theme, but not like Agu → Grey → MetalGrey → WarGrey sort of line... (and look, i love this line, it just... I love the design + shapes to change a little... ya got me?)

i love most of the main kid/protag mons and their forms, tho...

Like to be fair to Toei/Bandai, there is partially a reason to why the main partners especially tend to have such linear, specific evolution trees; not only because it makes the Digimon easier to sell, but also because the characters need to be easily recognizable to small children. Like the main character(s) having really bizarre evolutions could make it hard for a child to keep up with who's who (especially if they missed an episode), while having very consistent and strong thematic and color coding (etc) will make it always super easy for kids to keep up with. So I understand WHY the main partners tend to be the way they are, it just is the way it is. (It's also why I really loved the evolutions in Survive because aside from Agumon's Vaccine-line, that shit was WILD and I was LIVING for it, Dracumon alone had me losing my fucking shit, Floramon too)

Also I do feel like the emphasis on evolution lines is something the fandom tends to enforce more than Bandai/Toei. And, much to my shock and horror, a lot of people do kind of dislike wild evolutions, some people prefer the Pokémon-esque strict evolution lines. (See: every person who has ever made fun of Tailmon's evolution line for "not making sense") So often I see people share their Tamer OCs and their partner Digimon with full evolution lines and more often than not it's just a known partner Digimon with their default evolution line. Everybody has their own comfort food, and strict evolution lines are just that for some people. Which is fine, I'm just a little 🔪 if anybody tries to enforce strict evolution lines in places they don't belong (aka any space for creativity)

But indeed, I wish we could see more Wild Evolutions in canon more often, or at least have the main partner's evolutions change things up a little more than they tend to (honestly probably the best protag evolution is Gumdramon -> Arresterdramon, like despite the mostly identical color palette and many key visual elements, they really do look nothing alike and yet the evolution feels like a natural progression and is still easily recognizable, really love that.)

[omarwolaeth]

thinking 'bout how the lads interact with what the bracelets represent, especially in their decks

[cjgladback]

For the first time in a long while, I got to go to a white elephant gift exchange this December! We had a low price ceiling and my practically wins out over any practical joke sensibilities every time, so on the designated shopping day I left my local overstock store with a nice chopstick set, some fancy (not at all mess-free) popcorn, and a dream.

When I was growing up, my mom was an intrepid homeschooling parent who loved event planning, valued cultural exploration, and had married into a Japanese family. Multiple times - sometimes in the setting of a multicultural fair, at least once as a kind of class party (with celebratory takeout at the end) - she faced teaching large groups of children how to use chopsticks quickly and with as little cost and cleanup as possible.

Her answer was popcorn! It's edible, so you get the full motion down, and lightweight but large enough for less coordinated sticks to pinch. It has tons of nubbins to grab and widely varied shapes to experiment with. Specifically, we used air-popped kernels, without oil or toppings, so when it gets overzealously crushed or bounces away and gets missed by a broom, it's basically biodegradable styrofoam.

What I'm saying is, this is my mom's fault. Other than the choice to draw so many hands in one afternoon on the same day as the party, while also baking a snack. That's all me. This primer was delivered in the format of a tiny booklet (if you look up an "eight page zine" that's also a method I learned from my mom, to turn single-sided misprints into notepads), with fewer jokes and tips than I'd have liked because I simply did not have time to transcribe a hashi rest fold or hairstyle. But reformatted (for Mastodon) it looks fairly respectable.

Lengthy image descriptions and full poster format under the cut.

[ID: A title page reads "How to Use Chopsticks" in all caps. The words "without too much mess" are between two straight, orange lines, which start with round points at the left, evoking chopsticks, and end in flared shapes of a silhouetted splash on the right. Below the lower line are the words "by CJ Gladback." All the text is in black, the background is white but appears light orange due to a repeating geometric watermark pattern of CJ's logo in orange overlaid on the whole image; her handle on most sites is included once on each of the following spreads: @cjgladback​

Next is the first spread of four illustrations with their instructions. On the left half of page are two line drawings of a right hand holding one and then two chopsticks, with the text, "The first stick rests on the side of your ring finger's nail and the flesh between your thumb and index finger. Your middle finger's pad holds it securely while it can slide against your thumb as your hand changes posture in use. The second stick is held between the knuckle of your thumb and the middle section of your index finger. This is the one you move to change angles; it may touch but doesn't really rest on the middle finger's tip." In orange, two arrows indicate the rest points for the first stick while small hashes emanate from the points pressed on the middle and ring fingertips and under the thumb's joint holding the top stick. On the right upper quadrant of the page is the text "Hold them close to parallel to scoop." A hand holds two sticks poked into a bowl of rice between the viewer and the palm; a series of parallel orange lines emphasize the space between the sticks. The remaining quadrant's text reads, "Press with your index finger to pinch firmly." This hand is holding an indistinct rounded shape in its chopsticks, with an orange arrow indicating the rotation of the index finger's tip to press the top stick's point toward the bottom's.

Next is the final spread of the pamphlet. The upper right text reads, "Practice with something medium sized and low mess like (air-popped) popcorn." A single piece of popcorn is held in disembodied chopsticks above a full popcorn bowl, with several kernels fallen to the surface below it. Text below reads, "Pick up your dishes to bring close to your mouth to scoop the harder to grab foods." An implied tilted bowl of food (fried rice or porridge with diced pieces) protrudes off the page, covering only the lower left corner. Close-up chopsticks have their points buried in the food and their lines fade out toward the right. The final black text, underlined by two orange chopstick shapes, reads, "but most of all, do what feels comfortable and eat well!" In orange in the lower right corner, the parenthetical "(and maybe knit a scarf)" is followed by a small orange drawing of a steaming bowl of noodles and sliced egg with a noodle line trailing toward two upward angled sticks with loopy hashes indicating knit fabric hanging from them.

The final image is the full booklet in its web format, with the three previous images from this post stacked vertically. Some orange lines have been added between what were pages in the print booklet, to aid reading flow. /end ID]