#putting disabled people in the spotlight

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

I don’t put too much stock into rumours that one of the new Associates will be blind.

While it would be good to have a differently abled Associate, I fear that the writers would go for the cheap jokes rather than demonstrating all the abilities the ‘disabled’ actually have.

[zebulontheplanet]

Hearing constantly about gifted autistic kids and people seeing it as THEE autistic trait has completely disregarded those who aren’t gifted and made a HUGE divide in the community. Seeing constantly “yeah autistic people are usually gifted” is so annoying because a VERY large chunk of autistic people, aren’t actually gifted and media has just put the gifted people at the front because they’re more palatable. The “autistic gifted kid burnout” has become more so a trend than anything and I’ve seen a lot of people assume they’re autistic because they are the “gifted kid burnout person” when that isn’t even a requirement for an autism diagnosis. You don’t have to be gifted to be autistic. You don’t have to be!!

Start putting the people who struggle more in the spotlight. Those with intellectual disabilities, those with learning disabilities, those with cognitive disabilities, those who are just generally stereotypically “dumb” and embrace it!

We need to have a very big discussion about this as a community and it needs to start today.

[nathaslosthershit]

Teen Dad (OP81)

(Part 1 of the Blind Item Series) (Part 1 of the Teen Dad OP AU)

Summary: Rumors are flying about a young driver with kids

Seeing the rumor, and various other tweets commenting on the matter, first thing this morning was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. Oscar immediately sat up, frightening his fiancée who was asleep next to him a moment before.

“What? What's wrong? Are you okay?” she asked, sitting up.

“Fuck this is not good.” He mumbled as he looked through more tweets. He knew he had minutes before his PR team started messaging him on how best to proceed. 

“Osc, you are really scaring me. What is going on?” His fiancée asked again. After 5 years together and two kids, she knew him well enough to know that Oscar isn’t easily woken up. While he usually wakes up early to train or help the kids, on days like today where he has the chance to sleep in, he will usually take it. But the amount of notifications he started getting were enough to get him to check his phone and once he saw the severity of the situation he was awake and alarmed. 

“A blind item about a ‘younger f1 driver with two kids he had as a teen’ just went up. No confirmation on who but it seems they have gotten it down to only a few of us. They don’t know yet but I am sure they will know soon.” 

He was grateful they hadn’t clocked in on him but Oscar was sure with a bit more time to dig people would put two and two together. He wasn’t ashamed of the fact that he was a teen dad, not anymore at least. When he was even more so an up and coming driver, he kept it hush because he was nervous being 18 with two kids would lead teams to reconsider where his priorities were, his family or his career. That wouldn’t have been crazy of them to do though, as important as racing was to Oscar, he would always pick his family first. Luckily, though, he had a great enough support system so he didn't have to choose. 

Most people in Oscar’s life knew. Any teams apart from Prema, Mclaren, and Alpine were none the wiser but why would they need to know? Not all drivers knew either, some who he had become closer to were let in on the secret, especially Logan, who had been there the entirety of his kids' lives. Annoyingly, at least in Oscar’s opinion, he has been titled ‘the cool uncle’ from day one. 

“What do we do?” his fiancée asked, snapping him out of his spiraling.

“I imagine it is up to my team to figure that one out. I’ll message them now. Get the kids ready and I’ll be done in time to help with breakfast.” He said as he got up.

After a long, pretty impromptu, call, it was decided Oscar would make a statement about it before it was revealed to be him. He wasn’t too happy about not getting to really do it on his own terms but this is the way it worked out, and hey, Oscar would be lying if he said he wasn’t already planning which race he was going to bring his kids to first.

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, logansargeant, landonorris, and 518,294 others

oscarpiastri This is of course not how I wanted to do this. I had hoped to have more time before I had to let the peace of privacy go but these things happen when you are in the spotlight. So yes, I am a father of two great kids and I have been since I was 18. I am not ashamed by the fact I was a teen dad, and am certainly not hiding my kids out of anything but love. I hadn’t realized I could truly love anything or anyone more than racing but then these two came into my life and I realized I would give it all up for them. Luckily, with the support of their mother (who is my fiancée) and my family, I didn’t have to give it up. My four person family means more to me than anything and I count my lucky stars each night that I have been blessed with them. I ask that you please respect our privacy. This isn’t the end of you seeing the Piastri twins but I, being the over protective father I am, am not ready to throw two 3 year olds into the chaos of the motorsport world just yet.

Comments disabled on this post

Part 2: A Much Needed Interview out now!

[b1acksh33p999]

🪐 How your Saturn sign haunts you:

🔥Aries: through situations that make you angry, or real internal wrath. Car accidents, seizures, strokes, head trauma, fear of grief, mistakes due to rash decision making. Scaring people away to avoid opening up and trusting other people. Not trusting yourself to keep you safe.

⛰️Taurus: through situations that make you feel greedy, or situations that massively humble you by making you question your intent. Health scares, throat problems, addiction, problems with alcohol, weight fluctuations, laryngitis, overindulgence being met with loss.

🌬️Gemini: through situations that make you feel anxious, or drama that leds to problems with reputation. Pneumonia, bronchitis, smoking, anxiety disorders, eating disorders, issues with comprehension of information without effort.

🌊Cancer: through situations that affect your family, and home matters. Other restrictions could present as issues with the mother, fertility issues or complicated pregnancy or birth, controversy surrounding how you parent or nurture, and feelings feeling more restrictive then the facts.

🔥Leo: through situations that put your ego in the spotlight. Other possible restrictions from this could be image problems, eating disorders, body dysmorphia, a fear of the alternative, problems with pride, heart problems, and overindulgence in caffeine or alcohol.

⛰️Virgo: through situations that make you feel dumb. Other possible issues that may come from this placement are anxiety, pessimism, martyrdom, OCD, bad health, problems with money due to lack in ability to self manage finances.

🌬️Libra: through situations that affect your relationships, children, and disrupt your peace. Other possible issues that may come from this placement is overindulgence, infidelity, living a lie to keep the façade of peace, lack of self care, depression, surviving instead of thriving.

🌊Scorpio: through situations that force you into a revolution of the self. Other possible outcomes of this placement can be accidents, violence, addiction, secrets, hostile encounters, inability to trust, scared of the dark, taboo sex life, reckless behavior, big changes that lead to starting once again at rock bottom.

🔥Sagittarius: through situations that make you question your optimism. Other ways this can present are learning disabilities, comprehension issues, travel delays, issues with travel, emotional trouble with long distance relationships, feeling like a fool.

⛰️Capricorn: through situations that make you feel powerless. Other ways this can present could be issues with authority figures, and bosses. Instability in capital gain due to self doubt, self induced stagnation due to fear of failure, and not prioritizing mental/ and physical health until it’s too late. Arthritis, broken bones.

🌬️Aquarius: through situations that make you feel uninvolved. Other ways this can present is issues with the internet, and social media, feeling hopeless, and dissociative in everyday grind, losing touch with oneself due to others opinions, accidents involving water, broken promises.

🌊Pisces: through situations that humble you. Other ways this can display itself is through addictive tendencies, or addiction, mental health issues, depression, dissociation, daydreaming, inability to focus, loss of ability to make long term plans, romanticizing situations until the truth lets you down. Giving up on oneself.

[ynsbarbbb]

down bad | d. ricciardo

hypothesis - daniel is not ready nor is he willing to leave this thing behind.

pairing - daniel ricciardo x fem!baker!reader

[fic is inspired by “down bad” by taylor swift]

“fuck it if i can’t have us, i might just not get up, i might stay down bad”

“y/n,” your name slipped past his lips in a devastated sigh, eyes big as he stared at you. brown orbs drowning in a pool of tears.

a big, red suitcase sat on your bed, clothes haphazardly thrown around and you, sitting there on the foot end of the bed, messy hair surrounding your face and one of your favourite tops scrunched up in your hands.

daniel’s feet is glued to the hardwood floor by the door, his mind swimming, “wh—what are you doing?”

he looks around the room, your belongings, their familiar spots now empty. a sob escapes your mouth and you crumble from the edge of the bed down to the floor, ankles crossing and knees bucking up.

“i can’t do this anymore, daniel.”

his feet moves him to crouch in front of you, “baby, what are you talking about?”

you look up at him, “this,” you gesture around you with your hand, “the spotlight, the constant hate, the amount of time you leave.”

“let’s talk about it, yeah?” daniel asked, his voice hoarse. he’s swallowing at the lump in his throat, as he moves to sit down.

chuckling, you throw the top to the side, “what’s there to talk about? i’m a baker, i bake cakes, in a small town. and you,” you sniff and wipe your nose with the back side of your hand, “you travel the world, you race, everyone knows about you.”

he nods, “baby, i still don’t see the problem here.”

“i’m out of your league, i’m so far out of your league. i don’t fit into this lifestyle, i can’t flaunt money anywhere i go.”

daniel takes hold of your hands, “where’s all of this coming from, honey?”

you look up at him, and reach your arm back on the bed where you have thrown your phone after spending hours reading what his fans had written about you.

his fans, the people that would run to the end of this world to support him, that go to his every race to shout his name as he passes the finish line, the people he confided in the most when he started dating you.

“i can talk to them, disable our comments on our posts, hell, baby, i’ll even delete all social media,” daniel says, his eyes not leaving the phone. his eyes reading every comment twice and his heart swelling and breaking.

switching off the phone, you stand up and grap the top you had thrown to the side, “don’t bother, it’ll either way just get worse.”

daniel shoots to his feet, grabbing the things you had haphazardly throw into the suitcase and putting it on the bed.

he’s not going to loose you. he won’t.

“y/n, please don’t do this, it’s almost winter break, we can go somewhere private, just us. we can work this out, we will get past this,” daniel is practically begging, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he keeps on swallowing on the lump.

your shoulders sag, “daniel, stop,” you place the jeans in your suitcase and walk up to him to take his hands in yours, “find someone else, someone who fits into this life, who will walk it with you every step of the way. there are so many women out there who’ll be better and much more supportive than i am, and someone who can handle a bunch of teenage girls’ comments.”

daniel shakes his head wildly and grips your hands tighter, “no, no, fuck all else if i cannot do this with you. i don’t need someone else, God, i only want you. i am my best when i am with you, y/n, forget those fucking comments. remember what i said in the beginning of this relationship?��� daniel’s hands moved up to cup your face, wiping at the wetness under your eyes, nodding his head,

“it’s us, baby, it’s us against all else,” his voice breaks as he said it. he bites his lips, the tears he was forcing away finally slips down his cheeks.

“i will fight, y/n, i will fight for us. i will fight for you. i will fight anyone who is against us, because, baby, i will not survive this night if you walk out those doors,” he moves to tuck those little hairs around your face behind your ears.

you nod your head as best as you can with daniel’s large calloused palms holding it. falling into him, resting your head on his chest and securely wrapping your arms around him, you believe him.

because, against all odds, you weren’t ready to leave, to leave everything you’ve accomplished together.

you weren’t ready to loose daniel. to loose his jokes, his comfort that comes with his presence, his laugh that made everyone in the room giggle, his hands that easily engulfed yours, his shoulder when you needed someone to lean on. you weren’t ready to loose that.

his chest heaved with a sigh of relief as he rested his chin on the crown of your head and wrapping his arms around your shoulders tightly.

“it’s us against it all, yeah?”

with your face smushed into his chest, a mumbled agreement sealed with a kiss to your forehead is all both you and daniel needed to know that none of you were going anywhere anytime soon.

fin.

[gwydion-aacblog]

often when use AAC , there is eventually someone give compliment that hurt far more than help . here is why .

can be hard communicate with AAC , yes . but this just how live life , not something that need reinforcement and " treats " for . yes some people do need reinforcement , but that should come from trusted people , not strangers . unless have very good reason , like special instruction , " good job " after every sentence talk down and means not trust in ability .

maybe just personal thing but also dislike things like " thank you for spend time on this when so hard " , things that almost call burden to use AAC . yes take longer time put together thoughts , but not need special praise for do anyway . again this feel like talk down and not trust .

might think , but this so easy understand because of how talk ! wonderful , keep that thought inside head . not need hear this , not need put spotlight and say " wow your disability convenient to me " . seriously think how that feel . this not choice that make , write like this because disabled and rely on AAC . just like cane users would not appreciate " so easy keep up when you walk this slow " from stranger - just because also might be disabled do not mean not uncomfortable and sometimes cruel when say things highlight .

might also think , but how talk sounds so cute / like goblin / whatever ! well guess what , will not give special points and praises for tolerate or find amusing . especially not when this means ignore what really say … unless this means would like for people to crowd around and coo about cute voice next time talk about how want fair rights . think probably would not ! so do not do same . 

so then gwydion , what should say about someone AAC ? good question ! nothing . nothing , nothing , nothing . unless that person or person's caregivers give any special permissions and instructions , do not make comments about AAC , about how write and use words . ask for help rephrase and understand if really need , but otherwise , zero zilch zip .

that should be very simple for people understand , but still need say every time posts get big . make very very exhaust to say same things again again again .

[lafemmemacabre]

Trying to find a physiological source for a psychiatric/psychological condition won't make ableist/saneist pieces of shit respect it or the people who're diagnosed with it.

Signed, literally every single chronically ill or otherwise physically disabled person. They do NOT care. Chronically ill people can have genetic testing proving our mutations and such and they'll still tell us it's all in our heads and if we Just Put Our Minds To It, we'd be cured... Of shit such as diabetes or multiple sclerosis.

The only thing able-bodied psychiatrized people are achieving by trying to claim physicality in their conditions just for a sense of validation is; yet again, speaking over physically disabled people; yet again, not allowing us to have even the tiniest spotlight within discussions of disability.

You're not going to convince bigots of your worth if they've already decided you're not worth shit. Their hatred of you as someone whose mind doesn't work like the norm, isn't logical. It's both ideological and disgust-based. They decided to hate you first, and found reasons to justify it later.

This especially won't work in your favor if you're appealing to them by trying to approximate yourself to a population they also despise as much as, if not more than, your own.

Newsflash, bigots aren't typically fond of people whose bodies are outside the norm. The more visible the difference in bodies, the more they hate the people who inhabit them.

If you ever managed to convince them that "Hey, actually my mental illness has a physical source!", it won't get you compassion, it'll get you further disgust. If you're gonna bring physicality into it, for your own sake, at least do it for conditions in which that's actually relevant instead of insisting on promoting debunked "science" (e.g. "depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain...").

[the-eeveekins]

Why The Witch From Mercury is Important to Me

This will be a long, somewhat rambling and mostly personal thread. It's not about the show's quality or any issues I had about it (and YES, the show is flawed and has issues), but about why G-Witch's characters and themes were important to me and I think many others. Most of this I've already shared to a degree, but I wanted to expand my original thoughts, and put them all into one post.

I've been a Gundam fan for over 20 years, I got into the series with Wing on Toonami and have watched the vast majority of the animated series. As a woman, I longed for the day Gundam would have a female main character in the spotlight of a major show, but honestly at some point I'd given up on it. I just thought that if they hadn't done it by now, they never would.

Then, last March, they released this short 30 second trailer revealing The Witch From Mercury, and showing off Suletta and Aerial, and I was ecstatic! Finally, a female MC in a Gundam series, I was so excited for a new Gundam series for the first time since 00! I watched that short clip countless times over the months in anticipation of the series airing, I even grew addicted to the little song that plays during it.

Over time, the characters and key art were revealed and I saw some people float the idea that maybe Suletta and Miorine would be love interests. I didn't pay it any mind at the time. I was sure they'd milk their relationship for bait along the way, but there was no way they'd commit to Gundam's first female MC being gay. Even after the first episode aired I was still skeptical: There was the bait I was expecting, they're not seriously going to go through with it though.

And here we are, almost 10 months after G-Witch started airing, and Suletta & Miorine are married. It not only wasn't bait, but they committed to it in a way I never would have imagined coming from a franchise I loved like Gundam. It was done with care and respect for the characters, it didn't feel like it was exploitative or added just for fanservice, but was a very real relationship.

I'll admit, I was initially among those disappointed we didn't see a kiss or the wedding at the end, but my greatest fear was the ending would be as ambiguous as possible, or even worse, walk back what we'd seen, so as not to offend people. Instead we got the sister-in-law line, the matching wedding rings, how close they were and they way they looked at each other with love and talking about going home together. We didn't see them kiss or see the wedding, but we got to see them married, and I think that's incredible.

As a gay woman, and a Gundam fan of over 20 years, Suletta is an immensely important character to me. Suletta and Miorine's relationship, and it being a central focus of the story, is immensely important to me. They're things I dreamed of having in Gundam, but never really thought would ever happen. I've been so happy about them for a long time now, but these last two days I've been so unbelievably happy that I was given their story. I love them so much and I'm never going to forget these two.

And this ties into why I think G-Witch has been important to so many people, regardless of how they feel about it's quality, because of it's representation and themes. Suletta, the main character of the show, is a queer, neurodivergent, disabled woman of color. She was well written, and she got to have a happy ending married to the woman she loves, where she's thriving and happy despite her mobility. She's not treated with pity or remorse, and she's still pursuing her dreams of making a school.

And not just Suletta, there were so many characters belonging to different minority groups that got strong representation and happy, satisfying endings. If you're a woman, if you're queer, if you're a POC, if you're any sort of ND, if you're disabled, The Witch From Mercury not only gave you good representation, but also said you're deserving of love, empathy and happiness.

With regard to it's themes, I absolutely love how G-Witch stressed love, empathy, compassion, acceptance and forgiveness over hate, vengeance, punishment and karma. Suletta and Miorine made many mistakes during their journey that they could never take back, but they accepted each other, including their mistakes, and resolved to move on together and makes amends for them if possible. Suletta never got mad at Miorine, Prospera or Eri for the things they did to her and she never blamed them, all she did was understand and accept why they did the things they did, and move forward with her love for them. She accepts the people she loves, mistakes and all, because of her unrelenting love and compassion for them.

Even Prospera, the main antagonist, ultimately rejected revenge for the sake of saving her daughter. She was a less than stellar parent to Suletta, and her actions lead to a heavy death toll, but ultimately Suletta accepted her and her actions to save Eri. And rather than go for an easy karmic death, she was allowed to have a happy ending: Eri was saved, and she's living a peaceful life with her family. A life that was robbed from her 24 years prior.

And ultimately, those themes are why we had an ending where literally no one died, and nearly every character got to have a happy ending. Gundam has always said that violence is bad, but The Witch From Mercury was the first to say "Alright, then we'll solve the problem without violence." We got a big magic spell that was a Gundam Pride Parade in space, and combined with Miorine's actions, events were resolved peacefully.

That's why G-Witch is important to me. It gave me and many others representation in ways you almost never get from a major franchise like Gundam, and without feeling like it was doing it to just check boxes off on some executive's diversity list. It stressed themes of love, empathy and acceptance and rejected hate, revenge, karma and even death. And I think that's incredibly important in this day and age. Representation Matters. Love Matters.

I've been very emotional over this show the last two days because I've been loving it for a while now, and while I'm sad to see it end, I'm so grateful that it happened, flaws and all. I've been crying on and off since the last episode ended and I've had trouble sleeping, but I've been so unbelievably happy over what this one show did and how much it's meant to me. The characters may not be real, but the happiness Suletta & Miorine have brought me is very much real.

For me; Suletta, Miorine, and The Witch From Mercury were truly a blessing.

[marunalu]

Hi. What do you think about new chapter?

Honestly? For the most part I was just bored. As much as I love that izuku got his arms back, you can see that the only reason why hori let him lose them in the first place was to shock the readers. This is the same bullcrap he did with bakugous fake death. To let him get "killed" just to let him get resurrected in the very next chapter.

It was clear izuku would get his arms back, but at least it should have lastet a few chapters to show readers how serious the whole situation is. There are no stakes in this "war". The good guys dont die and if they get injured a "wonder" happens so they will not die or end up terrible disabled for the rest of their lives. And just like I said after the latest chapter, deux ex machina eri is the one who saves the day of course.

Again, it was clear izuku would get his arms back and that it would be eris doing. Thats not my problem. My problem is that I dont like it when an author writes shocking scenes simply just for the shock value and to trend on twitter and not because its important for the story. Thats horrible and lazy writing and just screams "I want attention!"

An other problem I have is that eri can simply just "cut her horn off" it seems. By that logic there was never a reason for chisaki to abuse eri like he did. He could have simply waited till the horn was big enough and then cut it off and I dont think chisaki was to dumb to not realize that by himself. I dont know if it means that eri is kinda quirkless from now on, but knowing hori I wouldnt bet on it and I think the horn will just grow back. I also dont like how eri calls bakugou "kacchan." We never see them interacting in the manga or that they formed a relationship. As far as I know only in the light novels in which eri is scared of him they interact. I just dont think hori should put things that happen in other medias like the light novels or movies in the manga, because it could confuse people that only have read the manga and nothing else.

About the whole kurogiri vs aizawa and mic interaction. The whole thing just startet so I guess we will see an other flashback so I cant say much about it yet. I just wished hori would stop skipping whole fights of other characters just because he likes to focus on bakugou instead by giving him TWO fights! Bakugou has enough spotlight, other characters deserve it more and not just flashback fights.

I liked though that it was mentioned that eri is learning from aizawa and thinks rational like him, so thats why she cut her horn just like he did cut his leg off. Its also cute how she mentioned that she wants to become a singer like jiro. The only other thing I liked was that afomura is starting to look more like the original afo now, because thats a thing I was wondering if it will happen. Him looking exactly like his original body and then fighting izuku would be great.

All in all the chapter was meeehhhh from what I have seen so far. Its funny because I hated the last chapter at first because the spoilers and translation were worded so bad but now I actually quite like it. For this chapter I dont feel much except maybe bored and annoyance over hori writing shock moments that dont mean anything but to shock his readers. I simply dont like it when authors do that.

[nilly002]

Probably nobody that wants to hear this but I am so fucking pissed about reddit killing itself.

Reddit was my favourite place on the entire web. Unlike all the other social media it wasn't about putting individual users on a stage and everyone following them it was simply a shared stage with the users collectively deciding what get's to be in the spotlight.

Yes it was a shithole but it was our shithole. We decided what we got. The algorithm on reddit was utter dogshit and everyone just disabled it, the real algorithm was the hive mind filtering the best content to the top. All the while actual conversation and debate was actually possible because the comments were not arbitrarily limited in length or ordered by what can only be described as little Timmy's first attempt at a Bogosort algorithm.

We had a fucking contract: users bring the content and watch ads, moderators keep the site usable and the amount of effort reddit has to put in to not get sued down to a minimum, all reddit had to do was provide the servers, ban a subreddit once in a blue moon and be content with having a decently profitable site with the factually most worthless users of big social media

But NOOOOO "We NeEd To InCrEaSe PrOfItS! ThOsE pEsKy ThIrD pArTy ApPs ArE sTeAlInG oUr MoNeY" No you idiot they just provided a better service than you did. Why shut them down when you could just copy what they have and make them unnecessary? And then in the process they try to softban nsfw as well because "ItS bAd FoR aDvErTiSmEnT!" god how I fucking hate capitalism.

There's this beautiful thing that people have created in collaboration which brings joy, news, entertainment, education, support and community to so many people and it was ALREADY PROFITABLE but no we need to ruin it to squeeze out as much cash as possible.

Fuck all those people who helped build the website and make it what it is today, fuck all the users who contributed it and spent sleepless nights to make some dumb pixel art bringing your shitty ass website into the news all across the globe fuck all the moderators who spent countless hours doing unpaid labour to keep a community they loved alive and saving you billions in moderation costs, fuck everyone that loves this website

BECAUSE WE WANT MORE MONEY!

Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of a cancer cell and for reddit the diagnosis is terminal.

[echo-bleu]

shine still brighter (1/?)

On AO3. Deaf!Artanis bullet-point fic.

Here is yet another fic that I started thinking it would be 2k tops (I have almost 5k and haven't even started the main plot). It started as a mix of this art prompt I did, and a post I can't find now that went something like "it's a good thing that Galadriel hated Fëanor's gut, because if they had pooled resources they would totally have taken over the world." And I wanted to write Fëanor being a passionate linguist. The AO3 link has a Quenya name primer if you're confused.

(cw for mentions of difficult birth and post-partum, and mentions of ableism)

Artanis is born in pain and fear.

Her spirit is nearly as bright as Fëanáro’s. She’ll grow as strong and smart and stubborn as her half-uncle, but her birth also takes almost as much of her mother’s vital energy.

Eärwen doesn’t die. But she doesn’t recover very well, either. She’s very, very tired, too tired to really connect to her daughter for a long while.

Everyone is comparing it to Míriel and Fëanáro, and nobody is happy about that, Fëanáro least of all. Eärwen isn’t anything like Míriel. She shouldn’t get to have the spotlight like that.

Finwë is understandably focused on taking care of his youngest son and granddaughter for a while, which just makes it worse.

Arafinwë is very scared for Eärwen and overprotective of Artanis. Her brothers are already enamoured of her but also a little traumatized by the whole thing.

The baby is very cute and very awake, grabbing everything within reach in her tiny hands and pulling. Especially if it’s bright or moving.

Because of all the complications and worry over Eärwen, no one realizes that there’s something distinctly different about her.

Finwë is the one who sees it first.

Mostly because everyone else is dazzled by the strength of her fëa, but Finwë raised Fëanáro and he knows how to look past that.

Artanis has many of the same traits as Fëanáro that everyone worried about when he was a baby: she won’t look people in the eye, she sometimes screams when they pick her up, and sometimes screams even louder when they put her down (and her screams are the loudest since Makalaurë). She’s extremely picky about eating, and it doesn’t help that her mother doesn’t have the energy to feed her.

Those are all fine, Finwë knows how to handle that. Half of Fëanáro’s sons were and are like that too, and his other granddaughter.

No, the thing he notices is that singing entirely fails at settling her.

Fëanáro had a hard time falling asleep, but he would always settle with his favourite lullabies.

Artanis doesn’t even seem to hear them.

Actually, Artanis doesn’t seem to hear. Anything.

By that point she’s old enough that she should be starting to speak, but the only sounds she produces are wordless screams and laughter.

No music at all. Even the most tone-deaf of elflings know how to carry a tune before they learn how to speak.

Deafness is pretty much unheard of for the Calaquendi. There are some hard-of-hearing elves, but they mostly get on fine with speaking louder.

(The Moriquendi have Deaf elves. There have always been Deaf elves, but there’s something about Valinor’s perfection… Well, it’s partly that there haven’t been that many births in Valinor yet, and most of the disabled elves didn’t make it to Valinor for various reasons, from dying on the way to being scared that they weren’t welcome (the Valar were maybe not as clear as they should have been and some things got lost in translation). And some of that misunderstanding carried over into elves taking babies who are a little too different in Lórien to be “healed”. They’re never heard of again. So the number of visibly disabled elves in Tirion is very small.)

(Estë and Irmo take great care of the disabled elves and they find their own community together, but they don’t quite understand why the Calaquendi just leave babies on their doorstep. Some of them need medical care, yes, but many don’t.)

(Fëanáro would probably have ended up in Lórien if he hadn’t been the Crown Prince. And he knows it. The one time someone suggested that some of his sons might benefit from Estë’s help, he threw a fit so violent that no one ever spoke of it again.)

Survivor’s bias (the elves who made it through the Great Journey were the strongest one, and thus we, as a people, are strong and cannot be anything else) led to a good deal of ableism. Finwë has rather vague memories of disabled elves he knew growing up, but mostly as “they weren’t strong enough to make it”.

He’s already certain that Artanis, like Fëanáro, is absolutely strong enough to make it through anything. Also Míriel’s death after she made it with him through the Great Journey rather skewed his own perspective on that.

All this to say that he has some cognitive dissonance there, but his reaction to discovering Artanis’s deafness is more of less the same as his reaction to Fëanáro’s autism:

“Hey, Arafinwë, so your daughter can’t hear, but the good news is that she’s really smart and strong and also a princess, so all we have to do is teach her to be great at everything so people won’t notice.”

Arafinwë, blinking: “What.”

He’s not at all sure about this, but he’s also very much in over his head wrangling four kids on his own and caring for his ailing wife (Maitimo babysits when he can, and Findaráto is old enough to take care of himself most of the time, but it’s still a lot).

He agrees wholeheartedly that he won’t take his daughter to Lórien, because he’s very much not over being terrified of having to visit his wife’s body there and he’s not losing his daughter.

But it’s also a lot to take in and he doesn’t know what the right decision is for Artanis.

He’s also not entirely certain that trusting his father with it is the best idea.

Eärwen is not really well enough to help, and Olwë is definitely not helping by making remarks about Artanis’s strangeness every time he sees her, and maybe it would do her good to seek out help, and also Arafinwë should move their whole family to Alqualondë, can’t you see how much good it would do to Eärwen?

Ñolofinwë has enough work trying to wrangle his absolute terror of a daughter, who is barely more than a toddler and has taken a liking to Tyelkormo of all people.

Fëanáro won’t talk to him. Not that Arafinwë values his opinion. He’s not Ñolo, forever chasing after their half-brother who hates them. He’s not.

Findis thinks he should take Artanis straight to Lórien because a baby taking so much energy from its mother is not natural, and just look at how Fëanáro turned out, is that what you want your daughter to be like? (Arafinwë thinks that it’s unfair. Fëanáro’s a little intense, sure, and his dislike is hard to bear, but he’s not that bad.)

Lalwen really hates babies.

He is not close to his sisters-in-law.

As the youngest son of the King, he doesn’t really have close friends.

Maitimo is incredibly good with Artanis, but he’s barely an adult, he definitely can’t help with this.

Findaráto unconditionally adores his sister and is very distressed about it all.

“But Atar, why does it matter if she can’t hear? She’s perfect as she is!”

“How are we going to communicate with her, though?”

Findaráto takes his hand and leads him to little Artanis, who is playing with blocks on the floor.

“Hey,” he tells her, sitting down across from her. “Are you hungry?” Saying that, he pats his belly, and then mimics eating with his fingers.

Artanis claps her hands and nods, squealing. She puts her fingers in her mouth, twice, and then holds up her arms to be picked up.

“See?” Findaráto says, turning back to his father. “It’s easy.”

These words stay with Arafinwë. Artanis doesn’t go to Lórien, Eärwen recovers little by little, and it is, indeed, easy enough to find out when Artanis is hungry or sleepy or wants something with simple signs.

Osanwë with little children doesn’t really work past sharing basic emotions, it’s not really communicative.

Finwë valiantly tries to get her to speak. Arafinwë isn’t actually sure if she can’t or if she just won’t.

He feels like trying to speak when you can’t hear yourself, and you don’t even know what words sound like, is probably very hard work. Playing with blocks in understandably a lot more fun.

Findaráto is Artanis’s favourite person by far, and they’ve become good at communicating without words, though no one else can understand them when they do. They’re using a mix of basic hand signs and facial expressions. She follows him everywhere, and he lets her ride on his back when she’s tired.

Maitimo, who has five brothers and a father who regularly have silent days (Makalaurë has never had a silent day in his life), is also very good at figuring out what she wants and needs, though they don’t really communicate beyond that.

But Artanis is growing up, and increasingly frustrated at not being able to communicate her thoughts. Her system with Findaráto is good for simple things, but she’s having complex thoughts now.

She’s also old enough to know that she’s different, and to know that everyone else is talking over her.

She’s not going to take that affront lying down.

She turns into a terror.

Not an Írissë-style terror, running away and climbing trees and biting people. No, she’s an Artanis terror. A very focused terror.

She rejects anybody who doesn’t understand her. And since she has no real mean of expressing herself in an understandable way, that’s everybody.

She’s figured out that screaming very loudly in someone’s ear is a good way of getting them to go away.

The Arafinwëans start wearing earplugs while at home.

It gives them a new appreciation of Artanis’s plight, when they try to speak to each other over her screams and can’t understand anything, but it’s also very tiring.

Artanis, in her child’s logic, rejects Findaráto the strongest. Because he’s the one who makes the most effort and he still can’t solve this for her and it’s so unfair.

Findaráto takes it very hard and is depressed for two years straight. He’s been so focused on Artanis that he never really reckoned with the trauma of his mother almost dying and his sister nearly being given to Estë, so it suddenly hits him and now Arafinwë has two children to worry about.

Angaráto and Aikanáro take to spending a strange amount of time with Carnistir and Arafinwë doesn’t like much the sounds of Maitimo’s reports on his sons’ behaviour. But he doesn’t really have the bandwidth to deal with it.

Eventually Arafinwë has had enough. Everyone is trying to give him advice and absolutely none of it is useful. People in Tirion are whispering about Artanis’s behaviour, and what it says about her parents.

(Fëanáro, for all his intensity, was actually a very quiet child, and his eccentricities were dismissed as a result of his motherlessness. Finwë’s capabilities were never put to doubt.)

He only wants the best for Artanis, it’s just that he can’t figure out what that is. His daughter is hurting and it tears him apart.

(Eärwen agrees with him, but she’s gone to stay at her parents’ for a while because all the screaming and stress were making her relapse.)

What he knows is that a) the problem is mostly communication and b) what has worked the best so far was Findaráto using gestures.

What they need is some way to make the gestures more complex.

They need a language made out of gestures.

Who do we know who’s into linguistics and invented their entire writing system?

Arafinwë takes his courage in both hands, fully anticipating a disaster, and goes to talk to Fëanáro.

“You want me to invent an entire language of gestures for your daughter,” Fëanáro blinks.

“Yes. And then I want you to teach it to me.”

“...do you have any idea how much work that would be?”

“Probably not, but I know you’re the only one who can do it.”

He expects Fëanáro to say he’s too busy to do anything for people who aren’t even really his family, or to go on a rant about Arafinwë’s thoughtlessness or his entitlement or something.

Instead, all he says is, “Come back in three weeks. And bring her along.”

Stay tuned for part 2!

All of my Disabled Tolkien Characters posts.

[orqheuss]

Even the iron still fears the rot PART 5

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

This is definitely moving in a more "female rage" route...oops.

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Summary:

Sebastian mourns. Ominis dreams. You rage. A letter falls from the sky, bearing a single line of text, an ominous message, and a gift that sets your world ablaze. Let the games begin.

Word count: 6.6k

Tags: Self deprecating thoughts, actions similar to self-harm, mentions of torture, emetophobia, illness, infection, disassociation, arson, child abuse, verbal degradation regarding a physical disability, graphic depictions of injury, blood, nightmares, feminine rage (kind of. it's still mostly gender neutral)

Read at your own discretion

AN: Surprise! New part. There was already so much happening in this chapter, and I wanted the action to get its own spotlight. So, one more part. Sorry...

It had been a long flight back from Hogsmeade, probably the longest flight you had ever experienced. Tears clouded your vision as you flew, the small droplets following you like staccato music notes to your song of sorrow. You did not know how long you had stayed in that clearing, cradling a little black button against your chest as if it could tell you the secrets of the universe. Nothing could quell the anguish deep in your chest, throat hoarse from your wails and knees dirty, caked in mud and flecks of dried blood— the blood of your best friends. All you could think about was how scared Ominis and Sebastian must be, trapped somewhere for what must be nearly two days at this point, starving and cold and alone, so very alone without the thought of someone coming for them. They didn’t know how hard you were searching for them. They knew how much you cared for them— that you would do anything to keep them safe. It was a small comfort to think that they had hope of rescue. That being said, fear does fickle things to the mind, even to the strongest of people. You could only imagine the torment that they must be going through at the hands of the villains after you. 

Desperate to erase the pain harbored in your chest, you flew. There were no feelings in the sky, no sadness in the wind caressing your face with its gentle gale. There was only freedom before you. Free from your binds as a Keeper of ancient magic— free from the responsibilities placed upon your shoulders before you even understood what they meant. You were much too young for this level of sadness, not even sixteen and having to deal with the possibility that your two best friends may very well die at the hands of your enemies. You shouldn’t even have enemies. You should be studying in the library with your friends, laughing with a confidence that could only be found in a young, obnoxiously mischievous teenager— like you were the sunlight that warmed the day and the moonrays that cooled the night. Instead, you were dealt cards that you had never seen before for a game that had no rules to follow. 

Once you touched down on the grassy lawn of the bell tower courtyard, you were angry. More angry than you had ever felt before. A ravenous hunger for revenge scorched through your veins and licked at the ancient magic swirling in your chest, pushing and pulling the magic to and fro like it was trying to call forth an army of unimaginable disaster. Static swam in your ears against the pounding of your heart as you ran through the hallways of the imposing school, throwing yourself around corners and fighting against the crowds of students that were all too aware of the terrible fortune that has befallen your existence. All they saw was a poor, heartbroken bastard that had just lost their closest friends— a pitiful excuse of a human in search of a hopeless miracle. Fools, all of them. They didn’t know the velocity of pain slamming itself against your heart. They didn’t know that your world was falling apart faster than you could put the pieces back together. You could feel their whispers against your back, their eyes boring into your skin like you were a freak show in the traveling circus. The names of your lost loves followed you like a feral beast tracking the scent of blood. How dare they utter the names of your beloved. How dare they view you as helpless— as weak. For too long had these neanderthals viewed you as less than because of your house, your upbringing, your name. You would show them, you’d show them all. 

Even still, under that blistering, that blinding anger, there was a deep and foreboding sadness inside of you. It called to you— implored you to cease the rapid pounding of your feet against the linoleum floor and quell the explosive hatred bubbling in your gut. You knew that it wasn’t the fault of any of your peers that Ominis and Sebastian had been taken. It was yours. You were the reason they were gone. If anyone deserved your ire, it was yourself. Skidding to a stop near the main entrance to the hall of Herodiana, you nearly dropped to your knees as the thought ricocheted through your brain like a bullet. The melancholy inside was right. It was your fault. There was no one else to blame but yourself. How could you be so dense? You were the one with ancient magic, after all. You had ended Ranrok and his rebellion. You had murdered Victor Rookwood. You had killed countless dark witches and wizards on your pillage towards righteousness. Who were you to think your power as something godly— something blessed by the saints, something divine? They had cast the first stone, but you had made it hale boulders. You needed to run, to hide from the outside world. You were a monster. An omen of death. Anyone close to you was as good as dead— Fate had made that fact inordinately clear. 

Through it all, there was only one place you wanted to be, and that was cradled in the arms of your Slytherins. 

Fortunately, if you could even call it that, there was another place that you could go to feel close to them. Just the thought of the Undercroft sent a pang of guilt through your chest, making your eyes move against your will to the lonely corner where your favorite blond liked to nap in the sunshine. Steel stronger than anything goblin forged grew cold in your eyes, the embers of the fresh metal dying out with only the sound of your shattering heart as fanfare. Grief and rage swirled in your gut like a demented, Hadestic hurricane. Fire threatened to spill from your panting lips with each step you took, your soul unable to even comprehend the pain resting just behind your teeth— the ache of grief— the burn of fury. 

But still, on you ran— ran to the safety of the closest you could get to your home. 

The gun-metal gate of the Undercroft creaked open with a sickening wail, like it too mourned the loss of its original owners. Your feet felt like lead as you finally skidded to a stop— your knees threatening to give up and let your weight tumble to the ground as waves of memories assaulted your mind. This was the room that you fell in love in; the room that held so much of your devotion to the two Slytherin boys you befriended what felt like years ago; how quickly they had wormed their way into your naive heart. It was a scary thought that they had this much power over you, even though it had only been a little over a year since you met the pair. Melancholia began to cloud your vision again, tears threatening to spill down your already reddened and wind-raw cheeks. At any other point you would think you were going insane with how often your emotions were shifting— anger, to despair, to worry, to anger again— sadangrysadangrysad— boundless, cosmic. But, for once the chaos felt right.

It felt like home.

Your footfalls were as loud as stone falling down a cliffside as you trudged around the space, your steps shaky and unsure like a newborn babe. To your right you could hear the ghost of Sebastian pouring over Slytherin’s spellbook— not a pleasant time, but how you loved the sound of his voice when he was excited. Just over your shoulder you felt the misty presence of Ominis as he practiced his potions. He was still rubbish at it, but it was rare to see him so disheveled, like an eclipse that only came around once in a lifetime— it was also quite cute when he scrunched his nose in frustration. You finally reached the desk you sat at so many times before, the three of you leaning over the roughly sanded wood with homework strewn across the surface as you argued over the answer to a Divination question you were all puzzled by. Everything was painful now; no happy feelings fluttering in your chest at the sight of the brunette’s discarded ties or the blond’s evergrowing collection of quick-note quills. Your heart ached at the realization that it was beginning to feel hopeless, like you would never feel happiness again for as long as you lived— you wouldn’t if you never saw their smiling faces once more. Just once, that was truly all you were asking for. Alas, the gods above did not grant miracles to people like you. They did not bless the heretics. 

From inside your robe, the two wands tucked safely in your breast pocket burned. 

An uncomfortable feeling began to grow in your chest, the feeling of despair soon taken over by an all encompassing rage. Flames licked at your ankles and ash grew thick in the air— you choked against the sludge building in your lungs. Even if the room was as cold as the Arctic, not a bit of heat in the large, echoing space, you felt like you were burning alive. With trembling hands, you gingerly— carefully— took the two magical instruments from your pocket and placed them onto the mahogany table.

The world did not end quietly for you that day. It was big, and loud, and infinite. It did not come from nowhere. 

It came from you. 

The only sound that could be heard over your heaving, ferocious breaths was the ricochet of crashing lumber against resolute stone. Screams lodged themselves in your throat as you furiously threw spell after spell around the space. Boxes lining the walls were sent splintering across the floor with one simple flick of your wrist, plooms of fire following soon after as you exploded the rubble. It was a catastrophe, that room. That once wonderful room that housed every piece of your joy— your true, unfiltered happiness. Now, your one remaining source of bliss was gone— ripped away from you far too soon. Your footsteps shook the ground as you paced across the space, your fingers frantically wracking through your hair and pulling at the roots, sending sparks of pain through your skull. The color around you seemed to fade into a blinding monochrome, painting your vision a startling black around the edges as your ire festered deep inside. If Ominis was here with you, he would chastise you for your incessant back and forth, grouchily complaining in that petulant tone of his that you were disturbing his peace; something he so rarely got, as he liked to remind you. You would smile in a sickeningly sweet way as you turned to face him, gesturing rudely before continuing your path. He would, somehow, know what you did, and would give you the same gesture in turn, a smirk turning the corners of his lips. Sebastian would laugh behind the pages of the thick tome he had decided to snatch from the library that day. You would tease him that if he kept reading like that he would need glasses one day soon. He would wave you off with a chuckle. 

You could hear them all around you at that moment, the ghost of two complementary laughs filling the echoing space— one loud and boisterous, twinged the color of tree tops under your feet as you flew against the brilliant blue sky, one a subdued chuckle, jovial, but fragile, rare, mirth painting your world the color of sunsets over Loch Lomond. 

How you longed to hear those sounds again. 

Unable to hold it at bay any longer, the tsunami of your wails breached the delicate, raw skin at the back of your throat for the second time that day, sneaking through your tightly clenched teeth with small whimpers, each one increasing in volume as the seconds bloomed into minutes. Blood pooled in your mouth and threatened to make you choke on it.

Under all sounds, the two wands resting like sleep on the table hummed. 

With one mighty breath— one deep and stuttered inhale, you screamed into the vast space. Your pain swam in the air like a thick granite-toned fog across the Clagmar coast, filling every corner of the room until you could only choke on the thick plumes. You wrenched the wands from the surface, each branch of wood still thrumming with the magic of its owner and carrying a distinct aura, something you once would have blushed at the notion of identifying so easily, and threw them across the room with every ounce of might you could muster. They bounced off the farthest wall from you before tumbling to the ground, the tiny sparks of magic sputtering out of each tip hissing against the dusty floor. You wanted to rip the world apart at the seams, scorch the very fabric of existence in your devastating rage. You wanted to devour the sky whole and spit out stars in its wake. Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned, and you did not fear Hell. You howled again, loud and long and lingering against the echoing cathedral ceilings as you wordlessly casted a spell of brimstone and fire. You held your wand steady in your hand, fingernails digging into your skin and drawing pebbles of blood to the surface, your steps turning your body in a small circle where you stood as you set every box, every table, every chair in the encompassing space ablaze. Flames roared to life around you as you fell to your knees within your personal pyre, sobs crescendoing to their highest peak as you mourned. Scattered papers fluttered to the ashen floor like embers in a steadily burning bonfire, tiny little stars reaching their hands upwards in hopes that they, too, would be looked at in wonder each night. 

You were no closer to finding Ominis and Sebastian as you were when you first set off this morning. No clues could be found anywhere to signify where they could have gone— where they could have been taken. There was no guarantee if you would ever see them again.

A bit of parchment landed softly against where your hand was clenched on the ground— a touch of care in your monument of grief. Your eyes trailed downwards, catching on the smoldering corners of the piece of sheet music. A shaking hand entered your field of vision— yours, you realized— and hesitantly picked it up with vibrating fingers. Written neatly across the bars were the gentle curves of piano chords, each one tucked together like birds huddling for warmth in a tune you did not know. The handwriting was almost perfect, like it was printed in one of the many scores on the impressively stocked shelves of the music room, but there was still something distinctly imperfect; something alien, something human. Each note was slanted, like someone else was dictating what should be on the page and another noted it down. Some sections were crossed out ferociously, tiny dots of ink splattering with each harsh strike. Letting your eyes roam, new misty tears gathered on your lashes at the chicken scratch decorating the corner of the piece. 

Property of Ominis, 1891. 

You touched the ink gently, imagining it when it was freshly wet. Ominis did always like to write his name himself; everything else could be done with his quick-notes quill. There was something, he told you once, about writing out your own name on a piece of parchment. Labeling something with your identity in ink black as pitch and just as permanent. It was yours, he said. Not your families, not anyone else's. It belonged to you and you alone. He liked the idea of owning something that his family couldn’t touch. 

The blond had notated one section, right near the end of the set of bars and crescendoing into the next, that garnered your attention. Someone else had drawn a crooked arrow that pointed to one of the half notes, a single sentence following just within the margin of the page. 

This note is wrong. 

The lettering was swirled slightly, like someone decided to learn cursive but gave up halfway through the lessons. The writer had a heavy hand; tiny drops of ink decorated the loops of their i’s and g. Each word was written like the person had something better to do, something more to jot down as their brain moved faster than their hand. A tear dripped onto the page, smudging the lettering as you recognized the handwriting.

Sebastian.

Just under it, another scratched sentence— the letters perfectly imperfect. 

You can’t even read sheet music, you walnut. 

Such a little thing, such a small detail, but oh how it meant the world to you. How much sorrow you could feel from two scribbles of words on a bit of parchment. 

To anyone looking in from the outside, they would only see your grief. They would see your mourning in the tears that streaked down your ash covered cheeks— your agony in the wrinkles and dusty fingerprints adorning the pretty pastel yellow sweater under your tweed coat. They did not know the truth, though. You were out of tears— out of sobs and wails. All you felt now was blinding, incapacitating rage. You wanted to cry more, to scream and rip the paper clutched in your hands to shreds and wait until the universe granted you this one wish: to bring your boys home to you. But, there was no more time for that— no more wishes to come true, no more room inside of you for anything other than outrage. Fury. Hatred.

Revenge. 

And so you stood up on your shaking legs, casting a wordless water charm to put out your flames. Your eyes glowed as the pyre dimmed, leaving only ash and ruin. True, opaque smoke tumbled towards the peaked roof of the hideaway, curling around each other with a sizzle and stray spark— an Oroborous of cataclysmic size. From within the circle of your own destruction, you couldn’t help but think that the room looked morbidly beautiful. 

With the last iota of grace you could muster, you tucked the piece of music into your pocket, gingerly picking up the discarded wands once again— relishing just a bit in the warmth that still resided in each piece of magical bark— and tucked them where they should be in your pocket. 

A wolfish, wicked grin stretched across your face as you stared at the carnage you made. Your shoulders straightened— dangerously so, unnaturally so. A new sparkle grew in your eyes— something deadly and unfamiliar, but so damn right. 

If a fight was what they wanted, a fight is what they would get. 

You were a beast— bloodthirsty with an insatiable appetite for slaughter. 

You were not an option. You were inevitable. A horror beyond their comprehension. An omen. A threat. They would soon understand that. You would make them understand that. 

They would pray for mercy with their pretty words, and then you would sink your teeth into their throat and rip each of them out until there was nothing left. 

It was a common occurrence for Sebastian to take care of Ominis after his nightmares. It was amazing that he didn’t have to do it more often, honestly. He was always a perceptive boy; it was one of his best assets. So, when Ominis would wake up in the dead of the night, his breathing heavy and panting with a sheen of sweat coating his clammy skin, it wasn’t hard to figure out the young Gaunt’s secret. For the longest time the boy refused to tell Sebastian anything— he was ever so insecure, after all, and he did not want anyone to know that about him. But even still, the brunette slowly, carefully, chipped away at his barriers piece by piece until the blond would let him crawl into bed with him and hush his muffled cries. 

It took him even longer to pry what the nightmares were about out of the boy— nearly three years of waking to Ominis screaming himself conscious. Sebastian knew that the Gaunt family was not a kind one. Being a pureblood wizard himself, just not of the same pedigree, as the sacred family would say, he was well aware of the politics surrounding blood purity and the cruelty of the families that practiced those types of ideals. What he did not know was how unfeeling they could be towards their own children. The Sallow family was one of love— happiness. Joy seeped through the cracks in their threadbare manor by the coast and coated every inch of their meager belongings. He learned of care, of family, of belonging— most importantly, he learned what it meant to learn. There was never a night that his mother and father did not bid the twins goodnight without a kiss on the head and a story. Ominis did not grow like that. The Gaunt house was cold, both physically and emotionally. It rested atop of a lone hill just on the outskirts of wizard London, the walls as tall as the clouds and the wards surrounding the property even higher— a house of ghosts. He never knew what it meant to play, to run through the grass and jump into the creek just beyond his fence. Instead, he learned of pain, of neglect, and, of course, of fear. The one thing that they had in common was that they both learned the meaning of the word “family,” even if they had been taught very different definitions. 

So, when Ominis awoke in the middle of the night with a howl trapped in his throat and a plea of mercy towards his father at the tip of his tongue, Sebastian did not ask any questions. It was not a time for answers, it was a time for comfort. For care. For kindness. 

After the screams had subsided and the tears had dried on the blonds boney cheeks, it was some of the most peaceful times the two boys had ever shared. 

Sebastian was warmth to Ominis. He was hugs in the middle of the night and waking up to his arm around his waist. He was the calm after the tremulous storm in his mind. And in turn, Ominis was Sebastian’s balm. He kept the heat within him from roaring out in a grand blaze with a simple touch of his hand. He was his beginnings and his ends— his softly whispered fable in front of the common room fireplace. Above all else, he was his good. 

It killed them both inside, a little bit more each second that passed, that they couldn’t comfort the other. Ominis had expressed his anguish last night as he listened to Sebastian’s shaky breaths and the stuttered rhythm of his heart as he drifted into a sickly sleep. Now, it was the freckled boy’s turn to listen out for the other. For the longest time he wasn’t sure if the blond was even alive; his chest was that still. It took an hour at least— an hour of the youngest Sallow twin sobbing and calling out for his love— for Ominis to make the smallest sound. Sebastian didn’t hear it at first against the pounding in his skull. His skin was a sickly pale color at that point, sweat beading at his brow and trailing down the sides of his face even though it was hellishly cold in their dismal prison. Tremors shook his entire body, fighting against the hot that scorched just under his skin and the chill that permeated the air around him. The infection was getting worse. Much, much, worse. It was a miracle that he was still conscious— a miracle or his death. He would take either at that point. 

Awash in terror and sickeningly macabre thoughts, it took him a moment to register movement from the other side of the room. He didn’t believe it at first; it must have been a trick of the light, or the breeze blowing through the dungeon had simply tossed Ominis’ hair like a lover smoothing it away from his face. But sure enough, his chest had begun to rise and fall at a faster rate. His breath pushed out of his bruised lungs with much more effort than what was normal. The tiny puffs of air coiled around the bars of his cage like a soul swallowed by the demons of Azkaban. Sebastian’s own panting stilled in his throat, finally registering that the blond was alive. Joy felt like the wrong emotion to be feeling then, but he couldn’t help the relieved smile that pressed at the corners of his mouth— couldn’t stop the nearly soundless laugh that tumbled from the very depths of his heart. How could he feel anything but elation knowing that Ominis had survived what some of the strongest Auror’s could not? Stars, he loved him. He loved him more than the sun loved the moon— more than ships loved a lighthouses song just off the shore. If his light was alive, if he was okay, then by Salazar, he could do anything. Sebastian felt the familiar feeling of hope fill his chest with butterflies for the first time in a very long while. 

That was, until he heard the sounds coming from the boy just out of reach. 

They started quiet, like the buzz of a crackling coal in a still fire. Tiny whimpers— the smallest iota of a sound. But then, they got louder. The coals caught ablaze once more, drowning the suffocating silence of their downy prison with clipped screams and harsh whines. It sounded like it pained the blond to even utter the noises breaching through his chattering teeth. The chilling realization washed over Sebastian like the icy waters of the black lake— Ominis was trapped in a nightmare. His heart sank once more, dread pooling just under his jaw and threatening to tear its way out of his sweat and dirt marred throat with its deadly sharp claws. He wanted nothing more than to take the young Gaunt into his arms and hold him close— to press his face against his blood soaked hair and shush his cries into the clammy skin at his collar. 

That was Leona’s greatest torture, he realized. Keeping them apart. Just out of fingers reach. 

His hope bled from him like the sea bled moonlight, and he let his body fall onto the stone wall just at his back, head resting in his shaking palms as his fingers fisted at his greasy, knotted hair. Soft sobs filled the still air once again. 

Please, he prayed, hoping that his voice would somehow carry to the tall castle that seemed to be on the other side of the world. Please, come save us. 

The nightmares always started the same. He was in the halls of the Gaunt manor, the dismal aura surrounding him stealing the joy from his soul and crushing his lungs with its banshee-like claustrophobia. He could feel the harsh grip of his older brother at his shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into his velvet dinner jacket and pressing bruises deep into his skin. He wasn’t sure what to make of the attention at first. Before it truly registered in his mind, it was almost familial the way Marvolo wrapped his arm around Ominis’ taut shoulders, steering him away from his path towards the library and instead leading him deeper and deeper into the foreboding manor halls. No words were spoken between the two—  conversation was rare between the pair… between any of the Gaunt leaders and the small boy, really. He was a pariah in his own home. The black sheep hiding in a den of wolves. 

Ominis recalled it being a fairly normal day. He had had tea with his dear Aunt Noctua just an hour before, only stopping their conversation when the sun had begun to set and the air around them had begun to chill. That was when he found himself meandering his way towards the grand library at the center of his abode. That is, until his brother so rudely interrupted him. He remembered feeling unsure at the sudden attention from the elder Gaunt sibling. Marvolo tended to ignore him as of late, instead favoring his father’s company as they discussed his work at the Ministry. He was quite curious as to where the taller of the two was taking him, but he knew better than to ask questions, instead electing to simply follow and see what panned out. All he knew was that his brother’s fingers felt piercing against his skin. 

The memory played out behind his eyes like a moving picture on the tall walls. It was one of those rare nightmares that Ominis could minutely picture what was happening around him. While he did not have the gift of sight, he had an active imagination when it came to visible stimuli. The halls of Gaunt manor, as he had been told before, were painted a muted olive tone with silver embellishments along the vaulted ceilings and dangling chandeliers above his head— like the sound of leaves rustling in the trees on a fall evening. The walls were lined with sentient pictures of his ancestors, dating all the way back to Salazar Slytherin himself. He did not know what his family truly looked like, but he knew some small specifics. Soft yellow hair, nearly white in some lantern light. Strong features across their pointed faces. Unnervingly blue eyes and a haunting stare to match. All things that he had in common with everyone on his family tree— more of a tangled bush than anything, he liked to joke to himself. They were unusually quiet that night, not even a whisper of a scathing remark about his impairment to be heard in the hushed hallway. 

Strange, Ominis had mused to himself. 

The vision shifted then, the green and silver foyer falling away to a dark and dismal room. The air was startlingly still in the youngest Gaunt’s ears, not even the softest breeze could be felt in the echoing space. Everything around him was black— no description to go off of in his mind for what he was experiencing. There were others in the room, but even they were silent. He could smell his mothers strong perfume, something heady and obnoxious in his sensitive nose. The harsh smell of his fathers cigars mingled unpleasantly with the scent of the overly powdery notes. Beyond them he could place something unfamiliar— something striking and metallic, like old galleons at the bottom of a coin purse. It reminded him of when he had scraped his knee earlier in the week on the patio outside. Copper. Iron. 

His breathing stilled in his chest. 

Blood.

It was then that he heard the panting breaths off to his left, the cadence foreign to anyone in his bloodline. The breathing was shallow in nature, with a slight stutter between hisses of pain. He could not sense any new magic signatures in the space. Something was wrong. Very, very, wrong. 

His father stepped forwards then, pulling him from his brother’s grasp and replacing the bite of Marvolo’s fingers with his own as he steered him farther into the room. He led him to what he thought was the middle of the room before letting go and turning to face the boy, his form towering over Ominis like a dragon to a simple goat. The boy fought against the shiver that threatened to move through him at the intensity of the Gaunt patriarch’s stare. 

“Ominis.” His father’s gravelly tone scratched at his ears. “It is time that you prove your worth in this family.” 

He was puzzled. Had he not done so already? He was their flesh and blood. Surely that was enough?

“What do you mean, father?” He said, confusion lacing his young voice. 

Annoyance shed from every corner of the room— all three of his closest family members. His anxiety began to subtly increase, a knot beginning to form in his throat. Had he said something wrong?

“I mean,” his father hissed. “It is time that we show you why we are the strongest, the most widely known, the most feared wizarding family to date.” 

The stillness around him was cut by the sharp swipe of Erebus Gaunt’s wand as he threw the first spell.

“Crucio.”

Ominis had never heard screams that loud before. They were sharp, painful, terrified. He covered his ears against the harshness of it, his eyes slamming shut as he processed what just happened. There were two distinct voices calling out, he noticed. One higher— feminine. The other lower in tone and with a more masculine lilt. They wailed in agony from the spell, its electric current pulsing in their bodies as it burned away the blood in their veins. Pleas of mercy filled the room like a never ending current. The boy’s arms were ripped away from his head, forcing him to listen to every sound of anguish. Each howl was like a blinding light straight into his frontal cortex. Tears pooled in his eyes at the pure agony soaking him to the bone. 

Just as quickly as it began, it was over. The youngest Gaunt’s body trembled in place as silence bathed the room in blackness once again. 

His voice shook against the words escaping from his clamped throat. “What— what was that?” 

Marvolo’s voice came from over his shoulder. “Pest control.” 

Ominis’ heart nearly gave out when he grasped his brother’s meaning. Muggles. 

He shook his head rapidly, taking two stumbling steps back before bumping into the strong chest of his father. Two hands clamped down roughly on his shoulders, holding him in place. All the puzzle pieces floating around in his muddled mind fit together with a sickening click. 

“No.” He breathed, his panic growing stronger and stronger by each passing second. “No! I won’t do it! This is too much— you’re asking too much!” 

His father’s grip tightened, his fingernails digging fresh indents into his collar. “You will not question your father, boy.” He spit the word like an insult. 

Ominis shook his head, fighting against the arms holding him in place. Frightened tears spilled down his cheeks. All he could hear against the blood pounding in his ears was the weak cries of the couple at his feet, begging him for mercy. 

His mother finally spoke, her voice resigned and twinged with irritation. “Just get on with it, Erebus. We haven’t got all night.” 

His father growled above him. “You will hold your tongue, Catarina.” He turned his attention back to the shivering boy clamped under his bruising grip. “Cast the spell, boy. I will not ask twice.” 

Ominis felt a slender piece of wood be shoved into his hand. 

He shook his head again, terror flooding his tiny, ten-year-old body. “Please, father. Don’t make me do this.” He dropped the wand onto the floor, listening to it roll away from his feet. 

As quickly as it began it was over. His father released him, harshly shoving him to the cold granite ground. The blond caught himself before his face hit, his hands outstretched and nearly sliding away against the blood that bloomed across the floor. He felt like he was going to be sick. 

Erebus Gaunt’s footsteps rang in his ears as he paced away from his hunched form, the thumps only ceasing for a moment as they were replaced by the clatter of wood against tile. His deep, foreboding sigh filled the entire room like the hiss of a snake. 

“I didn’t want to have to do this, boy.” He said, his tone almost sounded sympathetic if Ominis didn’t know any better. “Know that it was you who forced my hand.” 

He could only puzzle what it meant for a stagnant moment before his entire world came crashing down around him. 

“Crucio!”

Pain. Unimaginable pain. Excruciating. Constant. Incapacitating. That was all he felt. That and betrayal— heartbreak. Never had they hurt him like this before. Nothing physical, at least. Words can leave just as harsh of a sting on your soul as hands can. This was new, though. His very being was on fire, like the strings that kept him tied together inside were being ripped apart by the hands of the Fates. His blood boiled under his skin— his tongue felt like it was as thick as fresh cotton and as heavy as steel. It was a miracle he didn’t bite through it. The magic licked at every bit of him, every pore and hair follicle, like a rabid dog. He had never been burned before, but Ominis was sure that even the touch of the hottest coals in all of Tartarus itself would hurt less than this. If he was able to see before this, he would be twice as blind by the end. He was sure that if he opened his eyes— his mouth— his insides would leak out like melting ice at the bottom of a glass. 

Through it all, he thought he heard a scream. A small part of him hoped it was his mother, begging father to stop. Only when the pain finally ceased and he felt how raw his throat had become did he realize he was only hearing himself. 

The tinkle of wood against the granite mosaic was familiar to him now when his father dropped the wand next to his trembling hand. The world felt muddled around him— too much, but also too little against his skin. 

“I tell you again, Ominis.” His father’s voice was like shattering glass. “Prove to me that you are worthy of the life we are providing you.” 

As much as his heart bled— his soul screamed and pleaded against the hand wrapping around the wand— he knew that this was life or death now. Torture or be tortured— kill or be killed. He stood on shaky legs, a hand clenched around his stomach like his insides would tumble to the floor if he relieved the pressure there. His already overactive senses kicked into overdrive. The blood covering his once pristine clothes smelled twice as strong as before. The sobs of the poor muggles his family had taken from their home grated against his ringing ears with a startling clarity. The wood in his left hand— much too big for his small fingers— felt like a ten pound weight. Everything was too much. He had to make it stop— everything had to stop. 

All he wanted was for it to stop. 

He cast the spell. 

This all was the same, of course. Every nightmare was the same. 

This one, though, was an anomaly. 

Because, instead of the voices of the two muggles that he was forced to torture, all he heard was the screams of you and Sebastian. 

From the sky came a note. Nothing special— no identifiable penmanship, no return address, no nomenclature. Just your name printed neatly across the front. 

Inside the old, yellowed envelope were two things. One, a letter— a scrawl of some coordinates and the request to come alone, all signed with a swirled see you soon. 

Huddled at the bottom, tucked into one of the corners, was the second thing— two things, really. Tied neatly together with a piece of twine, a delicate bow decorating it like a present on Christmas, was a bundle of hair. White and brown. 

The wind around you howled as you summoned your broom to your hand. A storm was brewing— you didn’t know which was stronger, the one in the air, or the one inside of you. 

Whomever sent the letter would find out soon enough. You thought about where you would hurt them first.  As you kicked off the ground, the frigid gale answered everywhere.

AN: The wait won't be that long again, I promise!! Next part will be the last.

[zeroar]

An Open Letter to the People Who Support Autism Speaks

Autism Speaks is eighteen years old. The age they should start dismissing themselves as being an authority on autism like they do with autistic adults if they cared about consistency at all.

They were founded in 2005 by a couple of Hollywood executives who grieved the diagnosis of their grandchild. This was a full dozen years after the seminal "Don't Mourn For Us" by Jim Sinclair was penned and presented.

From the beginning, Autism Speaks was anti-autism. They sought a "cure" they could use to erase our existence from the planet, they fomented anti-vax conspiracies which are still plaguing our society today, and they fostered and continue to foster an environment supportive and understanding of child-murder.

But. They were connected to celebrity. And they had the endowment and reach to become the largest anti-autism group in the nation and world.

The primary method of advertising which Autism Speaks used from the beginning is known as "fear appeal".

Typically, they frame autistic children as changeling-like creatures which replace the allistic or neurotypical child you had with one which will never love you and will tear apart your family.

Autism Speaks spotlights the worst of having an autistic family member and pulls the drapes on any mitigating circumstances or assistance. They emphasize the burden we are and the harm caused to our families by our existence.

Autism Speaks then goes on to frame themselves as being the solution and the experts on everything autism. They say, don't listen to autistic people, listen to their parents and other people who have been negatively affected by their existence. Listen to these cherry-picked examples.

They talk vaguely about support for autistic children and families while they campaign ceaselessly to find the genes which contributed to making us... so they can unmake us.

As you might expect for people who frame themselves as being the victim of their children's existences, they have been easily taken in by snake-oil salesmen and conspiracy theorists.

To this day, Autism Speaks continues to emphasize the "environmental causes of autism" even while fully knowing (from the millions of dollars of research they put in pursuing a debunked study) that autism appears to be primarily genetic and our environment really only affects our presentations as autistic, not our realities as autistic.

"Environmental causes" is a dog whistle for vaccines because they no longer feel it is profitable for them to explicitly encourage widespread death and alternative disabilities of children, so they have started only alluding to it and finally, years after the study was debunked and retracted, agree that vaccines do not cause autism.

"Environmental causes" is also a dog whistle for things like heavy metal poisoning causing autism and various other external things that can be "taken care of" via chelation therapy and bleaching our insides. Yes, Autism Speaks is at least partially responsible for spreading bleach "cures".

I believe they've taken it down since I first started advocating for SPLC to recognize Autism Speaks as a hate group—something autistic persons have recognized for years—but as recently as a year ago they were still directing people to seek out these "cures".

They worded it in such a way that it was, "These 'cures' do not work and can cause harm, but you should talk to people who tried them for their children and see for yourself."

It's cruelty for cruelty's sake. Or it's believing scientifically disproven things in a way that promotes the torture of children.

Which brings us to arguably their biggest crime against humanity and against autistic people specifically thus far: the advancement of behaviorism or behavioral conditioning as the "treatment" for autism.

Behaviorism, that is, conversion therapy torture. When done on autistic people, it is commonly called ABA or PBS.

This is another reason why they cling to "environmental causes", because behaviorism is entirely consumed with external presentation.

Autism is a pervasive neurological state which colors every aspect of our lives. Their "solution" is to deny our reality, break us to their will, and have us pretend to be "normal".

Through their efforts, they have ensured conversion therapy is not just used, but frequently the only choice for covered treatment of autistic children.

I say "choice", but the torture is sometimes court-mandated (and this is more common when the parents are marginalized-by-society in some way themselves).

Autism Speaks is so very proud of their government influence. Shortly before I started the petition, I watched in horror as their testimony scuttled a bill at the state level intended to help autistic children which had the support of their parents because not enough torture was included in the "help".

People say they've "changed", yet it's not like their institution is so hallowed and sacrosanct that it is necessary to keep around even as it is continues to encourage harm and death to autistic children and autistic adults.

Autism Speaks is the multi-headed hydra of anti-autism rhetoric and hate in the world today. They have so many branches and have infiltrated so deeply that many of their supporters ( I hope ) are not even aware of the hateful rhetoric and active harm they spread.

People tend not to even question the premise that autistic humans are better off dead than alive, people have for ages not even thought of us as human. Autism Speaks recommends starting behavioral conditioning as early as possible in children as young as two. The least intensive programs they recommend are for dozens of hours a week.

This is what they recommend, push, and lobby for with *all* autistic children.

If they become able to accurately recognize autism in a fetus, then their genocide and eugenics will only accelerate. I am pro-abortion, but no one should be coerced into an abortion with lies and one-sided propaganda.

Showing hateful rhetoric and catastrophizing about our existence to a newly pregnant person is similarly abominable as the sort of thing anti-choice people do.

Autism Speaks has not changed, though they have gotten better at pretending normality. Maybe they put themselves through conversion therapy torture to learn how to pretend to be a force of good while being sympathetic of child murderers?

Or, you know, they've hired publicists and PR people.

If you were duped by them, I'm sorry that their hate is not more well-known. Can you imagine if the first place you felt supported you and understood your struggles was the bad guy? Who would think that by default?

But they are the bad guy. And they're using you. Preying on your isolation and desire for community and support.

They start early. Constant public outreach. Working with cops. University chapters. There may even be entire branches under their umbrella that are actively dedicated to good. But they support the hate and harm by supporting Autism Speaks.

If you support Autism Speaks, then you support the elimination of autism.

If you believe their fear-driven propaganda designed to earn more money for themselves, that may sound like a good thing to you.

But you cannot eliminate autism without eliminating the autistic person, too.

We cannot turn off our autism, some of us can pretend normality—frequently to our great misfortune—but others can't do that either. It's similar to what happens when you force queer people through conversion therapy torture / behaviorism regimes.

There is not some hidden switch in our brains to "fix" us. Even if there was, we would not be ourselves, we would be different people. You cannot separate autism from the autistic.

If this letter spoke to you, I hope you will consider signing my petition to get the Southern Poverty Law Center to track anti-disability hate and to recognize Autism Speaks as an anti-autism group.

You can find the petition here:

Thank you for reading, Zero Richardson

[wilwheaton]

I was reading an interview with you. I think it was in support of Still Just A Geek. When discussing Twitter, you said that if you go to a bar, and then a bunch of Nazis start going to that bar, you should leave because that’s a Nazi bar now. I’m struggling with that concept around Twitter for myself.

I mostly lurk on social media, so I don’t have a huge stake in this (yet). I want to close my Twitter account because I don’t want to support Musk and the right wing people he’s platforming. However, Twitter has been a great place for me to learn about environmental causes, and disability rights, and anti-fascist groups, etc. etc. And I don’t want to give that up. I feel like if we let the Nazis have Twitter, that gives them strength to take the next place (be it an online space or a real-life bar).

How do you think about these issues? When do we leave the bar because it’s a Nazi bar now, and when do we say no, this is our bar and we’re keeping it?

Well, the bar you wanted to save is now owned by a Nazi who is putting as many of his fellow Nazis in the spotlight as he can, as well as giving them preferential treatment inside, while he tacitly and implicitly encourages them to hurt people who had been trying to save the bar.

I'd say the time to save it has passed, and now it's time to burn it to the ground and salt the earth so it can never come back.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Tophet

CR 10

Neutral Large Construct

Bestiary 3, pg. 271

Construction Requirements: Craft Construct, Bull’s Strength,Endure Elements, and a caster level of at least 12. Craft (Sculpture) with a DC of 20.

A Tophet is built from at least 3000 pounds of iron, steel, and/or brass forged in heat comparable to that of an active volcano.

Cost to Build: The strict heat requirements and the formation of the Tophet's rotund body makes the final cost of this Construct a generous 23,500gp!

Open wide and say aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHI'M BURNING

Often formed in the likeness of whoever the creator dislikes, the Tophet look like comically waddling, rounded caricatures of their inspiration, harmless as a jester and created only to be mocked. Much like a jester in a fantasy setting, though, the Tophet is more dangerous than it looks! Though its toddling gait and silly face can be disarming, it's still an animated hunk of solid metal, capable of dealing hefty blows with a duo of slam attacks for 1d6+8 damage each and having DR 5 that's only bypassed by adamantine weapons.

And, of course, their mouth. Unhinging and opening up like some nightmare portal, the Tophet's bite deals 2d6+8 damage and Grabs whatever it locks down on. Any creature that can't break out of the grapple by the time the Tophet's turn rolls around again is sucked straight into its hollow but cramped interior. The Construct itself has no Swallow Whole damage, acting purely as a prison cell (or, in desperate times, an armored transport) and even having a doorway to let out anyone who can succeed the DC 30 Disable Device check to pick the lock (with a -2 penalty because they're still grappled) or who has the key. The Tophet itself can be ordered to open and shut the hatch at any time, and it automatically shuts it as a free action whenever a creature picks the lock to escape, resetting the mechanism.

However, being a living prison cell is only its primary function. It's also a torture device and, in some cases, an executioner. Immune to Fire damage, these rounded guardians are Conductive, transferring half of any Fire damage they would have taken to their prisoners instead. While a party needs only to hear the screams of their roasting ally once to stop hurling Fireballs and Scorching Rays at the thing, the Tophet's commander has little reason to not hurl as much fire as they can at their mechanical ally, roasting the victim inside with no saving throw allowed. The book points out that Tophet can be ordered to stand in lava to execute their prisoners, with total immersion dealing 20d6 Fire damage a round; that's an average of about 72 damage, so captured victims take 36! And with nowhere to escape but into the lava... well... Not a pretty way to go.

On the plus side, Tophet are unintelligent, entirely beholden to the orders of their creators and with no tactical flexibility. Their entire game plan is to waddle up to a target and Full-Attack as early and as often as possible, something they actually struggle a little with despite their CR and Large size; their silly little arms are good for the court's morale but not for the machine itself, which possesses a 10ft space but only a 5ft reach, and their silly little legs mean they only move at 20ft a round, allowing most parties to stay out of their reach. They're not exactly meant to fight, they're meant to swallow people who are brought to them already bound and gagged and act as an emergency last line of defense between a prisoner and people who want them freed. If a Tophet is in battle, it's likely because the party is trying to rescue someone who was put inside one earlier... and a DM wanting to make an encounter with one especially harrowing can put a time limit on it, with the Construct sitting atop a fire pit, pinging its held victim's health every round it can't be moved...

You can read more about them here.

[utilitycaster]

oh PLEASE elaborate on your thoughts about why people say Brenann's hogging the spotlight after you're back from work 👀

This is actually a very long answer, because morning me is someone with the bright sun shining behind her and a full cup or four of coffee who does not think of the consequences of her actions, so it's below a cut.

I think the first reason is something best described as cultural but in a very specific way. Like...the bulk of actual players we talk about are people who have, just by default, spent a lot of time in a handful of cities in the US where there's a significant entertainment industry presence, and for D20 they've specifically been comedians. I say this to set a particular scene: I almost never get it when people think the cast of an actual play show is angry at each other, or that people are being too pushy or that the humor is off. I suspect this might be cultural; I am from the urban Northeastern US and my mom grew up in Los Angeles and I have three siblings, and so a lot of what people clock as aggression or unkindness reads to me as simply banter or straightforwardness or decisiveness, all of which I see as very positive things. I mean obviously there is a such thing as inappropriate humor, bigotry and jokes at the expense of other groups and so forth, but most of what I see in actual play I watch/listen to is just, as NADDPod puts it, taking your friends to the raspberry patch. It's good-humored teasing. Anyway I think Brennan is very willing to engage with that banter and that decisiveness (and like, he spent a lot of formative time in New York City which I'm sure is an influence) and I think that reads to people who are uncomfortable with it as aggression.

Someone who took more linguistic anthropology or sociology than I could probably explain this better but it's just like...as a person I find the rapid-fire and heated but good natured heckling on D20, or Sam's satirical ad reads, or bold moves in any D&D game, or the arguments on NADDPod D&D court to be very normal and enjoyable, and I find hesitation and hedging and uncertainty and "are you sure?" and endless check-ins to be very negative and anxiety-inducing and draining.

With that said I don't think Brennan is particularly egregious (Evan Kelmp is the one case where I think this is a valid criticism, but even then I didn't find him an ungenerous player, merely one who by design was going to occupy a certain position) so I think that brings me to the really delicate part of this conversation.

I've mentioned this in the past but I think a lot of the actual play fandom on Tumblr suffers pretty severely from what's been labeled "the soft bigotry of low expectations." I've been vocal quite specifically when it comes to misogyny and how the agency of the women of the cast is treated as true only when convenient, because I feel that as a woman I'm able to actually speak on those terms, but I think it's true across the board. Essentially, this means that the bar is (often unconsciously) set lower, or people overly applaud, to a perhaps even condescending degree, people from minority or underrepresented groups. It is not, to be clear, having DEI programs or helping people be in something (in this case...popular actual play) in the first place and acknowledging structural inequalities that might make the path more difficult; it's instead assuming that once they get there they'll never be quite as good, or being surprised when they are. I think the most classic example is the overuse of the word "eloquent" to describe Black speakers, as it often comes with this connotation that being well-spoken is something the person providing the compliment didn't expect. You know, if you're an adult with no significant cognitive or physical disabilities and someone compliments you for tying your shoes, it's pretty fucking insulting. That's what we're talking about here.

The way this manifests in the fandom is that there's really no room to provide criticisms that are not motivated by bigotry. I'm a critic by nature, and there's a general veneer of obnoxious insistence on positivity across the board in this and many fandoms, but, as I've said many times before (and to be fair it's getting better) the pushback people receive for completely valid criticisms of Marisha is intense. I've mentioned that I've had issues with story pacing for Brennan, Matt, and Aabria as DMs at different points, and the backlash for Aabria was the strongest even though the criticism was by no means the harshest. There is a certain degree of nonstop fawning that at times occurs that doesn't actually permit engaging with characters or discussing the actual strengths of the actors, and which often wraps around into something insulting; see the "Emily, breaker of DMs" nonsense that's finally getting called out. Because it's not a compliment! Part of why Emily is such a good player is that she is immensely collaborative and makes characters who will help with party composition, and she self-identifies as a big fan of DMs, and treating her (or like, anyone) as a perfect force of nature rather than a thinking person who makes decisions, some of which are good and some of which are bad, is not praise! It's not praise to exclude someone from valid criticism; it's treating them as lesser, to do so.

For a number of reasons I am a person who is not generally stopped by this, but a lot of people understandably aren't, or are deterred even by that more general need for nothing but praise...except constant praise starts to become meaningless, and more importantly, people sometimes have negative feelings about a show! Maybe a character they liked died, or their predictions didn't come true, or their ship didn't happen, or they're just not very interested in a specific plot. But it's impossible to actually pick apart what isn't working for them, because there's this environment where, if you start asking questions, the answer might be "I don't like the choice a player who is a woman, or nonwhite, or queer, made, and how it weighs upon the story." And so, and this is where I am treading so lightly, I don't think the issue in the fandom or TTRPG is "oh the poor straight white men in D&D", because that's obviously fucking ridiculous, but I do think that if you block off any criticism of anyone else, it lands somewhere, and it's often not actually justified.

The example I actually have in mind more often is Sam Riegel. I've made some pretty harsh criticism of Sam and some of his characters in the past, but it has always been very much about his choices. But every single time I've gotten some weird (and uh...very uncomfortable, frankly) venting about Sam's sense of humor. I have never really focused on his sense of humor as the problem. I like it. I find it extremely relatable. At the risk of using the bigotry script again, Sam is, in fact, of the same ethnicity and region of the US as I am (ie, northeast US Ashkenazi Jewish) and when people act like his humor is discomfiting it's like a neon sign that to me reads "I HAVE NEVER MET SOMEONE FROM YOUR CULTURE," which on the one hand, not necessarily their fault, but on the other, does not feel great to have someone on anon venting to you while this sign is staring you in the face.

But that is a different point - my point is that I feel like there's this...seething magma of discontent sometimes, that has built up because there is an attitude that criticism is to be avoided at nearly all costs. And when it must be vented, there are only a small handful of acceptable targets (ie, the cis straight white men, although among the CR and D20 casts, Taliesin and Zac both get a decent amount of this despite Taliesin not being straight and Zac not being white), so the criticisms that come out are often excessive for the infraction (Brennan, a famously wordy guy playing a literal college of eloquence bard, turns into "Brennan is a spotlight hog" despite him being a player who is enthusiastically yes-anding everyone at the table), flat-out misdirected (my criticisms of Sam's mechanics are treated as an invitation to talk about a dislike of Sam's jokes) or just straight up bile (I am quite frankly never forgetting the somehow popular post that said Travis was too stupid to play a druid; it really was a breaking point where I said oh this positivity is all fake as hell, huh.) And eventually these criticisms become the "safe" and "accepted" ones in the fandom. Which is also bad because like, at this point, those three examples are to me just signals of someone saying "I'm not happy but it might not necessarily be at all related to this." And it is possible that someone might genuinely not enjoy Sam's sense of humor, or think Brennan is hogging the spotlight (though I disagree), but I struggle to believe them because these are just the well-worn codes, devoid of their actual meaning. I also think it's notable these all squarely blame people and not just like, "I don't vibe with this choice and no one is specifically at fault" but that's also a whole other post.

This is of course not to say that there isn't also actual bigotry within the fandom; looking at that person who freaked out about Utkarsh wearing a sweatshirt and not having an encyclopedic knowledge of the divine soul sorcerer class, or the person who called Deni$e unpleasant and abusive in the main tag, rather than simply saying their characters were not for them. Nor does it mean that you can't have criticisms of Brennan, or any of the many white guys in Actual Play, because my point is that thoughtful criticism based on what's onscreen is what I live for, and no one is exempt. But I think most if not all people saying this about Brennan are mad about something else in the Ravening War.