#monk synth

[dungeonsynthguide]

Gelure The Candlelight Tomes (2021)

[zegalba]

Seoul The Soloist: 'Himalayan Ambient' (2023)

[389]

“Himalayan Ambient” by Seoul The Soloist (2023)

[sideblogdotjpeg]

another little thing for this au by @stone-stars (and me!)

[magicbunnystar]

I like to think Synth being the nicest one while the others are just serious

[amoodybun]

[42/100]

A Bernese Mountain Dog Monk!

A friend once curled up for a nap on his back. He is too friendly to call he foe before they met. All things are a monk’s friend you see.

All the Dogs so far!

Inprint  | Redbubble  | Ko-Fi

[cyrsed]

i made this yesterday to illustrate something to my wives sdkljfsldk this is not meant to be serious lmao & not all these people are autistic (or known to be autistic), i’m going for Vibes

it also annoyed me that it was so hard to find people who aren’t a cis white man. there’s so many layers that are missing here bc i couldn’t find a well known archetypal example lol so like. suggest me people who exhibit that autist swag

[orange-coloredsky]

antiblackness became rooted in the story of fo4 from the moment they decided to put a twist the literal plight of enslaved africans into a story about robot civil rights. the freedom trail and the railroad are a weird mash up an of american-middle-school-level historical understanding of Black americans' fight for freedom and like. genuine white-saviorism. do i believe theres a way to write android-rights fiction without being antiblack? probably. ive read a decent amount of sci fi with similar themes that didnt rub me so wrong. but the inclusion of historical locations and factions as some nod to what im assuming they meant to be cyclical history is fucking disturbing. the synth plight in fo4 is so haphazard and full of holes but what they happened to nail down is so abhorrent that i throw a majority of it away when im writing any of my stories.

the speculative issue of android personhood can be attached to so many other ideas besides fucking slavery and Black american trauma. the talos principle (one of my favorite robot centered video games) looks at it through the lens of philosophy and religion. the monk and robot series is about exploring and understanding cultures outside the one youre used to. asimov goes at it from the angle of literal functionality: the three laws and how they can be followed, or bent, depending on a robot's level of taking things literally. these stories arent flawless or written by perfect people in any way, but dear god they are a shining example of how we can explore what makes a person or what makes a "human" versus "nonhuman" without shoving poorly researched and heavily whitewashed american history into our story about robots.

[korpuskat]

Eleven Years - Ch2

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: T (this chapter, Explicit future chapters) WC: 1,464 Warnings: Kidnapping; Stockholm Syndrome, imprisonment, isolation, manipulation, future extreme dubcon, & mind break.

[Chapter 1]

==

He doesn’t stay long the first day. Shock had settled deep into your mind and whatever warm, lingering questions that flittered hopefully from his synth are met only with the cold, numb ice block of your psyche. Nothing comes in, nothing comes out. Even the last fleeting touch of the backs of his fingers to your face are lost to you.

Ramattra was here. He was the one waging a global war, imprisoning his own kind… imprisoning you. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps he was always more guarded than the other monks you had met, more vocal about the mistreatment omnics faced, but it had always been balanced out by compassion, a drive to help his brethren and provide a safe haven for them.

This…? Nobody would be safe at the end of this. All he’ll do is make humans distrust omnics all over, give them one more excuse. And whatever he’s doing to the omnics you saw online? The ones with strange helmets, surrounded by big, panicked posts warning all omnics to run... You don’t want to believe he’s set out to hurt them, but you don’t want to believe much of what you’ve seen, either.

When he’s gone, you curl up on the bed, your back to the door. No tears come.

When the door opens again- you shuffle off the far side of the bed. There’s nowhere to run, but it doesn’t stop you from getting as far from him as you can. Even if it’s on the floor, tangled in the comforter that fell with you- shooting daggers at him as viciously as you can.

Ramattra’s expression cannot change, but he hesitates as the door lowers into place again. He aches to see such hatred on your features, but there’s no going back. He’s suffered and can withstand the pain of this, too, for your sake. Besides, he can’t blame you. It’s taken him years and a global journey to see what must truly be done- being dropped into the middle of it is a jarring experience, he’s sure. You just need some time and patience- he’s happy to give you both and more.

“I brought you tea.”

Your eyes lower from his faceplate. Sure enough, a plain black mug looks comically small, cradled in his two large hands. Steam curls from the top- and the scent of warm spices wafts to you. Cinnamon and cardamom wash over you- rage and grief rising to meet it. How dare he-

“I remembered,” He says as he slides onto the bed. The frame doesn’t even creak, doesn’t whine at a quarter of his weight like the one you had in Nepal. You’d ended up getting rid of it, leaving your mattress on the floor, smothered in pillows and blankets to make it comfortable, just so he could sit with you and- “In Annapurna, the tea you bought. You wanted Manish to stock it.”

The owner, back at the store. You'd forgotten his name. He was stubborn, probably sensible. The workmen won’t drink that. He’d argued, too fancy for them. Anyone bull-headed enough to move to a town below an omnic monastery and then complain about the bots wouldn’t give a shit about spiced tea. No, it was your tea, the one you’d travel to get, only sold by the vendor there in Annapurna. You liked her, she had real passion about what she made.

Ramattra moves slowly, keeps most of his weight planted on the far corner of the bed from you. He leans over and leaves the mug on the nightstand closest to you. Still, you shuffle further away, down past the foot of the bed, not stopping until your back is pressed to the far wall. As much distance as you can get.

If it hurts him, he doesn’t let it show. He just sits, waits, watches you from across the room, his hands settled into his lap. It’s weird, seeing this much of him- he’d been so nervous the first time he’d shed his robes in front of you, just for you to inspect the damage to his side. An old scar from a fight you hadn’t seen.

That damage is gone now, repaired, leaving only shiny, imposing bars of armor.

“Are you hungry? I can bring you dinner.”

Your glare turns sharp again, softened with the memory. You don’t want his gifts, his pleas for forgiveness for what he’s done. Playing on your feelings like that… Even if he cared enough to remember, to use it now when he’s stolen you away from your own life? It sickens you.

After a moment Ramattra nods softly. “Perhaps later, then.” He stands, hands clasped together in front of him. And he looks at you, tips his head, raises his shoulders as though he’s going to speak again- but thinks better of it. He leaves- and the room is quieter without the hum of his inner workings.

You hadn’t even thought of them in so long, the actual noise of it.

On sleepless nights you’d open up an old laptop you’d bought ages back, utterly obsolete in every way. The slightest pressure on its CPU and its fan would spin loud and hard. You couldn’t remember what he sounded like exactly- but it was close enough to let you sleep. The laptop was too high pitched you know now, the singular fan too small, the vent too open. Ramattra was a deep hum, no whistling air, all complicated ventilation and self-regulation.

You pull your knees up to your chest, press your face into them, and cry.

You don’t know how long you spend staring at the mug. Conveniently, your room does not have a single clock- no way to know how long you’ve been here. No windows to tell day from night, the lights don’t even dim to simulate it.

But it feels much longer than later. Because you cried until your eyes were sore and then cried more, and when you had no tears left you stayed there, curled up in a ball and wishing you’d died to his bots before he could find you. Restlessness drove you to stand and something else made you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the black ceramic.

You lift your hand, but hesitate to even touch your side. As though that alone would be a slight against yourself. But the mug and its contents have gone cool. The only indication of time at all.

The corners of your eyes, your nose, your throat all itch. It’s thirst that’s brought you to sit down here.

You don’t have to drink it. There’s a bathroom, a sink- and you doubt he’s planned all this just to forget running water. You could dump it- you want to-

But when your fingers curl around the handle, they shake. Even cold, the spices bring forth memories from better times. You didn’t know it then- can never know, can you?- when it’s the good times you’ll look back on later. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but you were content, more or less.

Unhappy enough to leave him.

Happy enough to wish, years later, that you hadn’t.

Couldn’t you have put aside your complaints about his anxieties or learned to live with them? Could you have put away your own insecurities and just believed him when he told you he was afraid? The questions have plagued you on those nights you’re alone in the dark. You were so young, so stupid. Why couldn’t you have been happy with what you had? The thought makes you sour, because how dare you have wants and needs beyond what he could give you.

It’s the same circle you’ve been treading down for years. Round and round, you should’ve stayed, he was good to you, you were right to leave, he wasn’t ready for a relationship.

It had been safe to dream about him, about the time you’d been together because it was all fantasy. In all likelihood you were never going to see him again, never get a chance to find out if you had made the correct choice. In the safety of your mind he’d become a beacon when the harsh realities of life had closed in- when yet another disappointment left you more jaded.

It doesn’t feel so safe anymore, staring down into the dark liquid. You spent years seeking his imaginary comforts, wishing that he would bring you tea on the hard days, just like this. Your lip wobbles, another wave of tears building behind your eyes.

The tea is cold on your tongue, but its spices are still warm and vibrant and make you think of red and orange blankets, of machine oil, of his hand so delicately on the small of your back.

[Chapter 3]

[lemonmint-the-neko]

You're right, it probably *is* just the colors 😅

And I have a lot of dystopia headcanons too, so here's a few of them :)

-Koukaki can actually change the shape of the object in his head, but he prefers keeping it pyramid shaped

-Foubreak *towers* over Monk, so if Monk is being problematic, Foubreak just picks him up and let him tire himself out before putting him back down (kinda like how you would handle a toddler)

-Monk rarely speaks english, even though he can, and only Foubreak can understand Monk's gibberish

-Synth has been there the longest, being there before the construction of the Cumulor (Synth was in V6, which canonically comes before V8)

-Believe is probably some sort of priest (it would make lot of sense considering his lyrics)

-Reach is *not* a robot wearing some sort of human mask (I've *actually* seen this interpretation), he's just a cyborg

[mywifeleftme]

361: bill bissett & The Mandan Massacre // Awake in Th Red Desert

Awake in Th Red Desert bill bissett & Th Mandan Massacre 1968, See/Hear Productions (Bandcamp)

(From “mor memoreez uv marvara reel konversaysyun,” scars on the seehors, Talonbooks 1999)

That’s a sample of how poet bill bissett’s writing looks on the page, phonetic and arbitrary, intuitive and free, while also checking the reader from taking any word for granted. The poems are frequently conversational in tone, but the way you have to sound out his writing to understand it means the reader's cadence ends up replicating the idiosyncratic singsong way bissett speaks. The 84-year-old remains a one-of-a-kind live performer, doodling all over the line between spoken poetry and song. He croons nonsense lullabies and pastiche ragas, shakes a maraca, intones mantras until their familiar words lose all their sense, even dances a little. It’s funny—I wouldn’t recommend his writing to someone unfamiliar with the avant-garde, but I would confidently take just about any open-minded person to see one of his shows. He has the affect of a holy fool or a joyful monk, and basically anything he does makes more sense in the context of his corporeal presence.

Back in 1968 though, bill was a wild young man, and Awake In Th Red Desert, his LP with backing “band” Th Mandan Massacre, is full of noisy freakouts and some patience-testing explorations. The Massacre includes four percussionists, some trained (jazz drummer Gregg Simpson) and some not (poet Martina Clinton, bill’s then-partner); electric guitar; two flutes (one a toy); and cutting edge Buchla Box synthesizer by the otherwise unknown Wayne Carr. Response to Red Desert has been pretty mixed—one of its Bandcamp uploads even warns, “Please preview the tracks before downloading. There are no refunds.” I suspect many listeners don’t make it past the first side of the record, which often sounds like what it is: clattering free improvisations around bissett’s sung or shouted recitations. On the flip though, things mellow out for some fascinating minimal synth explorations, bissett doing his visionary thing on a haunting electronic field (see “fires in the tempul”). “she, still and curling” is particularly freaky, Carr making sinister cricket noises with his Buchla, tape of bissett’s voice chopped up into hypnotic loops, layered and manipulated till it sounds like a collage of short wave radio transmissions. The ramshackle noise of the early tracks eventually returns on the awesome “now according to paragraph ‘c’”: bissett reads what (initially) seems like a found text that gets weirder and bolder as the poet works himself into a lather, the Buchla’s bleak tones tattered by the percussion squad’s stiff beat.

I snagged this off Montrealer Alex Moskos, who oversaw the reissue for Massachusetts-based avant-garde label Feeding Tube, and getting this thing back out there has clearly been a labour of love for him (the production quality is impeccable; great explanatory liner notes too). Are there 500 people who want this record? I’m not sure. But for fans of bissett, sound poetry, freaky music, and early electronic, this’ll be of interest. One idea: tell people Awake was the work of a solar death cult leader from the Pacific Northwest who disappeared during an eclipse and they won’t be able to keep the damn thing in stock.

361/365

[dungeonsynthguide]

DIM Steeped Sky, Stained Light (2022, Dungeons Deep Records) Limited to 150 Medieval dungeon synth

[gameing-time]

Another battle!

FOR THE BROTHERHOOD! FOR MY SIBLINGS IN THE IRIS!

Paladin Danse vs Sheeka

Paladin Danse info:

Height: 6 foot 6

Weight: 220lbs (normally) 700+lbs (in Power Armour)

Weapon: Laser Rifle, know your enemy perk (20% damage to synths ghouls and super mutants)

Armour: T-60 Power Armour

Strengths: One of the highest ranking and most respected of Elder Maxon’s Brotherhood of Steel, Above peak human strength (As a Synth Danse is stronger than natural men, Able to lift more and hit harder than natural men), Above peak human durability (As a Synth Danse is tougher than any natural men, In his Power Armour he can withstand bullets/lasers/explosions), Well versed military tactician,being a gen 3 synth he's immune to radiation and highly resistant to poison.

Weaknesses: Despite being tougher than natural humans, Danse is as mortal as them upon realisation that he is, in fact, a Synth leaves Danse suicidal. Synths are canonically weak to energy weapons and Emps he's wearing the 'basic' power armor while strong. it's still the weakest power armor set aside from the T-45 amrour it's based on Dosent wear a helmet.

Sheka info

Height: 7 foot 4

Weight:96lbs without the body 997lbs with the body

Weapons:Solar powered laser drill,Orb of molavalence (a broken orb like zenyata uses that she made magnetic as a thrown projectile),modified architect arm(creates hardlight Sheilds and weapons mostly Axes considering the pinkish blue hue she's using some bio-light she found mixed with Vishua's hardlight tech.) A fire hose full of nanites (somehow self replicating)

Amour:whatever scraps she could find but mostly broken omincs and discarded broken armour peices from anyone she could find. Calls it 'Army mode'

Strengths:Despite not being part of any faction of the overwatch world she's well known by all of them and is concerned a threat to most of them due to her skills prone to reverse engineering technology she dosent have and is always on the road to find more things to add to herself. Superhuman strength(can use either arm to damage D.VA's mech and Reinhart's amrour. Can throw around bastion who's at least 800lbs if her body schematics are correct she could be on par with Winston the genetically altered Moon gorilla who can fight Doomfist) Superhuman durability (her body can take being burned by torbjorn's molten metal,bullets,bombs,and lasers her armor lessens damage and has self replenishing sheilds.) Peak speed (despite being slower then most omnics she's capable of running at nearly normal human speed. Can give herself a short dash forward with a rocket engine on her back.) Smart enough to reverse engineer hardlight is a skilled hacker can do matanince on her body and heal herself and other omnics Somehow is a skilled doctor. Despite her being a young teen at the time she's claimed she fought in the omnic crisis and overwatch does have records of her being part of a local militia for a few years has survived the omnic crisis the null sector attacks a human omnic war and is currently in sybira fighting in the second omnic crisis became a Shambalie monk at somepoint. Skilled their robbing multiple multi national organizations for tech and weapons. Having an artificial heart lungs eye and intestines she's immune to disease and unable to be affected by poisons has a resistance to radiation.

Weaknesses:she's slower then most of the overwatch cast, her boost is in a straight line, according to Genji and Mercy most of her weapons aren't built for combat, weak to electrocution, missing most of her body. (Thanks to a 3 truck pile up she was in the middle of she lost a eye both her legs a arm and had to have her lungs stomach and heart replaced she also replaced her intestines to stop a particularly bad illness. She's also missing a back and neck vertebrae meaning she can't move her back or neck along with needing a brace to keep herself upright.)

[textbook-dinner]

Hot take: I like Ritsu's original vb more than kire,,, that sort of gentle whispering voice is hard to find in vocal synths and it just sounds really nice... I might just be biased bc my first Ritsu song was with his original vb LMAO.

alse my monke brain think it funny that ritsu's voice is all 🥺😌😊☺️ while his personality is 😒😡😫😼💥

[cordycepsbian]

hihihigihi uhh

can you name some of your ocs?-

haven't seen much of any i dont thingk. or maybe i just am blind

that's fair we don't have our toyhouse linked anywhere and that only has a fraction of our ocs listed on it

bugs fable ocs;

chrys - never talked about them before whoops. from our bug fables future headcanons. they're a cuckoo wasp and they're on an explorer team with tod and terrie mop - everyone knows mop. the star of the show

synth - evil roach lady. came from the giant's lair and tried to start snakemouth lab 2: electric boogaloo. she's like if soul master was a girl kind of bernie - most divorced poor little meow meow bee man ever. got kicked out of the hive because cosmic horrors happened to him. vi's dad but that's not really relevant they don't know each other ilon & lilly - butterfly and beetle on an explorer team. kind of side characters in future bug fables iris - cute and trustworthy mantis lady who runs a diner and definitely doesn't cook people checkers - zombee who is two different bees sewn together. former nurse in one life. unwillingly pulled into synth's schemes mint - zombeetle who escaped the lab to try and find his former explorer partner. not going well for him latte - baby zombiant. just a little guy sammy - zombie fly with a different kind of fungus than the cordyceps ones. got sent to bee kingdom zombie jail until the doctor who made it like that let it escape penny - the doctor who did that to sammy. it was an accident she swears marshmallow - peacock spider who started mimicking bugs and living in society just for a laugh

and our hollows knights

caprice - nosk who disguises herself as a traveling musician. reads minds to find familiar tunes and plays them for her victims. our personal favorite to draw ollie - ant that got splashed with the death pheromone and kicked out of his colony for it. traveled with caprice before getting infected and dying for real

celadon - mantis who left the tribe to pursue a more peaceful lifestyle. is just vibing in greenpath now flower pot - vessel that celadon adopted. likes being painted on capt. geo-eye - earwig pirate captain. quite literally has a piece of geo where his eye should be. currently plundering the abandoned kingdom of hallownest treasure chest - vessel that geo-eye adopted. a little ruffian that attacks ankles

and our rains worlds

uncrossed finish line - senior of their local group. thought sliver of straw was onto something. worked so hard to replicate her that they overheated and collapsed deep impression of a fang - junior of the same group. looked up to finish line and was devastated when they died. tried to purpose an organism strong enough to kill him after that happened flightless birds - second youngest of the group. bit of a silly goose. spends more time talking in group chats and having fun than doing work. in her lane. unbothered. flourishing monday morning sunrise - second oldest of the group. eepy. spends 100 cycles to do anything empire of ants - firm Middle Child. ascribes to the same thinking of a benefactor monk. never talks to anyone ever three glowing scales - no local group because they're in the middle of the ocean. makes a lot of purposed creatures to send messages across the sea ever-flowing rapids - purposed slugcat made by 3gs. true aquatic scug that can breathe underwater and move at speed. rivulet's ancestor the crusader - purposed slugcat made by dioaf. the thing that was intended to kill him. gets stronger the higher its karma is the trickster - purposed slugcat made by nsh. exists to send memes. can change colors to mimic predators the sleepwalker - normal slugcat that got hit on the head and can't sleep now. always gets shelter failures and special night creatures attack them the symbiosis - used to be our scugsona but now they're just vibing. full of fungus. kills bugs instantly but gets hurt by sunlight two splinters of wood under tropical leaves - benefactor that lived on mms. ran a shelter for purposed organisms that outlived their usefulness. number one enjoyer of weird little critters muddy water running through steel canals - benefactor that lived on looks to the moon. mechanic that dabbles in bioengineering. invented miros birds so you can all get mad at aer for that shrill ringing noise, a broken spear - benefactor that used to live on dioaf. got banished to the surface for assassinating a council member. living the creature life now

[idledelilah]

remember that photoset that went around here and some otherplaces (i think like 2ish months ago?) of buddhist monks playing with modular synths in the himalayas? i feel like they were so obviously ai, which I don't really have anything against, but i saw a bunch of ppl who had expressed strong anti ai sentiment previously reblog it without note lol.

it felt crazy you know? it felt like omg it is the goddamn future in reallife. I'm seeing disinformation being spread by robots in realtime

i understand why you would reblog it though its a cool idea. like a nun playing basketball or something. there could be a version of the sister act where someone brings modular synth to tibet while undercover as a monk