#enjoy this one it took a little bit

[johnbleepingzoidberg]

UNTITLED EVIL LUIGI AU COMIC THING | Page 4 of (???)

WEEGEE FINALLY MAKES AN APPEARANCE

.....in a flashback though

---

hmmmmmm i have mixed feelings about the coloring on this one. i wasn’t sure how to combine the cheery bright pink-ness of the cafe with the darkness of bowser’s castle. but the more i worked on it the more ok i felt about it i guess? the black text boxes helped with the overall mood i think. figuring out this comic stuff one baby step at a time 😌

still gonna try my best to work on this as quickly as i can. coloring these pages is actually a nice stress-relief for me once i come home from work haha

also bonus luigi sketch because look at him

[youssefguedira]

i dont know when ill get around to writing the larger fic this is part of but you know brain worms have this

Nicky offers to pick him up at the airport like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t been almost ten years since they saw each other, because he knows Joe hates planes and won’t want to try and navigate the two trains and two buses it’ll take to actually reach their hometown after the flight. And Joe doesn’t even try to protest, just texts him Thank you before he gets on the plane and then tries not to think about it for the entire flight. He fails.

When he arrives he’s exhausted, because it never really gets easier no matter how many times he does it. Moves through the airport like a zombie, operating mostly on muscle memory. He hasn’t been here in a long time. Still knows it well enough to navigate without really thinking about it. 

His suitcase is one of the last to come through on the carousel, but it does come through, and then he’s walking to arrivals with his heart in his throat. 

Nicky’s hanging back from the crowd, hands in his pockets. His hair is a little longer now, and at some point in the last decade he’s gotten his ears pierced, which Joe didn’t know. He’s wearing a dark green sweater and blue jeans. When he catches sight of Joe he smiles, small and restrained, straightens slightly.

“Hey,” he says as Joe gets closer, voice soft.

Joe has to swallow. “Hey,” he says hoarsely.

And he doesn’t even need to say anything else, because Nicky pulls him into a hug before Joe even has to ask, and Joe buries his face in Nicky’s neck and tries to breathe around the sob catching in his throat. One of Nicky’s hands comes up to cup the back of Joe’s neck, his thumb moving back and forth gently, and Joe is fragile enough that that gesture alone almost undoes him. 

Nicky pulls back first. Smiles at Joe. “You look good,” he says.

Joe has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak. “You too.” 

They linger just a moment longer, Nicky’s hand still on the back of Joe’s neck. Ten years ago, Joe would’ve kissed him; now there’s a gap neither of them quite know how to fill.

Finally, Nicky steps back fully, and Joe feels the loss of contact sharply. “We should go,” Nicky says. Joe nods, and follows him out of the terminal.

The car Nicky heads for is the same battered old thing he’s been driving since he got his licence. Joe wonders to himself how the car is even still going, and the look Nicky gives him tells him he knows exactly what Joe’s thinking.

It does something funny to Joe’s heart. He looks away, and gets in the car. 

“I brought you something to eat,” Nicky says before he starts the car, reaching for the bag by Joe’s feet. 

“You didn’t have to–” Joe begins, but Nicky cuts him off with a knowing almost-smile. 

“You hate plane food,” Nicky says, “and it’s almost two, and the other option would be whatever we can find on the way. I thought you might prefer this to service station food.”

It makes Joe want to cry a little. “Nicky,” he says, and can’t manage anything else. 

Nicky seems to understand. He pulls out what he had been looking for - a silver thermos, and a fork - and hands it to Joe. The contents are still warm when Joe opens it: pasta, warm and comforting. 

“Good?” Nicky asks, watching him.

Joe nods. “Good.”

“Okay.” Nicky looks at him for a beat longer, then turns away and starts the car. 

There’s a moment of delay before the CD player starts up, but when it does, Joe knows it from the opening note: he bought Nicky this CD from a thrift store the summer before he left for university, when they’d taken off for two weeks, just them and the car and the road. And there’s no chance that Nicky’s kept it in his car for ten years, but as they leave the airport and turn onto the motorway it makes it feel like they’ve done this a thousand times before, even though Nicky never picked him up from the airport when he came home, only met him at the station once or twice.

Joe finishes the pasta and tucks the thermos back in the bag. “Thank you,” he says, and it comes out a lot quieter than he means it to. 

Nicky glances at him. “We’re still a few hours away, if you want to try and sleep. I will wake you when we’re almost there.”

Joe might protest under other circumstances, but the flight was long, and he doesn’t sleep well on planes anyway. So he takes off his scarf and folds it into a makeshift pillow before leaning back and closing his eyes. Nicky drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, hums along with the tune, and Joe lets the sound of his voice and the tapping of the rain on the window wrap around him like a blanket, carrying him off to sleep.

----------

Joe wakes to Nicky shaking his shoulder gently. “We’ll be there soon,” he’s saying. The rain has stopped; the radio is on, now, chattering in the way in the background. They’ve left the motorway behind for a much narrower road. Joe has to blink a few times before he catches sight of a sign and realises what Nicky means. 

He sits up. The position he’d been sleeping in hadn’t been great for his back or his neck, and he’ll probably regret it soon, but he’d slept a lot better than he might’ve expected. 

Being back always makes the rest of his life feel like a dream, like he’d never left at all. When the sign for their town passes Joe sits up, panic coiling in his stomach. He’s had days to prepare himself and still isn’t ready.

“Wait,” he says when they turn a corner two streets away from Joe’s parents’ house, “Nicky. Wait.”

“What?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down.

“I can’t– I can’t do this.”

Now Nicky does stop, pulling into a lay-by. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, I just. Not yet. I need time.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment. “When are they expecting you?”

“I didn’t give an exact time. Just sometime this afternoon.” He’d told his sister Nicky was coming to get him over the phone; she hadn’t said anything, but the silence had been enough. 

Nicky doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the look on his face that means he’s thinking.

“I’ll be okay by myself,” Joe says then. “If you need to work.”

Nicky shakes his head. “I have today off.” And then, before Joe can really think about that, he turns the car around and heads back the way they came. This time, he recognises the path Nicky’s taking almost immediately, turning away from the area Joe’s parents live in and towards the outskirts of town, where it starts to become mostly farmland.

“I can park the car by my uncle’s house,” Nicky says, glancing at Joe. “Then we can go from there.”

Joe doesn’t need to ask where; they’ve walked the same route so many times he could probably do it in his sleep. 

The sheep are out in the fields by Nicky’s uncle’s house, but he doesn’t see any of the lambs yet, though they must be coming soon. Nicky’s uncle let Joe try and help with lambing once, up until the point where Joe saw what exactly that entailed, and immediately lost his nerve. But he’d still let him help Nicky feed them every year.

There’s a little paved yard outside the farmhouse, where Nicky parks the car before grabbing the bag that had been by Joe’s feet. “I’m going to drop these off,” Nicky says. “You can come in, if you want?”

Nicky’s aunt and uncle have always been kind to Joe, but they will inevitably ask about his father, and Joe cannot quite bring himself to talk about that, not yet. 

“I’ll wait,” Joe says. 

It’s a few minutes before Nicky reappears, this time without the bag, but carrying a different thermos. He smiles apologetically as he jogs over. “I didn’t mean to make you wait long,” Nicky says. “But you know how they are.”

All Joe can do is nod. Nicky sets off down the path towards the woods that border the farm and Joe falls into step beside him. They don’t talk much on the way there, but they don’t need to: the silence is comfortable enough.

It’ll be spring soon. It’s cold but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the snowdrops are in full bloom, bright shards of white in the grass. The rain has stopped, but the smell of it still hangs in the air. They must’ve spent hours walking this path, enough that Joe doesn’t really need to look to know exactly where Nicky’s going.

This part of the river is just secluded enough that he can’t hear cars passing by anymore. The bench by the path is still there, though at some point they’ve built a shelter over it, which probably leaks but has kept it dry even after the rain. Nicky makes for it immediately. 

If he looked at the back of the third slat from the left he’d find their names carved into the wood, side by side. Joe very deliberately doesn’t look. 

Nicky sits down. Nods to the space beside him. When Joe joins him, he holds out the thermos.

“Tea,” Nicky says. “If you want.”

How many times have they done exactly this, over the years? In summer, they’d wade into the river; in winter, Joe always wanted to try skating on it, but the ice was never quite thick enough. Every time Nicky got into a fight with his father, every time Joe couldn’t bear to be in the house one second longer, they’d come here. 

Joe gives into memory and rests his head on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky brings one arm up to hold him close, hand on Joe’s upper arm.

Joe closes his eyes, listens to the birds, listens to Nicky’s breathing. 

Nicky says, “When is the funeral?”

“Thursday,” Joe says. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to think about the last conversation he had with his father, doesn’t want to imagine walking into his parents’ house and finding him gone. Of all people, Nicky will understand. It’s what brought them together when they were younger: being the only two students in their class who spoke English as a second language, and difficult fathers.

Silence falls between them, and Nicky doesn’t let him go, and Joe’s missed him, more than he really knew. He’d tried to stay in touch, and they had, for the most part, but it’s not the same as having Nicky beside him again.

Joe doesn’t think there’s anyone in this world who knows him the way Nicky does.

He doesn’t know why he says it, but they haven’t talked about it, and it feels like something they should, if only so Joe can lay this all to rest. 

Joe opens his eyes. “You, uh. You seeing anyone?”

Nicky doesn’t pull away, but Joe feels the way he goes still, tense. Slowly, softly, he says, “I don’t think this is the right time, Joe.”

“Is there ever a right time?” Joe asks, half-joking. 

Nicky doesn’t laugh. 

Joe clears his throat. “I’m not. So.”

Nicky exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. His thumb moves back and forth, back and forth where it’s resting on Joe’s arm, catching on the fabric of his coat. “Me neither.”

Joe’s not sure if that’s better or worse than if Nicky had said he’d found someone. If he had, perhaps Joe could put to rest the little part of him that will always be in love with Nicky. Not get rid of it entirely, but fold it away in a little corner of his heart and leave it there. This, though – this is possibility he doesn’t know what to do with.

“How long are you here?” Nicky asks quietly, moving his hand up to run his fingers through Joe’s hair, like he used to whenever Joe needed something to keep him grounded.

“I got two weeks off work,” Joe says. “After that I don’t know.”

Two weeks feels monumentally long and yet vanishingly short at the same time. And after?

They don’t talk about much after that. Small talk, more than anything else: Nicky’s still living in the same apartment, still working the same job, but Joe knows he loves it from the tone of his voice when he talks about the shelves he built for his most recent client, how he’s starting to make more of his own stuff, how his boss has been talking about retiring and leaving the whole business to Nicky. Joe could listen to him talk about it for hours. Maybe he does. 

It settles the frantic thing that had woken in his chest when they crossed the town line, and eventually, Joe says, “I think I’m ready.”

Nicky turns his head inwards and kisses the top of Joe’s head. Lingers there for a moment. It isn’t anything; it doesn’t have to be anything. 

“Okay,” Nicky says. “Okay.”

The walk back to the farm is largely silent, just as the walk there had been, passing the thermos of tea back and forth between them. They get back in the car, and Nicky drives them back to Joe’s parents’ house. 

Nicky pulls up on the curb outside the house. “Call me, if you need anything. Or just– call me.”

“I will,” Joe promises. He has two weeks; he’s not going to waste them. They haven’t been in the same timezone in a long, long time.

Nicky smiles, small and hopeful, and there’s nothing really to say, after that. 

Joe gets out of the car, and prepares to face his family.

[ind1c0lite]

Woe pearly be upon yee

[bunnithechubs]

Round 3: Beatrice (Bea) Jam

Beatrice moved to town (still thinking of a name) and immediately got herself a boyfriend. queen shit.

Bea's Goals are:

Build a Bakery

Contribute a "grocery shop" to the community center

Marital Status: Couple

# of kids: 4

[cuppatealove]

Reading The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe with my son on Easter Tuesday and he was so shocked and confused and bereft when Aslan died. Then we had to stop for a very gloomy lunch before we could read the next chapter, and it hit me that he was getting a better understanding than anything we could have taught him about what the disciples went through on Easter Saturday. I mean, we had just been talking about it three days earlier, but of course when you know there's a happy ending coming, you don't really feel it. And Aslan was finally here, after all this hope and expectation, and he was meant to make everything all right again 😭 He'd even already made the connection to Jesus when the witch's gang were kicking and hitting and jeering at Aslan, but he never in his wildest dreams thought he would become alive again! The joy and wonder and absolute glee he felt in the next chapter — he figured it out just before it happened because he cottoned onto the homage — preached the whole thing more eloquently than I could ever have hoped. And oof, if I didn't feel it all with him, too, as if for the first time ❤️ Well played, Mr Lewis, well played.

Also yesterday I caught him saying "I say!" so a positive experience all round 😃

[relaxtimestwo]

Dan Heng Δ Witch Hat Atelier AU (part 2) ⋆｡˚ ⋆

Fleshed out my ideas for this AU a bit more. It's surprising how much of Dan Heng's lore could fit into the Witch Hat universe.

In this AU, Dan Heng is exiled for being an inadequate successor to Dan Feng by those who tatooed the forbidden spell onto his back. Dan Heng only inherited Dan Feng's appearance but not his mastery over magic.

While in exile, Dan Feng's foes in life would hunt down Dan Heng. He never stayed in one location for too long and defended himself with "Cloud Piercer".

Then, he met Himeko, a contraption repair specialist, in a town he drifted into. She introduces Dan Heng to the Astral Express, an atelier on rails she runs alongside Welt and Pom-Pom. Thus, Dan Heng became the Astral Express' first apprentice.

Some context for those who don't read Witch Hat Atelier -

In this world spells are cast by drawing seals on surfaces using special ink, rather than incantation or an individual's inherent magic. The spell takes effect when the outer circle of the seal is closed.

Because of its ease of casting, magic is a closely guarded secret and mostly only taught to those born into witch society.

Any spells that drastically affects the mind, body or environment is forbidden and punishable by memory erasure and exile. Healing magic is considered a huge taboo and is big source of conflict in the story.

Before becoming a full fledged witch, you have to apprentice under a more senior witch.

[rowanoftheunknown]

“I hope I’ll find all the pieces of my mind that fell out of my head over all those years, and that I’ll be able to put myself together again. I hope the echoes of pain will fade, and memories of sorrow will die, and that you’ll visit me here some day…”

“And I hope you have a happy ending of your own.”

[poorlydrawndirk]

We're on air.

More precisely, I was on air when I recorded this, but the details are largely irrelevant. Because I don't really feel like covering fuckin' introductory quantum mechanics and telling you exactly how the influence of the Skaian universe, when applied at the quark level and taken alongside the probabilistic effect of quantum behavior, superposes via particle states and results in the formation of what you might refer to as "overlapping timelines". And that's already getting real abecedarian about this shit.

Yeah, sue me. Try boning up on basic physics while you're at it.

So. I'm sure you'd love to hear about how I managed to rig this sick as hell channel-cum-blog up and get it to straddle the space-time continuum like an antediluvian Olympic gymnast doing mad splits over baby's first toy pony, but that ain't the point of this little exercise. Posting what's effectively a vlog is enough of an onanistic venture without adding Skaian Principles For Dummies: Electric Boogaloo to the schedule.

Where was I?

(Rhetorical question. Don't answer, if it needed to be said.)

The name's Dirk.

Strider. Yeah, that Strider.

I'd be more worried about internet safety, but seeing as there are only up to two people alive around here no matter how far you pull my timeline back, and I'm one of 'em, it doesn't exactly compute. Face it, brosephine: you aren't getting to year 24xx post-hilarocaust, and you sure aren't getting past that. Wasn't shat out of a lab yet when you were committing identity theft and scamming doddering old ladies out of their sadsack pensions.

(If you manage to get pizza delivered out here, I'll tip extra.)

Besides, you already knew my name, didn't you?

Maybe your next question's going to be:

"Why are you calling this a vlog when it's obviously just a blog?"

Or maybe,

"Why is your URL poorlydrawndirk when it's totally malapropos?"

Buckle in, kids. Strap yourself into that convertible toddler-safe harness and keep your ass glued tight to all the prime polyester-lined foam, because this ride's about to pull into the station and vehicular standards are some passé 21st century horseshit.

The first thing you have to understand is that even peering upon the brink of these echelons of irony is a skill that you'll never grasp in your life. But that's fine. I'm around. And if it puts your mind at ease,

I'll be the one pulling the strings here.

(There's the tired callback. It's not wrong, but it's tired. Worn out enough for it to be begging you to take it out back behind the shed and put it out of its misery.)

(I'll leave it at that for now, because self-referencing is one thing, but if I get any more meta, I'll have to start narrating in twelve-point Times New Roman.)

Anyway, I'll be breaking it down, just this once. Magnanimous as hell, I know. I could wax poetic and in doing so obfuscate the actual meaning once more from obtuse minds, thereby adding another strata to irony so layered that it's settled past sedimentary and is ready to unearth some fossil formations, but let's be real. That shit would fly over your head so far it'd be trying to dial ground control at Houston.

Here we go.

Vlogs aren't cool; making one ironically is.

Putting in this much effort into making a multiversal vlog makes it cooler, ironically.

Putting in this much effort to make a multiversal vlog when the doomed timelines are all inherently fuckin' doomed, as the name implies, and therefore functionally useless to communicate with, makes it more ironic.

I have Heart powers and am able to achieve my ultimate self through my alpha timeline. Therefore, not only is this pimped-out vlog functionally useless, but I actually don't need it at all.

Which means this wasn't too hard to set up to begin with. Ironic, considering the complex presupposed conditions necessary for bridging that 'verse gap.

And despite framing this as a vlog, this is obviously a blog.

Even though it's just a blog, all these drawings I've made had you convinced that I really thought I was posting a vlog.

And in a way, I'm still making one. It ain't the traditional format, but the almost videographic mannerisms I've been laying on you more than compensate for the fact that the video part of "vlog" doesn't exist.

Except it does, for me.

And because it does, none of these pictures are drawn to begin with. They're all film stills. Screenshots, if you prefer.

Which makes the qualifier of "poorly drawn" untrue.

But it's also almost true, because you can call them poorly drawn by virtue of them not even being drawn. Ride that definition of "poorly" down the one-way rail and you're here, selfie central, population two, me and you.

Of course, that means we have to cover the quandary of truth itself. What constitutes the truth? Titillate that thought for a second.

If I consider the attached files to be selfies, but you consider them to be illustrations, which is it actually?

An analysis of the "truth" means that we have to start delineating how much of this is subjective, tying us in bed with the concept of knowledge. The Socratic take calls for dialectical conversation and inquiry via questioning; therefore, if I just bequeath my knowledge to you on a pretty little metaphorical platter, it won't mean fuckall. So we have to keep digging. Get your pickaxe ready, 'cause we ain't hitting any diamonds of wisdom any time soon.

In fact, maybe that ain't the right direction. Flip it turnways. We gotta climb a li'l higher for what we need.

Maybe we gotta head to the roof.

now. brought cal.

where making this HAPEN.

Haha.

Just fuckin' with you.

Welcome to my blog, dude.

Want water? Imagine I got you a nice, chilled glass.

Let's get this parasocial relationship pumping.

Questions? Concerns? Misguided pseudo-parental queries about whether or not it's safe for your pipsqueak to be exposed to a full dose of radically Stridered bullshit?

Cool.

Make it all three and drop it in the asks, yeah?

[osiris-iii-bc]

I've been feeling a bit sad in the past few days, so I just rewatched my pictures and videos from my ritual in Nice last summer, especially as I'm planning concerts and festivals for the next one. I realized I never shared these pictures and videos on social media, only with my friends, so here they are if you want to feel nostalgic with me. 

Despite arriving at the venue later than I had planned due to a little nap at the hostel and catching the wrong bus, I managed to secure a good spot in the 5th or 6th row next to the platform. Btw It was a surprise to me that there was even a platform in the center: I only realized it when Papa walked on it, and suddenly I found myself closer to him than I had expected lol

The strongest feelings I remember are:

Copia coming out with the thurible. I remember thinking it was unreal and I was just watching a giant video screen or something.

The vibrations of Respite on the Spitalfield’s violins in my chest. It wasn’t a favorite song of mine but after the show I totally reevaluated it.

Wasn’t Ciriced of course, but Papa looked at my direction a couple of times and I couldn’t do anything but smile like the little moron I am.

[sysig]

Greetings, human! ♥ (Patreon)

[skitskatdacat63]

@lesharl-eclair here is the vettonso timeline I mentioned at some point!! I was gonna make a more refined version but ah, the original is fine so I'm posting it for you <3

Its written so its as if their careers began at the same time. There's obviously some parts where they deviate from each other(I blame Fernando), but they're pretty similar, no??

Here's some notes I have:

They both started at technically the same team(if you ignore that Seb raced one race for Sauber): Minardi/STR. And they spent 3 seasons either racing for that team or testing(Fernando for Renault, Seb for BMW teams), before being promoted to the team where they won their respective WDCS.

They both spent six seasons with their WDC team. And both won their WDCs using Renault engines. Both were pretty much the golden boys of their teams, beloved by their team principal and team in general. Unfortunately both aren't consecutive because Fernando tried out McLaren lol.

They spent a similar amount of years at Ferrari(five and six respectively.) Neither could win a WDC with Ferrai(😔) And both joined Ferrari in a very similar way. When Fernando joined, he ousted Kimi and it was very uncertain where Kimi was going. I think the commentators in 2009 predicted McLaren? (But he ended up taking a sabbatical obv.) But pretty messy, right? The literal same exact thing happened with Fernando and Seb in 2014-2015. They finally announced at the end of the season, even though it was pretty obvious, that Seb would be replacing Fernando. And where did Fernando go? McLaren! The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself. I guess I find it funny that Fernando replaced his former rival under somewhat messy circumstances, only for his other rival to do the exact same thing to him years later.

Okay McHonda and Alpine blah blah blah. Anyways they're probably going to have both end up competing their careers after two years with Aston Martin. This honestly is my favorite parallel. Because it's very sweet to me that Seb replaced Fernando, in an aforementioned messy way, only for Fernando to take Seb's seat in a very peaceful, almost "passing the torch" type exchange 🥰

[kusuokisser]

i need to see more terusai truthers liek..e..theure so horrible and dranatic. theyre both such utter LOSERS around eachother. they make eachother worse (in the being a total freakshow loser way). they both think that they arent the loser in the relationship but they hoth are. they both are.

I need More Terusai Fans LPPLELESSEEEE THEY ARE SO REAL THEYREBITH SO CRINGEFAIL LOSERGIRLS PLEASE

Someone discuss teursaiwith me icoild go on for days

[easyaesthetics]

Some extremely stupid 11/20 emoji redraws

+ bonus Cognitive Joker

[seventeendeer]

this is going to make me soooo unpopular on tumblr dot pendantics central dot com but I fully hate media “deconstructions” that begin and end with “yo if this happened to a real person ... that would kind of fuck them, right? like, they wouldn’t be right in the head after this ... probably have a Bad Dream .. maybe Panicked Attack” like motherfucker the dragon is a metaphor the dragon is a metaphor the dragon is a metaphor going on a quest and slaying the dragon is a METAPHOR

the hero doesn’t suffer debilitating trauma after going through the shadowy wasteland with no food or water for days because the location symbolizes a state of doubt, the lack of sustenance symbolizes dwindling inner strength, and he comes out the other side stronger than ever because he overcame an emotional obstacle and grew more certain of himself.

his mentor dies and he gets over it in the span of an afternoon because the relationship with the mentor was a symbol of responsibility inheritance, a symbol of the relationship between entire generations.

and yes, the dragon is a metaphor. it’s the beating heart of the story, the problem at the root of all the hero’s troubles. it’s the fear of growing up, the pain of loneliness, an oppressive upperclass, a controlling parent - the core conflict of the story given a physical form.

and like, yeah, obviously there’s plenty of tropes and conventions in storytelling that are worth examining and ripping into, but “characters' emotions are calibrated in accordance with the story’s metaphors and themes instead of reacting realistically to the literal events of the story” seriously isn’t it. criticizing a lack of realistic, literal emotional responses is like criticizing a painting for being flat. paradoxically, it does not make a story ‘deeper’ or ‘more insightful’ - it only strips the text down to the literal reality depicted. you’re supposed to leave the peel on, that’s where all the complexities are!!

of course you can rearrange the pieces of classic story conventions into a shape where the realistic emotional reactions make sense and are a part of a completely different point you’re making, but simply doing a classic story setup again, this time with Realistic Trauma And Outcome, isn’t actually saying anything meaningful about the genre you’re trying to deconstruct. pointing at an intentional narrative choice and going “you missed a spot!” only really shows you missed the point of said narrative choice in the first place.

[cadrenebula]

[coldvampire]

anyway as soon as i pry myself off this couch im gonna share some screenshots of bg3 protags on my sideblog. just gotta like. reach the desk first.