#okay. okay. okay. yeah seems reasonable

[hudsonlowesbills]

Sir Hudson Lowe’s partisans have tried to represent his time at St. Helena as an enlightened proconsulship; they speak of the emancipation of to on of slaves, plantation of forests, improvement of the water supply…[But] …in dealing with the intransigent governor, the board of directors [of the East India Company] found it as difficult to get their authority respected as the Emperor did to preserve his dignity…

Gilbert Martineau, Napoleon’s Saint Helena

I’m sorry, “Hudson Lowe did a lot of good but the fact is that Napoleon Bonaparte and the Fucking East India Company both hated him so jot that down” is not the own against Hudson Lowe’s partisans that Martineau thinks it is

I’m like, if the East India company hates you…

…good?

[noperopesaredope]

Me: Ooooo, I wonder what this "Mouthwashing" thing is that everyone's been obsessed with lately. I should check some of it out.

Me, 30 minutes later: I would kill myself for you, Anya.

[spotaus]

New Age AU (The Magic Retreats)

Hi guys!!! So, I wrote this one in a fit of passion, but here's a brief take 2 on the most important chapter of the fic and the first one I posted! (In which Night becomes Tiny again :] ) As always this drabble is unedited and un-checked so uhh. Good luck!

(HI @ancha-aus , @papiliovolens , and @mutzelputz welcome back!)

   The days felt like they were growing longer again. Maybe it was the change of the seasons, or the workload ramping up again making his nights bleed into his mornings. No matter the case, Nightmare was lucky to have moments of rest from his endless piles of debts and taxes and laws and requests that were strewn all about his office. They were nice, neat, piles now, but they seemed to be an endless cycle. He'd solve one problem and it would result in a new report of catastrophe somewhere else.

   Often, he wondered whether it was that his Mother's ruling style had truly worked, or if she'd ignored it. After all, she'd been a God amongst mortals, why would she care for a few challenged livelihoods amidst her paradise?

   The sharp clash of metal on magic drew Nightmare's attention back to the present. Against all odds, he'd managed to convince Cross to start training his sword again. When Cross had first started getting lessons to properly control his magic, harnessing even whisps of Nightmare's own spells on occasion, he'd quickly neglected his physical training. Over the last few weeks, Nightmare had voiced his worry that Cross might find himself up against another foe like Dust. One who he couldn't simply control. He needed to re-learn his old battle tactics. Only then, he'd promised, they would move on to harnessing both at once.

   So, now, he was sparring against Horror in the training room. Nightmare sat off to the side on the benches, Dust and Killer on either side of him watching intently. Two of his tendrils hovered readily before him, ready to pounce to intercept any wayward attacks or truly dangerous intent, though he trusted his Knight to not put his newest comrade in any real danger. The other two tendrils lay lax behind the bench, curling comfortably beneath where his other Knights sat at his sides.

   These were the sorts of daily distractions he enjoyed. Which pulled him away from the stress of the papers and the outside world. He could focus solely on his charges and how best to help them. They helped him so often, he just wanted to return the favor.

   His eyelight followed the movements, as Horror stayed more or less right on Cross's tail. His axe swung slower than normal, and it was obvious he was taking the training seriously without giving Cross a heart-attack from the force of his normal blows. It wasn't often Nightmare allowed them to pair up precisely because of that. Horror had no magic for Cross to control, none that would help him at least. Meanwhile, Horror's brute strength could snap Cross like a twig if something were to go slightly awry.

   A swing of the axe, Cross's longsword cracking against the handle as he blocked. A push-off, sending Cross back a few steps before he swung. Missed. The axe was on him again, this time towards his side. Cross jumped over it, swung his sword. Missed again. The axe came in again, from above. A narrow block, one which forced Cross to his knee, before Horror let up.

   Horror was simply a marvel of physical combat. He hadn't been a good fighter when Nightmare met him, but he'd learned very quickly. From watching the guards, from listening to Nightmare. Though, Nightmare was almost positive Killer had actually been his biggest influence. Killer, the cockpit, single Knight at that time. He'd taken Dust under his supervision at the time, practically heading the dismantling of the crime rings Dust knew so well all on his own. Meanwhile, Nightmare was working with Horror to understand how to fix the farming situation across the kingdom. Once things settled, and Nightmare expressed interest in having Horror stick around, it was Killer who showed off in combat training. Horror spun off his feet and pushed off his hands in the way expected of a much smaller, leaner, monster. Very similar to how Killer fought when he was playing around.

   It was evidently too unfamiliar for Cross. He'd been taught formal swordplay, but here in this kingdom? That was about as useful as playing with a slingshot and trying to operate a trebuchet. It seemed similar, but it could only get one so far.

   Cross had been steadily improving, of course. Just a year or so ago, Cross had been besting all the rest of the royal guard out on the training field. But placed against Killer, the best of the best at practical combat, no holds bar? He'd fumbled. Now, Nightmare knew Cross could hold his own against his proudest Knight. That meant a lot in such a short time. Pride filled his chest at the thought, as he watched the two of them clash again and again.

   He knew his time was running short for today. He'd had Dust and Killer work on their team-building and attack him earlier on in training while Cross and Horror were warming up. As he already knew, they were chatty, but very efficient in their coordination.

   "On your left!" Killer would call out. Dust would simply duck as Killer instead vaulted over his head as though emerging from the shorter Knight's shadow, knife in hand, glowing red with energy.

   Killer's use of deceptive verbal cues was a talent he'd come up with all his own. Nightmare remembered him pestering Dust over it every dinner for a week after he'd first thought of it. Dust had seemed annoyed at first, but Nightmare could tell after the first session of them trying it out, against him? He'd been unaware, and if his magic didn't work separate from his mind on occasion, they would have gotten him in the first two minutes.

   They'd used it again earlier, and even after several years it still kept Nightmare on his toes. He figured that was why he felt tired as he watched the two locked in mock battle before him. The cognitive challenges did tend to make his socket heavy with sleep. And he hated to admit it, but he always knew about when to end their afternoon trainings, because it lined up with when his mind would start to lag. Even years later, his body still seemed to respond to the familiar draw of a long-discarded bed time.

   He'd let them exchange a few more blows, before calling it off and ushering them all off to clean up before dinner. Even if he knew only Cross and Dust would go wash up. Horror would go change out of his training gear into clean clothes, he hated to look messy at the dinner table, abd Killer would simply stick to his side like glue.

   It never was a point of complaint, he appreciated the commitment, but sometimes he really did wish he'd at least take a moment to swap clothes. Sometimes he tracked all sorts of dirt and scraps of magic out of the training room and into the halls.

   Mm. The clashing seemed to have reached a rhythm. That meant Cross had gotten familiar with Horror's movement patterns again. It never lasted long, Horror was very adaptable, but it did mean that Cross would be locked into the stalemate now, or it'd be an easy defeat for Horror. Better to call it now and send them off with a bit of praise. They never ceased to impress him, they'd all grown so much.

   "Alright, end the match." he called. It didn't take hardly a moment for the order to register after his voice carried to the two monsters.

   Cross was the first to pull away, with Horror letting his swing fall short and his Axe's momentum swing up and into the air. He caught the grip and almost immediately stuffed it back into its own holster along his back. Cross sheathed his sword, and while a bit out of breath, he still grinned triumphantly and bowed amicably to Horror. Horror returned it with a nod. Their little ritual.

   "Wonderful work today, all of you." Nightmare announced, his front two tendrils slinking back to his sides as they no longer had danger to be hyper aware of. To defend against. "Tomorrow, I want to see you two spar again, I believe you are making great leaps in progress, Cross. Dust will provide you both with terrain obstacles in the form of erratic magic attacks to simulate a more turbulent battle field and provide Horror with more opportunity to practice dodging." The suggestion seemed well-recieved, and Nightmare let his good eyelight turn to Killer, who sat grinning beside him. "Killer, you and I will be doing more endurance training for your magic."

   "Looking forward to it, my Lord," Killer replied.

   That made Nightmare chuckle a bit. Once upon a time, Killer would tense up at the premise of magic training. Then, as he grew bolder, groan at the mention. He was not proficient in the sort of magic Cross, Dust, or he himself relied on, but his preferred weapon was a knife or two summoned by his own soul. Since it was magic, Nightmare insisted he learn to better sustain and alter it rather than letting it atrophy in the wake of his extensive physical training. Now, seeing him grin lazily at the idea, not a worry weighing on his soul? It made Nightmare feel a lot more justified in making the rambunctious Knight do the more "boring" practical training.

   "If we understand what to expect for the afternoon tomorrow, then you are dismissed. I will see you all at dinner," he declared. Humor filled his chest at the warmth which rolled off his knights at the mention of food. Dinner was always cooked by Ccino, and Ccino was the best cook. Nightmare would know.

   He watched as Cross gave a little salute before he turned on his heel to begin to follow Horror's lumbering gait towards the heavy doors separating this room from the hall. The newest Knight's voice was quiet, but excitable as he started to reflect on his techniques to Horror. He always debriefed after a training.

   Beside him, Dust swung forward off the bench and landed silently, already moving to follow the other two. His body-language always seemed disgruntled, and his expression was hidden under his darkened hood, but Nightmare knew he was pleased with his work tonight. Content with what he had accomplished.

   "Cross is gettin' a lot faster." Killer's voice was calm beside him, and Nightmare followed the other's hollow gaze to where the other three were discarding their gear, hanging it up on the racks near the door where they always stored the supplies.

   Four spaces, one for each knight. Killer had gouged his name into the wooden base of his own years ago.

   "I agree." Nightmare let one of his tendrils wrap at the ground around a leg of the bench. "It helps that he is eager and willing to improve on his skills. And that he has others to lean on as he continues to learn."

   Killer's scoff quickly devolved into a laugh at the thinly veiled praise. It wasn't unusual of him to slip it into conversation. A quick, gentle nudge of praise. Acknowledgement and appreciation. Killer had heard to most of it, and Nightmare often worried he'd find it insincere.

   As far as he knew, he never did.

   "You should go put up your armor as well." Nightmare suggested, nudging at Killer's back with a tendril.

  

   "Yes, sir." Killer chimed, the sharpness of his laughter still on his tongue.

   Nightmare rose simply, and Killer pushed off the bench with a quick hop. His feet planted, and Nightmare waited for him to take a step towards where the others were before moving to follow. It felt right, to see them all in one spot. Relaxed.

   He moved to follow Killer's quick steps, only... All at once his vision seemed to double, and he halted himself. He could feel his tendrils lash out, moving to stabilize him against the floor of the training room. He still stood upright, just barely, but it seemed all his balance had left him. Instinctively, in a fit of habit, he shut his good socket and took a moment. The swaying feeling he was gripped by, even after a deep breath an counting to five, did not fade. The darkness which usually seemed to calm him only seemed to make the swaying worse. He could not tell if the motion was coming from him, or I the ground beneath him was shifting like the deck of a boat. Without his vision he couldn't orient up versus down, let alone find his stability again.

   Opening his good socket provided him with orientation, though his vision still danced and swirled. He was looking down, down towards the brick ground, from the space behind his palm. When did he place his hand to his socket? The view included his legs, which he recognized now were shaking, and his tendrils which were trying to hold him in place.

   And...

   He jolted at the contact he could see but hadn't felt in the slightest. He skull reeled up so that he could see who had touched him. One hand on his elbow. The other- when did he grab Killer's arm? When had Killer turned around to look at him? Why was Killer looking at him like that?

   It was Killer, who had ahold of him, though he couldn't feel the Knight's touch, and he couldn't tell if he was gripping the other's arm at all. Though he was, he could see it.

   His vision warped again with the quick movement. A desperate bid to look past Killer. Was there a threat? The blurry form of Dust shot past him, he thought. Horror and Cross still seemed to be by the door.

   The ceiling. Why was he looking at the ceiling? No, wait, the floor now. It grew closer, in the space between himself and Killer, as the opening for him to see it grew smaller. Then he couldn't see it at all, his vision replaced swiftly by- training gear. The leather smell invaded his senses as the rest failed him. He couldn't feel Killer, though he knew the knight was near to him. That, as far as he could tell, Killer had caught him. That he'd sunken to the ground under his own weight.

   Why?

   His socket wasn't being helpful. It seemed, from what he saw, that his tendrils were trying to melt away as they moved errantly to slap onto Killer's back or the ground beyond. Surely that wasn't right? His tendrils had never wavered. He shut his socket again, letting his skull sink into the training armor again.

   It didn't occur to him for a few moments, that he couldn't hear his knights, until he suddenly could.

   The voices were loud and grating, breaking his wobbling darkness once again as he tried to force his socket back open. What was wrong with him?

   "Horror, I said go get Ccino! Now!" Killer. He'd know that voice anywhere, though he didn't like the angry tone. Like fire spitting from his tongue seemingly right above Nightmare's skull. "This isn't some sort of test, I- I don't know what this is. It can't be good."

   Nightmare tried to reach out. Not physically, it felt he still couldn't control his limbs. No, he tried to sense. Did the others know what was wrong with him? Was the rising panic in his chest originating from his own emotions or theirs? Had... had one of them done something?

   No, it wasn't them.

   "Shit." Somewhere behind him, he heard Dust's voice hiss. "His magic levels are dropping. And fast."

   For a second, Nightmare was stunned. What did he mean his magic levels were dropping? Though, it made sense. Somewhere deep in his chest he could feel it, the swaying motion as his magic tried to peel away from his bones. He-

   "What do you-" Killer still sounded frustrated, and he too spat an expletive a moment later.

   Nightmare, for the briefest moment, thought he felt touch again against his skull. He let his blurry socket fall closed again, the vision only worsening as his magic rocked with unseen waves of revulsion.

   "Cross, try to grab his magic," Killer ordered.

   The familiar splattering of the young Night would've been comforting, if the suggestion didn't fill him with dread. Killer knew better than that. They'd agreed Cross could only touch on controlling his magic. Nothing more. It was too vast.

   "W-what! I- I shouldn't-" Cross attempted to stammer a defense, but Killer was quicker with words. Always had been.

   "Just try. Now. Hold it in place and see if it stablizes." The command was a lot more controlled than the previous one, but his tone was leaving no room for error. "When the King and Ccino are unavailable, I'm in charge. Listen to me."

   Nightmare had never heard Killer take charge in such a way before, and in his haze he might've written it off as a product of his imagination. All of this being some sort of weird hallucination. But he felt the invasive force of Cross' magic snake over his bones.

   He'd felt it before, a sort of blanket or hand-hold aimed at the ends if his tendrils which could make them twitch a bit with Cross's own will. This time he felt it creep up the length of his spine and dig unseen claws into his shoulder blades. He could feel it, just like he could now feel Killer's chin and shoulder, where his skull had been tucked. He could feel the hand supporting his back, the other his side. He felt limp as the forceful magic washed over him.

   Nightmare gagged.

   Cross's magic caught on something, like a hook finding the fish, and for a brief few moments, Nightmare felt like he had a ball of gunk in his non-existant gut. Something heavy and feral, trying to escape.

   For just a moment, he regained a breath of awareness. He felt his Knight supporting his weight, he felt the nakedness of his back where his tendrils had completely abandoned him, he felt the emotions of the three still with him. Fear. Confusion. Anger. He didn't like it much. He still couldn't move his limbs.

   And just as quickly as it was stable, the hold on the wild magic slipped away. Like the fish had broken the string.

   It flowed up, like the force of a dam finally released. Through his ribcage, past his shoulders where Cross's magic seemed to dissipate all at once, into his mouth.

   Nightmare regained some semblance of control over his body at that moment. As the magic seemed to rush towards freedom. He shoved away from Killer all at once, the chill of the stone hitting his palms heavily and his socket opening if only to watch as he lost it. That dark, thick, sticky magic that had marked him as a bad omen. That had gifted him the power to rule in place of his twin. Protect those he loved.

    It spilled to the stone before him, and he was stunned to watched that, as he heaved suddenly labored breaths, it sunk away. Disappeared. Just like that, instead of his familiar darkness, the protective shield, the instinctive defense he had grown to know, he was staring at the floor. And the space in which his wobbling arms hid under too-big sleeves, and from the cuffs escaped perfect, pearly-white bone. Bone he could never seem to reach no matter how hard he scrubbed with water and soap. Bones that seemed so frail in the torchlight.

   "My king?"

   Nightmare let his eyelight raise from the ground. It wasn't as wobbly anymore, his vision slowly coming back to normal. He still took his time trailing from the ground, to look at Killer's pants. He was on his knees, hardly an arm's length away. Then the edges of his chestplate. His arms were outstretched, hovering barely away from touching Nightmare. He shook at the closeness, but didn't dare try to move. Killer's soul was wobbling. Nightmare's boww furrowed at the sight. It was very small, but he'd always notice the little changes and moves. Though, he noticed an absence of something at the back of his skull as he stared. Something missing.

   Killer's face was last. He looked serious, his dark sockets not a new sight, but Nightmare hardly saw Killer so serious. He'd seen the look before. Usually when he'd see someone bothering Ccino. It had always been brief, quickly disguised under his patented sadistic grin. Killer just watched him now. As though he was sone glass sculpture ready to tip off the end of the table.

   He hated, as he stared, that he couldn't- he could feel-

   He tried to shift, to whip his head to look for the knight he knew should've been behind him. And he was right, of course. A glimpse of Dust's shadowed skull and tense body-language told Night he was on high-alert, but Nightmare hadn't been able to feel him. Hadn't sensed his presence at all. No emotions, no aura, no nothing.

  

   "Woah, steady!" Killer yelped as Nightmare felt himself tilt.

   Looking up at Dust had disoriented him. The weight distribution was different now. His body listed to the side, and he flinched when arms wrapped around at his sides and tugged his upper half onto soft fabric. Killer's legs. Killer had caught him.

   "My king, Nightmare, it's you, right?" He sounded the same. Something told Nightmare he was uncertain.

   "Y-" His attempt to speak was short-lived. His voice wasn't right. It was high-pitched and raw. All the rumble and low tones entirely missing. He couldn't be sure if he stopped on account of keeping his pride alive, or if he feared speaking in a voice he hadn't heard in years.

   It didn't help that he couldn't feel them. No matter how much he tried, the only feeling in his chest was his own solitary anxiety. Balling up tighter and tighter, an old friend come home again. If he could tell what they were thinking- if he could know if he was safe...

   He bit back his panic, holding in the weakness which was threatening to give him away. Though, what else was there to give? If he was right, then the prophecy had finally rejected him. Left him as an offering to a pack of wolves.

   Nightmare knew he was shaking, but some irrational part of him thought that if he kept his socket shut that this would all be some absurd night terror and he'd wake up cozy in his bed, or exhausted at his desk, or maybe passed out on the floor. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  

   "What's wrong?" That voice was deeply familiar, and all at once Nightmare felt like he had a surge of strength. "Why did Horror rush me back here? Where is our King?" It was Ccino. He sounded more frustrated than anything else, but he didn't need to feel his emotions to know the rise to his tone. The worry buried there.

   "We finished training and everything was fine," Killer explained, tone as even as he could muster, "But when we were on our way out, he just collapsed."

   Nightmare pitied him, having to tell Ccino any sort of bad news. Nightmare didn't think as he attempted again to shove himself up. If only to catch a glimpse of Ccino.

   As he peered barely over Killer's shoulder, he saw what the others did. Ccino had some sort if flour or wheat all down the front of his nice apron, and a few streaks along the thighs of hid pants from where he'd probably wiped his hands along the way. His expression was a mix of concern and fury that set Nightmare's soul into a pretzel-twist of regret, and his eyelights scanned the room as he rapidly approached Killer. Obviously looking for answers.

   Only, Ccino arrived to Killer's side, and his growing rage seemed to stop all at once, alongside his steps. He stared down at Nightmare with wide eyes. Nightmare stared up at him wearily. The king's sockets were beginning to water. Ccino's expression, the way his balled fists twitched and relaxed, the way he seemed to lose all the tension I'm his body, just getting a glimpse at him. Ccino recognized his face, no doubt about it.

   "Nightmare?" Ccino's voice was small.

   Nightmare fumbled a bit as he tried to launch away from Killer. Having Ccino so close to him simply... broke whatever had been holding back the emotional damage within. It didn't help in the slightest when Ccino crouched and immediately tugged him away from Killer and into a gentle bear-hug there on the floor.

   For the first time, in a very long time, he found that the welling of tears in his sockets didn't result in dark, tarlike, goop that fell in chunks down his skull. This time the tears were real, a transparent lilac which raced down his cheeks abd planted themselves against the fabric of Ccino's tunic and apron. He wasn't wearing his fur, he was smart like that.

   Ccino's arms wrapped around his back like they always did, and Nightmare felt himself slipping. Ccino was safe. He had always been safe.

   Nightmare didn't have time to begin sobbing as he had expected, or to even begin to hyperventilate into Ccino's shirt or curl into a ball against his chest. The moment Ccino nuzzled the side of his skull, his vision went blurry again.

   At the tightening of Ccino's grip, he heard Dust's voice again. "Magic-loss. A lot of it." Faintly rolled into his mind like a distance voice two doors over. He didn't quite catch when Killer started to speak again, or Ccino worriedly said his name. Dust was right, the magic was gone. Out of nowhere. It was a lot for his little body to handle.

[kennexara]

so uh, remember back in 2019 when I was like I want to do a Dishonored cross-stitch, something harder than the Outsider’s Mark but also easier than actual people? And I wasn’t seeing a lot of existing patterns so I spent some time messing with C-Stitch and didn’t start stitching it until 2020? And I decided it would look cooler if I used the Diament metallic gold instead of just plain gold floss, aka I made it 10x more difficult. And also it would be 10in by 10in which is big for me. Like, I’ve never finished anything that big. 

Well, until now.

[skitskatdacat63]

Fernando S2E2 - "Welcome Home"

[crumpet-doodles]

Is it just me or is Shelly x Vee lowkey toxic

[lulu2992]

So Greg Bryk regularly goes live on Instagram to chat with his followers and answer a few questions, and almost every time, someone asks if he’d like to play Joseph Seed again if he had the chance, to which he used to always reply that, yes, he absolutely would. However, in early 2022, he didn’t seem so sure anymore and said it would depend on the script (the question was specifically about a potential Far Cry 5 movie) and the writer(s). Then, a few months later, he implied he didn’t feel like playing the Father ever again because he thought the character’s story was “finished” and that Ubisoft should focus on creating new things instead…

Well, on October 14, 2023, he once again went live on Instagram and, when people mentioned Far Cry 5 in the chat, he revealed that he had reached out to Dan Hay and Drew Holmes, two of the game’s three main writers he’s become friends with, and that they had visited him “on set” (I’m not sure what he was shooting) the day before. In the past, he had already explained several times that he had loved working with them and thought the story they wrote (along with “JS”, Jean-Sébastien Décant, the game’s third main writer) was fantastic. This time, he added that Far Cry 5 was really “special” to him because the writers “cared a lot” about creating something great with amazing characters, and that he thought the whole Seed family was really well-written.

A few minutes later, when he was asked which character he would like to play again if he could, he said it was hard for him to choose because he loves them all, but he eventually picked Jeremy Danvers (Bitten) and Cobbs Pond (Frontier).

Then, surprisingly, he also mentioned Joseph.

I don’t know why he changed his mind again or if the fact he contacted Dan Hay (who doesn’t work for Ubisoft anymore) and Drew Holmes (who recently became the new IP Director for Far Cry) means anything, and I’m not sure I want more Far Cry 5 content to be released anyway (for continuity reasons), but I guess the Seed family’s return, as equally exciting and truly terrifying as this eventuality sounds to me, isn’t completely out of the question anymore in Greg Bryk’s mind!

[day-mark]

god i fucking love competitive play, i love watching high level, skilled gameplay from passionate players, i love learning the statistics for each player and the game as a whole, i love hearing everyone and especially the casters glaze the fuck out of my favorite players. mc summit/mojang and mc.c you will be fucking dealt with .

[greennoobartist]

Okay I should really go do what im supposed to be doing instead of coloring manga panels like a silly toddler XD

[tenderjock]

like the moon moves the tides [agent carter werewolf au]

part v. ears back

Please, Jack says to her, just get on this flight with me.

And Peggy can’t. He’s asking her, and she can’t – she doesn’t even feel bad about it, because she knows it’s the right decision. But there’s a part of her that’s more instinctive than anything else, tugging at her gut, pulling an answering howl at her throat, and it’s harder than she expects to refuse him.

He’ll show her a trumped-up file, his scent angry and miserable. JUNE 1944 – M. CARTER – a lot of redacted nonsense, and Peggy will tell him as much.

“You're willing to believe any phlegm Vernon coughs up because you're worried that I would betray your trust,” Peggy says. She stares at Jack, trying to will him to understand her. “I wouldn't.”

Jack looks at her, eyes wide, and there’s a moment – a moment where she thinks she’s done it, that she’s gotten through to him.

Then he says, “This is your choice, not mine.” He sounds like he’s choking on the words.

“Jack,” Peggy says, voice full of pity for her lost, foolish packmate, “You don't need to cut corners to get ahead. You're better than that.”

She leaves briskly, without looking back.

: :

“What's happened and what's true are two different things,” Vernon tells Jack, when Jack questions the validity of Carter’s file. “This is an official document. That means it's true, regardless of what happened.” He pauses, frowning at Jack. “Do I really need to be telling you this?”

Jack feels sick.

“No, sir,” he says. “I understand that.”

Vernon sends him out of the room to take his phone call, but Jack can pretty much hear through walls if he concentrates, now. He takes the coordinates down on the pad of paper on some agent’s desk out in the bullpen – the coordinates – the –

Peggy’s there, her scent throwin’ off scared-angry-dominant-scaredscaredscared. Jack feels all of him turn towards her, like he could just curl up in her lap and she’d let him.

Peggy’s there. It’s gonna be alright.

He only thinks it for a second before his real brain catches up with him and he gets a grip on himself. But the feeling lingers.

“What is the last thing that you remember?” she asks him, and Jack tells her and Sousa about Vernon and the woman on the phone with the voice like a South Pacific sunrise.

“Whitney,” Carter says to Sousa at that description. Neither of them trust Jack, which shouldn’t hurt, but does anyway. He tries to play it off as a joke, but Carter’s eyes go serious and dark.

“If I were helping them, I'd be on my way there. But I'm here with you,” Jack says to them.

Carter and Sousa exchange a look. Then, Carter steps forward – right in front of Sousa! – and butts her nose up under Jack’s chin. He feels the air get knocked out of him like she had socked him in the stomach with a baseball bat.

“You’re with us,” she says against Jack’s throat, sounding way too satisfied with herself.

Jack blinks at her when she steps away. Then he blinks at Sousa, who looks like he’s fighting a grin.

“Let’s go,” Sousa says, and racks the shotgun.

(Later, Peggy will call Jack a good man, her scent warm and happy and inviting. Jack won’t understand it, okay? He won’t – he won’t understand, how out of anyone in the entire world, this fucking person will say that about him, and mean it. She’s not stupid. He’s not sure how he’s managed to fool her, and he’s afraid that someday he’s not gonna be able to anymore.)

part vi. cry/howl

There’s a wolf in Jack Thompson’s hospital bed.

Mr. Thompson is fully in human form, looking thin and white and still very unconscious under the sheets. He’s hooked up to a saline drip; in addition to changing his bandages, Violet has orders to give him another blood transfusion. They’re trying to flush out all the poison that the silver bullet leaked into him.

When Violet taps on the open door’s frame, the wolf looks up, a slight snarl on her face. Violet gives a low, answering whine, a safe-good-nonaggression kind of whine. There’s a rustle, and Peggy jumps off of Mr. Thompson’s bed, slinking forward to greet Violet in a pile of shaggy gray limbs.

“Hiya, Peg,” Violet says. “I need to clean him up and give ‘im some juice. You’re welcome to stay while I do it.” Generally speaking, human adult patients were protected by confidentiality agreements, which is why she kicked Daniel out of all of Mr. Thompson’s surgeries. However, exceptions were made for wolfpacks, and Peggy is about as much a packmate for Mr. Thompson as Violet was for any of her family.

Peggy whuffs and withdraws into the corner of the room to watch Violet, unblinking, as she does what she needs to do. Mr. Thompson’s bullet wound isn’t too severe, honestly. Silver bullets aren’t especially effective in terms of being good for shooting people dead, but they are deadly when the bloodrot sets in. If he had been found even twenty minutes later, things would have been different. There’s still streaky red lines coming from the wound, but they’re fading. He’s getting better.

Violet tells Peggy that. She whuffs again and finally shifts, crouched on the hospital floor naked as the day she was born. Violet politely looks away as Peggy redresses into the neat pantsuit that is folded up on the chair next to Mr. Thompson’s bed.

“Thank you, Violet,” Peggy says. She sounds – and looks – tired. There are purple shadows under her eyes and her voice is hoarse.

Working on a hunch, Violet asks, “When was the last time you’ve eaten?” When Peggy looks away, she hums. “That’s what I thought. Let’s head down to the cafeteria. They’ve got a killer full moon breakfast platter.”

“Someone has to look after him,” Peggy says, tone dismissive. But while Violet may not be naturally as dominant as Peggy likes to make herself out to be, she frankly isn’t submissive, either.

“Agent Roberts was on her way in,” Violet says. “And Daniel will be along in about an hour, when my shift ends. We’ve got nurses all along this floor. He’ll be alright for a few minutes while you eat something.”

Still, Peggy hesitates. Her gaze keeps being drawn over to Mr. Thompson. Violet looks at him, too.

Daniel complains about him quite a bit. From what Violet’s heard, Chief Jack Thompson is a braggart and a jerk and a liar and an arrogant bastard to boot. But you don’t pick pack, not exactly.

She makes a decision. “I’m Daniel’s pack, as far as a wolf can be pack with a man, and you’re his pack, too,” Violet says. “And Mr. Thompson is your pack. That makes us, I don’t know, pack-in-laws.”

Peggy blinks at her. “Yes?”

“I can have some of my cousins come on in, when you can’t be here,” Violet offers. “Not to snuggle with him or nothin’, I imagine that wouldn’t end well, but to sit with Daniel or Agent Roberts. If you’d like.”

Peggy stares at her for a long time. Then, in a queer kind of voice, she says, “That would be appreciated. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Violet says, and means it. Then she holds out a freshly washed hand. “Alright, we’re going to the cafeteria now. They got an option that has bacon, ham and sausages. It’ll blow your mind, Peg, I mean it.”

Peggy takes her hand, neatly manicured red nails scratching Violet’s palm. “Of course, darling,” she says, and smiles for the first time in what’s gotta be days.

[liyrical]

starting to think i might be the only p5 player who likes morgana /j

[katyspersonal]

Marika & Messmer are fascists but not the hornsent who chop people to small pieces and put them inside jars to achieve divinity because they believe they're "chosen" people and therefore superior to other races? Have you considered the possibility that sometimes both sides of a war can suck? This is why frenzied flame is the way🙏

Anon, I am going to scold you before I get to the topic because "have you considered [thing]" here should be reserved for a problem when someone is ignorant and in a bad, poor-taste way! Which I was not because obviously I "considered" this! You are referring to a silly post of me liveblogging how I got to Messmer, and so of course I addressed Messmer! I should not add long disclaimer about every other lore-relevant thing when I make a basically liveblog-ish remark to "demonstrate" that I do not let other culprits in the story "get away" either! 😣 For example recently I've been focusing on Fire Knights to express my hatred for religious purism, but later in another post about story of Abyssal Woods I've instead focused my vitriol on Hornsent Inquisitors! There is its own post and time for everything!

Okay back to the LORE with light heart now!! This is true of course that both sides are atrocious; the Hornsent basically pulled a mad cult crusade on the shamans, and very ironically long time after their folks were victims of also a religion-driven crusade! This is basically playing extermination ping-pong for generations and regardless of who "started it", none of the innocent people (children, those who disagree and simply belong to [race], distant descendants that did not DO anything etc) deserved to be exterminated by association.

To get more elaborate, one has to take into consideration just how long the conflict has been going on for, and everything else Marika has done besides the Crusade. The people being killed by Messmer's army are most likely generations apart from the people who hurt Marika's! I've mentioned that earlier where I questioned how Grandam and Hornsent (NPC) seem to not even know why Marika/Messmer went with war at them at ALL. Like, both are/were barbaric in their own way, but there's clearly a side that has suffered enough now. Like, this was such a disgusting conflict that even Marika, who was the one who had it ordered in the first place, felt the need to distance herself from it because it WAS the battle without glory or honor. There were the Hornsent, likely a cult or something, who murdered and mutilated the Shamans back in their time, but Marika was the one who started the war and kept it going even after it was clear that the Hornsent had lost, and ruined the lives of many people that weren't even part of the war in resistance like the Hornsent NPC! (One more nitpick about it is that her/Messmer's war was that of exterminating of all who have no Grace, as opposed to some insane idea on how to force them to be reborn to "join" her type of people hfhhhbhf)

Correct me here if I am wrong, but so far we can't know if ALL Hornsent accepted the practices of Bonny Village and their higher religious institution. The Greater Potentate Cookbooks that we find relating to hefty pots describe the author as having been "haunted by the grotesque practice of his village of birth". This guy didn't sound like he was very proud of what his people were doing, and it's coming from someone who was raised there! There's likely a lot of other Hornsent who found the practice just as disgusting, especially amongst those that didn't do it themselves, but we don't know that because most of them are dead and the ones who remain are understandably upset and distrustful of "our" kind!

🤔 It is also because of this why it's more reasonable to call the two leading figures of a cleansing war fascists than an entire race, because we can't just assume that ALL Hornsent are fascists just because their religious order and justice system is fucked up. We just don't have a key leader figure to redirect such sentiments towards, unlike with the Golden Order! Basically confirmed fascists are Marika, Messmer + Fire Knights + Black Knights + troops, various warriors and perfumers and what not who agreed to participate @ the Hornsent who are doing the potting, the Hornsent who did slaughter Marika's village, and remaining corrupt clerics leaders of the religion!

(On a side note, Frenzied Flame is definitely the answer but y'all shouldn't tell Melina on me hfjjchjgdh)

________

UPDATE 1 from July 4th that I wanted to add in the OG post instead:

I have nothing to add here, all of these are rather fair points! I am a little late with adding these screenshots but you've probably seen some more speculation on the Hornsent Inquisitors these couple of days by me and @val-of-the-north in my blog! Here if you missed these: ( x ) ( x ) The gist of it is that seems like Inquisitors are hunting their fellow Hornsent as heretics for serving the "impure" nobles, but regardless of whether it happened before Marika's mentioned "betrayal" or after, it is STILL horrible to harm people for association with those that didn't even do anything wrong :^)

Still applies that calling the whole race fascist doesn't work (heck, the Hornsent who choose to stand with Midra and Nanaya are confirmation of strong exceptions!), but the sentiment is certainly very strongly rooted culturally.

Sigh.. I am pretty sure there are people somewhere in the fandom that would fall into "hornsent deserved it" pit over this, too. Like "hey, even currently Hornsent culture is a rich soil for Shaman Villages 2.0 and 3.0 and 4.0 and so on to happen, so why not preventively exterminate an inherently dangerous culture?" (..if anyone here really thinks along these lines, please know that this is a dangerous line of thinking and you'll get ideologically groomed into excusing genocides before you know if you don't question what you're implying here) What they needed was more communication with other cultures and adopting more tolerant and humane principles. Seeing that various horn-ness species are just like them rather than sitting in the "we divine they filth" bubble if it is THAT bad. Maybe Marika even HAD the power to provide such change and bridge the gap while she was still a trusted figure to them during her "infiltration", and yet instead of putting and end to terrible traditions with careful planning and diplomacy, she chose the path of revenge..

Genuinely a depressing point to think about. And yes, absolutely doesn't do her a honor to choose ruin and hate.

________

UPDATE 2 from July 11th:

I also completely forgot to back it up that the fellow Hornsent were also facing execution through being stuffed in jars!

Yeah nah, definitely their people in power were so dangerous that should someone protest against the murder of Shamans and alike, they'd meet the same fate.. Having to swallow what your insane authorities do, with your own life in the line, is also something very real. This situation obscures the number of people who are against it from the superficial look.

I myself live in the country where people can't protest against the government unless they want to go to prison or face other dire consequences, so having to sit quietly for the sake of yourself and your own families for the outside world LOOKS like we don't care and ""'"agree""". :)))) Fun stuff. :') Here, anyone who would ask why Hornsent that disagree with their leaders don't express it would technically be in their right to do so, but most people will protect their own life first, especially if sacrificing it won't really avail anything. Again, Elden Ring is incredibly real with these topics. :')

[mummer]

i was like “why does my asteroid city essay get a bunch of views from google (not like an insane amount but fairly steady) And i just found out. That somehow it is the top result. For if you google. “Asteroid City explained”

[front-facing-pokemon]

[archersgoon]

wowwwww more work being done in the building common areas with zero fucking notification from my landlord? everybody pretend to be surprised!

[violetisderp]

Hey- do you think you could maybe not write characters in your art to use the word autistic as an insult??? I get you don't like the character and are portraying them as bad but- using autistic as an insult is really ableist and just doesn't even fit with something that the character would actually say. [ I'm talking about your pillar chase 2 comic btw. ]

Hello! Thank you for the ask! So I had a feeling I would have to explain that, it's not ment to be offensive and I'm sorry if it come off that way!

But me and my little brother (he is autistic) we're talking about why he shouldn't be around, and most of the script was writen by him.

Also im unsure if this makes it any better, but Sam wasnt useing "Autistic" as an insult, cause my little brother and both like to think He's just actually Autistic. So that part wasn't ment for an insult (mostly) he was just mad about him being Autistic.

I know I already said this, but he is autistic (my brother and Fuwatti) and he thought it would be funny for him to say. And if your still upset, that's okay!

I hope that clears that up, if you have any other questions let me know! You can always ask again anonymously or reblog and I can try my best to clear anything else up!

Again, thanks for the ask :)

Edit; For context of the comic (which likely isn't needed) click Here