#i feel silly putting this in main tags | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

skollwolf · 9 months

Text

Okay this post has a target audience of me myself and I, I know, but a few days ago my 3 year old asked to see a movie I liked a lot as a kid, so I of course showed him the animated classic Quest For Camelot (1998) which I was absolutely fucking obsessed with at age 6

And on rewatch (and a second rewatch today because my kid has proclaimed it "one of my favorite movies!!"), holy shit is the way they play Garrett's character arc funny

Like, from minute one of his introduction, right. Kayley (the movie's deuteragonist) meets him, he saves her life, she asks to travel with him when she realizes his seeing-eye falcon knows the location of Excalibur so they can save Camelot together, and what does Garrett do but immediately launch into a musical number about how well he knows the Forbidden Forest they're in and how he's better off alone, as Kayley like...brute force stumbles her way through keeping up with him.

Which isn't, in and of itself, all that funny; the musical number is meant to establish that although he's blind, Garrett is in fact the more competent of the two by literal leaps and bounds while in the Forbidden Forest--and yes, it establishes that he's turned his involuntary isolation into a key part of his identity in a way that will become a late-movie problem. I get all that.

But the thing that makes this read as fucking hilarious is that literally the second he finishes singing a three minute musical number about how he's better off alone and Kayley can't come with him, Kayley immediately goes "okay but like...what if I come with you anyway 🥺" and Garrett responds with "oh fine whatever 😑" and lets her come along after all. No further argument, nothing happens to convince him, he just folds like a grumpy wet paper towel. Man literally no sooner finishes belting "all by myself I stand alone!" than he makes an exception.

And then after they meet Devon and Cornwall, he does it again! He's like "okay we made it out of dragon country, you two should fuck off now" and Kayley goes "but Garrett what if they came with us ��" and with no further convincing Garrett immediately goes "yeah okay they're coming with us I guess 😑"

Like is the practical reason for this that they didn't want to spend more of the movie's runtime and budget on scenes about Garrett being convinced to change his mind? Probably. But functionally speaking? It looks like the creators of Quest for Camelot really looked at their romantic deuteragonist and were like "you know what people want? A hot blind guy with the approximate attitude of a contrary cat" and they were so right

#quest for camelot #I feel relatively comfortable putting this silly post in the main tag bc I'm pretty sure it's not like a hopping scene at this point

18 notes · View notes

edelgarfield · 4 months

Text

dude with the stink i saw everyone in the comments throwing about cyrus's death i thought the ruling on chromatic orb was what killed him. but it wasn't, it was getting attacked by the giant fucking spider afterwards. and like you can make the argument that "well if the chromatic orb hadn't hit he wouldn't have gone down" like y'all. the party was up against a literal god. "it was unfair blah blah blah" yeah that's the point. when mortals tangle with the gods they lose. the DM had so many tools at her disposal to get the outcome she wanted, one stray hit did not make a difference.

#cr3 #like yeah its not the way cr is normally run #but like #it's meant to be a small breather to parallel the journey bh is going through atm #and underscore the themes of the larger campaign #sometimes. dnd isn't fair. and that's the point.#multiple dms in cr history have put the party in unwinnable scenarios but its suddenly a problem #“chromatic orb doesn't work that way” we literally just finished a whole arc where trying to cast sending caused psychic damage #show me in the PHB where it says that's how sending works #like idk it just feels like complaining abt every minor unfair ruling during the crownkeepers interlude is massively missing #1. the main theme of the entire campaign #2. the reason that interlude even happened in the first place #ppl are like “well why play dnd at all then”#because its fun and it would be silly to make everyone learn a new system for 3 hours of game time #because if the players just sat there and narrated the whole thing people wouldn't be any less pissed off #the fact that people think the DM was being unnecessarily adversarial even though other DMs have ALSO gotten playfully mean at times #like hm i wonder why it's suddenly a problem now #im not using names bc i dont want ppl to find this in the tags

7 notes · View notes

nocentis · 4 months

Text

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands.

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her.

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow. A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it.

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

#v: ✗ ┆ siegrain ┆ ◜ canon divergent ◞#⚶ ┆ ◜ drabbles ◞#I was in a silly goofy mood #reader beware #this one was an exorcism.#needed to purge this depravity.#hey guys what if I bare my soul and it's a festering wound.#did I provide context? no. am I sorry? also no.#this only works in darkverse.#this is very obviously not inline with canon Jellal's personality but with a mutated version of him I created to balance ->#the healing arc I'm putting him through in mainverse.#not love but a secret other thing (obsession. possession.)(...take my money... I don't need that shit...)#& now she haunts the narrative. in my mind. and his too.#In my defense I've never claimed not to be a degenerate #yeah actually I am kind of embarrassed about this thank you for asking #never thought I’d have to say this but I do not endorse or condone cannibalism.#hey Sieg have you ever thought about chilling. calming down perhaps. I say as if I did not put him in this situation.#I fear this is one of those things I’m going to look back on in a few months & say: that should've stayed in the drafts.#me personally I love posting cringe. it's what I deserve.#if god exists I will have to answer for this. catch me in the river Acheron sipping on straight up anguish.#can you tell I have been confronted by the fleeting nature of mortality more often than usual lately. be honest.#actually I decided to not to go too into depth with the gore this time. I feel like keeping it vague lends more to the fugue state #also because it was giving me REALLY weird dreams. so like. yeah. I could've made this worse. but should I have?#tags bout damn long as the drabble. sorry gang.#cannibalism tw #gore tw #main character death tw #body horror tw #dayne’s depravity #daynedepravity

8 notes · View notes

nemmet · 5 months

Note

top 5 fred moments (*´꒳`*)

YAAAAY THANK YOU LEE!!! it's always hard to come up with my overall/all-time favourites since i love so many of his little moments across multiple incarnations!! but here's some i've been spinning in my brain as of late :)

the be cool scooby doo season finale where he reconciles with professor huh and lets him have the mystery machine so that he can escape and be free. the way he goes from despising and avoiding his father to using one of daphne's hand puppets (something he's hated throughout the whole show) in order to communicate with him in a way he knows will get through. when he tells his father he loves him, and his father replies "i love you" by returning the mystery machine at the very end - but fred is disappointed, because the thing he really wanted back was his dad. this finale was an absolute gutpunch and i still tear up thinking about it. genuinely how have i not seen anyone talk about it. i am shaking you violently by the shoulders and infodumping about be cool scooby doo lore to you

MORE be cool scooby doo i'm sorry except i'm not because it's my favourite show and i won't shut up about it. fright of hand is such a good episode and i love freddy or not with all my heart. the way he was so dedicated to someday being a stage magician that he had a custom costume and persona all ready to go at a moment's notice. having a bunch of varied interests that he's obsessed with is pretty standard fred fare by now, but it's nice seeing a more uptight and mystery-focused fred like bcsd enjoy something random so earnestly. also, the fact that it's mentioned that he does his own eyeliner and it isn't treated like a joke?? icing on the cake.

blowout beach bash is by far the better scooby lego movie but i am constantly thinking of fred getting way too into film directing in haunted hollywood. his weird little beret. his sass. his dedication. "ONE PHONE CALL AND HE'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN". as someone who recently made my first student film, i can confirm that being behind cameras just makes you like this /silly

that moment in the first episode of what's new scooby doo where he's stuck in the ski lodge with his broken leg and he just has to worriedly watch daphne from afar while she rides a snow quad down the mountain. mom friend fred at his absolute finest, whenever he's not around to keep everyone safe daphne's raw unfiltered adhd takes over

that tiny bit in battle of the humungonauts (mystery incorporated) when scooby is sobbing in the back of the van because he found out shaggy and velma are dating, and fred says "it's me, isn't it. i said something that hurt his feelings, didn't i." like,,,, the way he automatically assumes it was him because he has some awareness of how blunt he can be. his genuine remorse and willingness to own up to something he didn't even do, but isn't entirely certain he didn't do, either. the autism of it all. unmatched.

#i haven't rambled about fred on this blog in ages i feel like myself again /silly #putting this one in the main tags because!!! why not!!!#scooby doo #fred jones #nem askbox :D

12 notes · View notes

edns · 5 months

Note

02. Blossom!

Thank you! I may have gone a little too ham with this... But enjoy! I'm a little rusty with writing and also I did this quickly so it might not be my best work but I had fun ^_^ P.S. I Swear I tried to write something cute or funny but I think I am physically incapable of making it weird or sad lol

It wasn’t often that the flower vendor passed by Garreg Mach these days, her good being greatly varied — from lush greens for a garden and potted plants to flower bouquets. As Dimitri took a stroll down the market, he was painfully aware of all the eyes on him… All this time, up until Rodrigue’s death, he had been looking away from them all, when they turned to him for help. Looking around the market, his attention first drifted to the armory. He went to check whether there was anything new there, when a thought passed by his mind.

He probably should have given a gift to the person who cared for him deeply, but got pushed away. Cyrus Lenz, the person who nursed him back to health when Dimitri lost his eye — he made it very hard to tell if he cared or not. Ever since Dimitri reunited with his used-to-be classmates and the Professor, Cyrus had been distant, spending most of his free time training and sparring with other sword fighters. However, Dimitri had seen him fight in the battle at Gronder Field, which made it clear as day that Cyrus still cared, deeply. Putting one’s life on the line was a Faerghan way to say that, after all…

Heaving a sigh, Dimitri perused the armory. The vendor started to fuss as soon as he recognized him.

“We have a new collection of swords and daggers available, Your Highness,” the vendor smiled. “They’re all a valuable find. Surely you would be interested.”

“Are they, now…”

Dimitri rubbed his chin in thought, as his mind wandered… Should he give one of such daggers to Cyrus? At first, this seemed like a great idea, but then he remembered the amount of times everyone made fun of him for giving a dagger as a gift to someone else he cared about… His mind wandered to that person, rage flashing in his eye for a brief moment.

Squeezing his eye shut, Dimitri turned away from the store he was browsing… Only to be met with a pleasant floral aroma. He opened his eye, and saw an abundance of colors. He found himself wandering towards the store. He touched one of the flowers as gently as he could — a rose. Its petals were soft, smooth… It soothed Dimitri. For some reason, it reminded him of Cyrus. The rage on his face was replaced with a soft smile.

“It’s not often I see a warrior such as yourself enjoy flowers,” the flower vendor grinned; she didn’t seem to recognize Dimitri as the Prince yet. Perhaps she was new around here…

“Do I really have an exterior of someone who would not appreciate their beauty?” Dimitri smiled; the lack of formality was also comforting. He picked up the rose flower by its stem, only to feel the sting of a thorn… He pulled his hand away and noticed his thumb bleeding.

“That’s roses for you,” the vendor looked at the rose flowers standing neatly in a vase full of water. “They’re beautiful, but they also sting… And they wilt so quickly.”

Those words etched themselves in Dimitri’s mind. He stood there, his eye jumping between the blossom and the cut in his already scarred hand.

“What is one more wound for me? As you said, I am a man of war. I can take the thorns.” He took the rose again, this time avoiding the thorns, and looked at it up close. With a deep sigh, he touched the soft petals again, an almost pained smile on his face.

“Are you thinking about the rose right now, Dimitri?” The vendor gave him a smirk as the question startled the prince enough to make him look up from the flower. “Or about someone you know?”

Dimitri couldn’t answer, even though his heart desperately wanted to. He stood there, still staring at the rose with a furrowed brow, but it wasn’t rage that was clouding his mind this time.

“If it really reminds you of them, you should give this flower to them. It’s on the house.”

“… No, I can afford to-”

As Dimitri looked up, he found himself standing in a lonely corner of the marketplace, in front of a bush of roses that just happened to bloom there. It wasn’t the first time something of the sort happened to him, causing him to wander off somewhere or speak to people who weren’t truly there, but usually it wasn’t something this… pleasant, so to speak.

After rotating the rose in his hand for a good minute, Dimitri turned around to leave the marketplace with it… Only to see Cyrus before him.

“Your Highness…” Cyrus looked worn out, his voice monotone and quiet, but concern still showed through his seemingly cold expression. Through the thorns…

Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to say anything, and instead just handed Cyrus the rose blossom, his heart aching as he hoped the other man would accept it. Taking the rose, Cyrus, for some reason, didn’t even look shocked… But he did smile.

“I only wish for you to know that I… Appreciate your efforts in battle,” Dimitri blurted after a minute of silence.

“You don’t exactly give people roses for that,” Cyrus sighed, deep sadness returning to his eyes after the brief respite of a smile. “However, I will continue giving my best efforts. Thank you, Your Highness.”

Saying that, Cyrus turned and left the marketplace promptly, leaving Dimitri alone, his palms stinging with pain as he realized that the cuts were plenty, instead of just one.

Perhaps a weapon truly would make a better gift in this case.

#fe3h oc #oc cyrus bartholomew lenz #Sorry Im not putting any of these in the main fandom tags......It is just silly writing exercises #I feel like I have to make this disclaimer before someone takes this the wrong way but I do not ship Anything but my cringe oc x canon ship #Also I feel there is a Lot of context missing here that is just. In My Brain. I guess it's like my little comics! Gotta piece it together #Anyway I really had a blast with this one thank you for sending it in!#I will get to the other rqs either tmrw or after the weekend!#Again I wanted to draw a nice little illust with this but ahhh this wouldve taken me too long so. Yeagh #writing

12 notes · View notes