#like it would be easier if it's earth fire water wind

[flem17ng]

It’s a date.

UCLA! jessie fleming x reader

summary: reader starts her first semester at UCLA and meets bruins midfielder, jessie fleming.

content: fluff, short one-shot. author has no knowledge of the American education system.

The first day of university was always going to be hard. New people, new campus, new lecturers and new classes all together. Maybe it was the fact you’d never been this far from home before that made it worse. 

UCLA was your dream school. Quite literally. You remeber looking at the university website back when you where in middle school and imagining yourself there: kicking a ball in the oval, studying in a library, laps in the big pools. the feeling of actually being here was… overwhelming. 

Like all eighteen year olds do, you had launched yourself into this thing head first: packed bags, kissed your dog goodbye and hopped on the plane. And like most eighteen year olds , you where now struck with the intensity of your actions. 

Here you where, miles from home, no connections in the state, standing outside the lecture theatre for your first class. So yes, overwhelming would be the word of choice. 

You looked down at your timetable for what seemed to be the hundredth time in the last minute, checking and triple checking that you had got the room right. 

“Environmental Studies: Spheres 101”. The name of the course seemed to taunt you at you stared at it blankly. 

Leave it to you to go to one of the most prestigious sports schools in the world, (doing very minimal sport yourself) and end up doing a course all about what? Water, earth, wind and fire?

You knew it was more important than that of course. You picked environmental engineering for a reason: because you cared about that sort of stuff! 

You took a long breath readying to walk in when-

“Oh shit I am so sorry! God I was not looking where I was going!” The thump in your shoulder didn’t knock you quite as off balance as the thick Canadian accent. You froze for a moment, not knowing whether to be pissed at this stranger’s clumsiness or charmed but the voice that reminded you of home. Your eyes flashed up to meet the source of the voice and decided to be charmed. 

Her eyes where the first thing you noticed: large and brown and…. well charming you suposed. Every other part of the girls face fell neatly into place behind those eyes: perfect, warm and adorned with a lopsided and slightly guilty smile. 

It was then that you realised you hadn’t responded. 

“Oh no don’t worry. I was distracted myself” you rushed out, words melding into a lump as they rushed to get passed your lips. It was worth it as you watched the girls guilt melt away into an easier grin. 

“Another Canadian! I thought I was going to be alone here you know” she laughed “I don’t think I would have survived”. 

You nod eagerly, feeling the other girls  relief. “God same! I’m already off kilter over here”

“Eh. we’ll muddle through” she grinned back giving an animated wink before looking back at the door you where still loitering before. 

“Might need to…” she trailed off at motioned with her chin to the door. 

“Right right yes! I don’t want to be late to learn about the spheres of the environment” you drawled sarcastically. The girl rolled her eyes in agreement. 

“Right!? when I saw that on my timetable I couldn’t believe it! I swear I learned this in 9th grade”. 

“American’s eh?” you tut with a playful smile. God you hoped none of the resident americans would over hear you. 

The girl (you realised you didn’t yet know her name) laughed loudly, her teeth flashing handsomely (Looking at her you realised that “handsome” was a pretty accurate diagnosis: broad shoulders, a freakishly athletic build, sharp jawline. Yes, handsome was the word). Together you walked forward into the lecture hall, thankfully not late before parting ways: her going to sit next to a few other athletic looking girls with tight ponytails, and you going to sit near the front (curse your poor eyesight). 

~

To be brutally honest, after that little interaction, you almost completely forgot about the handsome canadian girl with charming eyes from your environmental engineering course. Almost. You saw her about a few times: in the distance on the playing field, walking around campus. But you hadn’t really talked to her since that first class at the beginning of semester. Everytime you got into class she was already there, sitting next to the Bruins girls, pen in hand, with deadly focus. 

You reasoned that it would be impolite to interrupt her, it would be nosy to try join her little group and it would be downright stalkerish to try track her down across campus. 

Not to mention the university work that was flooding in… it was not stopping for anything, that’s for sure, definitely not your strange hang up over a girl you had one interaction with. 

Your reasoning for this preoccupation was simply that you missed home: Canada seemed so far away especially as the weather only got warmer. This girl was simply a reminder that the faraway moose land was real! Additionally, maybe your brain got confused: a kind interaction plus the familiar Canadian accent equals weird unreasonable attachment. 

You shook your head and tried to refocus your eyes in the screen in front of you. You had been staring at the blank document you so long that your head had started to ache and the hot chocolate you bought before you sat down was now definitely cold. The cafe was one of those tiny ones with maybe three indoor tables and a booming espresso machine that took up most of the counter space by the cash register and drowned out the soft music echoing from the speakers. 

You had found it during the second week of semester and now frequented it most afternoons to try and crank out as many assignments as possible. Routine was important, you must understand that. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and rubbed your temple before being rudely startled by a tap of the shoulder. 

“Jeezus! give a girl some warning please!” you snapped before looking up at the offender. Brown eyes stared back at you filled with an amused glint. 

“We gotta stop meeting like this” she laughed. The same laugh that showed off her handsome features and warm glow. 

“Oh hey! It’s um… you!” it wasn’t meant to sound like a stutter but it came out that way anyways. 

“Jessie” she smiled softly, catching your fumble “Jessie Fleming? We have some lectures together?” 

“Yes no! I remember sorry. I just didn’t catch your name” you rambled, feeling suddenly very foolish. She patted your shoulder to pull you out of the spiral. 

“I know. I’m just messing” she sat down in the seat opposite you with a sigh. 

It was then that you really looked at her. She looked very much the same as she had the first time apart from a few key things: her hair was shorter (sitting just above her shoulders whereas before it had hung in a long plat down her back) and her left eye seemed strangely swollen and purple. 

“Um… get into a fight Fleming?” you asked, indicating to her, now obvious, black eye. To your surprise she laughed!

“Oh this old thing! No just a bad tackle during soccer practice” she grinned, poking the swollen lid with a dramatic wince. 

“Soccer… OH! Oh it makes sense now” you lean back in your chair and look at her like you had only just noticed her properly. 

“Fleming! 21! bruins midfielder! God I never made the connection!” you laughed, feeling stupid. Maybe if you had payed more attention to the sport at your SPORT university, you would have found out her name sooner. 

“Oh hush. It’s really nothing” she muttered looking embarrassed. 

“No, shut up Fleming. No it isn’t! I heard a girl in the library talking about your goal in a match a few weeks ago! Boy I know jack shit about sport but I know it was impressive” you hissed back eagerly. 

“No really-“

“Take the damn compliment Jessie”

“Fine! Thank you” she smiled awkwardly with a role of her eyes “It was a pretty good goal I guess”

You smiled and watched her for a long moment as she settled into the seat fully. Your eyes followed her perfect nose, flickered up to her eyebrows before coming to rest at her lips. How could someone look that good so effortlessly?

“Staring is rude” she stated bluntly, as her lips curled into a smirk. You looked away with a jerk, cheeks flaming. 

“I- I was not!”

“Okay…”

“I wasn’t staring! You soccer types, always so big headed!” you mumble, crossing your arms across your chest. You felt childish: of course you had been staring! God how silly that this girl, Jessie, thought you could hold back from staring at her! You’re only human after all. 

“I-“ Jessie started to speak but cut herself off, her mouth hanging open slightly. 

“Yes?”

“I might be out of play for a few weeks. Concussion protocols and all that but… well stop me if this is too forward but, I’d love for you to come to a game? One of my games I mean” her question ended in a rush before she leaned back from the table with big curious eyes. You stared back, dumbfounded. It took a shake of your head to get you to respond. 

“You want me to come to a bruins game?”

“Uhh. Yes?”

“You know I don’t know anything about soccer?”

“I did assume that, yes.”

“But you want me there?”

“Yes.” her tone was soft but firm, determined. “I want you to come to a game please. To watch me play? Or we can watch it together if I’m still out for injury?”

You laugh and clap a hand over your mouth. 

“Are you asking me on a date Jessie Fleming?” you spit out, feeling suddenly emboldened by the other girls flustered expression. Jessie’s cheeks only became redder at your sudden inquiry. 

“Yes please?” came her hopeful squeak. 

You grinned and leaned over the table, placing a soft kiss on her cheek, just under her bruised eye, before sitting back in one swift movement. 

“Ok. But you’re going to have to let me wear your jersey 21. Oh, and explain the offside rule.”

Jessie groaned, but her pink cheeks gave her away. 

“Fine. It’s a date.” 

[fortunatelyenchantingtaco]

Tbf i wish we could see ffxvi in the age of myths. Ultima deep asleep, and gods not yet gods. I like the whole process of how gods actually become divine, and a big fan of humans doing it not through some kind prophecy, or a creator ascending them, or some grand destiny or fate, but through their own means

It would be real fun to see bow Barnabas rose from being a young genius swordsman to truly a man whose slash you can’t counter or block. Training so much, seeking stronger opponents, until his skills reach the heavens. Until his sword can slash the cruel world, the injustice, the demons, the evil

Imagine how Joshua, a sickly child in a cruel world, with a loving older brother and a vehement desire to live and also to help his brother, dies and comes back to life time and time again. A miracle, they say. But this is his spirit, will to live. Reborn through fire

Imagine Clive, his wild urge to protect, the fire that burned his fingers when he touched Joshua, and yet he never let go. Imagine Clive dropped in a heart of a volcano, burning alive, until magma became his skin, until lava poured into his chest and made him more fire than human. All ragged, sharp edges, unsuited for protection, but doing his best anyway. Shaped into the sharpest weapon to survive

Imagine Jill, the last survivor of an expedition up north. All alone, between the snow and ice, giving up on seeking warmth. Embracing the cold, going further and further until suddenly she doesn’t squint against the biting wind. Until ice starts flowing in her veins and she leaves behind her warm wool and thick scarves, until cold fills her lungs

Can you see Benedicta, climbing the highests of cliffs because there is nothing more intoxicating than looking at the world from the top? Than breathing in the highly energised air in the clouds? And someday she can’t bear it anymore, can’t keep being bound to earth, where everyone puts their hands on her trying to tie her down, and then she flies

Or Kupka, whose people found their place beneath the earth? Living there, cultivating food, unearthing preacious stones? What if he rock was always more stable than humans to him? More reliable, constant, nothing like the wind he tries to grasp between his hands and fails miserably every time? What if the stone heard him and accepted him as his heart?

Dion, the brave Dion, son of the skyes, dragoon, the dragon slayer. Bathed in their blood without knowing its properties? Their doom but also their strongest? They give their blessing when they lose, they value only strenght, only purity of soul. He collects swords, protects what he holds dear and someday scales appear on his skin. Black, silver, pale blue, sparkling, until someday he ascends as the king of dragons

And Cid, Cid. The sword, the shield, the arbiter, the researcher. There are questions he can’t get answers to, can’t save his people, doesnt have enough power for his machines to mke them work. Lightning doesn’t hit the same spot twice, they say, but he begs to differ. He will make it hit as much as he needs, in their land of rain and storm, it should amount to something. No matter how much it hits him with it. And the more it does, the more Cid himself sparks. It gets easier, nature bending to his will. He only asks what he’s due, after all

Can you see the water cradling an infant? If doesn’t want to kill, but people are stupid, they can’t resist the tide. But this small child, precious existense, born in the water and raised by it, doesn’t drown. He floats steadily, wailing, a temperament as foul as the ocean itself

An age of myth, the time of legends, the birth of gods, when elements ran so wild they found home inside people

[tyrantisterror]

No Small Feat Art Pt. 9 - The Bonus Bosses

By request, I’m gonna show off some of the artwork for No Small Feat, a Midgaheim story my friends and I told through the TTRPG system Fabula Ultima. I drew a lot of characters and monsters for it, and my friends - in particular, @dragonzzilla, @scatha5, and @dinosaurana - helped line and color them so we’d have cute little sprites to use on our online battlemaps, which really helped sell the whole “we’re playing an oldschool turn based RPG” vibe that Fabula Ultima’s system is going for.

Before we cover the last two arcs, we're going to look at the Bonus Bosses - optional encounters I placed in the game to give my characters more of a challenge and some additional story if they so desired, which they did!

Bleak Annis played an important role in starting the story, and our heroes realized that if they wanted to truly know what was going on with both the greater conflict and their own personal arcs, they'd have to meet with her. That was easier said than done, though, as before they could find Bleak Annis, they would have to prove their worth to the wicked witch's coven. So they sought out Peg Prowler, Nelly Longarms, and Jenny Greenteeth, three other famous witches from British folklore who are in the same league as Bleak Annis herself.

During their first trip into Fairyland, our heroes stumbled upon a huge and terrifying prison. Locked inside was a Fomorian, a fairy being of such terrible arcane power that its very presence could corrode reality should it escape Fairyland. Worse, the Fomorian's prison was weakening, and should it break free, the gang would have a much worse problem to deal with than the succession crisis and its supernatural side effects that they were already struggling to end. So, like good RPG players, they level grinded by playing the main plot a bit, then went back and killed the fucker when they had enough levels and endgame-worthy gear to do so without too much fuss.

The next bonus boss they saved for later was Katastrophi, a mountain ogre who Prince Goligaunt claimed was his aunt (though perhaps that was more in an honorary sense than a biological). She scrapped with them for a bit to wake herself up fully, then let our heroes go on friendly terms before climbing up the tower to give her punk nephew a good talking to.

Then our heroes went off to chase a sidequest they'd been given a while ago, seeking out the Elemental Masters of the mortal plane: the Royal Ruhk, an enormous eagle who displayed supreme mastery of wind magic; the Sharp Humped Behemoth, a mighty beast who was unparalleled in its domination of earth magic; the Jasconius, a colossal leviathan whose rule over water magic is unquestioned; and the Great Red Dragon, a master of all four elements to be sure, but whose supremacy over Fire magic was mightiest of all. The four masters put our heroes to the test, and rewarded them with materials to make some masterwork armor and weapons to take them through their final arcs of the story. But there was one more bonus boss, the master beyond masters.

The final master and bonus boss was none other than Death Himself - well, a death at least, and specifically the one who had acted as Guard Father and benefactor of Kaboldt von Hubert's grandfather. Foreshadowed in arc 2, Death made his proper appearance much later, and made sure our heroes were truly ready to stop Maelys and reforge the crown of Engelsex.

[angelbitezzz]

SO 👏

I been thinking really hard about how I'll be writing magic for whatever undertale related stuff I write.

If viewed as straightforward, we get an example of magic that could be reasonably tied to every human soul "trait" (more on that later) in undertale proper. Listed as follows:

Cyan magic: Tied to patience, requires targets to stop in order to avoid damage. Many monsters in Snowdin use it, though notably Papyrus, Sans and Asgore have used it

Orange magic: Tied to bravery, requires targets to move in order to avoid damage. Many monsters in Hotland use it, but a notable example would be Asgore as well

Green magic: Tied to kindness, could be reasonably tied to healing magic since healing is often associated with the color green, not to mention the game requires you to touch a green attack on some occasions (such as vegetoid's healing veggies). Plus Undyne and her turning you green, forcing you to stop moving but giving you the opportunity to protect yourself in the process

Blue magic: Tied to Integrity, likely something to do with gravity. Notable example is Papyrus and Sans, though Papyrus only uses it to weigh you down, versus Sans using it to throw you around (or maybe forcibly changing your direction of gravity?)

Yellow Magic: Tied to Justice, seems to be used strictly offensively? Notably, monsters don't use it against you, but Frisk is given the opportunity to use it during the Mettaton fights. However, I believe that the Karma poison damage from Sans's fight is because he's actively using Yellow magic at the time

Purple magic: Tied to perseverance. An oddball magic type, because the only Real example we get of it is during the Muffet fight. And since she's not technically part of the main cast despite having such a unique and notable boss fight, we don't get Much information on her personally to make any real guesses or judgements. And THIS is my sticking point, the thing I think about a lot

Muffet turns your soul purple, and you find yourself only able to move along the webbing that she strings up along the battle screen. You can't stray from the lines, you can only pass from line to line and move along them, until the magic wears off and you can move freely.

I have been thinking of how these magic types can be tied to elements as well, since we see a lot of certain kinds of monsters use certain types. I'll list my thoughts below

Cyan: Ice

Orange: Fire

Blue: Water/Or just straight up. Gravity. I know it's not traditional in a sense but we don't really get much on this one either bear with me

Green: Plant-life

Yellow: Electricity

Purple: And AGAIN I come up blank. Best I could figure? Earth. Rock. Or, conversely, the wind. Air. Something adaptable.

Purple stands out. It's a different sort of "trait" compared to the others, because all the others are straightforward. Anyone can define themselves by their Bravery, or their Kindness, or their sense of Justice, but who is defining themselves by how much they Persevere? Or Persist?

Soul Traits as I write them in TSoT or even Crossbones and Starstruck arent the end all be all of a person. It's simply tied to what chiefly motivates them. If they happen to be a mage, then the magic they use corresponds to that motivation, to that Color of magic. There's no right or wrong trait here, only intent.

Intent is important, intent is what causes you to be able to clear the genocide route so easily! Because the game knows you're going out of your way to grind—in short, you do more damage because you want to do more damage. If you don't want to hurt someone, then it's reflected in your attack. That is why monsters were so vulnerable during the war, because human vitriol made it all the easier for monster populations to be decimated.

Swinging back around to Perseverance: I think this trait—this magic, is completely personal. I think it reflects the user more so than the others because the point is to persevere—to survive. To Get Through This Shit. It's adaptability at its core.

Muffet is in a position where her family is split by the cold of Snowdin, and it seems like her family is extremely important to her, all posturing and threat displays and money hungry persona is masking the fact that she is concerned with and takes care of her own. And they care for her in turn—they do everything she asks, assist in the fight with you and help run her bake sakes, and upon her death you are greeted with a solemn scene of one of them rushing up to drop a flower where she stood and then rushing off again.

Adaptability and survival is important, but the best way to adapt and survive is to lean on others. Find your people, build your village and so on. She's never doing this alone. She knows this and it strengthens her. Her fight wouldn't be nearly as tough if she didn't have her spiders helping with it.

And ideally, a user of purple magic gets that strength from their loved ones. How that magic manifests depends on the person, as I've said before.

Muffet is a spider. She traps you in a web. Subtextually, one could argue that your connections to others are like a web expanding outwards to those that you know.

Angel, my self insert, has the perseverance soul trait. In Crossbones and Starstruck, you've seen her use purple magic once—to force her health to stop depleting. In a physical sense, she stopped the bleeding entirely, if only briefly. Ensuring her continued survival until help arrived. What else she can do with her magic, if anything, remains yet to be seen. But I'll tell you what—

Connections are important. Acknowledging your love for others only strengthens you. Electing to pretend that someone isn't important to you out of misguided fear of being rejected or misunderstood only hurts you, and thus, your magic.

:-)

[idlenight]

@flystep's post had the fhr avatar au grip my brain within moments and rattle it violently.

while i think you could make it work in any avatar era, my own bias goes to korra!era avatar. Mostly so I can shove Chen inside of one of those mechs.

Quick initial thoughts for the RO's + some other relevant characters and what kind of bender/non-bender i think they could be:

Ortega A firebender, specifically one with the lightning sub-bending ability. Which they use more than the actual firebending.

Chen Non-bender, earth-nation heritage (family is from Ba-Sing-Se). In an older era he would be a martial expert, but in the korra!era he would operate those mech-machines.

Lady Argent This one im hesitant on but; Lady Argent as an earthbender and metalbending prodigy.

Herald Airbender is pretty obvious isn't it? Wouldn't work so well in the 100y war era. Although straight up flight is only possible if one 'loses all earthly attachments', and i think herald has a few too many of those. So regular airbending flight with the help of gliders it will have to be.

Dr Mortum Non-bender. Wears clothing that does not identify them as part of any nation specifically. Still a scientist, likely an inventor.

Hollow Ground Waterbender, born in a fire nation colony, mixed nation descend (to make it easier for your sidestep to be any other kind of bender). A bloodbender on the levels of Yakone and Noatak. Does not need a moon, and can fuck with people's bending.

Sentinel Airbender. Less of the flowy movements and uses airbending more in the way Korra bends air. Powerful gusts of wind. Moving like a boxer, less like a monk.

Anathema Waterbender. Uses water laced with other substances that they carry, really add a kick to their fights.

(Bonus) River Becker, my own sidestep I'm inclined to make river a waterbender/bloodbender as well. But that is like giving candy to a baby. Giving the water nerd exactly the power he desires? nah. He could alternatively be an airbender (+spiritbending as sub-bending) or a firebender i think. Or i shall be merciful for once and give him waterbending as he desires.

These are just my interpretations ofc. I'd be interested to hear other's thoughts on character's bending/lack thereof, as well as what they'd imagine their sidesteps would be. 👀👀

[rist-ix]

Hi Rist! Can you give us a snippet of the next chapter of tbhtbh? 🙏🏻

I can't give u plot yet. But I can give u death and destruction if you want?

Layla used to tell them so much about her homeworld.

It's brilliant blue skies, it’s crystal clear waters. The gentle currents that would guide the boats of fishers and shellfish farmers from and to their homes; the salty winds that would rustle through palm trees and orchards, bringing rain in the morning and swarms of jewel colored birds in spring.

She used to talk about it with such warmth, such longing, an undying loyalty and love for her home and her people and her duty as their princess. Even when she had raged and resented her parents for the way they'd caged her in, she would have done anything for them. Anything for the vibrant, beautiful kingdom they all loved.

Bloom had never seen its beauty.

The first time she'd stepped foot on Andros had already been the beginning of its end. Even after Council Hall, when they were in dire need of a place to lay low, they never dared to return here.

The realm of the tides never got the chance to recover. The collapsing Omega Portal had robbed Andros of a crucial magical pillar, and when its atmosphere didn’t clear up, its waters didn’t calm and its mermaids were not freed from the monstrous mark on their necks…

It's like an infected body, desperately trying to rid itself of the sickness festering within. Killing itself with its own seizures, its own fever, its own madness. Murky oceans shaping tidal waves, skies heavy with clouds never ceasing their storms, the very earth breaking open and spitting black ash into the air.

They had met travelers two years later who said the fires were still burning.

Still. There's a difference between hearing about it, and seeing it first hand.

The second her feet touch Andros' rust-brown earth, gusts of hot, searing wind start tearing at her hair and her clothes, burning hot against her skin. Salt, sulfur and smoke make her eyes water, her lungs seize; every breath tastes like poison, and hiding her mouth and nose in her sleeve does little to make it more bearable.

When the glow of teleportation subsides and her vision clears, it reveals the full scale of Andros' fate.

Skies like molten iron, bleeding murky rays of sunlight through blackened clouds that seem to glow red from within. Their light is dim and pale compared to the bursts of sickly yellow lightning striking the waves below, over and over again. The horizon is never calm, the twisted branches of electricity reminding her of a nervous system in panic. To the east, lush green jungles have been charred to pitch black fingers reaching skyward. Beyond, red-tipped mountains cough ash and fire into the air.

It's almost beautiful, this deadly display of colors.

For a few seconds, that keeps the horror at bay.

Valtor lands beside her with his usual grace, showing not the smallest sign of discomfort. She can't tear her eyes away from the shaking, shuddering corpse of this kingdom she once knew, so she doesn’t see his expression. But she imagines he must be proud.

A new Domino. Except this time, he can savor its destruction without his pesky, selfish regrets. He's always hated Andros, after all.

“The view never fails to amaze, doesn’t it?”

Valtor makes a swirling gesture with his hands, and the searing wind tearing at her hair lets up. The taste of ash on the air fades as well, and she realizes he's shielding them from the worst of the storm.

Unwilling to yell against it, most likely.

It doesn’t make it easier to answer. For once, she is genuinely speechless.

She turns around to look at him, and finds him already watching her from the corner of his eyes. Almost eagerly, as if awaiting her outrage. Her revulsion.

Whatever he finds in her expression seems to satisfy him, because he smiles and turns his back on her, surveying their surroundings.

“Do you know where we are?”

She does. She knew before they even stepped out of the portal where it would lead them, and she has dreamed of this place often enough to know it blind.

The crumbling stone arches, the single circular structure rising from the sea. Saltwater in her mouth, her nose; her ribs still aching from Icy's blast to her back. A memory so vivid it’s hard to distinguish from reality, for a moment.

“We met here,” she says. Despite the relative silence within his shields, her voice feels small.

If they had known then what would happen, would she and her friends have even come? Surely, whatever damage Andros would have suffered under Valtor's attacks would have been preferable to this. If they had simply stayed at Alfea, hadn’t snuck out and simply acted like the students they still were, it could have all been so different.

Valtor clicks his tongue, chiding.

“We first met on Solaria, dearest. But I'm glad you remember that day.”

He trails his fingers over the rough, salt-encrusted stone of a pillar.

“I think of it often. I'd been dying to meet you again once I knew who you were. The very last princess of Domino, just when I feared there was nothing left of it. 'How often does one get the chance to destroy the same dynasty twice?' I thought. You must have been meant for me, an opponent like no other. Our final battle, your death, only that could mean true victory.”

He smiles to himself. She can tell from the way he inclines his head, the way he speaks, even if she can’t see his face.

“I don’t make a habit of being wrong, but I suppose even I have to admit foolishness, here.”

The wind around them howls, and the spray of harsh waves crashing against their little ruin evaporates against his shield.

His head tilts in her direction, just a little.

“Do you ever miss it?”

He doesn’t have to clarify. She knows exactly what he means.

How they had chased him through the entire dimension, the thrill of combat hot in her veins. Every fight a point to prove, a cocky race to the top, it didn’t even matter if she failed because she got quicker, closer each time. Locking eyes over the blaze of their colliding magic and understanding perfectly how the other felt.

Knowing that she would be his undoing. No matter how long it took, she would be the one to end him. The brilliant, powerful, immortal wizard that not even Omega could hold; she would bring him low.

The simple, reckless single-mindedness of it.

She also remembers that sense of safety. Tecna's shields humming to life around them, Stella's sarcastic little comments there to take the edge off of their numerous close calls. The unwavering certainty that nothing could hurt her, because her friends were there, and once the battle was over they'd go home and sleep it off, huddled together on Stella's giant bed.

“Every day,” she tells him.

Even Valtor, self-serving and arrogant as he may be, can’t ignore what she's really saying.

[calxia]

Weather really is something. I love the rain but I also hate the cold. I somewhat like the sun but also hate the heat. I used to be able to deal with the heat and now I can't. Can't even get used to cold as fuck weather when it snows. Sometimes it'll go into the negatives. At one point I had snow up till March/April.

Speaking of weather. What are thoughts on the Ghouls favorite type of weather? I'm kind of putting a little thought into it. I feel Rain loves when it pours but hates when it pouring down and freezing cold. While Mountain is more for a cloudy day with the sun peaking out.

- 🎸 Anon

I live for the cold weather. I wait for when it gets cold enough I can wear my leather jacket and hoodies everywhere without question. When we got really bad snow here earlier this year I jumped on the opportunity to walk to work in it. the crunch and coldness is just perf.

here's some lil thoughts on what weather I think the ghouls will like. I got very carried away again while writing these, but really what's new there?

Rain loves those misty summer mornings where the grass glitters with beaded dew and the air is heavy with the cloying taste of the humid day yet to come. The air is crisp but not cold, and everything is still, waiting for the warmth the steadily rising sun will bring. Rain likes summer showers. The refreshing brush of cold rain on sticky skin. The sort of rain that leaves you soaked, but revitalises you for the day. He breathes easier when it's humid, his lungs not having to work as hard as his moist gills help pick up the slack.

Dew likes the scorching sun. The sort which burns your skin at the slightest brush. That drives most to try to seek shelter in the shade, but even the shade is still dangerously warm. The heat that brings a period of drought with it and risks starting a blazing inferno from the frazzled dead grass it creates. He recharges in the dry air and basks like a lizard in the powerful rays of the sun. Dew also likes the feeling of the first rain after a period without. The warm humidity energizes him and calls forth the remnants of his water past.

Mountain likes cloudy mornings in the spring. Where the air is still chased by the bitter nip of frost but you can almost feel how everything is waking up for the season of new beginnings. When the sun is starting to rise earlier and earlier as the days lengthen. The weather is perfect for the work that a new season brings and the clouds provide cover from harsh UV rays. He rises with the sun to work his gardens as the sun plays peekaboo with the clouds.

Swiss enjoys the heat of early summer when the earth is still trying to shake off the frosts of spring. He likes a gentle breeze that carries dandelion seeds and the smells of summer with it. It is warm but still cool enough that you can do things freely. He likes staying up late when dusk is beginning to spread and night insects emerge. A chill starts to spread but it's chased away by firepits and good company. A wind stokes the bonfire, yet it is early enough in the season that the damp ground easily contains the blaze.

Cirrus is partial to a cool autumn evening, perfect for snuggling up in front of the hearth to fight off the cold. The sort of weather that is perfect for a dusk stroll through the woods all bundled up. The crisp air nipping at unprotected noses and fingers. There's nothing better than being able to snuggle up with those you love and watch the twilight drawing in.

Both Aurora and Cumulus love the snow. They almost become kits again when they wake up to a thick sheet of white across the abbey grounds. They always try to rush outside in their pyjamas only to be stopped by Cirrus, who forces them to wrap up warm. They love the crunch of snow and the way snowflakes drift down from above to cling to eyelashes and hair. They will stay outside for as long as possible before they get called in for hot chocolate and pack cuddles in front of a roaring fire. If it was up to them, they would stay out all day playing.

Phantom likes the bitter cold of an icy winter night. He’s enthralled with the way frost sparkles beneath a cloudless night. He always feels the cold down to his bones but it's easily thwarted by thick clothes and heaped blankets. He’s never seen snow before, but he’s sure that if it glitters anything like an iced-over pond and crunches like frost, he will love it.

[siena-sevenwits]

Dec 31- Day #1 -A Fortnight of Books

Overall - best new-to-you books read in 2023?

Ooh - we start by firing the big guns, do we? Throwing objectivity to the wind and judging simply by the ones that had the most profound effects on me:

The King of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner

They were right. They were all right. He is Annux. The series is all that it aims to be, and yet this book outstrips the rest. This books is cool water and lavishly red wine in summertime. I just can't believe that the heart of the book is that where we (and Costis) thought there was sloth, cowardice, self-absorption, and even cruelty, there is secretly compassion, fidelity, and the vitality of unearned mercy. And just, you know - "Go to bed, Eugenides."

Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers

Oh, the sheer love - and genius - that was clearly poured into this book! While part of me wishes I had read this novel before I visited Oxford this summer, I don't know if I would have loved the novel in the same way if it had been the other way round. Like Harriet, i got to return to Oxford through this book and simultaneously become acquainted truly with Sayers' Wimsical imagination at the height of her powers. I have read a couple of her early Wimsey books, and they are great, but they do pale next to this one. The intelligence, the themes, HARRIET, the fact that it's a good mystery but the mystery is almost a bonus added on to following Miss Vane. And I understand Lord Peter so much better now. And yes, it reads like a love letter to everything in the world that the author loves. The best books often do. And the words, the words! I begin to think Sayers invented the English language, for she can make it do anything she wants in any style, any genre, prose or poetry.

The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope

I don't know how to praise this one as well as I'd like to. It was one of the first books of 2023, and it was just such a jewel. Everything I love in a retelling and more. The fact that the way she held on to him was reminding him who he was, in the most practical, no-nonsense, down to earth fashion, in the face of the grandiose lies the cultist had told him about himself. This book gave me a bit of the cold iron to have about me, one might say.

What It Means to Be a Christian by Pope Benedict XVI

This book took on the meaning of suffering, what it means to live in the fulfillment of the covenant, and our individual callings in very few chapters, with an apparent simplicity that belies itself. It's so, so good.

Best series you discovered in 2023?

The Wingfeather Saga by Andrew Peterson

I might have waffled between this series and the Queen's Thief, but I read the first two books of the latter in 2022, which makes it easier. Shall I say, this series is so much greater than the sum of its parts. I imagine it would depend greatly on the individual whether certain aspects in Janner and Kalmar's arcs resonate as they did for me, but oh, I wish they could do so for everyone. These books had me weeping. Kalmar singing the Song of the Ancient Stones - and choosing instead to cling to his true identity with the help of his brother - had a very specific meaning to me, something truly transformative. And I will never forget Podo Helmer, realizing that for the first time in his life, his whole story had been told, and against all hope, he was still loved.

And all this is not to mention the two days of longing it sent me spiralling into. Longing for beauty, for creativity, for God.

Best rereads of the year?

The Letter to the Romans by Saint Paul the Apostle

This was the year of jumping head first into the wave pool of Romans and simply refusing to get out of the water when the lifeguards said closing time. Honestly, Christ did something this year that changed the way I experience Scripture. Still working through multiple commentaries and mean to continue them into the New Year.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle

Beautiful book. Beautiful, beautiful book, with a heart that's melancholy yet warm and hopeful. So much thinking to do.

Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson

Did me a lot of good in completely different ways than it did last time.

--

Thanks to @idratherdreamofjune, @valiantarcher, and @lover-of-the-starkindler (I believe) for the Fortnight of Books template. Love these questions. I'm going to try to answer the prompts every day.

[lorei-writes]

HC: Bunnies at Work - Kenshin

Kenshin General Headcanon

This is an old-ish headcanon prepared for the Twilight Fair edition of the @flash-exchange , for @spoopy-fish-writes . I wasn't in a position to post it here as well, and then it felt as if it was too late already... But fandom is all about sharing the joy, so how could it be too late? Everybody, feel invited to sit in for the tale of the greatest bunny wizard...

Content Warnings: none

This is a tale of Ume — „Who is she?” you may ask. The answer is not simple... Although she doesn’t brag! You see, Ume is a rabbit (she does jump rather high); Ume is a witch (her magic knows no bounds); Ume is a ... demon — But she’s very, very nice! Ume is a guardian. The best one Kenshin could have ever had

Ume owns a witch hat. She obtained the trinket after graduating from Hoppxford — special school for magical demonic bunnies.

She majored in Guardianship and Protection of Lost Souls.

Unknowingly, Kenshin has been one of the research objects included in her thesis. (Magic schools for demonic bunnies don’t seem to care much for obtaining consent). She found herself so fascinated by his case that she applied to become his guardian right on the day of her graduation.

Her first self-imposed duty was to memorise Kenshin’s preferences. She put together poems and rhymes to make the task easier on herself.

Plums are quite delicious, so it comes as no surprise: the one treat Kenshin loves are pickled plums. A snack sublime, they suit his taste — NONE can EVER go to waste!

The reason why Ume wanted to research Kenshin in particular? As she found in the registry, he had been cursed with: compassionate heart, young tragic love, ever-present death door, invincibility, and corroding sense of taste. (The prior include only the primary of his afflictions.)

What Ume did not expect was that she would have to solve a number of poltergeist infestation cases as well.

One such instance involved a voracious winged snake spirit who lingered in the castle kitchen.

Two wings growing from its head, its scales glimmered under the light like diamonds — one can only wonder why it had decided to feast on pickled plums. Only pickled plums.

It took Ume several days to realise Kenshin’s mood was growing sour. However, as soon as she became aware of the issue at hand, she hopped straight into the investigation.

The battle that ensued was a most gruesome one. Ume called upon the powers of wind, earth and fire — yet even that was not enough. Cornered, she reached deep within herself to unleash the power sealed there: the mighty chomp. It tilted the scales of battle in her favour, and so, she emerged victorious.

Spells most often utilised by Ume are: Shingen silencer, water sake-fication, Mai summoning, degrumpification, anger management and murder prevention (also known as de-stab).

Another spirit who invited itself over to Kasugayama was Tar-Tar, a small black ball of fuzz that feeds on pleasant dreams and replaces them with nightmares.

It was a powerful opponent as well. Seeing that her chances of success were slim if she were to attempt to exorcise the evil entity on her own, Ume partnered up with Mai.

While Mai comforted Kenshin in the physical realm, Ume left her body and entered his subconscious.

Tar-Tar’s pollution was overwhelming, but she did not consider failure an option. Careful to avoid the sticky substance, she ventured deeper into Kenshin’s mind.

The tricky thing about her task was that Kenshin absolutely could NOT realise she was involved in the operation at all. If she failed to hide her presence, he would remain susceptible to Tar-Tar attacks until the end of his days... But, if he banished the monster “himself”...

Kenshin of the dream was much younger, his features still being those of a boy rather than a man. His arms trembling, he gripped the training sword, a circle of armed men tightening around him. “You couldn’t save her...” they spoke.

Ume called for mist, clouds soon engulfing what was to eventually become a battlefield. She jumped forward. “Lies! Don’t listen to them!” She had a girl cry.

Kenshin looked around — the fight began. The weapon he wielded was poor, so Ume conjured him a better one. She danced alongside him, biting ankles of any of the nightmares... And just before they won, she hopped back into the reality, so that he could never know she was there.

Ume is the chief of the bunny army residing in Kasugayama. She recruited the other bunny guardians herself.

--

Tag List: @cilokgoang @violettduchess @the12thnightproject @oda-princess @tele86

[true--north]

Night was falling on the Enchanted Forest, the misty dome turned soft red and tender pink, dissolving the light of the majestic sunset which they were not destined to see. The Northuldra tribe began to gather around the campfires to have dinner, rest and talk.

After a day full of work: caring for reindeer, fishing, picking berries, sewing, Honeymaren and Ryder met at their mother's, Yelana's kota. The tribal leader was in a melancholy mood, her heavy wise gaze thoughtful, her hands warming themselves up on a bowl of mushroom broth.

Honeymaren glanced meaningfully at her brother: "well, now Mama is definitely going to start remembering the old days again, and how life used to be easier and better."

And sure enough, looking at the neighbors trying to light a fire with a stone flint, Yelana quietly said:

“It wasn't like that before. As soon as we asked the Fire Spirit, the bonfires lit up by themselves.”

“Sure, Mama," Ryder muttered.

“You don't believe me, Son? Don't you dream about seeing the sky?” Yelana looked up at Ryder.

“I do, of course... Although I don't know what it is.” he shrugged.

Yelana sighed as she looked around the Forest. Of course, it looked beautiful and peaceful, bathing in a pink evening mist, but nothing will replace what was in the past.

“Everything was different then. We were blessed. We were rich. We lived in harmony with the Spirits. Each Element was to our aid and we honoured each of the Four. Water, the most important of all, the one who remembers everything. Air, without which there is no life, Fire that warms us and Earth that supports.”

It sounded like an ancient chant.

“But then something went wrong.” added Honeymaren, crossing her legs and looking questioningly at her mother.

A shadow passed over Yelana's face and she took a sip of the broth.

“The Arendellians desecrated the Forest and killed my father.” her voice became dark.

“On the other hand, thanks to the mist, even more of them did not come here.” remarked Honeymaren, maybe trying to cheer Yelana up a little.

“And there is no way out at all?” asked Ryder.

When he was younger, he often asked this question until he got tired of it. But today it felt somehow different. As if change was in the air. As if this evening full of light was special.

“We tried. Only legends remained...”

Yelana put the bowl on the moss and peered into the campfire, suddenly remembering the stories that her father had told her when she was a little curious child.

“Four spirits born from the Ice lie at the foundation of the World. But the old traditions told us about the lost Fifth Spirit who rules them all. If only we could find it, then maybe the Fifth Spirit would save us and bring everything back. Perhaps.”

“And where is it?” Honeymaren raised an eyebrow.

“I do not know. It's a legend. But you know what?" Yelana looked at her children seriously, “On the great and evil day of the Battle, I heard something strange. A voice. A song similar to the howling of the North wind, but much more beautiful. Somehow it gave my heart a consolation.”

“Do you think it was the Fifth Spirit, Mama?" Ryder beamed with hope.

“I don't think anything.”

“If it was the Fifth Spirit, then why did it silence? Where is it now?” Honeymaren demanded an answer, throwing a twig into the fire, "How can we find it?"

“Only Ahtohallan, the Mother of all Spirits, knows." Yelana shrugged and returned her attention to the soup, "We have to seek and wait. And remember.”

Honeymaren sighed softly, and Ryder slightly elbowed her.

“What if it's you, Honey, who will find the Fifth Spirit? Let me call it for you?”

Ryder chuckled and jokingly depicted how, in his opinion, the Spirit could sing. Honeymaren giggled and flinched at the sound of his terrible voice. It sounded like a wolf howling at the moon.

Yelana smiled discreetly, but shook her head.

“Don't joke with this, children. No one knows what the future can bring and whether the Fifth Spirit is not listening to us now.”

“Only Ahtohallan knows." echoed Honeymaren her mother's favourite saying.

Night was falling on the North. And further south along the Fjord, in a beautiful coastal castle, the young queen was tossing in her sleep. She dreamed of the Forest and the Song.

[islandiis]

BLINDSIDED !!

send BLINDSIDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were betrayed or shocked by what someone did

There are two men pinning him down by his ankles and by his wrists.

The sky is clear and the air is cold, and the grass he's been forced down into is certainly preferable to the abrasive rock that forms their land. A little ways off, there are people he knows - a farmhand and his girlfriend, both skirting eighteen. They keep their heads carefully turned away from him, despite Leifur's hissing and screaming. One of the men snarls him to shut up, and Leifur spits at him.

It is the fucking Norwegians, this is their doing. Leifur liked Tór, despite - he understood now - their initial meeting being an invasion. Tór gave him food. Deep down — despite failing to understand the intricacies of their existence, nor the political plays that these mortals weaponise — Leifur does not wish to believe that this is Tór's fault. It is the people, the Norwegian people, who came here to conquer and to pillage. Under Tór's instruction, yes, and yet...

Could Tór stop this, if he so wished? Could the Góðar?

It is King Olaf who sent Stefnir, King Olaf who sent Thangbrand to the Góðar, King Olaf who - now - has taken several of his people hostage in Norway. It is King Olaf threatening to take their life, should Iceland not convert.

He is aware, too, that the Góðar speak endlessly about Norway. That's all they ever seem to talk about: Norway, Norway, Norway. Friends, that's what they are, and they have to stay that way. It is because of Olaf. No decisions are ever made without the King's presence looming. He doesn't understand why, but he doesn't understand a lot of things. He thinks King Olaf is evil, and he cannot understand why his countrymen simply bow their heads to him. After all — is he not mortal, too?

"Fuck you," he hisses at the men, jerking his wrists against the restraints — ineffectually. Few men would be so heinous as to treat a child this way, but Leifur is no mortal child. He is an immortal boy, physically only five or six — but right now he is a rabid animal, the explosive embodiment of all the great fires of their land. He unleashes a barrage of curses a boy of his age should certainly not know, and he attempts to bite at one man's wrist. "Fuck you! You don't care about Sturla. You never cared about Sturla!"

"You don't even fucking know Sturla, boy."

Leifur spits at him again, then throws his head back against the ground and screams.

His countrymen all know him as a strange boy, coming and going as wildly as the winds of their homelands — and behaving just as erratically. His presence tends to inspire a variety of reactions: some find him endearing, while some find him offputting. They all find him familiar, though, even those he has never met before. He is, after all, the land they walk on and the water they drink. Regardless of how they may find him, he will be exist as they born and as they die.

"Stefnir destroyed everything!"

"And Stefnir is never coming back here."

"And now they've taken Sturla, your 'friend'. Coward!"

The man's chest heaves with rage, and for a moment he looks ready to strike the boy. "You question my fortitude as a man?"

Leifur stops thrashing momentarily to hold the man's gaze, violet eyes all but coring the man from the inside. "I don't question it. You are a coward."

Finally, the man grabs his hair and slams the boy's head back into the earth. Leifur doesn't seem to care or even really react, continuing, "And everyone who Thangbrand got are cowards!"

So, this boy is nothing more than a heathen, is he? It is unusual for one so young - and so isolated - to feel so strongly against the Christians. It was easier to understand it from the farmhands or the sons of the Góðar, but this boy who simply roams, who exists outside the bounds of their society? He doesn't even engage with the Góðar as he should. He may be their land, but he is disrespectful — a lucky little boy who does not know to appreciate what he has. It is infuriating, listening to him whine about the King and the political affairs he takes no interest in. Many of the Góðar are displeased, of course — but law is law, and blood is blood.

"You speak ill of the King and he will have your head, child."

"At least my head won't be bowed. I'm not a coward."

[amyrlinegwene]

Ok, so now that the trailer is out and we’ve gotten a better view of the new weaves, I’m going to give my initial reaction to the new weaves and also just an explanation of how I envisioned weaves when I was reading (which obviously is personal to how I interpreted the book). 

So, I’m starting with the disclaimer that since I did watch the show before reading the books the original weaves in season one did influence how I saw the weaves in my head, even though as I got farther into the series, it changed from the show weaves. 

To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the new weaves. When I had heard that they were making changes to the weaves, I was somewhat glad even though I liked the original weaves. I love magic system in the books so much and was excited to see the show give us detailed weaves and shapes and different combinations of threads making up weaves. 

The new weaves are colorful and seem to reflect the elements that make up the different five powers of threads (fire, air, earth, water, and spirit). I think in the trailer I saw green which would be earth, orange would be fire, white which would be air, gold which I think is spirit (the weave shielding Egwene is gold, and we know shields are made of elaborate weaves of spirit), and the poster shows blue which is probably water. 

Now, partially due to the show’s influence, when I read the books, I saw weaves as sort of transparent white, and the different threads weren’t necessarily different colors but more of different vibes (ie channelers would just innately know the difference) or maybe they were faintly different transparent colors. 

Now obviously if you want to differentiate the different types of threads in a visual format they have to be colored, there’s no way around that. However, I did think that the clearer weaves of the first season were better at making the viewer understand that weaves weren’t a necessarily a physical thing but manipulation of the pattern’s threads, and that only some people could see them. 

However, my biggest problem with the new weaves is that they still aren’t actually weaves. Now this is something that season 1 was flawed on too, but when they said they were going to improve the weaves, I thought this was one of the things that they were going to change. Now I feel like most of you will understand what I mean by this, but in case you don’t I mean that the weaves we’ve seen so far seem to all be of the same power (ie only earth or only fire) and the threads are not actually weaved together but rather seemed to be in a line next to each other and then the power flows over/around an object or subject. Examples:

Whereas in the books, many weaves consist of more than one power and the threads are weaved in particular patterns and shapes that may resemble lace or something elaborate. Yes, threads are often referred to as a flow of air etc, but it was pretty clear that weaves were complex shapes and almost knots of threads. 

Granted, we’ve only seen a few examples of the weaves from the trailer so they could maybe include more complex (real) weaves with different types of threads and more complex arrangements and weaving. I understand that these flowier types of channeling is probably easier to make cgi for, not to mention visually appealing and fitting with the water motif that the show uses. However I hope that we see at least a few more book inspired weaves in this season or future seasons, especially for weaves like Gateways, healing stilling/gentling, and especially for the uses of the bowl of winds.

Also just want to clarify since this is a really long post, that I don’t think that this is going to ruin the show for me or anything, or that I’m badmouthing the show (people should be allowed to critique elements of the show without being seen as a hater). And I understand that a lot of the decisions that went into the design of the weaves were probably for practical reason like I stated above. 

Also I want to know how other book readers saw the weaves in their heads, I just find it interesting so let me know!

[aimportantdragoncollector]

For Trioholders I'll suggest a Xiaolin Showdown AU. If you haven't seen the show you can disregard this, though I will recommend you give it a watch at some point, it's a fun show.

If you have seen it- the trio are xiaolin warriors trying to collect all the shen gong wu and protect the world from the heylin side. All three will be the dragon of one of the four elements (even though there's only 3 of them...) with Yoichi playing the role of omi, and AFO playing the role of Chase Young, trying to convert Yoichi to the Heylin side as his apprentice.

I have seen Xiaolin Showdown! What a blast from the past.

1. Yoichi is the young dragon of water. He and his brother were orphans raised at the temple together, until his big brother ran off to become evil. AFO is a huge embarrassment to Yoichi and he tries to pretend not to be related to him--which would be easier if AFO didn't call Yoichi "little brother" as soon as they ran into each other.

2. Kaiji is the dragon of fire. When they first meet, Kaiji is obsessed with technology and generally distant. Since Yoichi was raised in a temple, he's secretly fascinated with the outside world and wants to learn more. His secret pleasure is his weekly shipment of hair care products. Yoichi's favorite show is Captain Hero, because it's the only cartoon he's ever seen. The temple has a few ancient DVDs but no internet. When they first meet, Kaiji disses Captain Hero as an old-fashioned show and earns Yoichi's ire. They fight all the time. Secretly, Yoichi thinks that Kaiji is cool and Kaiji was infatuated with Yoichi from the moment they met.

3. Sanzou is the dragon of wind. He's calmer than the other two and plays peacemaker. Kaiji and Yoichi frequently fight over Sanzou's approval/affection. However Sanzou is fully aware that Kaiji and Yoichi have crushes on each other and feels like a third wheel. Sanzou does not realize they both like him too, because he has a blindspot in this one particular place.

4. Hikage Shinomori is the dragon of earth, younger by the others by a couple years. He's the true third wheel, forced to watch his seniors' endless romantic drama. He frequently hides in the temple basement to get away from it all.

5. Tomura Shigaraki is playing the role of Jack Spicer, competing with the trio for Shen Gong Wu and desperate to win AFO's approval. He's also perpetually caught up in the love triangle drama, and has a weird pseudo-friendship with Hikage over it.

6. AFO keeps taking advantage of how easy it is to magically force people to become evil/good in the Xiaolin Showdown universe to mind-control Yoichi. In turn, Yoichi is totally shameless about trying to force his brother to become good. There's a lot of face heel turns. In fact, one time Yoichi gets taken over by bad chi, but then when the other three come to rescue him, it's revealed that his chi is already fine and he sheepishly returns. It's unclear if it only worked because Yoichi expected it to work or if he just secretly wanted to spend some time with his big brother.

7. AFO also fakes being turned good repeatedly to steal Shen Gong Wu and Yoichi always falls for it. (In Yoichi's defense he's a preteen in this AU.) Also even when AFO gets turned good a couple times, he's still ruthless and basically only cares about Yoichi. He's just on a different side. Yoichi is in deep denial about this because he wants to believe his brother is good deep down when not influenced by that horrible villain "Garaki Bean."

8. In fact, you know that arc where Omi changes the past to bring Chase Young to the side of good? When Yoichi does that to AFO, nothing changes because it turns out AFO is just the same no matter his chi. Also when given a chance to sacrifice himself to repair the timeline, good AFO is just like..."nah I want to make my little brother happy and that means staying by his side. The timeline can get wrecked." Good ending maybe?

(All of these are free to use in my Three Weeks of Trioholders event.)

[fearlesstigerquotev]

Winterkälte

A Horror Oneshot

Warnings: Mild goreNotes: Reader pronouns used are he/him, written in third person POV. masterlist

The golden rays of dusk had distorted into drab grey by the time they arrived at the alpine hut. A father, his son, and their dog stumbled forward—fur jackets drenched with sweat and melted snow. It clung to their bodies like leeches, biting into their flesh and stinging their skin. The boy's complexion mottled an ugly puce, splotches of purple had already formed on his lips. His shrill complaints drilled into his father's ears before the latter threw him a tiny sausage to satiate his hunger. Only the dog showed no signs of discomfort—it rolled around in the snowbed without a care in the world; typical behavior.

(Name's)—the father's—trained eyes scanned the horizon. From North to South, craggy peaks rose as far as the eye could see, draped in a sheet of ice and snow. He recognized some of them, he had visited this alpine hut with his father and grandfather before. Schreckhorn and Kleiner Schreckhorn were the names of the distant peaks, if his foggy memory served him right. If he squinted, he could see his mountain village nestled in the valley below—smoke billowed from multiple chimneys. He wondered if his extended family had already gone to bed.

Unbroken white covered the land, only broken by the occasional dark patch of forest. It was foolish of him to have strayed away from the established trail, but his son had insisted that they take the longer, more scenic route. Not that he blamed him—it was his first time joining his father on this trip. Eyes lit up with awe and wonder, the father could not resist the temptation of letting his son explore the wilderness. After all, he needed to become acquainted with the route—his son, his grandson, and their sons would need to maintain the hiking trail for generations to come. Every curve, every dip in the road had to be hammered into their minds in case they ever met a lost traveler in the mountains. Then, they would have to guide the lost soul back to the alpine hut and prepare them a warm meal, provide them with medical attention, new clothes.

The wind picked up, and the dog barked. His son tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, yelling at him to open the door. (Name) turned and twisted at the ice-covered doorknob, the metal slipping between his fingers. Strange, this used to be easier in his youth. After many attempts, the trio floundered into the dry hut. Almost instantly, the boy disposed of his drenched jacket and ran into the rickety kitchen in search of water and food. The dog stood guard outside, scratching its ears with its hind legs; typical behavior. Meanwhile, the father grumbled and placed both their jackets in front of the fireplace, before sparking a flame. 

The fledgling flame sputtered at first, wavering against the chill that permeated the hut's bones. Yet (Name) nursed it, feeding it tender scraps of timber and brittle tinder. Gradually, it took hold, orange tongues licking up the logs akin to how his dog licks up the scraps thrown its way. A comforting warmth blossomed from the hearth, banishing the pervasive cold. It caressed the father's numb, frozen skin, thawing the icy ache in his old joints. He exhaled in satisfaction as feeling returned to his fingertips, the fire's heat penetrating deeper, massaging away the day's exertions.

Like a moth attracted to the flame, the son came bouncing toward the hearth, holding a batch of biscuits in his hand. Annoyed, the father scolded him for eating the food reserved for travelers. But the boy complained that there was no more food left in the pantry, nor water. And even that was infested with worms, rendering it undrinkable for the lowest vermins of Earth. Only a few bottles of whiskey sat in the cupboard, and the boy refused to let the alcohol slip past his purple lips.

This wasn't normal. Had a fox found its way inside and ate the dried meat? Or a wolf? Did he forget to fill the barrel with fresh water from his last trip? The man pursed his lips and swung his jacket over his shoulders—they had been given barely enough time to soak up the fire's heat. With a gruff cough, he told his son to stay indoors, and not open the door until he returned. The boy asked where he was going. "To the creek," replied (Name), "to gather fresh water for us." "How about just melting the snow from outside?" "No. Too dirty. Besides, I'll bring back some fish if I'm lucky. Yes, fish stew will warm us up in no time." The creek flowed all year round inside a forest, so there existed no fear of it freezing over. There was no need for the boy to worry, it was a short walk away, and besides, the dog would keep him company.

The boy protested, he wouldn't let his father walk off into the endless woods. Especially not with night approaching. But (Name) dismissed his concerns, securing his son's survival was more important. Parental instincts were such a strange phenomenon—he couldn't let his son die of thirst. The father had walked that path at least a thousand times during his youth; saying that he was well-acquainted with the mountains was an understatement. (Name) grabbed a flask and was almost out the door when he had a second thought. Maybe he should bring a lantern? No need, he'd make it back before darkness settled, or so he convinced himself.

The boy and the dog watched him leave for the forest. He was right—the boy could hear a little trickle of water running in the distance. Or was it the wind? He wondered when his father would return.

Above him, the clouds darkened, covering the sky in black ink.

(Name) continued through the level forest for several kilometers. Then he went down a bank to the frozen path of a small stream. Around him stood towering pine trees, their short leaves and pinecones glistening with a soft powder of snow.

How peculiar, the stream had frozen over. Maybe the weather was colder than usual. The man speared the ice with a wooden branch. Then he bent down and filled his flask with fresh water. Internally, he scolded himself for not bringing a second flask. Perhaps the boy could come here tomorrow with the barrel. 

The clear water burbled merrily as it flowed over the sheet of ice and smoothened pebbles. But its cheerful demeanor concealed its biting chill. As the man dipped his flask into the stream, icy droplets sprang forth and spattered his mittens. The wet wool clung to his skin, soaking through to his flesh beneath. The cold was a knife's edge, slicing into his numb fingers. It stole the meager warmth he had regained, replacing it with an aching, bone-deep freeze.

He grimaced, flexing his fingers within the sodden mittens. Oh, how he longed to cast them away, but that was out of the question.

So he endured, grunting as the cold sliced his skin like a butcher's blade. He focused on thoughts of the fire, recalling its tender kiss on his frigid skin. The memory sustained him as he secured the now-full flask and rose on creaking knees.

But when he turned to return, his heart sank into his frozen boots. While preoccupied, a fresh coat of snow had stealthily fallen, concealing his footsteps in a featureless blanket of white. The sun had dipped below the horizon, abandoning him to the pitch-black night.

Had it always been so dark? Did the stars shift, or was his imagination playing tricks on him?

Panic rose in his throat. At the sub-zero alpine temperature, hypothermia could set in within a moment's notice. How long did it take him to reach the creek? Half an hour.

He had to move, now.

Though his mind churned with rising panic, the man forced himself to focus. (Name) noted each twist and turn of the frozen creek, etching the landscape into memory. The silhouette of the treeline, branches clawing at the night sky. They reached out to grab him. The positions of the stars overhead, their faint light just enough to illuminate hazards underfoot. The crunch of snow beneath boots, the wet chill needling his skin, the faint whiff of woodsmoke teasing his nostrils.  Step after precarious step, he pressed forward, trusting his honed awareness to preclude a misstep. His life now hinged on keen sight, touch, smell—senses locked in a singular purpose, to spit in Death's face and live to see his son.

His knees buckled without warning, spilling him face-first into the snow's embrace. The powder swallowed him greedily, soaking through his jacket, saturating every fiber with mind-numbing cold. The wet fabric clung to him, heavy and constricting, leaching away his fading body heat. He gasped as the chill pierced his skin like a thousand frozen needles, freezing the very marrow in his bones. Violent shivers wracked his exhausted body. Bleak despair flooded his mind, the cruel mountain indifferent to his cries.

He cursed himself for leaving in the dead of night, for being too arrogant to turn back sooner. Visions of his son and dog huddled by the fire taunted him—so close, yet hopelessly out of reach. He laughed at his own foolishness. As he laughed, he noted the numbness in his concealed fingers. He wondered whether they were warm or whether they were numb. He moved them inside the mittens and decided that they were numb.

Fire. He needed fire. 

Was this the panic his ancestors felt? Hopeless to the whims of Mother Nature? 

Clenching and unclenching his hands, he forced a sliver of feeling back into his hands. He didn't want to look at them, he knew they were frostbitten. With a loud grunt, the father forced himself to his feet and trudged toward one of the pine trees. Around him, the blizzard raged, the winds howling in his ears. In the distance, he swore he heard the dog barking, and his son shouting for him to take another step.

One.

Two.

He couldn't anymore.

(Name) collapsed against the side of an ancient pine tree, chest heaving up and down. A few pinecones lay scattered around, which he picked up promptly. Fishing out a box of matches, he soon had a little fire going. The pinecones burned reluctantly, the resin snapping and popping as (Name) coaxed the balky tinder alight. Flames sputtered from the cones in fits and starts, writhing weakly before being smothered by wisps of inky smoke. The meager fire crackled and hissed, devouring the cones in smoldering, lackluster gulps. The smoke, pungent and cloying, clawed at his throat and stung his eyes. He could taste the acrid pine tar coating his tongue. It certainly was still cold, was his thought. But he was safe.

First, he melted the ice off his eyes and nose—or, at least tried to. The heat was nowhere near enough to remove all the icicles, but it was a welcome change nonetheless. (Name) rubbed his hands in front of the fire, praying that it would give him strength to breathe one more breath, walk one more step, live one more second. He looked like a newborn fawn, struggling to move, dependent on warmth.  He fed the flame with pinecones the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to feed it with larger branches. Afterward, he would throw in a log, then a tree, then another tree another tree—another tree—burn down the forest—melt the snow; bask in the warmth—laugh in the face of the Devil; laugh in the face of Death—see his son and pet his dog—walk—back down the mountain; back to the village, soak in a hot tub and eat the finest meals known to mankind—just another pinecone—another one—

There were none left.

No more. None at all.

Please, if there's a God, save me! thought the man as he desperately blew on the embers. 

But before he could blink, it happened. It was his own fault, or rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the pine tree. He should have built it in an open space. But it had been easier to pick the pinecones from the base of the trunk and drop them directly on the fire.

Now, this tree in particular carried a sizable amount of snow on its branches. And even his son would know what happens to snow in the presence of fire.

High in the branches, a single mound of snow slipped loose, crashing down on limbs below. This triggered a chain reaction, the impacts shuddering through the tree, dislodging more of the frozen white. It built into an avalanche that plummeted without warning upon the unsuspecting man and the fire. The fire died. Atop its grave lay a lump of fresh snow.

The man was too stunned to speak.

He was all alone. 

Alone.

Shivering.

In the Alps.

Without a fire.

In soaking clothes.

Caught in a blizzard.

Had the air always been so cold?

Yes. No. Always. Never. Yes.

No more cold. No more cold. No more cold.

In one swift motion, he ripped the sodden mittens from his hands with chattering teeth. Cradling the matchbox, he sandwiched it between his bare palms - the only part of him not yet frozen stiff. Arm muscles burning with exertion, he scraped the box forcefully along its rough striking edge. The matches erupted in a single brilliant flare, all ninety igniting at once! (Name) blinked against the sudden flare, eyes stinging. But something was wrong. The flames, fueled by an unholy force, engulfed his hands, searing the flesh and melting the sinew. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and the smoke rose to the high heavens. From the comfort of the alpine hut, it must have looked like an ordinary campfire.  The father screamed in agony, his eyes watering from the acrid stench. Could his son see him? Hear him? Or could the dog catch a whiff of his blood and flesh, leading the boy to his location? But wait. None of that mattered anymore. He had fire. He had warmth. And it felt so damn good.

Nothing could stop him now. His battered knees sprung to life as he raced through the woods. He felt as though he were flying. He grew a pair of wings and zipped through the trees. Faster and faster. In the corner of his eyes, he saw a wolf. A big one. Black. Black eyes. Black fur. I'll race you! You'll never catch me! Not you, or your pack!

(Name) cackled as he ran. Before he knew it, he had reached the alpine hut. The man threw aside the matches and banged on the door with all his might, yelling at his son with a sing-song voice to open the damned door. His hands were red, purple, blue, blistered, frost-bitten—anything and everything at once.

Bang!

The skin peeled off like wet paper.

Bang!

Revealing the muscles underneath. Pulsating muscles, glistening with a sickly sheen.

Bang!

Then the muscles fell off, and the bones clattered against the door frame. Brittle bones. Clattering to the floor like splinters.

He heard the dog barking inside. It was alive! But why won't his son open the door! Open up! I'll gut you up and plunge my hand in your stomach if you don't open the door this instant! I need warmth! My skin is burnt! I don't care! Your muscles and skin shall be used to make a new hand, new body—your soul shall become one with mine! I see you staring at me through the window! Why are you scared! It's me, your father! I have the water! In the flask! From the creek! See! You want my clothes? Take them! I don't need them anymore! Damn it! Son! Open the door!

He stopped. It was useless. The wolf had caught up to him. But it didn't snarl. (Name) looked down at his hand—now a charred stump. Bone. Cracks in the bone. Bone marrow. Ha. Ha. Ha.

He slumped to his knee and the wolf did so as well. Strange, why was this wild animal so docile? Like a dog. His dog. Good boy.

Would his son ever find his body? Would the dog lick him awake? And what is this wolf doing here? 

Ah, no matter. This is comfortable. There are worse ways to die.

Snow fell from the roof above. In front of the door stood a lump of snow. And next to it, lay the wolf.

[ausetkmt]

‘Bamboozled’ is the Forgotten Gem in Spike Lee’s Career

A new Criterion Collection edition of the 2000 film—about a primetime TV minstrel show that becomes a hit—means its finally time to give this scorched-earth satire its due

It still shocks you. No matter how many times you’ve seen those images, in history books and documentaries, museum exhibits and memorabilia collections, banned cartoons and the occasional old movie preserved on TCM (and preceded by a warning), the actual witnessing of it still stops you in your tracks. You don’t have to know that people would place corks in a small metal bowl, pour alcohol on them, light them on fire, mash the ashes and add water. (Later, a performer might have used standard shoe polish, but this was the traditional method.) You don’t even have to observe them methodically apply that concoction to their foreheads, cheeks, nose, chin, jawline, or complement the look with red lipstick. You just have to see the result — the actual look of blackface on someone — to feel shaken. And this time, it’s not in faded black and white but in living 21st-century color, staring right back at you.

Spike Lee knows the historical import of these images. He understands the power of cinema, and the necessity of provocation, and how sometimes a blunt instrument is required in lieu of a sharp blade. He’s aware of how the minstrel show had been used to dehumanize people, to reduce them and belittle them, and how so much of that legacy continued even after that mode of entertainment became a thing of the “distant past.” Bamboozled, his 2000 satire — Lee has his lead character read the definition of the word “satire” to the audience in the opening sequence, just to silence any doubters — talks much trash and throws a lot of caricaturish, over-the-top stuff at you in its first act. Some of it inspires eye-rolling, as obvious targets get pincushioned. Other bits have you laughing despite your better angels and instincts.

Then it arrives at the moment when two actors have to “blacken up.” The film follows each step. This scene will repeat itself throughout the film three times, all of them set to Terence Blanchard’s musical lament. During the third go-round, you can see tears rolling down one of the man’s cheeks. Each time they finish the ritual, mugging desperately into the camera as they bound onto a TV studio’s stage, made up to look like the previous 50 years never happened, you get the wind knocked out of you. That’s the point. Lee has made something that could be considered a comedy. But he’s not playing around.

Editor’s picks

Nestled in between his highly successful concert movie of the highly successful comedy tour The Original Kings of Comedy and his stunning post-9/11 parable 25th Hour, Bamboozled has been consigned to being an odd blip on his filmography. Audiences were baffled. Critics were bent out of shape over it. The movie was considered too on-brand to be an outlier but too scattershot to be a masterpiece, too broad, too sour, too black, too strong. Now that the Criterion Collection has just released a new DVD/Blu-ray edition of this long out-of-print title, it’s easier to recognize this cri de coeur for what it is: a history lesson on decades of screen (mis)representation, a look back in anger but also profound sorrow, a flawed and sometimes flailing takedown that becomes more effective the more times you see it. At the turn of the century, it seemed like an crude attempt at sketch comedy. Twenty years later, the movie feels like a forgotten gem in Spike’s career, one who’s spit-polish and reappraisal comes at the exact right moment.

https://www.rollingstone.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/Bamboozled.jpg?w=1024

Bamboozled‘s premise is the most modest of proposals: TV producer Pierre Delacroix (Damon Wayans) wants to make shows about average, middle-class African-American families. His white boss (Michael Rappaport), who claims to know more about black culture then the man sitting in front of him, wants more “hip” and outrageous programming. So, in an effort to get fired, Delacroix and his assistant Sloan Hopkins (Jada Pinkett Smith) suggest The New Millennium Minstrel Show. It’s exactly what it sounds like: an update of an old-fashioned 19th-century variety show full of songs, dances, skits and corrosive stereotypes. He hires two street performers, Manray and Womack (tap-dancing phenom Savion Glover and In Living Color‘s Tommy Davidson), to play “Mantan” and his sidekick “Sleep ‘n’ Eat.” The exec suggests they set it on a plantation; Delacroix offers the idea of a watermelon patch instead. They produce a pilot that makes those old Amos & Andy episodes look like Joe Turner’s Come and Gone. Delacroix believes that something this blatantly offensive is destined to get him canned. Naturally, the network gives him a 12-episode order. The nation gives him a hit show.

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It’s a tale as old as time, or at least The Producers. Mel Brooks’ farce is a simply a high point in “sick” humor, however, and an expansion on the notion that comedy is tragedy plus time divided by bad taste, a wink and massive cajones. Bamboozled has other things on its troubled mind, namely the use of entertainment as a propaganda tool and a prejudice machine. On the Criterion edition’s supplementary disc, there’s a conversation between Lee and critic/programmer Ashley Clark (whose book Facing Blackness is a brilliant forensic dissection of the film) in which the director admits that prior to the project’s conception, he’d been thinking a lot about two then-recent birthdays: the centennial of the movies and the 50th anniversary of television. These were mediums he dearly loved, and that showed him the world. They also reflected back a purposefully one-sided, less-than-one-dimensional view of the African-American experience. Many filmmakers launched counterattacks by the late ’90s — not just Lee, but also Charles Burnett, Julie Dash, Melvin Van Peebles, John Singleton, Kasi Lemmons, Gordon Parks, Ivan Dixon, Kathleen Collins, Marlon Riggs, and a growing list of others.

Yet for every Losing Ground, there was decades of lost ground via endlessly recycled images of buffoons and simpletons. There was also the Seventies sitcoms like Good Times and The Jeffersons, which — assuming Bamboozled‘s skeptical view of them was reflective of its creator’s mindset — Lee also saw as harmful. Minstrelsy was gone, but what lay at the roots of those shows wasn’t dead. It had just changed its makeup. Still, what would happen if someone really tried to resurrect those old vaudeville-style, pre-Civil War to Jim Crow era shows and sell them as ready-for-primetime programming? For Delacroix, it was a way out of a bankrupt creative situation, with the delusional notion of it being a subversive way to smuggle social commentary in. For Sloan, it’s a way to prove to her militant brother (Yasiin “Mos Def” Bey) that she’s not a corporate sellout. For the two New Millennium actors, who view TV as a level-up from tap-dancing in midtown for chump change, it’s a way to “keep the income coming in.” Everyone ends up losing a piece of their soul regardless of their motivations.

Delacroix gets checkmated because he inadvertently gives the people exactly what they want — a little bit of that “Make America Great Again” throwback mockery. (Dig how the movie’s crude look, courtesy of a consumer DV camera, switches to Super 16mm lushness during these sequences. It’s like gazing a beautiful, poisonous flower.) Soon, the studio audience is showing up in blackface, with everyone pledging allegiance to a racial epithet. Pierre ends up surrounded by kitsch racist-memorabilia, a piggy bank taunting him by throwing endless phantom coins into its mouth. Sloan and the show’s stars end up broken. Like Network, one of several movies which Bamboozled owes a partial debt to, the narrative ends with a plea to yell that you’re not going to take it anymore, and a death. Delacroix’s experiment has spectacularly backfired. So had Spike’s, for the opposite reason: He’d given folks something they really didn’t want in 2000, i.e. to have their face rubbed in a centuries’ worth of hate.

There’s a lot going on in Bamboozled that isn’t a direct poke in your eye, of course. There’s Wayans’ Harvard-affected, every-syllable-has-its-day accent, which is the perfect aural equivalent of his name. There are the arguments between Smith, who’s genuinely wonderful in the movie, and Bey about ideology. There is Bey’s group the Mau-Mau’s, Spike’s scorched-earth take on revolution-spouting, consciousness-raising hip-hop groups and the one thing even the film’s fans have a hard time with. There’s Paul Mooney as Junebug, Pierre’s dad and a comedian who’s admirably stuck to his well-honed club shtick; in a perfect world, the movie would’ve helped reintroduce this legendary stand-up and Richard Pryor collaborator to a larger audience. (Chappelle’s Show would accomplish that a few years later.) And there’s the commercial parodies, from “Bomb Malt Liquor” to a deathblow critique of Tommy Hilfiger’s marketing to the African-American community.

But the underlying feelings that inform the movie are rage and pain. That’s what you see in Delacroix’s eyes when his boss brusquely uses slurs and ill-advised slang to prove the he’s more “down,” and when the producer says that he refuses to keep pumping out shit “like Homeboys in Outer Space” — a hilarious throwaway line until you remember this was a real, honest-to-God series. You see it in his face when white coworkers excitedly praise him and he watches white people cracking up at the performers denigrating themselves for their delight. (It’s hard to watch these scenes and not think of Dave Chappelle’s story about seeing a Caucasian crew member laugh a little too intensely at a sketch, a moment that forced the comedian to pull the plug on his own show.) And you definitely see it in Bamboozled‘s coup de grace, a climactic roll call of racist screen imagery throughout the ages that presents you with a century’s worth of humiliation 24 frames per second.

This is the history the film wants to remind you of; this is the history it wants you to reckon with. And seeing the movie through the lens of our current moment, history has indeed been kind — agonizingly so — to what Bamboozled is talking about. That so many people have inherently picked up what Lee was putting down and used that as a sort of template for what writer/critic Evan Narcisse called “the New Black Absurdity” has helped its mode of attack feel remarkably familiar,. You can see its legacy in everything from the cinema du Afro-punk to Atlanta, Terence Nance’s unclassifiable surreality to Sorry to Bother You. Even Spike himself would go back to this bitter aesthetic well with BlacKkKlansman.

It’s plus ça change perversity of it all — the constant sheer WTF-edness and creeping feeling of progress being undone by violence and oppression — re: life circa 2020 that really makes Bamboozled feel like it was made for here and now. It’s time has come, wonderfully and regrettably. Reached by phone a few days after the DVD’s release, Clark noted that “in 2000, when this film came out, it was: ‘Spike, we know blackface is bad, get over it.’ If this had come out in 2008, it would have been received even worse: ‘Spike, we live in post-racial America now, you’re so out of touch.’ Right now, we have a President tweeting out miracle cures, people like Sheriff David A. Clarke considered to be pundits and the Diamond and Silk appearing on Fox. The really scary thing is that, 20 years on, Bamboozled feels incredibly contemporary. It doesn’t look so extreme after all…and when you consider the content of this film, that’s a very troubling thing.”

[zerotheclasspector]

So good to see an active classpector these days. Can I ask you how you personally decide upon land quests for a given classpect?

Thank you! I really enjoyed reading your takes on the Homestuck aspects!

To create a player’s Land and Quest, I need to know a bit more about them than just their Classpect. I’ll use an idea I had for the Prince of Time as an example. I proposed that one reason they may be lacking in time is that they are dying to a terminal disease or that they have a condition that has shortened their lifespan. Having more knowledge on the character allows me to take the first step: Creating the player’s land.

A player’s land is composed of two main elements. These aspects are usually based on the player’s aspect and how they interact with it (aka their Class). However, if the player’s aspect is Space, then one of those elements is guaranteed to be “Frogs”. Another thing that sometimes affects the Land elements is that some sessions have a theme of sorts. We only see them in the Human sessions, but not in the Troll sessions, for some reason. The B1 theme was the classical elements (Earth, Wind, Water, Fire), and the B2 theme was Noble Gases (Helium, Neon, Xenon, Krypton). If I was creating Lands for a whole session of players, I may create a theme for them all. So, for a Time player who has a deadly illness, and assuming their not in a session with a particular theming, I propose the “Land of Rot and Machines”. The “Rot” element refers to the Prince’s condition and the destructive nature of the Prince class, and the “Machines” element is mean to call back to hospital devices, as the Prince is likely quite familiar with them. With these elements, I can imagine a Land that has been devastated by some kind of plague, needing machines to keep it alive. Consorts are another part of Land creation, but are far simpler. There are four basic choices, Turtles, Lizards, Salamanders, and Crocodiles. It’s also implied that Serpent-Angels and Giant-Floating-Brains can function as consorts, but that’s unclear. Honestly, there are no real patterns to the consorts, so just it doesn’t matter that much. Now that I know the general characteristics of the Land, I can start to actually create the Quest itself.

The Quest for a player should A. Use the characteristics of the Land B. Be solved using the skills of the player’s Classpect and C. Help the player grow as a person. For our planet LORAM, the player’s goal would be to stop the plague from killing all of the consorts on the planet, as the machines can no longer hold it back. However, during the quest, the player would realize that plague is completely unstoppable, and that nothing they can do would completely remove the plague. The Prince would realize that they only have one option to stop the plague, freeze it in time. They would use their ability to destroy Time to permanently stop the plague from spreading. This would help the Prince of Time grow by giving them some insight about themself. They would have to confront the plague, which represents the inevitability of their disease, head on. However, by stopping the plague with their Time powers, they would learn that they actually have a way out of their fate: Fully embracing their role as a Prince of Time by going God Tier. They would be in a new body, unaffected by their condition. This would allow them to better themselves easier, now that they have escaped a predicted death.

So this is my long-winded explanation of how I come up with Lands and Quests. To sum it up, I need the character’s Classpect and a few things about their life/personality so I can create a planet’s elements, which I use to challenge the player to embrace their Classpect’s role so they can grow as a person.