#idle scree

[robotgloveart]

I drew the batsona from Idle Scree because I'm in love with chunky gremlin designs.

[lewvithur]

weight gain as healing is a very good trope but i thought of an offshoot which is just as good, maybe even better

may i present to you: weight gain as re-establishing bodily autonomy

[shadysadie]

I love that Raine got to be part of the final battle.

With as many people as Belos hurt, pretty much all the characters deserved to be there to help deliver the final blow (or final *stompstompstomp*) but short of doing a giant Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood style showdown in the middle of the castle (which would not suit this show like it did FMAB) there was just no way that everyone who deserved to see Belos destroyed was going to get that satisfaction. 

I really love that the one extra person that got to join the Owl Family for this was Raine. 

Because Raine has given absolutely everything to the revolution. Idle Scree has a fantastic video on the subject, but to sum it up, Raine went into the bard coven with the explicit goal of working their way up through the ranks and uncovering the truth behind Belos’ plans. It has taken them decades of espionage to get where they are. They cut themself off from all of their relationships, crossed moral boundaries, and even asked the woman they love to give up her life in order to take Belos down. 

So when Belos takes control of them they fight back.

While Hunter’s possession is a lot more brutal, simply because Belos specifically wanted to make Hunter suffer as much as possible, while mocking Luz and friends, Raine’s struggle is almost harder to watch.

They’re getting tossed around, their arms are getting dislocated at the very least, they’ve vomiting Belos goop, but they are still fighting with everything they have to regain control because they did not spend their life trying to take Belos down just to end up his play thing. 

Hunter had to crush his best friend with his own hand in order to break free of Belos, Raine is fighting with indignation and fury alone.

And they keep fighting.

Even without their weapon, as soon as they have enough control to get their fingers to their mouth, they cast Belos out. And after that, they could have given up. They were free. They must have been exhausted, but they are clever, probably the most clever person on the Boiling Isles, so they realize exactly what’s going to happen and they can not let that happen.

The way they fall up the stairs here shows just how hurt and tired they are. Think of what their timeline has looked like from their perspective: the Day of Unity happened, they nearly died from the draining spell, they fought through excruciating pain to save Eda as what they thought was their final act, then the eclipse ends and they are still alive, but suddenly these evil stars are attacking them, then they spend months “sequestered in a darkness like onto death” only to be awoken and have their most hated enemy take over their body. 

And through all that THEY KEEP GOING.

And again, this fight is brutal, they are basically suffocating in Belos’s flesh towards the end, and they still don’t give up.

They shatter their weapon in one last ditch effort to stop Belos, but it doesn’t work.

They lost. They were a second too late and now everything they fought for is for nothing. Belos made it to the heart. He can take control of the very Titan itself, and there is nothing Raine can do to stop him.

But even then, they don’t give up. They keep whistling, even if it’s weak, even if it doesn’t do much, they whistle to keep themself alive, because they are going to keep fighting until their very last breath.

So after all of that, the fact that they get to be one of the people who actively take Belos down…well, I think they say it best for themself…

[fernacular]

Wait you're from Idle Scree?? I love those videos, some of the best analysis I've seen in a long while. Which one are you, are you the bat?

ooooh no no no I'm not the bat, I'm not nearly that smart, I'm the raccoon, the team artist! I made all the little animal sprites and banners and things.

Im glad you like our channel! It's a labor of love <3

[allthecanadianpolitics]

From rallies and round dances to a hunger strike that caught the world's attention, the story of Idle No More has been painstakingly chronicled by two Winnipeg producers.

The resulting 2020 documentary, called The Power Was With Us: Idle No More, has previously been screened elsewhere, but to mark the 10th anniversary of the movement, it will have a public presentation in Winnipeg for the first time this Saturday at Dave Barber Cinematheque.

The two-part documentary follows the Idle No More movement, using hours of APTN archival news footage.

APTN gathered a wealth of footage showing many of the movement's pivotal moments, said co-producer Tim Fontaine.

"In a newsroom, there's a glut of tape," said Fontaine, a former APTN and CBC journalist. "You shoot an hour and you use a minute." [...]

Idle No More began in 2012 with Indigenous opposition to the federal Conservative government's Bill C-45 — omnibus legislation that proposed changes to the Indian Act, the Navigable Waters Protection Act and the Environmental Protections Act.

Critics said the bill diminished the rights of Indigenous communities and made it easier for resource projects to go forward without strict environmental assessment.

The movement began to spread quickly through social media and the #IdleNoMore hashtag, and soon evolved to encompass broader issues around Indigenous sovereignty and environmental protection. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[anna-jo]

'The Truth About Eda and Disability' by idle scree is a video i really liked I LOVE EDA CLAWTHORNE

omg i loved this video! thank you sm for recommending it to me!!

istg, eda is such an interesting character, i love her sm! and the way they represented her disability on the show is just amazing

(also, very unrelated, but love your pfp!! i adore tori, tho i still have to read solitaire)

[datubooty]

An eclipse take

Eclipse Lake is a banging episode but I’m still not over how the lake(bed) itself as a location breaks from the pattern of anatomically named things. It’s bothered me for weeks. Like, if we can get relatively throwaway names on brand like Lake Lacuna and Forearm Forest, why would such a key location (pun intended) break the pattern?

Internal to the show, the lake is already named by the time Philip stumbles across it five years into his journey into the isles. It’s underground, so it is technically subject to perpetual eclipses, but that’s just... darkness? Granted, Philip has freedom in his diary to rename anything he wants, and as Emperor Belos he could also just decree that the lake is named so, but that’s a strange amount to care about something so trivial when his goal is to cleanse the entire realm. Philip says in his diary “There are old tales of lakes reflecting green trees and blue skies...” which create portals to the human realm. Perhaps it was named by prior humans, who saw the darkness in the cave as an eclipsed moon. I’m just speculating now, but if the Wittebanes were the first actual humans to have come along in a long time, who knows what was going on in the Boiling Isles’ prehistory.

Still, this means we are left with Eclipse Lake in a place of prominence for its thematic deviation. What can we make of it? With only one item, you can make infinite patterns. Let’s try. Amity undergoes an eclipse in that a shadow passes over her confidence in her relationship with Luz (whose name, as we are never allowed to forget, means light). Amity’s misinterpretation of the tamagotchi messages is the beginning of darkness. Hunter tries to keep her in the shadow. Amity's eventual understanding is a literal return to light. Even Hunter is brought slowly out of his isolation and towards Luz/light (and the rest of the protagonists gang) through his growing connection with Flapjack.

Some rejected ideas that I'll keep around since I bothered to type them: since the lake is introduced in Philip’s diary, and having just watched Idle Scree point out that Eclipse Lake is a parallel location for the lake-ish Gravesfield Cemetery as a body of water associated with Titan’s blood where Hunter faces death, I’m tempted to think of it as a Belos-related thing. And Eclipses are celestial and so is the Collector, who has little to do with this episode beyond their connection to the broader plot surrounding the portal... yeah, dunno.

All this aside, we have meta-textual knowledge - I would attribute the episode title and location name also to a writing challenge - the Season 2 episode acrostic only has an L toward the end (for putting Lake first) and other terms relating to knees are far from common knowledge. “Lake Popliteal Fossa”? “Geniculate Lake?” What the hell are those? I had to google to find them, and even given TOH’s older-leaning audience, no one is going to keep an anatomy textbook handy as they watch.

[flashlightfxghter]

   ❝ MmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMM- ❞

   ❝ -MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA- ❞

[veridium]

do I wanna know (pt. one)

THE PARTY HAS JUST BEGUN. 

Okay, as a reward to myself for working on commissions today I jotted the first part of @bitchesofostwick‘s and my modern AU. this is a two parter!

On this episode: the night of the house party arrives, and ellinor has convinced olivia to come along without telling her what the destination is. things go about as great as you’d expect them to be on olivia’s end. thank goodness for whiskey.

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5

--

Olivia could rewrite the book on walking long distances in heels. If she could, a whole chapter would be dedicated autobiographically to how much practice she’s gotten following Ellinor around on her misguided adventures. To be sure, she knows Ellinor could write an equally bulky tell-all, which has helped her keep her mouth shut when she feels the urge to complain. But tonight, that urge is especially aggravated.

“Ellinor, this is at least five blocks from our spot. Unless you’re wanting us to get tacos at that corner shop again, I…” she’s nose-deep on her insta, checking likes on her selfies she took getting ready for the Friday night of debauchery she thought they had in store. The debauchery they usually undergo every Friday night. Somehow, though, this week doesn’t seem to be as advertised.

She’s following two steps behind Ellinor, who surprisingly is dressed to kill -- by more glamorous means, of course. A black lace bralette, matching lace fringe denim shorts, and a trademark over-sized flannel with a sassy saying painted crassly on the back. Hair braided up and tousled with intention. Extra dedication despite their plans being their usual ones.

“Uh, tacos? Yeah. I was wanting some,” Ellinor seems more nervously attentive to their travels. It’s just a little after sundown, and the street lamps have come on. Maybe that’s why. They are dressed rather...immodestly.

“Tacos.” Olivia sighs as they come to a corner. “Because five times in a week isn’t enough. Wait,” she looks up and sees the sign. Callahan street. Hold on...is that house party noise? Not just any house party noise, the concert of multiple ones foreboding in the distance.

“Why are we cutting through Greek row?” she asks, cradling her arms across her chest for the sake of warmth and shielding her tits which are, like her and her friend into parts unknown, out.

Ellinor shrugs, rubbing the back of her neck. She’s doing it weird, like she picked it up somewhere as an acting cool mannerism. “Oh I just wanted...well, we aren’t going to Greek row. I promise.”

“I didn’t ask that. I asked why we’re cutting through.”

“I thought it’d be fun.”

“Fun? Cutting through Greek Row? The last time you thought that was fun I was plucking boa feathers out of my underwear with one hand and keeping a water cup to your mouth with the other in between vom episodes. What gives?” she holds her hands out to her sides and glares. Ellinor’s look of innocence is tempting -- for an amateur.

“Oh, just come on,” she shakes her head and takes hold of Olivia’s arm. “It’s just to stop by somewhere. A friend. It’s a block down. Not Greek row.”

She’s speaking in incomplete sentences. Never a good sign.

Against her gut feeling she goes along. The line of Greek houses lit up and rumbling with bass music is a relief to pass by. Though, the block they do traverse it not nearly far enough to her liking. It’s a small house, kind of old and withering Victorian style. Typical College town house, knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door.

“What...in the world…” Olivia grinds her heel to a stop on the curb outside, yanking Ellinor with her. “Where are we?”

There’s music coming from the house. Lower volume but...wait, is that pop rock? Oh God, what is this?

Ellinor grinds her teeth and thinks on her feet. Getting Olivia to the house was easier said than done -- something she expected -- but not entirely without its aggravating bumps. She rolls her head back and shrugs, trying to pass off as unaffected and at ease despite her internal monologue being sheer panic and expletives.

“It’s a friend’s house. From class. Come on, it’ll just be for a few minutes. I left a jacket.”

“You left a jacket? Ellinor, I have all your jackets. I stole them all.”

“Olivia Berenice Sinclair!” Ellinor slaps her hands against the sides of her thighs. Her bare thighs. God, she shaved for this.

Olivia groans and rolls her eyes. “Fine! But now I want tacos after this.”

The walk up the stoop and the noises of voices and laughter gets louder. Ellinor knocks on the door like a Cop, with three harsh bangs. Muffled talking, and then the door swings open. It’s...wait, is that Rylen? That guy who plays on almost every intramural but seems to hate everyone while doing it? He has that same undercut, gelled slightly at the top.

Wait. He plays soccer, doesn’t he. That’s where she knows him: the field, when her and Ellinor are on the grass watching...oh. Olivia goes sheet white and shuts up, leaving Ellinor to handle the finesse.

“Hey!” she plays it cool -- almost -- and puts on her best smug face. “Uh, just stopping by.”

Rylen stifles a laugh of disbelief. He’s holding a cup of something brown like beer. Ugh, beer. 

“Wait...Ellinor? Shit, you actually came.” He turns and eyes Olivia up and down. “Is this the girl Cass--YUGH!” he’s cut off by being punched in the kidney, and falls forward. Cullen appears, pushing him out of the way and trying to make it look polite. Olivia wants to tell herself to perish as all the heat in her body goes to her face.

“Ellinor!” Cullen greets. “Hey! You came! Come on in. Olivia, nice to see you again!” he must have had a drink already.

Olivia raises her brows. Oh hell no. No way. No chance in sweet, ashy hellfire is she--

“Yep, we will!” Ellinor drags her inside.

“Ellinor you didn’t…” she mumbles when they’re arm-in-arm. But it’s too late. She’s thrown in with her soon-to-be ex-best friend into the living room full of jocks and jock sympathizers. And she’s wearing a black, long and slim blazer with nothing underneath and black sheer tights. Black pumps to match. Meanwhile, everyone seems to have followed an unspoken team uniform of jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, and Axe body spray.

“Ellinoorrrr…” she mutters, hiding behind her.

“Hey, hey, Olivia,” Ellinor spins around and grabs her by the shoulder. “It’s just a party, right? You’re good at parties!”

Olivia’s eyes flicker between Ellinor and Cullen’s cringing faces. It all begins to click tragically: why she didn’t seem so unhopeful when they debriefed after her meet up with him. Why she seemed so cool and optimistic about Cassandra, yet didn’t badger her to reply to Cassandra’s texts or phone calls. She had a plan.

“I swear. If you…” she holds her breath, “...Cullen, you didn’t…”

Cullen’s eyes go wide, and he puts his hands in his back pockets. “Uh…I mean, I invited Ellinor, and like, I know she’s been wanting to cheer you up since…”

Ellinor glares at him in a visceral kind of way. That confirms the guilt more than any confession of words could have.

“Agh! Don’t cover for her, Cullen!” Olivia inhales and tucks her chin, “I’m going to go promptly get hit by an oncoming bus--” she tries to slip out the door that was still ajar, but Ellinor once again strong-arms her.

“Olivia! Don’t!” she pleads, pulling her back. “Just hang out. I...I wanted to be here, that’s why we came. Not...I mean, we don’t even know if she is here...” Ellinor stops mid-argument and suppresses...wait, is that blush?

Cullen, clearly not going along with the memo, speaks up. “Oh she is in th--I mean...uhm, yeah. What she said.”

“Oh. Fantastic!” Olivia spits back. “Cullen, where in this....establishment, might I find something harder than PBR?”

Cullen chuckles but clears his throat. Awkward. “Uh, in the kitchen, I think. Top cupboard.”

“Great. Ellinor, happy canoodling, I’m going to go find something to set on fire.” Now it makes sense: the outfit, Ellinor’s ask for opinions on her makeup, her smelling nice. She never cares that much for their typical weekend trouble.

Olivia walks out towards the biggest door which will hopefully lead to the kitchen. If there is a kitchen in the house and not just a room with a hot plate plugged in. When she finds it, it takes her elbowing passed the groups of tall men and some women towards the cupboards while they all squirm out of her way. Some give her the up-and-down evaluation while holding their red solo cups. Others giggle presumably at how out of place she is. She even gets a wolf whistle, as a cherry on top of the experience. Out in the yard there’s keg-stands going on or something -- or else why would there be two guys ass-up surrounded by others laughing at them and chanting? Ugh, and people thought she was the idle heathen.

Eventually she shuffles through every cupboard until she finds the one -- and the whiskey, of course, is on the top shelf. Still not tall enough with heels, she sighs and prepares herself for further mortification. Climbing onto the counter on her knees, she grabs the half-empty bottle and rolls onto her ass, uncorking it with her teeth. Another wolf whistle comes, this time from the yard through the screen door. She could give a fuck.

She takes a hefty swig, and leaves a print of black lipstick on the rim. She perches herself there and no one has the guts to bother her. Time passes, how much she isn’t sure -- her anxiety is making every second feel like an hour. Finally Ellinor reappears, looking disappointed but not surprised as she elbows a guy in the shoulder and scowls at another one for trying to get in her way. The place is packed -- how many soccer teams did the school have?

“Dude,” Ellinor grumbles, taking the bottle from her. “You have to grow up.”

“I don’t have to do shit. But what I will do is fight you in the yard, one on one, no earrings or heels.”

“Olivia!” Ellinor pinches her in her thigh. “Don’t hog the whiskey again. I need it just as much as you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Before Ellinor can respond, a group of people come in through the open screen door. One of them, Cassandra, of course, turns and locks eyes instantly with the one all-black spot in the room. Olivia is ready to jump out of her body and fly away like a monkey from the Wizard of Oz.

“Shit,” she breathes, and takes back the whiskey bottle. “Ellinor, whaaat the fuucck….” .

“Just talk to her. Say hi! So she doesn’t think you’re planning a hex on her or something!” Ellinor leans back against the counter and folds her arms.

Olivia takes another swig and hands it off to her. “I need to get out of here.” She shoves the bottle back to Ellinor and hops off the counter. Before Cassandra has the chance to cut through to her she runs back into the sea of heads and shoulders, down the hallway. Part of her wonders if she should have brought the whiskey with her, not for her own sake but because Ellinor is a lightweight and will be 2 shots away from becoming her own tell-all book. But she can’t be helped now.

She pummels her way down the narrow hall and then up the stairs, where she finds a bathroom that isn’t being used to make out or use any questionable substances. She promptly slams the door and locks it, but the lock is hanging on by a thread. Of course.

Once again she’s in a bathroom, and once again she’s at a loss for her flight response.

Taking a breath, she sits on the sink counter and takes out her phone. With one text she sends an SOS to her friend, Theia.

--Ellinor got us into a bogus party. Need pick up ASAP. Too many heteros.

A lie. But, when in doubt, you can always rely on your other queer friends to fish you out of the land of the straights. A half minute passes and she gets a response:

--Sure thing. Gotta sober up a bit, but Josie and I will be there soon. Drop your location.

Olivia exhales with relief and does as she’s asked. Closing her phone screen and leaning against the big mirror behind her, her thoughts spin faster than a washing machine. Ellinor knew better than to do this to her. This is the worst case scenario for a Friday night, or any night for that matter. Cassandra texted and called the day after their coffee outing, but stopped after that. She could have been done, in the clear, moving on. But no, they had to do this. Cullen and Ellinor may yet prove perfect for each other if they could conspire so easily without actually dating.

A knock on the door. Olivia’s heart stills.

“Olivia,” a voice says. “Olivia, are you in there?”

A shiver goes up her spine. It’s not Ellinor. Or Cullen. Cullen would have been better than the voice she hears.

“No!” she says, then slaps her forehead. Dumbass, who says no if they aren’t really there?!

“Olivia, it’s me, Cassandra.”

Olivia huffs. As if it was some mystery.

Olivia closes her eyes and tries to think of a happy song to sing. But Cassandra keeps pressing. “Look, I was just wondering if you were okay. You chugged enough whiskey to take down a truck. I thought maybe you got sick?”

“I’m not sick. I’m fine, just go.”

“Oh. Okay. Well,” there’s a slight grumpiness in her tone, “if you say s--”

A voice, farther away and masculine, interrupts her. Something like “dude, come on, just try” or something. Olivia slides off the counter and decides to go full-frontal. She opens the door and sees Cassandra looking towards the hallway, but the figure that was with her is gone. She’s all alone, and looking like a fish out of water -- a fish who is pissed off about being out of that water.

“Hey,” Olivia grumbles, sliding her phone into her breast-pocket.

“H-hey. You...you came out.”

She makes a face. “I did. A couple years ago, in fact. It was a whole thing...Mom cried, Dad bought a boat. Grandma ordered an Bible for me. Good times...anyway, take care!” She shoulders past her as best she can, walking out into the hall that is surprisingly desolate.

“Olivia, wait!”

She stops and turns to the side, her heel digging into the cheap, ugly-colored carpet. “Yes?”

“...Is that...is that it, then? You’re just gonna ghost me, for no good reason?”

“I’m not ghosting you,” Olivia shakes her head, a hand going to her hip, “I just have been busy.”

“Busy thinking I’m trying to convert you.”

“Busy...with midterms.’

“Midterms are three weeks out. Nice try. What’s going on with you? You were...you’re acting like a completely different person.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes again. Oh, the ‘different person’ complaint. “I’m not different. I have a lot on my plate and am a complex...human being. Yeah. I...I have a lot to...prepare for...and th--”

“Cut the shit,” Cassandra folds her arms and steps forward. She’s dressed in a white cotton shirt with a grey sports bra underneath, and dark wash jeans. It’s tucked in the front. Clean and fresh, and hair is washed and styled loosely. It was as casual as she seemed to be capable of.

“Me?! What shit?” Olivia plays unaffected.

“You think I am just some insane, elitist Jesus freak, don’t you?” Cassandra’s eyes narrow. “That I was only friendly with you to get you to drink the...what is the word you used...kool aid?”

“I said Kombucha too. But, kool aid...sounds right.” she looks off to the side, her foot beginning to jerk up and down nervously.

“Right. Is that why you’re avoiding me?”

“Well...isn’t that what you’re after?”

“I asked the first question.”

“I asked the better one.”

“Oh, come on!” Cassandra’s voice raises a bit, but it mostly just deepens. It’s hot. Fuck it all.

Olivia cracks. “No you come on! You know what everyone says about you. You’re straight-laced and serious and you...you iron your underwear. Why else would you be hanging out with me but to pull that stuff. Unless...hah! Unless! Damn, now I get it!” Olivia nods her head and puts her hands on her hips. “You! You are feeling a taste for the wild side, aren’t you? Think I’m your ticket to the wrong side of the tracks for the girl next door or something. Is that what this all is? You wanting to walk on the...the sinful side, huh?”

Cassandra watches her in her dramatics, still and unphased. She doesn’t even blink, but her lids droop with impatience. “Did you get hot boxed downstairs, or are you more of a lightweight than you admit?”

“I’m not a lightweight! If anything, it’s Ell--oh...oh fuck!” Olivia checks her phone and sees only one message:

--Dude, this whiskey is so gooooooooood. I’m so happy. Cullen thinks I’m cool.

“Oh, shit,” she says again, texting her back:

--I texted Theia. Be ready or findeable in 10 minutes.

She looks up and sees Cassandra glaring at her, but not without that charming glimmer in her eye. It’s off-setting.

“What?” Olivia says tough, putting her phone away. “You finally give into your belief that you’re better than me?”

“Not in the slightest. You think you have it all figured out, right?”

“I don’t just think, I--”

Cassandra comes closer, until she is less than a foot away. She gathers her own hands behind her back like she’s standing at attention during an ROTC demonstration, chest out, shoulders confident. Olivia narrows her gaze, maintaining eye contact for the sake of self-preservation.

“If you do, then I have a bet for you. Come to the Church tomorrow at 4. If all I want is to indoctrinate you, then you’ll know for sure, win, and I owe you an apology. You can do your walk out then. If I’m not lying, then you owe me an apology.”

Olivia pouted. “...oh really? Me, in Church? You sure about that? What if I come dressed like...like this?”

“Wear whatever you want. Come wearing less than this for all I care. If that’s...possible.”

Olivia blushes and looks away again, her lips scrunching tighter onto one side.

“What, are you scared? Have you met your match?” Cassandra prods, a slight upturn on the corner of her mouth.

Olivia scowls. “I don’t fall for that reverse psychology shit.”

“Oh? Psychology or none, that’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

Her phone vibrates. She sneaks it out and looks down at it. Ellinor again:

--OLIVIAA I F UCKED UP WE AVE TO GET OUT OF HRE. PANIC. TACOS. I WANT TACOS. OLIVIIAAAAAAA!

Well when it wasn’t her turn to mess up, it was her best friend’s. Maybe that is why they were so close. Olivia bites her lip and looks back at Cassandra, who is unwavering in her closeness. The whiskey is hitting, because she is starting to wonder how good it’d be if she just cut with the semantics and went straight to the making out.

“I’ll think on it. I have busy weekends. I grade papers and...ride on the backs of bikes with men twice my age.”

“I bet you do.” Her breath smells like spice. Rum, maybe?

She pauses, blinks, and steps back. “Right. Yeah. Well, I gotta go. My friend is picking us up. We have other social engagements this evening that are awaiting our attendance.”

“How gracious of you to remember us little jocks prostrating at the tips of your heels.”

Oh, you son of a--

“Thank you. We try.”

She turns and makes for the stairs as fast as her heels can stomp, but not before she hears the fateful words:

“Goodnight, Olivia.”

She shudders, but soaks it up just enough to climb down the steps and be free of her. For now. Cutting through the crowds that have only seemed to grow larger, Ellinor is nowhere to be found. Olivia chides herself for being a shitty best friend while she tries her best to make headway through the groups of burly bros and a few girls hanging onto their boyfriends for dear life.

“Ellinor! Ellinor!” she calls out, but finds Cullen first, looking just as pressed. He’s looking sorry, kind of tipsy, but mostly sorry. “Cullen, what’s going on? Where’s Ellinor?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping...h-hoping you did--”

“Cullen, Jesus, are you drunk?!” she yells through the overwhelming noise of music and conversations around them.

“No! No, shit, not as bad as Rylen. I’m...I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, just worry about Ellinor. I don’t think she wants me to be the one to find her. Hey, have her text me when you do...or do it yourself, since, well, you seem to know how to get into her phone more than she does.”

Olivia notices the slight sadness in his eyes -- defeat, if anything -- as he says the last part. She frowns and pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, uh...bro. It’ll be fine. I gotchu. Drink some water, okay?” The whiskey really is hitting her, because her only-child ass is starting to sound like a concerned baby sister.

She leaves him behind and thinks fast. Where would Ellinor go when she needs a temporary escape? She wouldn’t go to the bathroom like Olivia. She’d want no walls, no doors. She’d want outside, maybe? Not in the yard, though. Clutching her bag to her, she continues searching, and hoping Ellinor had a less yikes-worthy start to her evening than she has.

Though, the twist in her stomach tells her it’s been the contrary.

[hartofbalamb]

push : my muse pushing your muse out of the way of danger.

One Word Prompt Meme | status: open

  It had been a long hunt, long hours, poor weather. By the time they’d found their prey it was the middle of the night — not that time mattered much these days, when everything was pitch black no matter high noon or midnight. Their meager dinner for two around the campfire was a distant memory recalled by the soft gurgle of his stomach, and short, shallow breaths hung heavy on the air in drifting mists before their mouths.

  Dave took the lead, as he often did, Squall on his six for support, approaching their mark: a clacking and clattering of scales as the mushussu scuttled its way across the ground, digging restlessly at the earth… suspiciously alone.

  Squall saw Dave hesitate, though it was perhaps a moment too late — the man realized the same thing Squall had, but did not notice the scuttling under the shadowed rocky outcropping, a space just big enough…

  Squall’s eyes widened, alerted by the quickening of the creature’s scuttle, an ambush — and a potentially deadly one, knowing those poisoned barbs. Calling out would do precious little good, and so Squall did the only other thing he could think of to spare the head hunter a painful stabbing.

  Rushing forward he threw his weight into the older man, colliding with him full-force and dragging him to the ground as the barbed tail swung wide over their tumbling bodies, a barb catching Squall’s shoulder and ripping his jacket, but just barely missing the skin. The crownsguard flipped himself over on his back atop Dave’s chest, hauling up the heavy gunblade still in tow, and aiming it squarely at the creature who had rounded on them and charged from it’s hiding spot into the open for its attack.

  Thumb cocked the hammer and with a pull of the trigger the entire blade began to hum from stock to barrel all the way to its tip. With a hard kick a ball of flame blasted the mushussu square in it’s underbelly, causing it to scree shrill into the night and retreat back into the shadows. 

  Squall glanced back over his shoulder quickly at the man, the sense of panic penetrating through the cool, calculated act of duty, “you alright?” Had he pushed him away in time? Had a barb caught him? Squall pushed himself up quickly, grabbing Dave’s arm as he did so to haul him up in turn — now was no time to idle; there were surely more to come, heeding their fallen brethren’s cry.

[adventures-of-the-creeping-bam]

NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: THE ADVENTURES OF THE CREEPING BAM,  BOOK ONE: THE JOB - CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER ONE (Please read this first, for obvious reasons.)  

IMPORTANT:  Please note this story includes content that may be considered mature, such as moderate battle violence, some strong language and occasional mild sexual scenes.

CHAPTER TEN:  ART

“You’re really sure about this route?”  Wenrich asks again, sat on the bench with reins in hand, seemingly fine and ready to go, but his tone betrays his concern clear as his words.

Kesla’s already spurring her destrier on up the scree-cluttered path, urging him on but careful as she goes, and I’ve never seen someone with such impressive control of a horse in my life.  Me, I’ve never been that happy in the saddle.  Oh, I can ride fine, they made sure I learned back in the Guild, but I don’t think I’m really built for horseback.  I don’t mind the great outdoors, we’re working and we’re making progress, but I’m a city boy really.  Always have been.  Gimme street life and crowds and a nice noisy tavern over fields and woods and forests any day.  I’ll go wherever Kesla goes, but I’m happier when I can pay money for food and sleep in an actual bed.

Spurring after her, I look back over my shoulder to Wenrich and shrug.  “Read into that what you will, Master Clearwood.”

He doesn’t scowl at me, although I reckon he wants to.  Instead he just cocks a brow like he always does and shoots a look at Gael, who’s clearly determined not to get involved as they simply urge their horse forward too and follow me.  Krakka and Driver 8 are still behind the cart, waiting for Wenrich to set off, intending to take up the rear today.  Once again Yeslee’s gone on far ahead on foot, setting off scouting while we were still busy packing away our gear and saddling the horses, so her gelding is placidly tethered to the back of the cart.

Turning back to the road ahead, I stay on Kesla’s tail, careful but as gently forceful as I dare with my own bay filly, wary as I can be given the poor footing these precarious mountain paths provide.  We’ve left the woods behind for now, deep in the relatively barren, rocky environs of craggy boulder fields, jagged ridges and narrow gullies littered between the vast peaks that surround us.  We’re keeping to the more open trade routes as much as we can, but this is an ever-changing landscape with the possibilities of rockslides and erosion presenting a constant danger of fresh obstacles, and we’ve had to detour twice in the past day already.  More than that, I doubt I’m the only one among us feeling a tad exposed after leaving the relative cover of the trees – we’re too exposed out here, too easy to find. Last night’s watch was a lot more pregnant with dread possibility than the previous ones.

The going is tough, but for the next few hours we seem to make reasonable time, navigating two more passes by noon and deciding to give the horses a half-hour rest while we take some food at the third.  I pull out a few pieces of the new cured venison and throw one to Gael before they have a chance to start rummaging for themselves, and they smile back at me after getting over the initial surprise.  They take a few idle strides round the rocky space, stretching their legs, and I join them as we chew, quietly ruminating.

“How you holding up?” I ask after a minute, giving them the subtlest sidelong glance I can.  They catch it easily.

“How do you mean?” There’s a slight flush to their cheeks, but it fades quickly enough.

“Y’know, with all this constant exertion.”  I shrug. “Kes has got you working your arse off every night before dinner with the training, then you’re in the saddle all day. I’m impressed you’re so steady on your feet.”

“Oh, I’m … I’m fine.” They look round at the others, then down at the ground.  Their hair falls into their face then, and they shove it out of the way without ceremony, only for it to tumble right back again.  They’ve left their hood down since we entered the woods a few days ago, and I’m enjoying the relatively novel experience of getting to see all their features so clearly.  “Um … Krakka’s been helping me out.”

I think about it for a moment, then I get what they mean and I nod, smiling.  “Oh yeah.  Cool.  That’s real smart actually.”  I chew a little more, then swallow, all the time chancing another sideways glance at their face.  Those eyes really are incredible, I don’t think I ever saw eyes so blue in my life.  “You’re getting better, too.”

They don’t blush this time, and when they lock eyes with me there’s none of their usual reluctance, however small, to maintain contact.  Instead they’re just genuinely excited.  “You think so?  Really?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. I mean, you still got a ways to go, but you’re definitely improving.  I mean, sure, I dunno if you’ll ever actually be able to challenge her, but –”

“Oh gods yes, you’re right there.”  A little bit of a blush returns to their cheeks again at that, but their smile’s still so sweet and pure I’m a little taken aback by it.  “I know she’s holding back a lot with me.  But I’m trying my best, every night.”

“You’re right, she is. Course she is, it’s in ‘er blood. You know about her dad, right?”

“He trained soldiers for Rundao’s army.  Taught in the military academy.”

That makes me smile. Figures Kesla would undersell that too, she’s never been one for seeking praise, even if it’s vicariously through her own late father’s achievements.  “In his youth, Edhril Shoon was the finest non-commissioned warrior in the entire Rundao army.  First through the breech at Lohtaur and Yeren, fought in countless battles and won dozens of commendations.  The most decorated man-at-arms in the entire Tabaphic First Regiment, and they were the army’s elite.  If he’d been highborn he would’ve been a proper bloody legend as a knight.  The Tektehrans couldn’t kill ‘im, and gods know they tried hard.”

“And after that they just made him a drill sergeant?  What kind of justice was that?”

This time I laugh.  “He wasn’t a drill sergeant.  When he mustered out at forty, the higher-ups knew they couldn’t waste that kinda talent, so they put him in charge of training their elites.  All their most promising cadets, from day one, they gave ‘em to him.  He got to hand-pick the drill sergeants, designed the training regimen, all of it.  He ran the whole elite school in Tabaphic.  Didn’t just handle grunts and officers, either.  They even had him train highborn squires.  Y’know, future knights.”

They raise their eyebrows at that.  “So when Kesla grew up …”

“Oh yeah, he taught her everything he knew, right alongside the cadets.  She grew up with boys who were gonna to be the army’s best and brightest, future heroes like her dad.  And she outshone almost all of ‘em.”

“Except they didn’t allow women to serve in the army.”  They sigh as they understand the awful truth at the heart of the riddle that is Kesla Shoon. “Oh, that’s cruel.”

“Maybe, but Edhril Shoon loved his daughter, and he was gonna let her be whatever she wanted, even though they wouldn’t let her serve.  So he trained her hard as the rest of ‘em, and she did ‘im proud every day.  She earned the respect of the cadets and the instructors the hard way.”

“And then the Occupation happened, am I right?”  Gael sighs again.  “I was still young when that happened, all I know is what we learned second-hand in the Academy.  The invasion hit Tabaphic hard, didn’t it?”

“That’s what she said. One day, the Tektehrans were overrunning the border up north, the garrisons were being swept underfoot.  So the regiments in Tabaphic started to muster, ready to march up and reinforce what was left of the northern army, fight the invaders back.  Except that the next day, the Terrors were in the city.  The army had to scramble to mount a defence against an enemy that had already surrounded them, and it was bloody fighting, right in the streets. They took Tabaphic in less than forty-eight hours.”

“What happened then?”

“My da died defending the training barracks alongside his sergeants and his students.  A lot of them died too.  I was fighting right there with ‘em, I should be dead as well.”  I’m as surprised as Gael is to find Kesla’s joined us, that’s gotta be one the sneakiest approach she’s ever made on me. Then again, I was a little distracted.

“But you didn’t die.” Gael seems a little sheepish now, but she forges on all the same.  “You escaped.”

“Somehow.  I dunno.  It was a mess.  When we were finally overrun, I tried to get to da, but those bastards were too thick. By the time I got there he was half buried in their dead, and he’d all but bled out.  I held my father as he died.”  She closed her eyes for a few long moments, clenching her fists tight, but it passes.  This ain’t the first time she told this story, she’s close to making her peace with it. “I was ready to die there too, but some of da’s friends got me outta there.  They had to drag me, really.  In the end all I had left was this.”

She draws Hefdred, carefully lifting the bare blade with her left hand, lets the light play off the steel. It’s a beautiful weapon, even if it ain’t my kinda thing.  I like my blades built for finesse, lean and slender steel with very little weight I can move fast with.  The bastard sword’s a weapon for a much more powerful warrior, long and heavy and brutal. It might not sound like much of a compliment but I think it suits Kesla very well, and if I’m honest I think she’s even more deadly with it than I am with mine.

“I’m sorry.”  Gael’s voice has gotten very small now.

“It was a long time ago, or ‘least that’s what it feels like now.”  Kesla sheathes the sword again, letting her heavy buckskin coat settle over it with her left hand while she brushes the right back through her hair. She washed the grease out of it in the stream the other day and she’s let it just hang loose since.  Personally I prefer this, it makes her look kinda rakish. “We fought for a while.  I wasn’t built to be ruled, not by those fuckers. Not after they took everything I had. But that didn’t last either, so I fell back on all I had left.  My training.  So here we are.”

Gael nods, still solemn, but a little more thoughtful now, and Kesla seems to be mellowing again too. After a few moments I toss her the last piece of meat in my paw and she looks at it thoughtfully, then cocks a brow at me.  “You remember what I said about this one, Gael.  He bears keeping an eye on.”  Her grin’s cocked, and she tips me a wink before she turns and moves away to join Krakka, who’s sat on a boulder low on the nearest slope, polishing his hammer with an oily rag.  Driver 8’s stood a little way back down where we came from, watching the path we already travelled, while Wenrich’s still sat on the cart, looking out the way we’re headed.

“I ever tell you how we met?” I say to Gael as I watch Kesla settle down on the boulder beside the cleric, already settling into one of their companionable silences.

“No, you never did, and she’s never mentioned it either.”  Gael’s looking at me with clear curiosity now, any embarrassment they might’ve been clinging to clearly forgotten.

That has me grinning, I can’t help it.  They return it warmly, so I oblige them with the tale.  “This was three years back now, I think.  Back when it was just Kesla and Yeslee as a lonely pair of ne’er-do-wells drifted down into the southlands from up north.  Me, I’d been wandering for a while myself, just felt like it was time to see the world after spending all my time up ‘til then in Untermer.”

They arch their brows again at that.  Figured someone who’d lived most of their life in Bavat could sympathise, even if the two cities are so wildly different.

“So anyways, I was in this tavern in a tiny little village somewhere down there.  Can’t even remember the name of the place, it was so insignificant, though you’d think I should remember, it being such an auspicious day for us an’ all that.”  I shrug, while Gael’s just listening intently.  “I was doing my thing, like always, thief’s gotta work and all that, and this place was proper busy.  Guess I timed it just right, this bunch of drovers were in that were moving cattle through to sell down in the city, so there were strangers everywhere. I figured I got a sweet opportunity here for some quick cash so, like I done a thousand times, I glided in, sharp an’ quiet like always, and in the jam I picked the first pocket that offered itself up.”

“Oooooh, don’t tell me. It was Yeslee, wasn’t it?”  She chuckles a little.  “She broke your wrist, like I heard she always does.”

“Worse.  It was Kesla.  Not that I knew it at the time.  See, she’s tall and she’s big, so I figured it was some guy, probably a merc working security for the cattle drive.  So in my paw went, and then I felt this grip like a vice clamp down on it.  Now that woman is strong, it’s scary.  I realised I’m caught, and I figured I’m fucked.  I’m about to get seven bells beat outta me.  I’ll be lucky to get outta here alive once he gets a look at my face. Then she turned around.”

I look over at Kesla then, remembering the moment as I watch her speaking low and close to Krakka, who bursts out laughing, and her smile is free and easy.  That calm again.  It’s quite something.  In truth, maybe that’s what saved me.  “I’ll admit, I was genuinely surprised when I saw her face, but she was too, clearly. And she didn’t look at me like some folk do, especially in a situation like that.  She just looked at me, mildly surprised but also, weirdly, kinda amused, then looked down at my wrist in her hand, my paw still stuck in her pocket. Then back up at me, and she looked me over then.  Up and down. Then she smiled, I swear to god. Lifted my hand out of her pocket, let me go.  Me, I just stood there.  I swear I was rooted to the spot, I couldn’t have run if I tried.”

“What happened?”

“Well I was still a little rattled, and half of me was still expecting the beating, but now I was starting to think that was looking less likely by the moment.  There was just something about her, y’know?  That calm she has.  It’s infuriating, but right then it was putting me at ease.  Y’know what she asked me then?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“’So what are you drinking?’” I grin wide as Gael’s brows shoot up again.  “I swear, I was thinking I’d be lucky getting outta there with a few cracks in the jaw just to remind me, instead she bought me a bloody pint.  Then she pulled me over to her table, in the quietest corner of the whole place where Yeslee’d set up camp like she always does, and over the next few hours we proceeded to get completely shitfaced.  I found out later that they had been working security for the cattle drive, and they were bored out their minds with how tedious that job is down south compared to working up here in the Reaches.  I was the first interesting thing had happened to ‘em in weeks.”

Gael laughs at that, and I give them a little shoulder nudge that they don’t seem to mind, instead giving me what’s clearly an entirely playful light shove in response.

“Yeah, it was a good night we had then.  One o’ the best nights I ever had, tell the truth.  Me an’ Kes, we got on like a house on fire, right from the start. Yes, she was … well, she was Yeslee Toll about the whole thing, really.  But she didn’t pitch me out on my ear, which I reckon says a lot.  Next day when I ran into ‘em again Kes asked if I fancied spending a week earning some honest money for a change.”

“Simple as that?”

“It was, simple as that.” I nod, looking back at our leader again. She and Krakka are just enjoying each other’s quiet company again, and as she catches me looking she tips a little wink that has me grinning again.  “Week later we saw the cattle off back in Untermer, got paid, and Kesla asked if I fancied trying something a little more permanent.  By then even Yes had come round, so I was fine with it. So when they went north again I went with ‘em.”

“And the Creeping Bam was born.”  Gael rolls their eyes a little when I nod, unable to lose their smile.  “Where did that even come from, anyway?”

“The Creeping Bam?” I gently kick at some of the loose scree underfoot for a moment, now feeling a little sheepish and not wanting to give it away too clearly, so I try to seem nonchalant.  Don’t reckon it works.  “Oh, that was kinda … my idea.  No big deal.  Once Krakka was with us we figured we needed to know what to call ourselves, y’know, cuz for-hire parties need to have a recognised name so folk know who they’re dealing with.  One night we were trying to work out what the name should be and I just said the Creeping Bam.  We were most of us in our cups by that point, and it just kinda stuck.”

This time they almost double over, they start laughing so hard.  My own smile has got real sheepish now, I can’t help it.  “Oh gods, that’s adorable.”

“Yeah, well, it sticks in people’s heads sure enough.”

They let out a deep, happy sigh as they give me another little nudge.  “That’s because they’re trying to work out what it means.”

“Maybe.”  I allow myself a more amused little smile this time.

Kesla has us mount up again not long after, spurring ahead again as we start our descent with even greater caution with our horses than when we came up.  The gully ahead is deeper than the one we left behind, but the once we’ve reached relatively level ground again the going’s easier, letting us make better time without having to watch our footing any more.  The trade-off is that this makes me start thinking about what’s all around us again, including the possibility that there might be someone up there somewhere watching us, or maybe up ahead, plotting something.  The continued silence of the rest of our group tells me I’m not the only one thinking it.

The mountains still tower over us, but here there are more gradual slopes in our immediate surroundings, more broken rockfaces with plenty of places for someone to hide above us and move around unseen.  Haphazard ridges and hidden crevices where hostile eyes could be observing us, waiting to swarm out at us or signal our progress to friends elsewhere.  I’m starting to tense up now, my paws clenching and loosening of their own accord, hovering close to knife hilts kept within easy reach.  There’s room to manoeuvre now, I could throw a few darts the moment a target presented itself and then spur my horse into a gallop before the blades even hit.  Looking round at the others I think they’re starting to come to similar conclusions.  Gael’s looking nervous again, reaching inside their robe, probably checking over their own magical gear, just in case.

After a few minutes there’s the sound of small rocks clattering somewhere off to the right, and I rein my horse up, scanning that direction fast, looking out for any signs. Nothing I can see.  Whatever that was, it wasn’t in sight.  I look round again, find the others have stopped as well, and all of them are looking the same way I did, except for Driver 8 in the back.  He’s looking back, the way we came.

“Oh yeah, I’m totally overreacting, aren’t I?”  I mutter to myself, under my breath.  Even so, when I turn back I find Kesla’s looking over her shoulder now, watching me.

“You feel that?”

“What?”  I look round again, and now I realise the hairs standing up all along my spine aren’t just from the nerves.  That watchfulness is more pronounced, more defined.  Like it has a real source.  I can’t place it, not yet, but it’s there, all the same.  Not taking my eyes off the slope to the right, I nod, slowly.  “Yeah, reckon I do.”

Kesla spurs her destrier on and I do the same, and we’re moving at a trot now, ready to break into a gallop if it all just kicked right off around us.  I look back over my shoulder and see Driver 8’s stopped completely now, falling further back as he slowly turns, still scanning.  I’m now convinced he’s picking up on something very real. Something following us, or already here.

The gully floor starts to rise now and the tension must be getting to her because Kesla kicks Ulrich into a canter ahead of me, no longer even trying to act casual.  I do the same and my little filly jumps forward, clearly sensing my mood and responding in kind, and I have to rein her in a touch to stop her from galloping right here and overtaking Kesla.  Another rockfall rattles out on my left now, then another on the right, and I’m sure now it ain’t accidental, no way it’s just small, unseen scurrying animals minding their own business.

Chancing another quick glance over my shoulder I see the others are now moving at an increased clip too, and Driver 8’s started moving again.  He ain’t running yet, but there’s clear motivated haste in his pace as he starts to catch up within a stretch of moments.  The square of those massive shoulders is expression enough for me to read his feelings.  I don’t even try to hold my horse back now, I let her speed up all on her own, and within moments I’m pulling in alongside our leader.

“Something’s wrong all right.”  I hiss sideways to her, holding the reins one-handed as my right picks a pair of darts out of their loops on their strap, ready to throw.  “We’re being shadowed.”

“I know.  Pull back now, give the others a heads-up.  Don’t reckon we need to play this too subtle.”

Nodding, I rein the filly up hard and she rears for a moment, taken by surprise.  Thank the gods she don’t throw me.  Kesla carries on ahead, and the others are wise enough to keep moving in response, while I let my horse back up a little as they start to catch me up.

“What the hell’s going on?” Gael hisses at me as they rein up just behind, moving out of the way of the draft-horses as Wenrich brings the cart up.

“Trouble, looks like.” I nod up at the rocks in front, then cock my head to those behind.  “Got some new shadows.”

Gael doesn’t look particularly surprised at that, tipping a very tight, clipped nod as they wheel their mare round to look up behind, clearly reading our lack of continued stealth right.  Wenrich rolls right up beside us then, frowning over.  “Something’s up, I take it.”

“Hopin’ it’s nothing, but it don’t look too good.  Might wanna put a bit of pep into your horses, keep up with the boss.”

He nods too, snaps the reins hard and keeps it up, whipping the carthorses into a full canter that’s enough to set the wheels spinning and kick up a bunch of dust and scree. Behind him Krakka spurs his horse onwards at the same clip, with Driver 8 now right on his heels.

I pull the filly out and cross his path before he arrives, falling into pace with him while Gael matches us both on his far side.  Like me he’s holding the reins one-handed, holding the warhammer in his other, low at his side with the head just resting over the horn of the saddle for balance, and his grip’s tight enough I can hear tendons creaking.  “Now what?”

“Follow Kesla’s lead, and move.”

They both nod in response, and Gael urges their mare on fast, quickly catching up with the cart.  I let Krakka slip ahead too, keeping the filly slow for Driver 8 to catch up with me.  Those normally unreadable eyes are blazing bright as I ever seen now, and it gives me a little chill seeing it.  “Y’know how many there are, Big Man?”  I ask as he falls into step on my flank, and I give the horse a little more encouragement now.

“Half a dozen on either side of us, and they are keeping pace as well as they can on the rough terrain. There are more behind, and ahead too. We are effectively surrounded.”

“But they ain’t makin’ a move, they’re just shadowing us?”

“Correct.”

“Oh, that definitely ain’t good …”  I look back up the track ahead and I can see Kesla’s already reaching the top of the slope, and she’s reining in.  It takes me a moment to realise why, but then once I’m able to make sense of the geography ahead I start to get a sinking feeling.  “Ah.  That ain’t good either.”

Then I hear a great throaty bellow from up ahead, loud enough to rattle my bones as it bounces hard off the rocks and then repeats itself several times in a receding echo from the surrounding peaks.  A few moments later there’s a response from somewhere behind us, similarly acoustic, and then another from somewhere on my right.  Ain’t heard that sound for a while, and I been awful glad about it …

“Shit.”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

[metalgearkong]

The Last Guardian - Review (PS4)

Developed by Sony Interactive Entertainment: Japan / (Team Ico)

With a sign of relief, I recall how much of an event it is for me to not only own The Last Guardian, but to complete it. First teased at E3 2009, The Last Guardian was the next game developed by Team Ico and directed by Fumito Ueda, the creator of Ico (2001) and Shadow of the Colossus (2006). The Last Guardian carries the themes and traits of the two prior games in this series: a partnership between two nonverbal characters, minimal gameplay & HUD, a protagonist with horns, an abandoned world, a enigmatic story, and a number of other lose (but consistent) connections. It is an absolute miracle that this game came out, beings we thought it had been cancelled and gone through development hell. But finally, 9 years after its announcement, The Last Guardian is here, but has it been worth the hype and wait?

The game begins in the very room seen in the early trailers and teasers: deep within a ruined stone castle, sharing space with a large, but young, griffin-like creature. We play as an unknown boy, and learn quickly that we have to non verbally communicate with this creature, and work together to escape the imprisonment you both appear to be bonded by. Like prior games, there are few elements which clutter most modern games; you’ll notice a lack of collectables, items, gear, waypoints, inventories, stats, and other things we are used to search out or pay attention to. Ueda famously designs hisgames from a deconstructive point of view. If the mechanic doesn’t serve the story or relationship on screen, it’s cut. The most modern gaming element may be the tutorials reminding you of the controls (which can be turned off). 

The Last Guardian’s greatest success is the design of “Trico,” the creature who accompanies you, both physical and technical. The beast is a wise combination of a cat, dog, and bird, all rolled into one to make for the ultimate pet. Better yet, its the size of a school bus, so it can do things the boy can’t. While the boy is who we play as, we rely on Trico at every turn. We figure out the puzzles and where to go, but we also have to figure out how to take Trico with us. Sometimes that means riding on his back as you order it to leap across a chasm, or opening a massive gate by crawling through small hidden tunnels. The catch is, Trico is designed not to necessarily obey you at every moment. Its design is so authentic to a house-sided feathered kitten, they intentionally made the game more frustrating, if it served the realism of the personality of the animal. 

Therein lies the conflict, and what I’m sure haunted the team from inception: do you sacrifice fun for realism? While I love this game’s adherence to the themes and details of the series, I don’t recall yelling at my TV in any game as much as I have with The Last Guardian. I physically wanted to reach into the scree, take Trico’s head and point him in the right direction, chastising it to freaking move. It’s not like the game was frozen, on the contrary, Trico is MEANT to behave this way, and sometimes it genuinely leaded to pure fury on my end of the screen. This is something I cannot ignore and leave out of my opinion of the product. 

Something else I wanted different was more plot. This game can be quite boring and repetitive much of the time. The environment never changes, just the nature of the puzzles. Either way, you’re still climbing idle chains, opening gates, shimmying along ledges, and so on. Sometimes the game’s design is so minimalistic, it can be difficult to tell where to go and what to do next. I get this series’ style of being mysterious and enigmatic with its story & characters, but the game overall would be better with a little more context and a little less avant garde minimalism. The good news is, the end of the game does answer a lot of questions (while naturally, raising new questions of its own), and makes for a fascinating brain teaser, much like the ending of Ueda’s past two games.

Out of the series so far, I’d put The Last Guardian as better than Ico, but doesn’t surpass Shadow of the Colossus. The lighting, art design, environmental architecture, and true bond you build with the world’s biggest baby girffin are truly breathtaking. I truly felt in the shoes of the protagonist as he earns the loyalty of Trico (and vice versa), and seeing the bittersweet ending left my heart in my throat finally seeing the adventure come to a close. But, one can’t deny the inherit frustration of commanding Trico, and the repetitive structure of the game. Sometimes it feels too long with not enough substance outside of the moment-to-moment gameplay.

7/10

[dunmerofskyrim]

49

Simra held out his hands to the stones, warming them as they warmed him. A little heap of scree and slate, glowing smug pink from within as the edges scorched powdery and white. Not a scrap of of brush or scrubwood to burn up here in the island’s south headlands. Only the pale clusters of mushrooms, and who was to say the smoke wouldn’t be poisonous – cook your lungs from the inside out, like vengeance, poet’s justice – or wouldn’t be better cooked than cooked on. So Simra reached out to the stones. Asked the heat to come again, and asked the stones to hold it.

It was more work than just to light a fire. The curl and gnaw of magic as it flowed from him; went from waiting to working out in the world. Something like the slow beginnings of hunger, but with no care for whether he was fed or not. As it happened, now, he wasn’t — but there were worse things to endure; worse tasks to undertake. It gave him an excuse to squat beside the rocks. Share his weight from one knee to the other as the joints conspired to seize and grit. Stretch his fingers to warm in the hazy heat, and look busy all the while. Magicka returns; fire cooks food. Small things, all sorting each other out in the end. That was a kind of peace, wasn’t it?

A mealy smoke fled thin from off the blaze. A reminder that for all the stones refused to catch, something was still burning, mote by mote and hairline margin. Something will always be eaten.

The smoke searched into Simra’s clothes, found out the folds. It hid on him, flint-scented and silent. The pink glow and shimmering air burnt gentle into his eyes. When he looked up, the sky was darker than it was. Black clouds and a grey heavy harvest of fog in crop above the sea. The sun had scarce got started on setting and already he’d stared himself nightblind.

“I was thinking.”

Tammunei’s voice. Simra startled. It took a long frown-blinking moment before he saw Tammunei there in the corner of his vision. A spike of irritation; a spark of glittering discomfort. How long had they been there? The whole west blushing behind their back as, unknowing, Simra shared his silence. For someone who moved half the time in a kind of sleepwalker’s stumble, they’d come in total quiet. Simra had heard no footsteps. Hadn’t so much as known they’d emerged from the yurt.

They met Simra’s eye. He forced his face soft – forced down his annoyance, that feeling of being interrupted – and gave the short nod Tammunei was waiting for. Then neither of them was looking at the other anymore. Tammunei stepped closer, standing over him, arms wrapped round their chest and something tucked under one arm.

“I decided it’s best you have this,” they said, easing the thing out from under their arm. A small hand curled round its tawny leather sheathe, they held it out. A sword, hiltfirst. Slight-curving handle, use-smooth wood clapped either side of the half-hidden tang.

“I gave it to you.” Simra’s gaze slipped past the sword and up at Tammunei.

“Yes,” they said. Their brows were downturned, their hair gone to wisps and coils in the wind. Slight dents between cheek and eyesocket, like they got when they smiled, but their mouth was fixed and grave. “That was when you had one of your own. Now you don’t.”

Careful words, skirting the why and the how of it, like touching someone through their clothes, trying to remember where might be bruised, scraped, tender. A prickling shame at that, hot on the back of his neck. Not at being reminded so much as at requiring this. Tenderness, coddling; the kind of care you give to things easily broken. Simra hummed, turning his head, giving Tammunei only half his fallen face. But his eyes flicked back to focus on the sword.

He’d not liked it much when it was his. Near nothing to guard the hand but a short spur of metal between handle and heavy clumsy blade. More a large knife than a sword and it swung lifeless and final as a hammer. But that was when he had a replacement. Pedantry was a luxury he couldn’t afford now. The cost of preference runs higher the fewer choices you have. Simra found he wanted it back.

“It’s more use to you than it is to me,” Tammunei said.

“…You’ve got a point.” Simra’s fingers twitched. He brought his hands from the glow of the fire and in towards his chest. The cold seeped in soon after, starting to numb them.

“I’ll be fine without steel to protect me.”

“And me not so much?” Simra had meant it as a joke but it came out bitter and thin. He sighed and took the sword by the middle of its sheathed blade, turning back towards the hot stones. Feeling needled back into his frozen cheeks, his stiff lips, then the aching roots of his teeth and the pale scarred fingers of his right hand last of all.

Tammunei shuffled off a moment, not so silent anymore. Simra watched the stones till his eyes hurt. The shadows between them, the ebbing cooling glow, easier on his eyes as time went by. Soon Tammunei came back from under the yurt’s awning with kettles and skillet.

“Fucking freezing. Have a seat.” Simra gestured with the swordhilt, weight of it already a covetous comfort in his hand.

The pot clattered as Tammunei set it down on the hot stones and filled its belly with water from a skin. With a boot they scuffed clear a patch of stony ground and sat beside the heat, the pot, and Simra.

“Fine or not, I ought to’ve taught you when I still could.” He hung his head, working with his half-numb fingertips to make the hangers on his swordbelt take the loops on the sword’s crude sheath. Tighten, slide, adjust so it slung right — as right as something so ill-balanced ever would. “Far as I know anything worth teaching anyway. Hard to be too careful. Vvardenfell and all…” He finished into a mutter before he could embarrass himself. Stood. Gave his swordbelt a final rough adjustment, and loped off towards the awning and his bags.

“Rice again?” Noor said, kneeling in the awning’s shade, eyes closed and motionless.

“And pickles, thanks be.” Simra seized on a roughcloth sack and slung it over one shoulder. Satisfying weight. The shift inside it of saltrice against his shoulderblade. “You think I’d book a ride on a grain boat and not make some go missing? Nchow. The fuck kind of fool d’you take me for?”

“But the mer with the crossed eyes…” Tammunei said from beside the stones, stretching their palms out towards the warmth. “He told us not to touch any of the urns. He said he’d know. How did you take any?”

“Can’t teach you blades.” Simra came back to the fire, glad of it even after a bare moment’s absence. “Not with one sword between us and no sticks in sight. I’d’ve burnt them if there were. But what I can teach you now’s a simple truth. Find a captain on a grain-barge willing to go off schedule for a few drams, odds are good they’ll be willing to part with a little cargo too. Offer them market price when all they’re expecting is warehouse rates, they’ll do it with a smile.”

Tammunei nodded and shook their head, somehow both at once. But they were smiling now and the dents in their cheeks went deeper.

The corners of Simra’s mouth curled too, one arching up overeager like compensation for the other, lazy and stubborn with scars. It was good to talk. Put distance and words between him and Davon’s Watch. Give them all something to think about besides the cold, the cost of coming this far — the road ahead.

He settled back down beside the stones and pots. Hunched then arched his back til he felt it grind and click. If this was what twenty-four felt like… But then it had nothing to do with age, did it? Not the years but how you spend them. The marks they leave. The Rift. The arrow through the neck he still felt sometimes. Not just the arrowhead he still wore on a cord round his neck for a memento, but a stiff cold wire drawn tight through the muscle, when the weather was damp, when he broke a sweat. The docks before that. His father’s back seemed a little more stooped every day he came back from the waterfront. His stance a little more twisted; his eyes a little less bright. Maybe it wasn’t the docks that did this to Simra, but perhaps he was breaking himself the same way — day by day by day.

Still, he was smiling. A wonder what it can do for you, he thought. The smile of someone you like to see smiling. The having of something you wanted. The promise of hot food and waiting for it, almost patient, but safe in knowing it’s on the way. A kind of peace. A kind of happy. The fingers of his left hand traced idleness on the wood handle of the sword as he waited for the water to boil. His right reached out to the stones, urging another wash of heat over and into them.

Tammunei watched in that sidelong way they had, out the corner of their face. Strange how the expressions of old friends can become old friends too. “Who taught you?” they said. “Not magic. That was your mother, I know that. But how to use a blade…”

Simra chewed the inside of his cheek. No easy answer came. Terez maybe, back in the Vahn. But what had she taught him but swinging at air to put strength in his arm? Preferences the world would so seldom live up to. She taught bladework like philosophy but only gave him rudiments, old arguments, no tools to think for himself, and ideals more often than action. Eight cuts, stances, guards perfect as prints from a book, so far as she made them seem… Things to forget as soon as your blood was up and the blades came out in earnest.

“No one in particular,” he said. “A few people tried but I wasn’t ever a very good student. Didn’t take well to being taught. To get clever or skilled you’ve first got to learn just how stupid and ill-versed you are. I got impatient…”

He remembered sparring with Moridene on the great Rift plain. How to turn away from a blade; turn a killing blow into just another scar to live with. How sometimes it’s worth bleeding a little if your enemy bleeds worse. – Every time you move, that’s you tossing a coin. Ain’t like you can always win. I ain’t sayin’ go out there, get hit up. Just don’t play with swords and when you get cut come cryin’ to me sayin’ ‘Shit, Mori, there’s steel in me!’ – She taught him it pays to strike first. That fear and fierceness can be their own defence. And where did that land her? In the mud and bleeding.

“Guess I just…learnt bits, here and there, right? Learning when I had a chance to learn. I do best that way. Teaching myself…”

And then there were the times with Kjeld. When Kjeld took up his shield and told him to get around it. – You’ve got fire in your fingers, Sim, but what about when it’s gone? It’s never good to have just one way of beating someone… No use swinging either. Go for the thrust. The thrust that comes under the shieldwall!

And then there were the teachers he’d never met. A book he’d read once in the library at Suran – ‘Psalmody of the Open-Bodied Blade’ – useless opaque little thickets of rigid-metered verse with the occasional riddling illustration. And then free afternoons alone now and then, revisiting that book’s opposite: the cheap little octavo of Pasarian’s ‘Plays for the Longblade in One-and-a-Half Hands’ he’d bought back in Windhelm, formulaic to a fault.

The rest and most of it all though was hard practice, hard lessons, hard work to remember them clear. Sleepless nights stuck thinking through the way some scrap had gone. Seeing behind his closed eyes a thousand mistakes that could have killed him but hadn’t quite managed it. Teeth grit as his wounds were stitched and he told himself he’d be better next time — better in ways he forgot as soon as the next fight was joined. A year lived by the spear, biding his time and saving his coin – every last coin – to take up the sword again, the pen again, sore-missed for so long. A year and more spent feeling a line of fire up his back, a hand close round his wrist, and telling himself next time it would be different, and when it was he’d take more than just a few fingers, though wouldn’t that be a fine place to start. And maybe then the scab of it would stop itching in the back of his brain. Maybe then it would start to heal.

“Learnt by doing, I reckon.” Simra finished, feeling foolish. “Getting lucky when I fucked up and learning from what I lived through. Can’t say I’ve got much to pass on though. Nothing that’d be useful to anyone else. Just stories, dirty tricks, bad habits, but they’ve kept me alive till now…”

Simra regretted what he’d said as soon as he’d said it. A sharp fear, felt in the back of his scalp like tying your hair too tight. Maybe there was no such thing as fate for anyone like him, but still it was best not to tempt it.

The water began to boil. Simra kissed his teeth, fishing into the grainsack to measure out four handfuls. Three and one for the luck that’d carried him this far, and that he hoped on hope would hold. A seethe of foam in the water, then stillness as it slacked to a simmer.

“Nanrahamma always said that pain helps you remember,” said Tammunei, smile going just a little slack. “It’s a good teacher, but a bad one to rely on. It doesn’t seem like a sign of luck, to have learnt from it so often.”

“Maybe it’s just the right kind of bad luck then. Following me. That sounds more like it. The Curse-Blessed Fate of the Thief, someone I once knew would’ve said.”

“And what did you say in return?”

“Most often? ‘Time to ease off the pipe, Kish, you’re starting to talk crowshit again.’ ”

[pulledrosepetals]

Ange needs adjustment to her raptor who is about wild as she was when she was a kid/teen. Teenager raptors are a real challenge when they remind of yourself. ( I love the idle shaking animation where the mount almost shakes the rider off scree)

[jacknealephotography]

We have been walking for about three hours if you could call the steady climb up stairs followed by a near vertical climb across loose stone walking. Stopping out of breath, sweat pouring from my forehead into my eyes making them sting from the suncream I keep trying to make stay on my face. There is not a cloud in the sky and the siring sun reflects back at us across glacial ice and snow. I take a moment to reflect and observe the mountains on all sides. Great cracks from the glacial shiftings break the silence and the thunderous boom of an avalanche on the opposite slope captures my attention and I watch as ice and snow falls hundreds of feet to the valley floor. Looking Up my eyes fall upon the next part of the climb which turns from loose stone to snow and ice! It is at this point Ali reaches me huffing and puffing and looking a little nervous. After a small chat and not much persuasion she agrees to join me for the final accent to the top.  Cutting steps in the shallow snow we climb to the ridge where Ali clings to me asking how on earth we are going to get back down. Putting that thought aside for now we cook ourselves some food on the high ridge and play the game of how many avalanches you can spot on the opposite cliff.

The route that we had just climbed is known as the stairway to heaven, which consists of over 2,200 stairs followed by  a polled route straight up the side of a near vertical mountain. At the top is Mueller hut – and for those more organised than ourselves one can rest a night in the hut then make their way back down the mountain the next day. However this involves booking way in advance which we did not do. What is meant to be a two day hike we did in one heading back down as clouds started to form on the peaks.

The next morning we embarked on a slightly more chilled walk to the hooker glacier a 3 hour return walk at a steady incline. However this seemed not adventurous enough for me and after eating some lunch we headed along the lake shore at the foot of the glacier in an attempt to reach one of the icebergs floating close to the edge. On reaching the ice I am distracted by a flock of Kea; the only parrot to live above the snow line. I watch as they land above us to feed and spotting a rout up the again near shear scree I start to climb, Ali close behind. Carefully I test every stone so as not to send them tumbling down on top of her. Motivated on by the Kea I quickly climb leaving Ali behind. Five minutes later I am sat beside the curious parrots camera in hand. Just as the Kea start to hop closer to investigate my arrival I hear a plaintive call from Ali who is out of sight below the ridge. I am torn between the Parrots who I had been wanting to photograph as soon as I found out about there existence and Ali who I was pretty sure would be able to work out how to climb up without my help. Sure enough before I had time to think Ali appeared stating that she had not wanted to use her hands to climb just in case the berries on the bushes were poisonous.

I spent the rest of the afternoon with the Kea. Such incredible birds with more intelligence than you could imagine. Very inquisitive they came right up close allowing me to get many different angles. I soon realised that they responded to the sound of the camera in a curious way rather than in fear like other birds and that the sound of an avalanche made them all jump ready to fly. I can only imagine that they have learned that the sound of snow falling could be dangerous to them but they had not yet worked out what the sound of the camera meant and wanted to find out. Taking off the tripod plate I rubbed the two pieces together. The sound quickly caught the attention of a couple of birds who came over to investigate much like Dusky dolphins when making noise under water.

I wondered if like Robbins they would respond to soil being turned over. Picking up a rock I dug a small hole. To my utmost surprise one of the birds also picked up a rock! When I tossed the rock to the side the same Parrot picked up another one (having dropped the previous stone). Instead of just dropping the new stone it tried to toss it away as I had done. Realising that they would investigate noise I threw a stone over to a perch that I had been wanting one of the birds to sit on as it would make an interesting shot. As I had predicted the sound caught one of the parrots attention who flew up to where I had throne the stone.

An amazing experience to observe these birds living so high up in the mountains and to be able to see first hand the inquisitive nature that has allowed them to survive in such extreme conditions. Unfortunately the same intelligence is killing them as they realise how to get easy meals from tourists feeding them. Firstly this is not their normal diet and does not give them the nutrients they need to survive and secondly it is making them lazy and idle forgetting their natural way of life. This has lead to these Parrots rapid decline.

MOUNT COOK We have been walking for about three hours if you could call the steady climb up stairs followed by a near vertical climb across loose stone walking.

[coolwolfvegas-blog]

Venus Man Trap part 1

This story is based on the distress call Aaron's Cry For Help - https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175234027437/aarons-cry-for-help

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I'd been resting for a while at The Old Mormon Fort in Freeside, recovering from a broken ankle and a spate of blindness foolishly brought on by a bad batch of Psycho. It would quite simply be suicide to venture out in the Mojave lame in any way (as I almost previously demonstrated) so I slept there on a bunk bed in a hot, dirty tent with not much to do but observe the steady flow of people who had, in some way or another, fallen foul of the wastes.

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One day they brought in a quarry worker who had been mauled by a Deathclaw. She shrieked for five days before she died; the Deathclaw had ripped off part of her jaw so there was nothing to muffle the sound. By day 2 it had become more of a wail and by day 4 she so was so hoarse it was a rasping hiss. Her eye, the one she had left, was glassy and lifeless but it looked over at me like a film reel about to run out.

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So I decided it was time to go. I rented a room at The Atomic Wrangler for a while (keeping a pistol under my pillow as I slept) but quickly felt the drain in my pockets. So for 40 caps a kindly doctor sawed my cast off and I'm back on my feet and heading south in hopes of making enough cash to enter the strip.

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My reflexes rustier than my shotgun, I look for an opportunity to practice. A gecko dashes out in front of me with a jaunty little run. I aim, shoot and miss. Twice. It turns and scurries towards me and I feel that familiar twinge of panic as I reload. My composure holds and I take its head clean off.

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The sun is baking me and my leg is stiff, my fitness is low and it's a struggle to keep walking. Ahead in the distance I can see the Yangtze Memorial and decide it would be a good place to stop due to its wonderful panoramic view of the desert.

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Upon nearing it a crackling is picked up on my Pip-Boy, then a message. I sit down on the steps of the memorial and stretch out my leg as the message repeats over and over: Someone is trapped in a cave nearby. Ashamedly, my thoughts turn to caps, more specifically how many are in it for me.

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The notion of responding meets with little resistance; too long have I idled in safety, passive and useless, fermenting in the dry, stale air whilst bones knit and muscles waste. I yearn for the thrum of danger, the flash of glory and the surge of adrenaline that can only be felt grasping two hands on the live wire of mortality.

I dust myself off and head for Scree Cavern.

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https://aminoapps.com/c/falloutamino/page/blog/venus-man-trap-part-1/kwgF_GuYKDvok5JlvxJdENK4j6MvKJv