#how to write dialect

[deadsetobsessions]

This is based off of that one tiktok from @sorruna where it’s the audio from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse.

——

Dick Grayson was a sneaky, intelligent little shit.

He was also dumb. These things are not mutually exclusive.

To this day, one of his best kept secrets- one of the many, many that he had now- was something he’d take to his grave.

Or to Jason’s grave, at least.

Dick sat down and began telling the story to ears that would never truly hear it.

——

Batman’s voice rumbled behind him as Dick, in his Robin suit, stood blankly on top of a roof.

“I know you snuck out last night, Robin.”

Dick froze, train of thought about his dinner derailed. Holy busted, Batman! Quick! Play dumb!

“Who’s Robin?” He asked, the years of performing in front of a large crowd coming to save his ass.

Not that dumb!

Batman sent him a dry look, reprimand already poised on his lips. Dick, however, was nothing but a good performer. Nay, a dedicated performer.

Quick! Do something out of character! He shouted at himself, panicking visibly. He stepped backwards, an idea appearing in his head. In his defense, it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. He had no idea it would blow up into a Justice League issue. If he had known… Dick would have lied better, probably. There was no way he was going to let B bench him for weeks!

“Who the fuck are you?!” He yelped. Dick apologized mentally to Alfred and his parents. Batman paused, stunned.

“That’s my question. Who are you?!” Bruce asked, immediately hostile. His son doesn’t curse. Well, not in any normal way anyways. Dick quickly backpedaled by yelling at him with a heavy Vlax dialect, missing his parents terribly as he screamed stranger danger in rudimentary Romany. After this, he was going to have to convince Bruce to get him a language tutor. He refused to forget one of the only ties he had left to his parents.

“Wait, wait- you’re my son.” Bruce replied back, in perfect Romany. He looked more convinced but still skeptical.

“My dad is a circus performer! Not a flying rat!” Dick screeched back. He couldn’t help but feel touched about Bruce seeing him like a son.

“Oy! Keep it down out there, you assholes! Some of us like our sleep, damn!” A random Gothamite screamed out of their window.

“Yo, shut the fuck up! The vigilantes are helping to keep the rent low, motherfucker!” Another Gothamite shouted back.

….

Needless to say, Bruce quickly brought Dick back to the cave- with precautions to make sure he didn’t figure out where the Cave was if Dick was actually someone else.

——

“You would have loved it, Little Wing. B was running around like a headless chicken. The memory loss protocol was actually made because of me, you know.” Dick chuckled, sniffling as he talked to the carved gravestone.

It did not reply.

——

The blood tests came back. Yeppers, Dick sarcastically thought, who woulda thought I’m me?

Reinforcements were called in.

Meaning, Batgirl.

“Watch him while I contact Justice League Dark.”

“You think it’s magic?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. There was no one else near our vicinity that could affect Dick like this. He has no head wounds.”

“Eesh. Okay, go. I’ll watch him.”

Bruce disappeared in his zeta tube, looking harried. So, to everyone that’s not a Bat, he looked absolutely terrifying.

“What did you get yourself into now, Boy Wonder?” Barbara sighed. Dick was careful to keep any signs of recognition out of his face.

“Stop calling me that! Where are my parents?!” He asked back. Barbara coughed and looked uncomfortably away.

That’s right, Babs. I’m pulling out the orphan card. Feel bad. Dick hid his feral grin.

“They’re… uh, busy.” Busy being dead, Barbara thought, immediately wincing at her own thoughts. Apparently, Dick thought the excuse was lame too, and he sent her an incredulous look.

“Would you like refreshments, Master Dick?”

“What?”

Alfred held out some cookies on a platter, giving Babs a quelling look as she tried to reach for his share.

“Oh, wow, these are really good!” Dick said as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. He tried to replicate the reaction he had when he tried these for the first time, and from Alfred’s satisfied look, Dick nailed it.

——

“Robin doesn’t remember who he is.” Batman rumbled as he all but dragged Zatanna and Constantine by the scuff of their jackets towards the zeta tubes.

“Hey, wait-”

“We have no time.” Batman snarled, tossing the two magic users into the zeta. He punched in the destination.

When they got there, he glared at the two magic users until they got into the cave.

“Damn, Bats. Really living up to your name, huh?”

“Not bad,” Zatanna said as she looked around.

“Robin,” Batman- Bruce- reminded them. He did a quick glance over to check on his kids, and found them satisfactorily uninjured. Though, Barbara was looking worse for wear. Bruce quickly found out why as she stalked to him.

“You deal with him.” She muttered. “I’m going home.”

Bruce blinked and nodded. “Get home safe.”

Zatanna and Constantine followed Batman as he walked towards Robin. It was odd to see the normally laughing child frown.

“It’s you! The kidnapper! Where are my parents?!”

Bruce winced which, for him, was akin to a full body flinch and recoil. No wonder Barbara was so tired.

“Fix it.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Batsy.” Constantine grumbled.

“Well help, Batman. Though… I’m not sure if he should be doing that.”

Bruce sharply turned his head back to where Dick was. Emphasis on was. Because now, he’s halfway up the giant dinosaur the Robin had insisted they keep.

“Robin, get down from there!”

“Stranger Danger!” Dick hollered back.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- sighed.

“That’s high level magic,” Zatanna hummed. “I can’t feel anything, but I know for sure that he won’t die. Magic like that either dissipates naturally or…”

“Lasts forever,” Constantine finished.

Bruce groaned, shooting off a grappling line and swooping upwards to catch Dick as he fell from the giant dinosaur.

——

“I pretended to get my memories back later,” Dick chuckled. “And pretended to forget the whole thing. Bruce was so relieved that I stopped knocking things over and trying to do cartwheels in high places that he totally forgot I snuck out.”

Dick patted the headstone.

“But between you and me? I’m pretty sure Alfred knew. I think B pissed him off that week.”

[vinkandpaint]

idk my bff rose

[coyotetatertot]

Promotional for Tate's company in my interp of A Better World AU.

FULL TEXT BENEATH THE CUT‼️‼️

God, I love exploring what he can do if he hadn't suffered through his father abandoning them and then YEARS of caretaker burnout as he tried in vain to heal his dad. What if he hadn't learned to fear his intellect and skill. What if Appalachia hadn't been cut out of him by being raised in the Bay Area. What if his abilities and cultural identity were both nurtured and encouraged by loving parents and a strong educational support system. What then. 👁️

I think he definitely still has his issues, because public figures often do lol. Fame causes so many problems. But fuck if I don't wanna let this lil scruffy genius out of his mental cage of repression, burnout, and depression. I think he's wild, enthusiastic, and has so much heart and spirit underneath all those layers of bullshit. 30 years of suffering and he is in his 30s, the divergence of the AU puts him on a radically different path from childhood and that makes him a TOTALLY new person.

On the highest peaks in the world, the strongest tethers aren't your rope, but the emotional ties which unite your climbing team and keep you connected to those waiting for you back home. Whether it's by blood or by choice, Tater Higgs McGucket understands the importance of family. Son of revolutionary inventor and co-founder of the Institute of Oddology Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, Tate describes his father as his closest friend, collaborator, and mentor. In collaboration with family friend and other co-founder of the Institute Stanford ("Ford") Pines, the three first designed their renowned supplemental oxygen delivery system after an expedition studying anomalies in the Himalayas.

"Our investigation took us to Camp 1 of Manaslu," Tate described in an exclusive interview with Mountaineering Monthly last week, "And I was shocked by the amount of traffic. This was some of the roughest terrain on the planet, but we saw more people out there than on some of my hiking trips back home in Oregon. . . Ford was our interpreter, and after talking with the locals, we realized that there were all these companies selling tickets to the top — with sherpas puttin' themselves on the line just to ferry tourists to the summit."

The influx of inexperienced climbers has had disastrous consequences, as Tate witnessed firsthand. "A lot of these people, they're physically and mentally capable of makin' that kinda climb, but maybe they don't follow best practice. You can summit without any oxygen, if ya stop and acclimatize along the way. But that takes a while, so it can be really temptin' to ignore your body and throw an oxygen bandaid at the problem. But then you're puttin' yourself in an emergency situation if it fails. While we were there, one of those climbers ran out, and a sherpa had to run more oxygen up there. I told him there was a storm a-comin', but he went up anyway. And we ended up losin' 'em both."

Tate's growing twang was underscored by a nervous bouncing of his leg, and he took a moment to collect himself before resuming the interview.

"Dad and I had a look at these open circuit breathing apparatuses. While they were reliable, we saw they were plum wasteful. Knew we could make somethin' better. There's a growin' culture of risk-takin' 'round them mountains. And maybe we cain't stop the industry that's causin' these problems, but we can at least make it safer for them climbers. 'Cuz at the end of the day, regardless of what ya think about these people? With an accident like that, there’s people left behind that're a-hurtin' somethin' fierce. Partners, friends, kids without parents. I mean, just the thought of losin' my dad like that is enough to break my heart — but that's reality, for both the families of that climber and the sherpa who died tryin' to save him. . . Naw, I reckon we can do better."

That was how the youngest McGucket, who had become a household name in the 1990s for his work in designing personal computers with his father's company, first ventured into the world of alpinism. But what he hadn't expected was to fall in love during the process.

"I always needed nature," he explained, "I get overstimulated awfully easy, and so I go out there to clear my head. Been hikin' and fishin' since I was a kid. . . And so, after workin' with climbers to test this equipment — I saw a lot of them eight-thousanders up close, right? And one day, I just knew I had to see it from the top."

But having become familiar with the dangers involved, Tate knew that preparing himself for such a climb would be no easy task.

Luckily, he found a trainer in Ford's twin brother, Stanley Pines.

“Stanley is a stand-up guy. Real old school. Throws a hell of a punch, catches a hell of a catfish.” Tate said of his mentor, “He’s a fighter. So I knew I needed him, because all it takes is one slip up or act of god for these expeditions to turn life-or-death. And he’s been great. Neither of us knew much about rock climbin’ or mountaineering before all this. But we’ve learned together. And having summited a few eight-thousanders now, I can tell ya, I wouldn’t be here without his help.”

Also aiding in his expeditions were his prototype real-time weather and vital monitoring systems, which have since become standard issue in all McGucket brand protective wear. But Tate is most proud of his high-frequency beacon system, which allows climbers to communicate with their partners and first responders — even from inside perilous crevasses.

"The danger of avalanche or serac collapse is real. There are times when your life just ain’t in your own hands. Our systems allow climbers to communicate when they’re entering or exiting a perilous area, and can send out an SOS. They’re also constantly pinging, so in the event somethin’ does happen, they’ll help your climbing partners or first responders find you.”

But high altitudes aren’t the only place you’ll find the twin peaks of McGucket Mountaineering. Tate’s inventions have seen heavy use by first responders of all stripes, from firefighters to wilderness search and rescue — and he has recently signed a contract to manufacture respirators for medical use.

"At the end of the day, it’s all about making it home safely.” Tate concluded, “You gotta prioritize what matters most. You can do incredible things in this world, but none of it matters if you can’t share them with the people who love you.”

[kingofthe-egirls]

Sprinting to your inbox to request Shanks and "Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you” from that prompt list… 👀

SHANKS x Y/N

Request: smut dialogue prompts (thanks to @delusionisaplace for making this fantastic list! 🎀)

(cw: daddy!shanks, restraints (hands only), fingering, cunnilingus, mention of safe word, dad/daddy are both used, shanks shows you your princess parts 😳)

(a/n: this is wholly inspired by your between what was and will be, which shall live forever in my brain and inspire everything i write about shanks from now until the end of time :)

Songs: "Brooklyn Baby" by Lana Del Rey

words: 965

Shanks sits at the edge of your bed, stroking one hand over your bare thigh. He’s wearing his blouse open to the waist, his cargo pants barely hiding how turned on he is by you. You’re naked, for your part, besides the pink ribbons tying your wrists together above your head.

“Ready for me, angel?” He asks, skipping thick fingers over your knee. You flinch a little, nervous but excited.

“Yes, dad,” you kick your legs a bit, coltish limbs trembling in your restraints. “‘M ready.”

“I need you to spread your legs, baby,” he coos, shifting so he’s in front of you. He kneels on the bed, strong hands tickling each of your knees. Slowly, you let them fall open.

He gasps.

“So pretty f’me, baby,” he sighs, running his fingertips over both your pussy lips, “I love seeing you like this. Prettiest pussy all on display just for me,” he grins at you, smiling wide in the amber light of his bedroom. You pull at your bonds, slightly.

“Touch me?”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, leaning forward to kiss your impatient lips. “All in due time, sweetheart. Lemme show ya first, okay?”

You nod, kicking your legs again. He places a big hand along your calf, soothing your anxious fidgeting with the warmth of his touch. He gives your ankle a delicate squeeze. “Want daddy to show ya your pussy parts, baby? Ya want dad to help ya with the ache?”

“Mhmm!” You moan out, squirming a little. He chuckles, his red hair framing a scruffy face. You want him closer, closer, so much fucking closer, please, Dad--

Finally, he traces one large, calloused finger over your clit. “D’ya know what this is, babygirl? It’s the part that makes ya feel so good,” he leans forward to place a kiss on your swollen rosebud. He traces two fingers down either side of your major lips, pressing kisses as he goes. “These are my baby’s pussy lips,” he explains, voice soft and gentle as he rumbles against your heat. You buck into his face, wanting more.

“Ah ah,” he warns, pressing the flat of his hand down on your pelvis. His palm scratches the slightly wiry hairs that lead down to the crest of your thighs. His thumb circles lazily on your clit. “Dad’s not done.”

“Okaay,” you whine out, trying your best to stay still. You wrap your hands around the ribbon, pulling slightly at the bonds. The tension of the restraints—firm and taught—builds a heat in your core that Shanks is currently stroking.

“Here,” he muses, sliding the finger pads of his third and fourth digits along your soaking folds, “Are your minor pussy lips. They’re so sweet for me, baby. D’ya know how much Daddy loves tastin’ ya?”

He lays down on his stomach, and starts licking you clean.

“Fuck, Dad—!”

You whine, arching your back against the bed. His messy sheets wrinkle under you, already too-hot in your lustful state. Shanks licks your pussy up and down, doing figure eights around your slit.

“Please, daddy…,” you whimper, struggling with your ribbon restraints, “I wanna cum. Make me cum? Please, please, please—,” he cuts off your begging with a sharp slap to your clit. You gasp, stung, but bite your lip against a complaint. No need to make your punishment worse, after all.

“Dad’ll make ya cum, okay? Since ya asked so nicely,” he slides two digits inside your entrance, rubbing softly as he sucks your clit. His lips wrap warm and firm around your bud, and you hiss at the contact. And the suction—

“Fuck,” you curse, breathy and hoarse. Shanks laughs against your pussy.

He pushes his fingers in deeper.

“Take it, baby,” he soothes, stroking your thigh with his other hand. “Dad’s so fuckin' proud of ya,” his thumb presses sweet circles against your inner thigh, and you croon. “There ya go, sweet thing,” he whispers, between sucking your clit and spelling his own name. His tongue moves in swift circles: a pattern you’ve long since memorized. “Ready for Daddy to make ya cum?”

He crooks his fingers up, scissoring in and out gentle against your finest spots. He gasps, watching you arch. Your orgasm hits you like a sucker punch: loving and violent, with the bittersweet aftertaste of overstimulation. Your legs shake, and he croons.

“Sweet girl,” he’s saying, pressing kitten licks to your swollen clit, “Such a good fucking girl f’me, baby.”

You nod, whispering the word that gets you out of your bonds.

He’s up, swiftly undoing his sailor’s knots so that you can wrap your arms around him, pulling him in as close as he can get. His weight shifts over you (trying not to crush you) but you huff in frustration. You pull him tighter on top of you, and he laughs.

“Closer!” You complain, burying your head into his chest hair. You breathe him in: salty and sweet. Like a caramel macchiato with steamed milk. He smells comforting, like home.

“Love ya, girly,” he whispers into your hair, softly stroking the top of your head. He lets you pull him over to the side, so your legs are around his waist and his arms are bringing you in tightly to his chest. He’s warm. You wrap your arms through his shirt, between fabric and skin. He pulls you in. “Love ya s’much.”

“Love you too,” you whisper, lips moving against his chest. His muscles are strong and taut beneath you, even at rest. You sink your fingers into heated skin; his breath flutters, and you grin. “Did you like it?” You ask, already sure of the answer but still wanting to get drunk off his praise. He squeezes you in tighter, somehow.

“Loved it, baby.”

“Good,” you snuggle in for bed, “I liked it too.”

[sprinklecipher]

What does "potato bug" mean? (Survey results)

The results are in for my survey looking at possible regional differences in how the term “potato bug” is used, and, as I hoped, there were some interesting regional patterns!

In total there were 420 responses, and major results are summarized below the cut (note: there are also a bunch of photos of bugs, just be aware). I’ll also add more specific/minor results in a reblog (linked here) ~

A “potato bug” according to Americans* and Canadians (*except Californians):

A majority of Canadian respondents (14/19, or ~74%)  as well as a plurality of American respondents (128/362, or ~35%) indicated that “potato bugs” are the tiny isopods that curl into a ball (also known as “roly polies,” “pill bugs,” and many, many other regional names)

Notably, the usage of “potato bug” to refer to the roly poly appears to be geographically widespread within the United States, with the roly poly being selected by at least 20% of respondents from all US subregions except for the South Central parts of the country (around Texas).

Curiously, Wikipedia lists the UK as being a region where “potato bug” can refer to these kinds of woodlice, but not a single UK respondent selected the roly poly, and only a small minority—2/15—indicated that they had ever even heard the term at all.

A “potato bug” according to Californians:

Californians were unusual among Americans in that a majority of Californian respondents, 29/46 (63%), indicated that the term “potato bug” refers to the cricket-like members of the tribe Stenopelmatini, more commonly known as the “Jerusalem cricket” (although, as I have explored here before, these critters also have many delightful alternative names). This usage is notably uncommon elsewhere in the country, with only 25/316—8%—of non-Californian US respondents selecting the Jerusalem cricket as the “potato bug.”

A “potato bug” according to Europeans** (**kinda…sorta…):

A majority of non-North American respondents indicated that they had never heard of a “potato bug” before, 23/39 (59%). However, among the subset of Europeans who had heard of potato bugs, an overwhelming majority selected the Colorado potato beetle as the “potato bug,” 12/14 (86%).  Notably, although these bugs are endemic to the central US, they have spread to Europe as an agricultural pest, which may partially explain this pattern (although as a caveat, the sample size for non-North American respondents was quite small and so this result should be taken with a big grain of salt!).

American respondents occasionally selected this bug, too, although it was not an especially common choice, with 49/362 (14%) of Americans selecting the Colorado potato beetle and no US subregions showing even a 1/3 selection rate for it.

Other potato bugs?

25 respondents indicated that the term potato bug referred to a type of bug that wasn’t included in the survey, with the comments suggesting other potential “potato bugs” might include potato weevils, June bugs, spined soldier bugs, boxelder bugs, and ladybugs. There were also a couple of general descriptions of bugs that I couldn’t quite match to anything specific.

Most of these other potential “potato bug”-types were only mentioned once, although the most common among them—the June bug—was described by 5 different respondents.

Overall Numbers

Overall, 289/420 (~69%) of respondents had heard of “potato bugs” before, with the term appearing to be predominantly a North American expression: 273/381 (72%) of North American respondents were familiar with the term, compared to 16/40 (40%) of non-North American respondents.

Here’s the response totals for how often each “potato bug” type was selected:

~

Alright, that’s all for now—maps/data tables coming in a reblog available here. :)

[awkward-teabag]

I have to wonder how many people celebrating AI translation also complain about "broken English" and how obvious it is something was Google translated from another language without a fluent English speaker involved to properly clean up the translation/grammar.

Because I bet it's a lot.

I know why execs are all for it—AI is the new buzzword and it lets them cut jobs thus "save" money and not have to worry about pesky labour laws when one employs humans—but everyone else?

There was some outcry when Crunchyroll fired many of their translators in favour of AI translation (with some people to "clean up the AI's work") but I can't help but think that was in part because it was Japanese-to-English and personally affected them. Same when Duolingo fired many of their translators in favour of LLM translation. Meanwhile companies are firing staff when it's English to another language and there's this idea that that's fine or not as big a deal because English is "easy" to translate and/or because people don't think of how it will impact people in non-English countries.

Also it doesn't affect native English speakers so it doesn't get much headway in the news cycle or online anyway because so much of the dominant media is from English-speaking countries and English-speakers dominate social media.

But different languages have different grammar structures that LLMs don't do, and I grew up on "jokes" about people speaking in "broken English" and mocking people who use the wrong word when it was clearly a literal translation but the meaning was obvious long before LLMs were a thing, too. In fact, the specific way a character spoke broken English has been a way to denote their native tongue for decades, usually in a racist way.

Then Google translate came out and "Google-translated English" became an insult for people and criticism of companies because it was clearly wonky to native speakers. Even now, LLMs—which are heavily trained on English compared to other languages—don't have a natural output so native English speakers can clock LLM-generated text if it's longer than a sentence or two.

But, for whatever reason, it's not seen as a problem when it goes the other way because fuck non-English readers or people who want to read in their native tongue I guess.

[somer-writes]

I have crawled out of my mole whole to humbly ask you

but what type of southern accent do you think Twilight has? 🤔

hello thank you for coming out of your mole hole, have a treat :3

uuuuh well so im like Midwest Supreme so my interp for his accent comes from like podunk midwest backwater nowhere XD we're talking towns built around grain elevators where theres more cows than people and you can get snowed in for days if you dont live on a snow route

but usually the Default Southern accent i write for OCs is either like Appalachia or gater rasslin loosianna XD

depends on if i want cowboy or chewing tobacco yknow

i think twi just bc of the goats and pumpkins is probably somewhere in the wyoming or northern colorado range of That Peach in Levis cowboy. like modern twi wears a duck coat and chews on toothpicks and has a stetson hat. or when hes doing ranch work hes wearing coveralls but has the sleeves tied around his waist and a carhartt shirt underneath. and you know his carhartts are just destroyed and patched over and over in the ass. he gives fresh goat milk to the farm cats and the dogs follow him *everywhere*. hes riding draft horses recreationally. epona might be a perchie

imo a lot of people write a Tennessee twi but mostly like knoxville. maybe arkansas? not quite In the Swamp south for a lot of them but more like Mountain South. but not mountain enough to be the kind that sets bear traps for cops yknow. just mountain enough to have anarchist leanings.

[tevintersnakes]

He walked straight into the lions den and now he's paying for it. Walked in under prepared, and so caught up in his own plans that he neglected to account for how dangerous a place it would be he'd find himself. He should of listened to Arcade. He should of avoided all contact with the legion. Yet here he stands in the tent of Caesar staring down the man who once shot him in the head. Ordered to choose this mans fate. Disparaged for a lack of blood lust when he'd proposed freeing him.

The concealed 22. in his coat feels like it's weighing him down. The 'machete' that's more lawnmower blade that's in his hand- ill-fitting for a physician. He's running through his options. He doesn't want to kill Benny, but... two attack dogs. Five praetorians. Caesar himself. Two other high ranking legion officers... Another guard, another dog, both waiting outside with his friend and robot.

He feels ill. He's overheating. The ground is uneven. Every imperfection of the wrappings around the machete dig into his hand. There is no winning a fight here.

'Close your eyes if you want to.' 'Make it clean.' 'I shall.'

Despite his best efforts - It takes 16 strikes.

16 strikes. Followers coat now drenched in blood. He looks back to Caesar and wonders whether he looks as bloodthirsty as he was asked to be, or simply as terrified as he feels.

[thunderboltfire]

I was having fun with making up their voices! I've also decided to solve a question of languages (languages color-coded to avoid confusion).

Also, this one has quite a lot of tiny text, so I've included transcripts.

[ID: a list illustrated with colored doodles of characters' heads. Titled Who speaks what?

Igna [cartoon picture of Igna's face drawn in brick red color]: Native language: illiraian (southwestern regional form). Understands enough elvish to know when she's being threatened, and can ask for directions, but not much more.

Argo [cartoon picture of Argo's face drawn in sap green color]: Native language: northern elvish. Fluent in illiraian, hardly discernible accent. (it took Igna 3 months to figure out what's off - he rolls 'R' a bit too hard and his vowels sometimes are pronounced too close to the back of his throat).

Theria [cartoon picture of Theria's face drawn in muted brown color]: Native language: Samhran. Fluent in illiraian, audible samhran accent (difficulty pronouncing consonant clusters, palatalising 'L's and 'T"s, mixing up vowels and dyphtongs, sometimes sing-song affect to the vowels). Speaks basic Andaran and broken Omtheron.

Daen [cartoon picture of Daen's face drawn in violet color]: Native language: Moer. Fluent in illiraian, Andaran and gods know what else. Communicative in old elvish. Understands both dwarven languages, but speaks neither. No discernible accent in illiraian.

Haart [cartoon picture of Haart's face drawn in blue]: Native language: Kará (east-dwarvish). Fluent in illiraian (mostly without an

accent, but he often switches soft and hard 'H'). Understands some Andaran and Omtheron. Knows his local variety of sign language.

Knows some expressions in samhran (exclusively swearwords and toasts).]

-

Results: Igna is a spoiled kid, she's the only one in the group who has the luxury of speaking her native language day-to-day. She grew up in complete nowhere, with a very scarce contact with other languages. Tentative A1 in elvish, due to her dad trying to teach her.

Argo probably had the knowledge of Illiraian hammered into his head during his education - inhabitants of Riss speak exclusively a dialect of elvish day-to-day, but the duchy is an enclave, and it would be severely imparing not to know the neighbors' language.

Theria has been away from home long enough to gain a pretty good grasp of Illiraian, and has around B1 level in Andaran. Both spoken with a pretty thick accent, her native language is from a different language family with a strikingly different phototactics, and she's learnt the foreign languages pretty late.

Daen speaks many languages, and all of them pretty well. Maybe it's his long lifespan, but it's possible he's got a knack for language learning.

Haart has had a similar situation to Argo in a sense he's lived in a close neighboorhood of another language and learnt it in childhood. He comes from a merchant house, so it's understandable his family would want him to know foreign languages.

[ID: a scale diagram titled "profanity meter" Left to right: Daen titled "Apocalyptic event indicator", Igna titled "curses when hurt", Argo titled "curses if pissed", Haart titled "curses to emphasise" and Theria titled "Fuck is a sentence divider"]

-

I have to face the fact that Theria most probably has a severe case of unwashed mouth. Her mercenary career spans a good few years when she enters the stage and she doesn't seem like the type to watch her language, so in all probability she doesn't even notice that she curses like a sailor.

[ID: a list titled "Voice and expression". On the left side there's an up-and-down double ended arrow titled "pitch". Characters from top to bottom:

Igna: Easily the highest voice of the group. Clean, and rather strong despite it. Makes an open and honest impression when speaking, fairly good singing voice.

Theria: on the lower side of feminine voices, full-bodied voice with a bit of a vocal fry, on average way louder than the rest of the group. Enjoys singing, but easily dominates a choir

Argo: rather raspy, matte voice. Has a tendency to mutter - the limited sensitivity on the scarred side of his face makes it harder to speak clearly. Speaks quite fast despite of this. Can't hold a note for his life.

Haart: soft, full baritone. Probably the nicest laughter. Nice singing voice, talks with his hands a lot. Makes a characteristic huff when he's nervous.

Daen: low, resonant voice. Clear pronounciation. Reticent, rarely talks more than necessary. Makes a formal impression.]

Last but not least, my trials to work out how would they probably sound like. (I'm not really one to do voiceclaims).

[blueflipflops]

[Tag your fave world building heavy fandom :D ]

[fooltofancy]

brief untethered post re: in from the cold 'cause i'm thinking abt autonomy again and about how ilya separates from himself under extreme duress already - serious problem after the banquet in arr and throughout hw, but culminating in sb specifically re: why and how he's so capable of real extreme acts of violence without really... settling to acknowledge them until much, much later. like he knows, but that knowledge hasn't ever settled physically in his body so if/when he feels that trauma he tends to feel it kind of all at once. anyway, forced very literally to come to terms with All That because zenos, the embodiment of all he's refusing to acknowledge inside of himself, understands him in a way he's never understood himself is so, so much.

and there's no real relief in succeeding, right, because that wasn't really the point, and he's just like. stuck in his body, this thing that begets nothing but violence and blood and hurt, and he's kinda just got to. live with that, lmao. despite everything it's still you ass moment.

so he goes home, because instead of actually dealing with all that all he can think about is fray, and ishgard, and the baffling black heart of him all wrapped up the first place he felt all the blood was worth something.

and it was worth something at all because of aymeric. like, he struggles to admit it but every time he ends up back there, almost always so far out of his way it'needing someone else who sees past all of the blood he's spilled to remind him of what else his body is for.

[delphiniumblooms]

issue 1 of a shortform newsletter i'm hoping to run for my Singaporean Presbyterian church's youth group!

[xx3m0j1nxx]

as someone who had to learn phonetics and ipa during acting class i LOVE whenever phil talks about his education

[thelastspeecher]

Anyways I love looking up my dialect of American English (Midland) and being shocked, SHOCKED by the traits that aren't universal

For example I just learned that using "wakened" as a synonym for "woke up" is characteristic of my dialect and not universal!

Which is crazy bc I use that in my writing all the time!

[utasau]

chat i think one of my professors miiight be racist (not straight up racist racist but like, linguistic purist racist)

[rosefulmadness]

hello writers of the castlevania fandom

can you please stop making Isaac eat pork and/or drink alcohol? also, why does he never pray?

I've only seen one fic where it was done like it should be, and they made him muslim there. he's a north african sufi.

If you don't wanna learn about a characters culture/religion (especially when it's a central part of the character), then don't write them, period.