#still trying to absorb that. it's just... so arbitrary

[bobcat-pie]

GO WATCH THE OCTOPUS LADY ON YOUTUBE, SHES SO COOL AND I'M LEARNING SO MUCH

[satoriberry]

"there's no ink." "yer kinda cute." - karasu tabito

★ resume: you need to make photocopies of a correction sheet for all 35 of your classmates. also, karasu can't use printers.

★ heads up: karasu is potentially ooc but imo he acts the way he does when it comes to football outside of bllk he's CRINGE BOOOOO, reader has hair that can be tucked behind her ear so it can be short or long yknow and uhhh nothing else ig, maybe just karasu being cringe but what's new. also reader is so fucking sick and tired of people in this so she's a bit rude but its justified :3

★ berry's note: oh wow im WRITING!! [😱😱] n e way, i hate this guy a lot and i cant imagine him excelling at using a printer by himself, so time to make a cutesy scenario out of it where he makes a fool of himself!!! enjoy!! :3

maybe it was because of the big, fat, red "57" that was surely an adequate and representative grade for your work - and not just your geography teacher being a bitch - but for some arbitrary reason, an itch developed in the back of your brain and made you feel a bit less tolerant of stupidity. at least until you get back home and sleep like a comatose patient.

you felt a slight comfort in knowing that even the self-proclaimed class genius got a gut-wrenching 60 on the same test, which isn't the nicest way of finding inner peace, but who cares? besides, geography is for losers who want to make statistics about the declining birth rate, and you couldn't care less about women giving birth to less and less children with each passing decade. strutting down the empty hallway, you gripped the sheet containing the answers to the questions with a bit too much intensity and aggression, slightly creasing it in your hand but you had bigger things to worry about. the printer room.

the godforsaken printer room - that served as the only motive to still keep hallway number 4 of the third floor accessible - possessed a myriad of faults and problems, the worst one being that they rarely kept the ink fresh; 'they' being the student body whose only involvement was that. keeping the ink fresh. they didn't even have to buy it, their only job was checking the printer's ink every 4 to 5 days and replace the cartridge if needed so. but, suprisingly (considering how competent they usually are), no one was bothered enough to accomplish this single task. nevertheless, it seemed that you weren't the student to first stumble upon this inconvenience today. the door to the printer room was slightly ajar and the lights were clearly on, so someone had to be in there.

taking the final steps, you lightly pushed the door all way to the end and gazed upon the wall where the (shitty) printers sat on an alignment of old desks. there was someone, you knew that already, but that someone seemed a bit familiar.

oh. it's that super soccer guy from bambi osaka. kawaru tamiko.

or at least you thought that was his name. you weren't good with names.

he was leaning forward against a table carrying an old canon®, tilting it forward with a grip on either side, and his hair flattened against the wall. almost like a person checking the label on the back of a cargo box that was too heavy to move. he was probably trying to look at the wires in the back, there was no other explanation for such an awkward posture.

it took him a few seconds to notice your presence, partly because he was so engrossed in the printer, and partly because you didn't care enough to say a word and instead opted for standing awkwardly with a hand on the doorframe. he turned his head towards you a first time and immediately went back to the printer before rapidly turning his head towards you again, this time fully absorbing your existence. kawaru abruptly let go of the table, producing a loud noise as it hit the wall, making you slightly wince at the idea of an even more damaged printer. you walked towards him.

running two fingers on the dust coating the surface of the printer, you lazily muttered, "it's not working, is it?", expecting nothing less from junk that was probably in use from before the fall of the soviet union. he had stood up straight and begun to awkwardly swing his arms back and forth, a clear attempt at de-stressing. "err, no, pretty sure there's a wirin' problem," he answered, though you were moreso talking to yourself than him, but that didn't matter.

"and uhh, this button right here hasn' stopped flashin' ever since i turned the thing on. prob'ly needs a technician," he continued, forcing a more assertive tone towards the end. you asked him to show you what button he was talking about, so he eagerly pointed at a flashing button located on the left side control panel of the printer. a button that had the image of an opaque drop on it. a button that had the faded word "ink" written underneath it.

the printer was working fine. it just needed ink.

and he thought it was broken.

you stood there in silence, physically and mentally unable to comprehend how someone can miss such an obvious clue. you didn't take your eyes off the flashing button, breathing quietly, trying your best to not lash out on kawaru. you noticed a frizzy lock of hair sticking out from your head and proceeded to tuck it behind your ear, then put your hand over your mouth in an attempt to hide your frustration, eyes still on the flashing button.

karasu, on the other hand, was waiting next to you, though his eyes were moreso fixated on you than the printer. did he know you? he didn't think so, but you seemed like someone he can find interest in, definitely the thinker kind since you appeared to be pondering a solution to this ordeal in a rather sophisticated manner. other questions flowed through his mind: what class were you in? were you a 3rd year? were you in the advanced course? did you have any mutual friends? did you do any extracurriculars? did you like soccer? have you ever been to one of his matches? he couldn't stop the flow of possiblities as to how to get to know you.

"there's no ink." "yer kinda cute."

you slowly turned your head to face him, body stiff and unmoving. he realized how outlandish the comment he just made was, and possibly inappropriate considering the circumstance.

"huh?" "what?"

you blinked at him with gradually developing bewilderment, fully certain that you heard what you heard but that didn't change the fact that you weren't awaiting that from him.

and sadly, you couldn't say that it displeased you. the opposite actually.

"i err, i...anyway, you said ink? there's a few cartridges in the desk's cubby. whaddya need? black? magenta? cyan? yellow?", he started to speak again at a fast pace, wanting to get done with this interaction and dwell in sorrow from his incapacity to talk to cute girls. "black's fine," you answered, looking away to make it less embarrassing from him. he dug in the cubby for a moment, hand banging the sides of the metal compartment before he got hold of a blocky object. he read the cartridge's sticker and made sure it was black ink before standing up again.

you expected him to press the button that dislodged the upper half of the machine and replace the cartridge, however, he stood quietly, fiddling with it while nervously looking at and away from you multiple times. oh. he doesn't know how to replace ink. exhaling through your nostrils, you stuck out your hand, wordlessly demanding him to hand it over - an order he prompty followed.

karasu felt you snatch the cartridge before he could even fully place it on your palm, making him feel even more guilty for wasting your time. he watched as you effortlessly pressed a series of buttons, took out things, replaced things and before he knew it, you snapped the top of the printer back on, which caused the flashing button to stop doing so. was he a loser or were you just a printer connoisseur? he didn't care enough to think of an answer though, he was once again focused on subtly seducing you and make you notice his more pleasant qualities.

you chose to ignore him for the rest of your stay in the printer room, procuring 35 copies of the sheet and preparing to leave when you felt a hand (his hand) lightly tap you on your back.

"yes?," you said, though you recognize you could have said it with a bit less bluntness in your voice. he took no notice of this however, and asked, "what's yer name? i think we've met before."

"(last name) (first name). no, we've never met, or at least i don't think we did," you replied before staring at him with more attention than before, noticing a few details about him that you missed. for example, the mole on his upper left cheek, or the weird angle at which his hair was styled. what kind of fucking product would you need for that?

"ah, hahaha, my bad, i was prob'ly thinkin' of someone else. umm, i...i meant what i said earlier," he mumbled his words more and more. you raised an eyebrow, not getting what he meant by 'what i said earlier', before remembering that he had called you cute. oh, right. that happened.

you involuntarily flashed a face of understanding, then lowered your head to bite your cheek. you didn't want to look like a loser while trying to hide your smile, a smile you rarely gave to guys with bad flirting skills, albeit this one was of the more good-looking variety so you can superficially excuse his lack of skills. "thanks, that was very sweet. i wasn't expecting it but it's still sweet. thank you."

"i can help ya' carry those papers to your classroom, that looks a bit heavy-"

"it's fine, really. but i do have a question. what's your name?"

his expression changed from nervous suaveness to a giddy grin, feeling honoured that you were interested in his name. "karasu tabito. i play for the local youth team, bambi osaka. you didn't ask fer that but, y'know...," ah. that was his name. karasu tabito. kawaru sounded a bit too childish for a guy like him.

"karasu tabito. yeah, i've seen you play. you're fun to watch." you tried to lighten the mood a bit cause the boy was seconds away from developing a rash if he kept scratching his neck like that.

"fun to watch? me? oh, thanks. i've been called a 'good player' and 'excellent' even, but 'fun', i've never gotten that before. w-whaddya mean by that though? what's fun, my playstyle or my presence or-,"

you couldn't afford wasting any more time than you already have, so cutting him off, you replied, "fun as in watching you in your element is rather entertaining, i don't do much sport outside of PE, but i can tell you love what you do. sorry, i have to leave, my teacher is gonna be up my ass about taking so much time."

karasu's lips formed a thin line, bitter about not making much of this exchange. and before he could even hold himself back, his mouth let out, "wanna watch my practice after school? you don't have to stay fer the whole thing, jus' to show you how i play outside of official matches."

"sure."

"what? hu-"

"i said, 'sure'. i'll watch you, i'll even stay for the whole practice, i've got nothing. catch you at the shoe lockers, bye."

and with that (plus a quick smile to soften the blow), you speedwalked out of the printer room and began to go down what felt like a dozen floors.

you didn't allow yourself to think about what happened up there, to avoid cringing at your bizarre attitude and not think about the fact that a (weird) guy you would consider somewhat out of your league, just asked you to watch him play.

bonus!!

lunch break finally rolled around, and your friends typically hung out in an obscure part of the courtyard to eat while hiding their cellphones from any faculty members. checking your messages, you noticed an instagram dm from someone whose username already crossed your mutual recommendations but you never took the time to open their profile.

kr_tabito23.

-> coach is sick but i still want an excuse to talk to you

-> there's this really rad crepe shop in namba parks

-> im paying :]

-> you can't say no

-> lol kidding

-> sorry that was weird

you giggled at whatever he was trying to achieve, he was definitely a dork. you didn't mind that.

-> sure. still gonna catch you at the shoe lockers c:

and somewhere in the school, on the opposite side of the main building, next to the fountain where he and his friends usurped the benches, karasu jumped from his seat and into the air, bumping his fist and yelling unintelligible words while his friends watched, confused but happy for their normally cool and collected fellow.

★ berry's post-writing note: guys im gonna be honest i hate the ending my inspiration juice ran out so i just came up with something but i feel like it could've been a bit better. still happy that i wrote something cause ive been in a long ass writer's block since?? what??? february? anyway, criticism is always accepted and uhh thank you for reading till the end!! <3

[bestworstcase]

1. jaune believes that the only way to escape the ever after is to sacrifice someone to the tree.

2. he claims he has a plan.

within the specific category of theories founded on jaune being correct about this, the big two are, obviously, “jaune’s plan is to sacrifice himself so team rwby can leave” and “ruby will try to sacrifice herself to get her friends home.”

but.

laying aside my own skepticism that jaune is right about anything in his assessment of how the ever after works, and focusing narrowly on the question of what he believes and what his plan might entail: consider the following.

1. jaune considers the entire process of ascension to be actively malevolent. the tree is not, in his estimation, merely a place of death—it’s not the ever after’s afterlife—it causes death. he believes the tree’s purpose is to kill people, absorb them, erase them, and he views the cat as a murderous extension of its desire to do this. as far as he’s concerned the ever after is a malicious soul-devouring eldritch abomination. he thinks the tree is EVIL.

2. he concludes that alyx sacrificed her brother on the basis of two facts: lewis isn’t mentioned in the book, and alyx said she would do “whatever it takes” to get back home. this is the singular example jaune has from which to draw any conclusions about how to escape from the ever after. two entered, one left.

3. irrespective of whether his conclusions are accurate or not, jaune’s thinking is highly erratic and paranoid now—he didn’t ask questions, he didn’t go to the tree himself, he decided that the afterans who actually experience this cycle of spiritual rebirth are all just WRONG about it, he flew off the handle and yelled at blake (“that’s where you’re letting them take you?!”) when the cat mentioned the tree. nothing about his mindset is rational right now. he is a conspiracy theorist.

4. conspiracy theorists do not moderate their beliefs. conspiratorial thinking tends to be very anxious, very catastrophic in nature.

now, imagine for a moment that you are a paranoid conspiracy theorist trapped in a fantastical otherworld dominated by a soul-devouring eldritch abomination, and you are trying to figure out how to get yourself and four of your friends back home, and the only case study you have to hand is a single pair of siblings, one of whom was sacrificed to the abomination to barter safe passage home for the other.

do you:

A) conclude that there is a door somewhere inside the abomination that will open to admit an arbitrary number of people back to your homeland if a single person is fed to the abomination first, or

B) conclude that the price for leaving this place is an exactly equitable trade—that every soul the abomination releases must be bought with the sacrifice of another?

moreover, are you willing to risk that it isn’t option B? are you willing to walk with four of your friends into the belly of the beast and gamble on a single sacrifice being enough to save the other four? because if you’re wrong—if one is not enough—then three of you get eaten and only two escape.

do you like those odds? will you still like them after ruminating on this plan for years?

i think it’s more likely that jaune has some half-baked plan to destroy the tree (or maybe the ever after in its entirety?)—but, if he IS planning to escape the way he believes alyx did, i think it’s pretty damn likely that part of that plan entails either five sacrifices (if jaune wants to go home too) or four (if he intends to sacrifice himself on the girls’ behalf).

and… since the ever after’s running rather low on humans, the only sacrificial resource available is afterans. maybe they can scrounge up some volunteers from jaune’s village? or maybe juniper would be willing, for jaune. maybe little would be willing to die if that’s what it took to get ruby home. (it’s so much easier to rationalize, too, if it’s afterans. they call it ascension, jaune says with a sneer. and even after thirty years he still, on some level, thinks of the ever after as a story. as make-believe. maybe it won’t be as real as it was when he, as he conceives of it now, sacrificed penny to safeguard the maiden power—maybe it won’t matter in the same way, maybe this time it won’t haunt him forever.)

if you think about it through the perspective of a paranoid conspiracy theorist who believes the tree is an evil soul-devouring abomination, it makes perfect sense.

but the only thing the girls are gonna hear, if this is what he has in mind, is a few city blocks.

[thedragonagelesbian]

3am cyrus hawke protector healing magic trans body feelings...........

a body that has never felt entirely your own, something external to you, what you have rather than are. a body that you care about insofar as it is your best, first, and last defense to protect your friends and family, a tool that you have trained to absorb the blows in their stead, the wall that your enemies have to get through to get to them.

a body that still hurts no matter how much you try to compartmentalize the pain because it is not separate from you-- it is you, for all your deliberate denial. a body that needs tenderness and care and healing. the acrid burn of a potion, quaffed in the heat of battle, or the flash of stopgap magic ripping fast and brutal through your systems, trying not to fix anything but to hold it--hold you--together long enough to get to the end of the fight. cooling burns, stemming bleeding, suturing flesh, knitting sinew, working its way into your fractured ribs to fill in the gaps and lingering there until a dedicated hour under a healer’s hands can put it back together proper.

a body that has been broken and stitched back together so many times by so much magic that it does not feel like your own, but it never felt like your own. not entirely.

you are a constellation, points of something real and yours connected by the arbitrary and ephemeral tethers of your pain winking in and out of existence.

no, not your pain. your awareness. your perception, unconscious or otherwise, of your body and its composite parts. the pain is a type of awareness, but it’s not the only way to chart the contours of your body. you learn that in the arms of others, when you realize that they don’t see what feels real to you and what doesn’t. they just see you.

so you let them draw the lines sometimes. you let them tell you where you end and the rest of the world begins, and more and more you are not measuring the distance to yourself but the distance between you and their bodies. the space between your hands and her hair, your shoulder and his chest, your head and his lap and everything else below the waist too.

there is so much magic holding you together that you’ve begun to lose feeling: in a strip along the back of your right arm, in a patch just above your left knee, across a large swathe of your stomach where the arishok ran you through again and again on his sword.

but it’s not the only thing holding you.

for all the loss that you have suffered, for all the loss you still fear, the universe has allowed you this one small kindness: it will never be the only thing holding you.

[vermilionvector]

Digimon Ghost Game EP. 59

The problem with this episode wasn't that it's not good from visual/animation standpoint, but it's inconsistent with our established power level. Nevertheless, it's certainly a milestone for the series.

Kiyo went to work out of town and met with his colleague and fellow anime fan, Meru. Right from the start, their shared interest made them quite a loveable duo, and unexpectedly, she would have an indirect impact in this episode. Having overheard Kiyo calling Gammamon on the phone and questioned what it meant, Meru has unknowingly stepped into one heck of a chaotic mess that were the Digimons.

Later that day, they attended a super sentai show based on the folklore of Jiraiya, a form of hero who vanquished evil. Then, Tonosamagekomon crashed the show, claiming he was looking for Jiraiya. Kiyo, who was worried the audience would be harmed, lied to Tonosamagekomon that he was Jiraiya. I know Kiyo had this courage sleeping inside him but didn't have the chance to show it out much, so it's a good thing this episode gave him this chance. Even though this episode wasn't Amphimon's debut, this would be a great build up nonetheless. I wonder what her debut episode was gonna be like, considering the next episode would be flooded with water.

Tonosamagekomon then kidnapped Kiyo and trapped him on his back. Gekomon, Tonosamagekomon's servant, threatened Kiyo to never try to leave as his lord didn't know what was happening on his back. Meanwhile, Hiro and Ruli who were contacted earlier by Kiyo arrived at the festival site but couldn't find him. Meru, who once again overheard Gammamon's name, approached them and told her story.

Also, we learned Gammamon's new baby vocab: Nababa = Choco banana. This is more important than the main story, trust me.

At night, Tonosamagekomon continuously punished evildoers (both major and minor crimes alike) while Kiyo constantly sank inside his back. By the time the gang caught up with him (Meru also happened to stalk them too, having gone unnoticed by Gammamon who was riding in Hiro's backpack all the time), he's already been absorbed. Gammamon and Angoramon evolved to Canoweissmon and Lamortmon to fight Tonosamagekomon and were on equal footings, being able to push Tonosamagekomon into a corner.

Then, conveniently, the evolution timer went off.

What followed was a one-side beating from Tonosamagekomon. Gammamon was injured badly but yet still able to stand up, with a grim look on his face.

And when that theme played, we knew what was going to happen.

Gulusgammamon was back. boys.

But while I always appreciated his screen time, there were some things I disliked about his return here.

At this point Gammamon and Angoramon both achieved Mega evolution. It's a much clearer and better way of beating Tonosamagekomon. But since "the plot" required them to lose, it's fixed that Mega NOT happened, which was inconsistent with what they could do.

Like I said in Ghost Taxi episode, Gulus's appearance was becoming more arbitrary, as if Gammamon was more aware of what's inside him and became less hesitant to call it out. But to resort to such power, he must have thought that the situation was very dire. But as I mentioned in the first bullet, he could evolve to Mega, but the plot prohibited him from doing so. You could argue that the time limit was for both Ultimate and Mega, but since this is a Digimon show, they could always wing it off with the power of bond.

In short, his return was a bit too late. It'd have been fine if it were before the Megas' debut.

Back to the episode, shortly after his return, we saw a few shots:

Espimon seemingly recognized Gulus. I don't know if Hokuto told him anything about Gulus or he's just genuinely surprised.

BlackAgumon, BlackGargomon and BlackGrowlmon's return, all in one place. I don't know how the hell they appeared so fast. Maybe they have always been stalking Hiro's gang. Their return corresponded to earlier episodes with Gulus, but all of them appearing together could mean that we won't get more BlackXXX Digimons, which could also mean that Gulus's plotline might be resolved soon.

Sadly, Gulus had to be a part of Meru's first experience with Digimons as she has been watching from afar all this time.

Gulus then proceeded to beat the hell out of Tonosamagekomon (and he should be grateful that Gulus went "easy" on him, using only punches and kicks). Hiro stepped in to stop Gulus. And here, Gulus stated his goal: for Hiro to sync with him (which we've already seen almost being accomplished in EP. 13), then he could easily save Kiyo and other victims by killing Tonosamagekomon. Hiro declined such savagery, but still intent on saving them nonetheless. Gulus was going to proceed to do whatever he pleased like in EP. 13, but then Gekomon interrupted him and saved the victims himself.

On retrospect, this scene was very funny to me. Gulus has always been portrayed as this brooding, merciless, life-threatening being. Unmatched and unbeatable. But then Gekomon, a mere Rookie, had the gall to interrupt him and easily destroyed the impetus of saving the victims that he was using to manipulate Hiro jut a few seconds ago. It was so disrespectful that I found it hilarious (especially that short "Huh?" Gulus muttered). And Gulus's malice to get rid of Gekomon after all that was totally understandable.

Luckily, Hiro intervened again, and Gulus conceded. But before he disappeared, he said it's only "a matter of time" before he got what he wanted eventually. Either he knew what's going to happen (with the memory from his past life), or he's just confident that the future would be so grim that Hiro would eventually rely on him anyway.

(Also, not gonna lie, this scene is kinda hot. And this shot is like 1-1 recreation of a doujin cover I've accidentally stumbled upon on Twitter).

Lastly, the most unexpected resolution, Meru, being an anime otaku as she was, volunteered to take care of Tonosamagekomon and Gekomon, thinking living with monsters cool (as we all are, Meru). This was the first time that a human without a Digivice took Digimons under her care. Not even Yuto or Kotaro who were more directly involved with Digimons were given such privilege. I don't know if she only thought of them as cool AI Holograms and didn't know about their true identities as Digimons, but that's only a minor detail. I hope we see more of her in the future. A few more supporting characters always give more life to the series.

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

What I get from the situation with her exe boyfriend of 6 ish years is that nobody is at fault and trying to place blame on that guy slightly more because he's simply not Our Girl and we have always take her side is unfair as heck. We can live in a reality things fall apart and it's nobody and everybody's fault and nobody gets more blame for arbitary and mean reasons. I can live with that.

Yeah that’s a super fair point, and I want to lean into it. I don’t want to be putting blame on anybody for arbitrary and mean reasons. I am still truly just trying to absorb the 31 songs because there is just SO MUCH to digest, and I think you’re spot on: “things fall apart and it’s nobody and everybody’s fault”. And I want to validate that we don’t have to agree on how to approach this aspect of being a long time fan. This conversation is endlessly interesting to me, so I hope this response comes across as genuinely pondering your ask!

Both parts of this album (or is it two? How do we label them differently?) are really really really ambiguous about muses, which feels very intentional to me. I have a hard time balancing that with the part of me that cares a lot about Taylor as a person and the part of me that cares about pop culture as a social observation hobby (idk if that makes sense…). I feel pretty strongly that the ~gossip~ is inherently important. And I also truly grasp that the work does stand on its own as a monumental world building soundscaping fantastical creation from one of the great poets. The songs seem to be really rooted in the idea of archetypes and fables, so in that way it is silly to be inferring anything about her personal life from them. But then… some do feel very clear that she is telling the world The Truth About Something and like she truly wants to take the idea of diaristic public autopsy microscope to a conceptual place of psychological horror.

so I guess the question that comes up for me is how to cope with that tension on my blog? And I think the answer changes for me constantly. I might try and work out a good tag system that feels authentic, or flesh out my boundaries around what thoughts I post some more.

I do think that there are plenty of people in this world who are automatically, foundationally, taking Not-Taylor’s side, so idk if I mind speaking up on her behalf (or what I perceive to be her behalf… #BelieveWomen and all that) as long as everyone here knows not to contact anyone or cyber bully anyone, which is a completely different act than openly discussing stories she has chosen to tell us…

I just don’t think swifties existence somehow negates the patriarchy idk. I wish! That blonde British guy will be fine.

[therealvinelle]

Hi, I was reading a post here in Tumblr about how Edward has two gifts, he can hear thoughts and is super fast, so I wonder what is your opinion about this topic?.

Furthermore, what others power might the Volturi's leaders and guards might have?

Edward has one gift, and it’s telepathy. Being fast isn’t a gift.

Strength, speed and even senses is varied among vampires. Some, like Emmett, are on the extreme end, but that doesn’t make Emmett gifted, nor does it mean that the rest are at an equal level. The Cullens have clear variations between them.

Physique appears to play a dominant role in how these variations play out: Alice, who was malnourished and never made it past 4′10″, is the physically weakest of the coven, while Emmett at 6′5″ and a mountain of muscles is the strongest. This is made very clear during the baseball game:

“Emmett was hovering close to third (base), knowing that Alice didn’t have the muscle to outstrip Rosalie’s fielding." (Midnight Sun, chapter The Game)

There’s also the fact that it’s taken for granted that Emmett would be intimidating to other vampires, and he is dismayed when James is more worried about Jasper, who is lean.

I suspect this disparity exists simply because a large frame means more tissue to have blood in. Newborns, animal, and human-eating vampires all having a difference in terms of strength is proof that blood has the final say in a vampire’s prowess, so Emmett being able to contain more of it than Alice and therefore being stronger makes sense to me.

This isn’t the meta for me to get into that, but I don’t think vampires have muscles in the sense we do. Or rather, we can’t know that they do. Renesmée is proof that Edward retains his human DNA, or she would be a clone of Bella. Nahuel is proof that Joham retains a Y-chromosome. Does this mean that vampires have different cell types? Does a vampire’s stone-like skin still contain human DNA? One would think yes - except, if you rip a vampire apart, you get rubble. The parts are all solid. There’s also Carlisle theorizing that vampires digest blood by absorbing it through porous tissue, which makes me wonder why he dismissed his digestive system (my guess: vivisection fun times with Aro in Volterra. Carlisle couldn’t have done it on his own, and Aro is the only one mad and curious enough to be down for that). I’m getting off-topic - what I’m saying is, we don’t know how vampires work, meaning I can’t build this meta off of the assumption that they have muscles. I simply can’t know for sure that they do.

The important thing is that a vampire’s physique is a deciding factor in how strong they are.

There’s also Laurent’s warning about James, that he has “unparalleled senses”, meaning some vampires are better at sight, hearing, and smell than others. I can believe that, because we have canon examples of vampires being bad at tracking.

There’s Edward in Port Angeles, who couldn’t track Bella’s, his singer, scent to her location, and (I admit this one is conjecture but it’s so probable that I say it goes) Carlisle’s creator, who after taking care of the mob must have realized he’d bitten one of the humans, meaning a newborn would soon be loose in London. This is punishable by death by the Volturi. The fact that he didn’t return to finish Carlisle off means that he was unable to find him. I remind the audience that Carlisle was bleeding and suffering the effects by a venom intended to paralyze the victim. To put it this way, Carlisle wouldn’t have survived James, or anybody with a trace of tracking competence. By comparison, Carlisle was able to locate a dying Rosalie by the smell of her blood, even though there wouldn’t have been a trail for him to follow, as her body had not been moved.

When it comes to these disparities in strength and speed among the Volturi, I imagine Jane and Alec are the physically weakest members of the guard, and among the slowest. They’re prepubescent, meaning no muscle for them, and their height (a humble 4′8″ and 4′10″) implies very short legs. They’re simply not going to get as far as an adult would, not in the same number of steps. Renata at 5′0″ is another tiny vampire lady who likely isn’t very strong or fast.

That’s not to say I think these physically weaker members of the Volturi guard are necessarily useless in hand-to-hand combat, Alec at least is a boy stuck in a playful age, and the males around him are trained warriors. He’s probably picked up a few things over the years.

As for the others, Aro is described as frail-looking, which hints at him being quite thin. I don’t think he’s weak, if he couldn’t win a fight he wouldn’t be around, but I do think he’s probably below average in terms of strength. Caius I picture as a Harrison Ford type, so of course I’m gonna think he’s a bit burly, but this is me headcanoning and not actually hinted at in canon. Marcus is 19, so I imagine he can only be so strong.

Back to Edward’s speed.

He’s a 6′2″ teen, that’s code for “very long legs”, though I’m actually going to go ahead and posit that he’s not actually that fast. Strap in for this next part:

The guy was a teenager who lay dying for an undisclosed amount of time. The fact that Carlisle had the time to get to know his mother points to a few weeks, at least. And Edward was very ill:

Elizabeth worried obsessively over her son. She hurt her own chances of survival trying to nurse him from her sickbed. I expected that he would go first, he was so much worse off than she was. (New Moon, page 21)

Muscles atrophy quickly, never more so than when you’re a teen ravaged by fever, on your deathbed. And as I’ve explained above, I think your physique in life ties directly into your vampiric prowess.

I think Edward is certainly the physically weakest of the male Cullens, quite likely weaker than Rosalie as well, maybe even Esme.

Now, speed is not the same as strength. However, for humans, the two are connected. It’s the muscle fibers in our legs that determine our speed. Basically, type I fibers make an enduring runner, type II fibers make a speed runner. So, assuming that vampires retain their human musculature, one could argue that Edward had a lot of type II in life. However, Carlisle when he was human was able to outrun the mob he was with:

He ran through the streets, and Carlisle — he was twenty-three and very fast — was in the lead of the pursuit. (Twilight, page 158)

Carlisle clearly had a lot of type II fibers, and unlike Edward he was in peak physical condition when he died. He was also an adult who’d had more time to develop musculature, while Edward was a seventeen-year-old. If musculature was a deciding factor, one would think they would at the very least be of equal speed, though realistically Edward should be slower.

So, if it’s not muscles, what is it that makes Edward faster than the others?

It could be a matter of technique. Except, the way Bella describes movement when she wakes up as a vampire, it’s all very automated. Her body knows exactly how to do everything, and executes it without much input from her:

After that first frozen second of shock, my body responded to the unfamiliar touch in a way that shocked me even more.

Air hissed up my throat, spitting through my clenched teeth with a low, menacing sound like a swarm of bees. Before the sound was out, my muscles bunched and arched, twisting away from the unknown. I flipped off my back in a spin so fast it should have turned the room into an incomprehensible blur—but it did not. I saw every dust mote, every splinter in the wood-paneled walls, every loose thread in microscopic detail as my eyes whirled past them.

So by the time I found myself crouched against the wall defensively—about a sixteenth of a second later—I already understood what had startled me, and that I had overreacted. (Breaking Dawn, page 251-252)

Growling, crouching - those are all distinctly vampiric, non-human ways to act. Bella didn’t learn this, her body knew it of its own accord. When she later runs, she explains it as happening the same way - she just does it.

The way Bella experiences it, vampiric movement is like a package she downloaded, and that executes her instinctual commands with no need for her to actually know how to do any of this. Her grace is another example of this - Bella Swan may be in charge of her own consciousness, but the venom is entirely in control of her body.

Given these facts, I don’t think it’s technique that makes Edward a better runner than others. His technique is likely similar to everyone else’s. If it isn’t, if technique is what makes the difference, then who is and isn’t fast is an arbitrary process.

With that, we get to my controversial theory about why Edward is the fastest Cullen: he’s not.

Running and being fast is the only thing about vampirism that Edward enjoys. This is for another meta, but Edward is extremely depressed about every single other bit of it. Every aspect of being a vampire torments him.

Except the running. He enjoys all of it, especially being the fastest, so much. And as a newborn, he would have been faster than Carlisle.

But after that, when his newborn strength faded…

I honestly think that Carlisle decided to just slow down a bit when running with him, let Edward have this. It’s no skin of his back, and it makes Edward happy, so why not.

Esme joins the family, and of course she would be down for this. Nothing is more parental, more maternal, than losing at checkers to make your child happy, after all. Could also be she’s not very fast herself, but even if she were then she would downplay it to make Edward feel like Jesse Owens.

Enter Rosalie, who would think it’s completely ridiculous, yes, but she would also recognize this excellent opportunity to call in a big favor from Carlisle later on. There’s also the fact that I think Carlisle has a gift (yes, yes, meta is coming, people) that makes him very persuasive people. And also that for all that Rose gets a lot of bad rep, she is very generous and loves her family, if being fast makes Edward happy then alright.

Emmett is an easy-going guy, he goes along with things. Alice adores Edward and would go along with it. She also has tiny matchstick legs and couldn’t outrun him if she tried. Jasper could not care less.

Bella does get outrun by Edward after waking up, but she also did zero exercise in life (listing this in case musculature matter), had Renesmée devour her from within rendering her emaciated, and then died like a slasher movie murder victim. There’s not a lot of blood in her, and what little blood there is doesn’t have a lot to work with. She does defeat Emmett at arm wrestling, so I’ll concede that. However, there are enough extenuating circumstances surrounding Bella that I think my “Edward isn’t that fast” theory survives his ability to outrun her.

So, I believe Edward is the fast Cullen because Carlisle told a white lie in 1919, no one ever corrected that, and now it’s too late.

[funkymbtifiction]

Yeah, your blog focuses pretty strongly on answering asks and typing characters, so it was cool to see others analyzing you + your responses to it.

I am intrigued by you thanking me for not considering you an ESFJ, because as an Fe-user I tend to consider them some of the most "open" of all types in a way. Yes, they live in emotional worlds and react instantly to what they perceive as inequality or mistreatment, but when you dig down into it, they can be some of the most accepting people around. (Whether they want to be or not. They're just inherently trying to merge with others' perspectives ALL the time.) I also mentioned that I could get an INFP impression from you, and I wonder what makes that seem not as unappealing as being Fe-dom would be, given that I think they're both judging dominants?

(I thought about how to dance around this issue, but I may as well be honest about it even if it's a little embarrassing.)

Being called an ESFJ would hit a sore spot with me, because I ran across a discussion about me online in which two strangers agreed on me being a Fe user based on arbitrary things and concluded that I was an ESFJ. They went on to accuse my MBTI book of containing misinformation because I am mistyped. So ESFJ is a trigger for me, because it accompanied an attack on my knowledge/competency, whereas INFP is not. I don't care if they think I am ESFJ or not, but don't accuse me of not having done research for my book.

(I may also still be smarting from an interaction on an online forum where someone claimed that my type—i.e. SFJs—could be "annoying as hell." I have Fe auxiliary! I spend half my life trying to make sure I'm not being annoying as hell.)

I'm sorry to hear that. There is a lot of online hatred toward SFJs that is unwarranted, because people form erroneous assumptions about them. 99% of the SFJs I have ever known have been thoughtful, agreeable, and compassionate -- I've had more positive interactions with them than any other types, and they are also often my favorite fictional characters. I am positive you are not annoying as hell. ;)

I'm a bit unclear on what the difference between judging and perceiving functions is, and a quick glance online isn't all that illuminating (lots of talk about the letters J and P and not clear definitions of which functions are judging and perceiving.) Is it just that thinking/feeling are judging functions and sensing/intuitive are perceiving?

Yes, that's it. Judging places a rational or ethical judgment, and perceiving functions collect information. So perception absorbs things and judgment decides what to do with/about it. Judging dominants reach faster conclusions than perceiving dominants, so EJ/IP is much quicker to rule things out (either based on logic or ethics) than EP/IJ.

[selchielesbian]

gideon the ninth, while it broke my heart, was very fun, especially since it activated the professor-layton-poirot-locked-door-mystery loving part of my brain. so here’s my little scorecard of the things I got right and wrong. plus some other random commentary.

-figured out protesilaus was doa, it did NOT occur to me, however, that this would be a problem for everyone else lmao the concept of a necromantic sin is very interesting because where the line is drawn seems to be very arbitrary. like i said before this book has some interesting arguments surrounding the politics of death. i need to chew on it a bit more (and maybe read harrow first) before i come back to it. 

-this also led me to assume one of the bodies in the furnace was his--and the other had to be dulcinea...but then of course ‘dulcinea’ was found, so i dismissed that theory and assumed it was one of the priests and something had taken their place

-even though i had an inkling that it was either dulcinea or the third house that killed magnus and abigail, i did not figure out what was going on w ‘dulcinea’ until palamedes confronts her. and i only figured it out before the actual reveal because he said “when i started writing to you, you were fifteen..” and I went. wait a minute. the math isn’t mathing because dulcinea said she was 25 (or i guess, teacher did), but if she was fifteen 12 years ago that would make her 27...somebody lying. much like gideon i’m blinded by hot nice lady :( gideon is stronger than me though cause after everything that happened i probably would have just said ‘yeah okay fuck it’ and went along with cytherea lol. -i have lots of dulcinea and cytherea thoughts but that’ll maybe get its own post. 

-on that note--I assumed Teacher was the lyctor. what was going on with him was MUCH more interesting, however

-after harrow and gideon completed the first challenge in imaging (+ what they uncovered in the lyctor lab) it was pretty clear to me that the process to become a lyctor meant the adept and the cavalier have to merge their life force somehow, I just really didn’t understand the magical theory behind it until the end. also had palamedes’ same reaction of ‘well of course that’s how it works--but also that’s totally against the purpose of creating these extremely emotionally intense bonds between the cavaliers and their necromancers.’ but actually that’s EXACTLY why these relationships exist--the process only works properly if the life force is shared willingly. see ianthe struggling with naberius who is ANGRY at her, vs gideon being able to merge almost immediately with harrow. -on the subject of the twins; it actually would have probably been better for her to take corona’s soul, but ofc it’s supposed to be the cav who makes the sacrifice, and she wants naberius’ skills. poor babs. poor corona. it would have been interesting to see what happened if she absorbed coronoabeth’s vitality, though -my theory that one of the twins is dead was only half right--that ianthe is definitely more sickly/near dead and this is exacerbated by covering for coronabeth’s lack of ability. but in that way it makes her a very powerful necromancer, if we’re subscribing to the theory that being near death gives you a constant source of necromantic power ala what made dulcinea a talented adept. and then she has a constant source of power via corona (energy transference, which explains why they would leave and come back and leave and come back when working) and naberius (through EATING HIM).

-still not 100% sure what’s going on re: gideon’s parentage but I have a theory...obviously many of the adepts and cavs were NOT happy with the realization that becoming a lyctor means the cavalier has to die--the hints harrow and gideon found in the first lyctor lab showed that a few of them may even have been trying to find ways around it. I think it’s possible gideon IS the gideon from the note, or an attempt at putting that gideon’s soul in another body. which would explain why gideon was immune to the neurotoxin as a baby and seems to heal much more quickly than others in general. 

[azureflight]

I, for one, am grateful that WoW Devs have come out in support of the changes.

They exposed themselves as the absolute hacks they are. I have been saying for years now, that devs are definitely a huge part of the problem if not straight up responsible for the most of it. This is where the no fun allowed bullshit is coming from. This right here, is the real source of arbitrary restrictions, punitive gameplay and braindead design.

Look at them. Look at the shit they are concerned with. Look at that self-absorbed, condescending tone. Look at that completely tone deaf, fake ass virtue signaling nonsense they spew.

More inclusive game? Really? Because two random picture that no one even knew were there until these changes were made, was the thing gate keeping? This is the major concern devs have about their game and their environment? Really? This is what you have done with your court scared, law firm suggested feedback time? REALLY?

Look that entitled ass attitude. “We wanted this, as devs, we have an opinion on it”. Well, I hope you also enjoying paying for your own game, because I sure as shit won’t be. This bullshit of making a game for themselves instead of their customers, is why this game sucked ass for years now. Because they put themselves and their own weird hysterics to the forefront instead of the actual god damn money paying player base’s demands.

Oh no! Not the vaguely female-ish, naked-ish figure on a god damn painting that most people never saw! Not that! That right there is killing the game and making it exclusive! Constant plot of genocide Olympics? Lol, that’s fine!

Bunch of loud mouths managed to push their own personal petty bullshit through. Say it so. Stop trying to sell me the morality you clearly do not have.

Not only does the game still have bunch of ridiculous shit within the same vein, the stuff they obviously have no problem having and the stuff they try to sell as a must go are so wildly out of proportion it is mind boggling.

YO! BLIZZARD! The plot of the 4 out of your last 6 expac was “Horde/Orcs commit genocide. Everyone forgets and forgives within the year and those who don’t, get demonized.”

HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT NOT BOTHER YOU?!!

How did we reach a point where rampant, actively genocidal racism is an a-ok plot device, but a god damn picture showing some cleavage became an acceptable thing that needs to go?

I have been waiting for almost 20 years for the nations of Azeroth to get over their racism and come together. Instead we have pearl clutching, puritanical censorship of random references to sexuality. Any instance of sexism or homophobia (well, the arbitrarily selected ones they feel personally icky about) gets retconned from the game, but the racist genocidal part has only gotten worse. WTF does that say about your priorities?

Who the fuck is this game being made for? Players? Devs? Hysteric wokies? Extremely racist genocide larpers? WHO?

You have no problem writing every single hurt female character as this irrationally mad bitch that needs to get over or get chopped. You have no problem constantly making rape jokes about men. You have no problem constantly writing stories where a nation suffers genocide and they all just need to get over it and the genocidal side is actually good. But a basic ass masturbation pun and a joke mount with a joke name are these totally unacceptable things that needed to be removed?

When you retcon the sexism that characters managed to overcome and succeed despite, that societies have managed to grew out of, that doesn’t make me feel included. When you tell me that this setting never had a cultural norm of homophobia, I believe you. But then you go on and say hysteric, murderous racism is an inherent, unchangeable and dominant dynamic of this setting, that doesn’t make me feel included.

I seriously wanna know, who is this game for? Who is the target audience, because it sure as shit ain’t me. And if you have a new base that pays for it, all the more power to you, such is the free market. But don’t you fucking dare try to gaslight and guilt-trip me into buying this hot mess. Because no, I don’t fucking support you, and I don’t have to. This ain’t a fucking charity.

Defend the shit ass covenant restriction, come out of the woods to confirm that yes, these completely unnecessary and arbitrary changes were your brilliant idea... I do love feeling validated for my low opinion on devs, but unfortunately, I am more angry about how they will keep ruining the game. Or rather, keeping it in a ruined state.

“Umm, ackchyullay, your fun won’t be ruined by them removing those few things”. No, it won’t. But it will continue to be ruined by a self-absorbed dev team obsessively wasting time and resources on meaningless arbitrary shit like that while still refusing to accept they have been wrong on their stupid ass design decisions.

[otomememento]

Information Interrupted

What was blood? In the most basic terms it was one of the many substances that kept a person alive. And for that reason, it became a word of many meanings, some positive and some negative, but all carrying the weight of life and death lingering in the sound. All humans depended on it. But to Esme, it was equal parts a blessing and a curse. For even as it kept it alive, it was also killing her. Medical aid had kept her going for the last several years, but here, in Paris of the late 1800’s, the medical field was far less advanced. Though she had gone to Paris to escape the never ceasing doctors appointments, it had led her down a different path. And now that she wanted to linger a little longer, the means by which she was lingering were out of reach.

One morning she woke up, her head pounding in her ears. Her body felt tired, sluggish, sore. She hadn’t felt it this bad in some time; the regular appointments with the doctors made sure of that. But she had gone off the treatment, and now it was coming back in force. Still, she didn’t want her hosts, or fellow house mates to worry, so she forced herself to get up.

If Sebastian noticed how ill she was, he said nothing, and was fairly mild when it came to correcting her mistakes. He had almost gotten her to a point where she was doing her chores to his satisfaction, though he realized she would never quite match him. But he could hardly hold it against her when she was obviously trying her best. Still, there was concern in his eyes as he watched her, though he kept it schooled when she was looking directly at him. He would have to speak to Le Comte about their guest. Perhaps she had caught something when she was in town…

The opportunity didn’t present itself right away, and time took care of the rest.

Esme often ran little errands for people in the house, fetching and carrying items or messages. In the shadow of their greatness, she felt that she could at least make sure they had what they needed to continue their various works, whether it was ink for writing, a book from the library, a preferred sweet or snack. It didn’t matter to her, really, as long as it was something she could manage. And it even made her happy to do so. Some of the residents were more grateful, on the surface, than others. She never expected much gratitude from Mozart or Theo, as it wasn’t really in their personality to do so. Vincent was probably one of her favorites to see, simply because he was just so kind and cheerful to everyone; she never had to worry about a harsh word from him. Even his blond hair was welcome, not simply because it was a bright color, but because it was so close to her own shade of hair that it gave the illusion of a connection.

On that day she had been bringing in some paintbrushes that he had requested. While Sebastian often did the shopping, Esme was often the one to disperse the goods among the residents. Her steps were slower on this occasion, more unsteady. Vincent, who was busy at work, thanked her kindly, but didn’t turn to look at her when she entered the room. However, he stopped the moment he heard the thud, turning to see that she had collapsed on the floor. Worried, he called out to her, but she didn’t respond, and when he knelt beside her, she looked so very pale. So Vincent did what was most natural to him: he called for Theo.

While he was often acerbic with Esme, Theo meant the girl no harm, nor did he wish her any ill will. When he joined his brother and saw how unwell Esme looked, his concern was real, and he chastised himself for not noticing she was so weak. He had a fine eye for art, and for people, but it had been too easy to dismiss her. He should have known better. But, then it occurred to him that no one had really done, or said, anything to indicate she wasn’t well. Not even the resident doctor, who certainly had spent enough time staring at her, but not as a medical subject. And, of course, that was the next person he contacted: if anyone knew what to make of the situation, it would be Arthur.

It took a few moments for Theo to impress upon Arthur the seriousness of the matter, but once he reached through the flippant façade, Arthur didn’t waste any further time being clever and hurried with Theo back to Vincent’s room, where the painter was still keeping a watchful, but worried, eye on the fallen girl. Vincent, who hadn’t known of Arthur’s medical position, was surprised at first, but when he saw how methodical Arthur was, he didn’t question it, but quietly stood back so he wouldn’t be in the way, and watched, ready to fetch anyone else if it was required. After a cursory examination, Arthur stood up, expression grim.

“We’re going to move her to her room. I’ll carry her. Theo, go ahead of me to open doors and make sure no one gets in the way; we can answer questions later. Vincent, go fetch Le Comte.” There was nothing of the playboy in his mannerisms now, and while Theo could be belligerent towards the arbitrary authority of the upper class, this was the authority of experience speaking, and he didn’t balk at Arthur’s commands. He simply opened the door, determined to follow the orders. Arthur was firm, but gentle, as he scooped up Esme, carrying her with a good balance of speed and caution. Vincent’s room only had a narrow couch, and it simply wasn’t the best place to keep her.

Theo dealt tersely with anyone they met in the halls, and seeing no trace of Arthur’s usual levity, it was easy for them to believe that the situation was serious. Hushed voices trailed behind them as the residents dispersed, not wanting to get in the way. While they all had their issues, and not all of them were fond of Esme, none of them had a sense that they were so much more important than her when her health was at stake. Le Comte joined them when they were almost at Esme’s room, Sebastian hovering in concern behind him. As the other human in the mansion, this was particularly worrisome to the generally stoic butler.

Arthur lay Esme down carefully in her bed, working to loosen any tight clothing, already checking her vitals again in various places. Near the door, Theo and Vincent explained everything so far, from the moment Vincent heard Esme fall. Le Comte, although eager to hear from Arthur, let the man finish his work, knowing that rushing him would not do anyone any good. He could be patient; living for so long had given him that gift at least.

Part way through the examination, Esme stirred and slowly opened her eyes, her unfocused gaze gradually gaining clarity and settling on Arthur’s face. Although she looked very startled to see him there, of all people, she didn’t exactly look alarmed. In fact, she mostly looked tired and a little foggy-headed.

“What happened?”

“You passed out. I carried you here from Vincent’s room.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Thank you.” Esme tried to pull herself to a sitting position, but Arthur put out a hand to stop her. She didn’t resist this, and slumped back against her pillows. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t make a mess or anything, did I? I remember…I was delivering paintbrushes.”

“Don’t worry about the brushes. Even if they were damaged, I don’t think Vincent is the type to make a fuss,” Arthur reassured her.

“I suppose that’s right,” Esme agreed, though she didn’t sound too certain. Not that she didn’t believe the words, but her mind was just not working the way she wanted it too. Something was nagging at her, but she couldn’t put a finger on it.

“I will have to ask you some questions about your health. But Le Comte is worried, and he’s waiting for me to talk to him. Do you want everyone to leave while I ask these questions? He might be the master of the household, but your privacy is important.” It seemed almost funny to hear Arthur talk so seriously about privacy when he had shown such little regard for personal space when they first met. Finally Esme’s thoughts clicked into focus.

“Oh! Are you a doctor?” she asked him. She knew he was a writer, of mystery novels no less, but she also knew that a lot of authors had other jobs as well. Most people didn’t have the fortune to just be a writer all along.

“Yes.” It was a single word, blandly spoken, betraying nothing. It wasn’t much like Arthur’s usual, glib responses. Esme blinked a few times as she tried to absorb this other side to Arthur. She wanted to ask him about it, but her head was starting to really pound again. Wincing she closed her eyes. “Where does it hurt? What kind of pain is it?” The questions, while concerned, were also very direct.

“My head, mostly. Makes it hard to think.” Esme didn’t shake her head, knowing that it would just rattle her more, but she looked around, her eyes moving slowly as though even such a thing was hard to do. “Ask your questions.” It wasn’t a command, as the words might suggest, but Esme didn’t have the energy to waste the words required to be as round about as usual. Arthur waved everyone else away.

“Do you know what is wrong already?” asked Arthur when the room was cleared. Esme started slightly. It seemed strange that it was the first question he asked, but then she vaguely remembered that he was so very clever. Of course he would pick out something like that, though she didn’t know how. She just couldn’t piece it together herself in the state she was in.

“Yes, it’s…my blood,” she managed to say before passing out again.

Blood. The word itself sent a thrill through Arthur, fight it though he may. Whatever she meant by it, it certainly wasn’t an invitation to the predator inside him. No, he would have to work to rouse her again to get the answers out of her, since she seemed to know what was going on. Meddling around with her health could have negative consequences that could be mitigated by information. Already he was on his feet, issuing orders to bring him a variety of things he would need. Even the master of the household listed to such orders. For now.

[1vintage]

Ocean Vuong on Metaphor

below is a transcript of an Instagram story from Ocean Vuong, available here in his story highlights under Metaphor.

Q: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

metaphors should have two things: (1) sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as (2) a clear logical connector between both images. 

if you have only one of either, best to forgo the metaphor, otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

~

a lot of ya’ll asked for examples re:metaphor. I can explain better if I had 15 minutes of class time (apply to UMASS!). But essentially, metaphors that go awry can signal a hurried desire to be “literary” or “poetic” (ie “writing”), which can lose traction/trust with a reader. in other words, a metaphor is a detour—but that detour better lead to discoveries that alter/amplify the meaning of what is already there, so that a reader sees you as a servant of possibility rather than someone trying to prove that they are a “writer.” One is performative, the other exploratory. In this way, the metaphor acts as a virtual medium, ejecting the text’s optical realism into an “elsewhere”. But this elsewhere should inform the original upon our return. otherwise the journey would feel like an ejection from a crash rather than a curated journey toward more complex meaning.

example:

“The road curves like a cat’s tail.”

This is a weak metaphor because the transforming image (tail) does not amplify/alter the original. The transfer of meaning flattens and dies. Logic is weak or moot: A cat’s tail does not really change the nature of the road. You can certainly add to this with a few more expository sentences which might rescue the logic—but by then you’re just doing cpr on your metaphor.

Sensory, too, is weak: a cat’s tail has little optical resemblance to a road other than being curved (roads are not furry, for one.)

So this is 0 for 2 and should be scrapped. (Just my opinion though! Not a rule!)

okay so what about:

“The road runs between two groves of pine, like the first stroke of a buzzcut.”

this is better. the optical sensory of the transforming image (a clipper thru a head of hair) matches well with the original.

but the logic feels arbitrary. again it doesn’t substantially alter the original.

in the end this is just an “interesting image” but not strong enough to keep I’d say.

Now here’s one from Sharon Olds:

“The hair on my father’s arms like blades of molasses.”

Sensory connector: check. A man’s dark hair indeed can look like blades (also suggestive of grass) of molasses.

Logical connector: check. the father is both sharp and sweet. Something once soft and sticky about him (connotations of youth) sweets, has now hardened the confection no longer fresh etc.

It’s an ambitious metaphor that is packed with resonance. In other words, it does worlds of work and actually deepens the more you dit with it. A metaphor that actually invites you to put the book down, think on it, absorb it, before returning. a good metaphor uses detours to add power to the text. poor metaphors distract you from the text and leave you bereft, laid to the side.

lastly, the prior examples are technically “similes” but I believe similes reside under the umbrella of metaphor. although a simile is a demarcation, ie: this is “like” that. but this is “not”, ontologically, that.

however, I think something happens in the act of reading wherein we collapse the “bridge” and the mind automatically forges synergy between the two images, so that all similes, once read, “act” like metaphors in the mind.

but again this is all subjective. you might have a better way of going about it.

Another very ambitious metaphor is this one from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Moss intensifies up the tree, like applause.”

This is a masterful metaphor, risky and requires a lot of faith, restraint, and experience to pull it off.

Difficult mainly because we now see a surrealist “distortion” of the sensory realm: origin IMAGE (moss) is paired with transforming SOUND (applause).

There is now a leap in comparable elements. But the adherence to our two vital factors are still present.

Sensory: moss, though silent, grows slowly (the word “intensifies” does major work here becuz it foreshadows the transforming element). Applause, too, grows gradually, before dying down.

Logic: the growth of the moss suggests spring, lushness, life, resilience, and connotes anticipatory hope, much like applause. In turn, applause modifies the nature of moss and imbues, at least this moss, with a sense of accomplishment, closure, it’s refreshment a cause for celebration.

God I love words.

~

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor.

So I'm taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer to the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my haircut appointment).

What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t.

This essay will be in 25 slides. I will save this in my IG highlights after 24 hrs.

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxi for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist.

Often, we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers,” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage—but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me, as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life.

I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces.”

For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated, and untamed.

Because it means the instrument that was once in the service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs.

I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister,” or “light bean,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile.

In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules—yes—but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. The following are some of my own methods and how I came to them.

I’m very happy ya’ll are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison.

When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky—as exit wounds?

What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself—without context—when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds.

How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong.

Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY.

Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear.

BOTH are viable in ANY literary text.

But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTHS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means.

Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat—but we should know which is which (for us).

My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line—as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors.

This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURRENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths.

By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training,” for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all.

In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged.

In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things—rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor.

While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking.

After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years.

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake.

“The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.”

When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile?

It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile.

And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete.

No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak—but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound.

Okay, so what is happening here?

By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is.”

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking.

Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new.

The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists:

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.”

Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association.”

Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur.

In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not—mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now, let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in the line we saw before from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.”

The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one.

Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony.

The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss).

And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye.

Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here—but without “metaphor”.

HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss.

The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile:

“Jade moss is applause on the tree.”

The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original.

So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile.

Similes matter greatly—as tools towards metaphor. Why?

Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change—and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception.

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking.

The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new—to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet.” The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water.

In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity.

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer.

YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world.

In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else?

At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you—with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach—it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should.

Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility.

This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care.

That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food.

That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong.

What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss!

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar.

I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days.

In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you.

—O

[good-rwbyaus]

@little-voice-the-parasprite wrote:  ...now I want to hear Weiss’s tale on this. This is like a fanfiction idea in the making.

Like, one of thosw fanfiction ideas where the beginning was launched out of a cannon just a few degrees to the side as opposed to canon, and the differences greadually make themselves more and more blatant and glorious as the stories unfold.

// I got you! 8) - mod lilac

____

Perspective :: Weiss // Becoming  - [ main chapter ]

logo-comics asked: What about an AU where everyone had somehow been under the mistaken assumption that Ruby was a professor at Beacon? For a laugh, Ozpin rolls with it whenever he's asked about it.

Weiss remembered the brunette clad in red when she first arrived. At first, she thought the overly energetic girl was Ozpin’s kid. Free and expressive without any of the reverence a student should have for an esteemed Headmaster of a combat academy.

And then she heard the Headmaster say something very scary.

“Professor Rose.”

At first she couldn’t believe it. This Rose was younger than her and still had baby fat on her face, but as the Headmaster and Professor Rose spoke about the months prior to today, she became more and more astonished.

Cutting down a pack of Beowolves on her own.

Taking down a Boarbatusk with her bare hands.

Collaborating in a Hunters mission.

A normal student at a preparatory academy couldn’t do any of these things. Even students at combat academies didn’t start participating in missions until 2nd year, but this girl - probably not older than fourteen - did it.

But what really got her was the smile the girl wore when the Headmaster spoke of her exploits. Her demeanor wasn’t arrogant but shy and excited - as if she couldn’t wait to head out to fight even more.

It’s just that the girl needed a team to do so.

Heh. Pyrrha. Who’s Pyrrha? What champion of Mistral?

This was the person she needed to partner with.

-----

"And that’s not to mention all the connections you can make knowing the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company,” Weiss explained hastily to the pajama-wearing Ruby Rose who just gave her a blank, unmoved expression.

Argh. What did this girl want?!

Ruby didn’t care about the educational pension she offered nor did she care about sponsorship by the Schnee Dust Company after graduation. She didn’t blink an eye either about having her weaponry supplemented with all the recent Dust research the SCD could offer. And the only time she did react was when she offered free expert weapon maintenance during her stay at Beacon, and the girl gave her such a disdainful stare that she got flustered and stuttered through the rest of her recruitment speech.

By the time she finished, she was red in the face, embarrassed by this girl who didn’t seem to care for this valuable opportunity at all.

Was she just playing hard-to-get, trying to get more out of her? Or were all prodigies like this?

As though she noticed how awkward she was being, Ruby sheepishly rubbed her head with an apologetic look in her face.

“Uh...Weiss, right? That’s great and all, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a partner,” Ruby said hesitantly with a bow of her head.

Was this pipsqueak looking down on her? Professor be dam- whatever.

“What are you looking for in a partner then?” Weiss asked, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice.

Ruby’s friendly demeanor turned serious at the drop of a hat.

“Can you fight?” Ruby replied without missing a beat, “And can I trust you to have my back?”

Those two questions made her mouth gape her like a goldfish. 

It was clear that all the things she cared about - connections, money, power, opportunity - were worthless in front of this fourteen year old girl. And Ruby was being genuine, not trying to negotiate more out of her like businessmen were wont to do. She could feel the conviction in the other girl’s words as if nothing else truly mattered in that little world of hers. 

It was such a shock to her own worldview that she just stood there, even after the young girl shook her head and walked away.

The girl was right.

In the end, weren’t those two things the only things that truly mattered when fighting the Grimm?

It was the first lesson she’d learn from Professor Ruby and certainly not the last.

------

Have to find Pyrrha. Have to find Pyrrha.

Dashing through the Emerald Forest at top speed, she charged towards the gold and red blur that she saw flying above earlier. Sure, maybe she wasn’t able to give her recruitment speech to the Invincible Girl, but after learning the rules of forming a team, she realized she didn’t need to.

If she had known about the absurd manner of how they’ll find partners, she wouldn’t have thoroughly embarrassed herself last night. 

Eye contact? Really?!

Well as long as she didn’t get the pretentiously suave blond guy Jaune as a partner she would count it as a win. Seriously, if she heard Snow Angel one more time, a name she couldn’t escape from when she was at Atlas or those stupid high-society parties her father favored, she was going to shove her heel into a place where the sun didn’t shine.

...Being around Ruby may or may not be worse. Sure, she’s a Professor-in-training, so she’s going to be experienced, but it would be weird having to listen to someone two years younger than her. Not to mention she thoroughly embarrassed herself in front of the gir-

As she burst through the treeline, her eyes widened as she caught a familiar crimson-cloaked figure. That figure turned its head towards her.

Silver eyes met hers, and Ruby wore a surprised expression for a moment before it quickly turned into a grimace.

“Oh.”

----

“Ah. Thank you for getting me down from that tree, Ruby,” the blond thanked, holding the spear-shotgun in his hands.

“Don’t mention it,” Ruby replied back, a genuine smile on her face. One that she never saw when the girl spoke to her. 

“I still don’t see why you got him down there,” Weiss said grumpily, “He should be able to figure out how to land himself, not need another Hunter’s help. Do you like him or something?”

“Huh?” The blond in question looked to her and then Ruby.

“I think I just like Crocea Mors.”

“Wha-?” Jaune said, glancing over at his blade and shield-scabbard.

“I thought about why I felt really good about Jaune when we met at orientation,” Ruby spoke, not really paying attention to the other two’s reactions. It seemed she was used to monologuing; Weiss couldn’t help but picture Ruby as a lonely girl despite all her outward bubbliness. “And it has to be the shield. People who use shields are either scared of death or have something to defend. And since Jaune’s here despite being unstealthy, walking in a manner that’ll easily catch him flatfooted, and not having unlocked his Aura, he’s clearly not scared of death.”

“Uhhh...” Jaune laughed nervously. Weiss could only gave him an incredulous look.

“Honestly, if I had the choice, I’d rather pick him than you, Weiss.”

That hurt in more ways than one; was Ruby’s opinion of her that low? Her gaze locked back onto Ruby.  

“Why?”

“Nothing personal. But Bart once said you can teach someone to fight, but you can’t teach loyalty,” Ruby quietly said, “And I don’t really know you well, and Jaune. Well, he has a shield.”

She was so annoyed that she wanted to laugh. Here she thought Ruby was thinking of her as completely unskilled and worthless, only for this reasoning to pop up. 

“Aren’t you being a bit arbitrary?” 

“Arbi-wha?” Ruby asked confusedly.

Weiss opened and closed her mouth before growling in frustration, “...Argh. How do I explain what that means? How can you be a prof-”

Ruby suddenly stopped and drew out her weapon. That alerted her and made her draw Myrtenaster right away. Jaune belatedly drew his blade and shield moments later. 

“Grimm are coming,” Ruby hopped upwards into the trees, “I’ll handle long-range fire. You two engage.”

------

She darted through the battlefield using her Glyphs as platforms. Her precise bladework aimed for necks, eyes, and hearts, each one efficiently dispatching the Grimm that surrounded them. Occasionally, Myrtenaster would glow with an icy or fiery light, her favored attack elements holding and destroying the Grimm that got into her range.

From above, she could hear the tinkle of fallen bullet casings as Ruby provided sniper fire. She had an eerie feeling that every bullet the girl fired lethally found its mark. 

“Hurggh!” the blond slashed down again and decapitated another Beowulf, probably the fourth or fifth compared to her dozen. Ruby was right. He was uncoordinated. Wrong foot out with his attack, sabotaging his gathered momentum. But against the young Beowolves, it was enough. And though his blade skills were poor, his body itself was pretty well-developed - if he ever started training for real, he had a really good foundation to start from. 

Weiss mused to herself. Loyal people tended to be grateful, right? Maybe she could attract that sort of loyalty to her if she were to train him, but alas she was smart enough to know she was far from qualified. She’s more likely to lead him down the wrong path and wouldn’t that generate resentment instead?

Still, it’d be interesting to see if he could gain the skills Ruby expected him to get in the futur-

Wha- wrong Glyph?

She stumbled and slid into the ground instead of onto the Glyph she wanted to create. Lifting her head up, she saw the Beowulf she landed in front of about to deliver a haymaker onto her frame. 

“Weiss!” 

She saw the blond’s back as he stood in front of her, shield protecting them both. Her heart fluttered for a moment. Despite her cruel words and rejections, Jaune still took up her defense. 

Loyalty.

The blond stumbled to the ground as he absorbed the blow, his hasty positioning too unstable to withstand it. Struck flat into the ground, Jaune groaned as his shield arm fell out of position with the Grimm about to strike down again.

“No!” she screamed.

Myrtenaster glowed white as she brought herself between the fist and Jaune, a White Glyph manifesting in front of her. 

But then a flash of white suddenly bisected the Grimm, and its figure dissipated into red petals. Ruby came into view, slowly folding her scythe back into its portable form - the one or two Grimm that remained seemed to have been cleaned up by her. 

Before she could thank the girl, Ruby started speaking. 

"Ahh sorry. I knew you had it,” Ruby said apologetically before grinning, “I just wanted a chance to get up close and personal.”

It made things a bit awkward to be misunderstood like that, and she paused for a moment trying to find tactful words before realizing what she should actually be doing. 

She lent a hand to a dazed Jaune and helped hoist him up. 

“Hey,” Weiss said shyly, “Thanks for blocking that blow and s-saving me.”

“Ha. No problem. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s take a beating,” Jaune laughed, patting his chest with his fist. 

His casualness brought a smile to her face, and it was nice to see another somewhat normal person in their group of three. Their companionable silence lasted for a moment before it was broken by Jaune. 

“Ruby, why’d you fight long-range?” Jaune turned his head and asked confusedly, “I thought you’re a pretty good scythe wielder.”

Ruby lightly kicked a pebble on the ground as she frowned and grimaced, “I don’t want to be levitated out the Admin Tower by my foot again.”

Huh?

“For messing up another collaboration. Like umm... I use a scythe. I hit very wide, and you two fight in melee range and we’ve never fought together,” Ruby animatedly swung her hands to mimic her motions before finishing, “so things could get really bad, and Glynda said if I ever fought like that again, she’l-”  

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” 

Pyrrha finally appeared. 

---

Pyrrha and Jaune went their separate ways, having rejected their offer to travel together. When she asked Ruby about it, Ruby simply said, “I think we’ll be surprised by Jaune when we meet him again.”

As she said this, the girl rubbed her cheek against her weapon as if drawing comfort from it. It was oddly familiar, and she remembered her doing the same back when the girl was with Headmaster Ozpin at orientation.  

“You really like your weapon, don’t you?” Weiss teased. 

“Crescent Rose,” she closed her eyes and didn’t stop hugging her weapon, “She’s the promise of the life I want to live.”

Weiss shut her mouth. 

What could she say to that?

“You haven’t maintained your own weapon yourself for a long time, have you?”

The other girl’s expression was soft, and when paired with the almost loving expression she had for her own weapon, her words seemed more patient and guiding instead of accusatory. In fact, ever since their fight against the Beowolves, Ruby seemed less standoffish with her as if...

...she finally earned the other girl’s approval.  

“You’re right,” Weiss admitted, deciding that she didn’t want to harm their fledgling relationship with fake blustering. Ruby’s right. She left it to someone she thought an expert. “How could you tell?”

Ruby held her hand out, and she knew what she wanted and handed Myrtenaster over to her. 

“What’s your weapon’s name?”

“Myrtenaster...?” Uhh. Why’d Ruby want to know?  

“Myrtenaster,” she nodded her head before saying, “Myrtenaster’s cylinder kept moving less smoothly during your fight, and it’s been throwing you off. You don’t trust in Myrtenaster’s mechanism anymore.”

Like what she was doing before with Crescent Rose, Ruby held the weapon’s guard against her cheek. Weiss couldn’t help but feel astonished.  

How good was Ruby’s eye of discernment to notice that small detail while they were all fighting? 

“So you keep using your eyes to check what dust color you’re using,” Ruby continued, her hand slowly turning the Myrtenaster’s cylinder, “And you’ve gotten so used to it that you don’t think it’s a problem anymore, except that the lapse in your attention nearly got you hurt today. 

“I think Myrtenaster would be sad if that happened, even more than your lack of trust in it,” Ruby opened her eyes sorrowfully before holding the weapon, hilt out, back to her, which she graciously accepted. 

“Whoever your expert is is probably remedying the quirk with a good amount of oil, which solves the smoothness but not the unreliability,” she sighed, “Myrtenaster must’ve taken a very nasty blow to the blade in the past, which probably misaligned the cylinder column. You probably only noticed it after you’ve used it for a while - a detail your expert probably wouldn’t have noticed because they don’t actually wield your weapon.”

Weiss recalled a phantom pain against her scarred eye, a Giant Armor’s fist crashing against both her and Myrtenaster. She had the blade itself repaired, but Ruby was right - she never noticed the cylinder’s problems until recently, and her expert kept saying it was in perfect condition despite her concerns.

“I get what you’re saying. I’ll maintain my weapon on my own from now on,” Weiss acquiesced.

“I’m sure Myrtenaster would like that,” she smiled, genuine happiness on her face once more before slight awkwardness returned to it, “Uhh. Hmm. Come on. Let’s get the chess pieces and finish up this Initiation. Maybe we can fight something along the way!”

Ruby already started dashing through the forest, and Weiss gave chase. 

Weiss couldn’t help but laugh at the sudden switch in demeanor.

What a strange girl. 

[lostsometime]

I’m reminded of a story I read when I was first learning about DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) where this woman was explaining how an “invalidating environment” doesn’t always look like... well, like Beau’s home.  You can be a good parent and still accidentally invalidate your kid.  In the case of this woman, she explained how her parents tried so hard to teach and guide her, but she still felt invalidated.  She grew up a lot less well off than a lot of her friends, and when she would ask for something like a toy or a doll that her parents really couldn’t afford, they didn’t want to be Those Parents that just say “no, because I Said So,” or leave her feeling like their decisions were arbitrary and unfair.  So instead, they would gently sit her down and explain how the thing she asked for is a luxury, not a necessity, and they can’t get it for her due to the price.  And that’s all true - but what the little girl absorbs is “the things you want aren’t necessary, and it’s selfish to feel upset about being denied these frivolous things.”

I kind of feel like that’s the sort of environment Caduceus was in.  Maybe a parent or an aunt or an older sibling sat him down one day and gently, rationally explained that Parents are People, Too, and that his mother and father have responsibilities to the Wildmother that they need to fulfill, and that they are full and complete people outside of just being his parents.  And those things are true!  But what it conveys to a little kid is “it’s selfish of you to want your parents to spend more time with you, the things they’re doing are Objectively More Important and you’re fine on your own anyway.”

Anyway, the validating way to handle those sorts of situations is to acknowledge the bad feelings of the situation, instead of just trying to make the kid feel better by explaining why they logically shouldn’t be upset.  It means letting your kid be sad!  Or angry with you!  It’s hard and it doesn’t come instinctively, you need to work at it, and a lot of people never do.  I think Cad might be a lot happier if anyone had ever said “yeah, your parents can’t be with you as much as you want, and that sucks, and it’s okay to be sad about it.”  

[rabbitrah]

Treasured Hatred

When I moved to a new town when I was 11, I had never really experienced bullying. I was a weird kid and had experienced people saying mean stuff to me, but my elementary school had a cohesive anti-bullying plan, so it was never a real issue.

Then I went to a new school. These kids were fresh from an elementary school that definitely did not have a cohesive anti-bullying program. They existed in an iron-clad social hierarchy with clearly marked Undesirables at the bottom who were routinely tortured and humiliated by the Social Elites. Talk about culture shock.

I was quickly sized up by my peers and shuffled towards the bottom of the social ranks. There were about 4-5 kids beneath me, but I was still quite a ways from the middle. I observed my classmates carefully, trying to understand this sixth grade dystopia I had just landed in.

There was one girl who was the unquestionable leader and the biggest bully. She had a circle of friends, and beneath them were the kids who weren't her friends, but who had their own clout and she didn't pick on. Then there were those on the bottom of the pile. Generally they either looked or acted differently from others. Most were ND, I'm sure. These kids formed a loose friend group, but I avoided them, sensing that it was safer to eat alone rather than join them.

When the Social Leader started to pick on someone, often out of nowhere, her peers were quick to back her up. Often the middle-rung kids would also pitch in, until almost the entire class would single out to taunt one particular person. I became one of her targets as well, for a time. I wasn't attacked as persistently as some others, but she'd routinely pick something arbitrary about me to mock. I remember one day she made me cry because I said my favorite color was purple.

Others didn't have it so easy. Once, during a game of dodgeball, one of the lowest-rung kids made the mistake of complaining about something the Social Leader had done. One of the middle-crust kids overheard and went over to report this like they were a member of the secret police or something. She immediately stormed over to confront him. She called him names and told him what a terrible person he was. Her friends backed her up. The middle crust kids backed her up. He started to cry. She said, "Why are you crying? I'm the one who should he crying! YOU did this!"

Later in the girl's locker room, they continued to talk about what a terrible person he was, how dare he, what a cry baby, etc. The thing that shocked me most of all was that one of the bottom crust girls, a favorite target of the Elites and someone who I had thought was his friend, joined in. The Social Leader was delighted by her contribution. The girl didn't earn a higher ranking in the hierarchy, but she did get a brief spotlight of approval, and basked in it. I felt nauseous.

My own social salvation came when I made a friend in the other sixth grade class. She was a star soccer player with social skills and thus had full immunity from bullying. This girl, who would later become my best friend, was tough as nails. At the age of eleven she had learned to stare down and scare off anyone who approached her with even slightly taunting energy. For many years after I would be almost embarrassingly grateful to her from rescuing me from being an eternal outcast.

My new friendship gave me something to hold onto, but she was in another class and couldn't protect me most of the time. A memorable event included the Social Leader leading our warm-ups in PE. (Literally, where was our gym teacher?) She made us run laps in the gym basement with the lights off. I found it extremely scary and asked if she'd turn them on. She laughed at me for being afraid of the dark and taunted me for the rest of class. Eventually I cried, which she also found funny. Still, having a friend meant that I wasn't alone in the universe. I had someone I could talk to after school who would nod knowingly and then talk ask if I wanted to watch X-men.

Things were much better in the seventh grade. My best friend was in the same class as me. So was social leader, but she couldn't get near me anymore. When I stood by my best friend, I imagined that there was a forcefield emanating from her. I was protected. We had a few other friends as well, book worms who were less concerned about seeming cool. The social hierarchy was changing.

Close to the end of the year I had to work on a group project with my old bully, one of her friends, and the most bullied kid in our grade. While we were working, he said something innocuous, and she started mocking him and saying it was stupid. Her friend started to laugh along with her. Their target was getting red in the face. I remembered the way she'd made so many kids cry for no reason, confident that everyone around her would either join in or stay silent. I hated her so much, and in that moment, even without my best friend's forcefield to protect me, I wasn't afraid.

I looked her straight in the eye with my coldest stare and said "That's not funny." The energy shifted dramatically. I defended what their target had said. There was silence. Pure loathing flowed from her to me and I sent it right back. She wanted to put me back in my place, I know she did, but I hadn't been a target of hers in a year. She looked over at her friend, who wasn't laughing anymore. He said, "Oh, yeah. I guess I can see that now." My old bully was mortified.

I don't remember what happened after that, just the roar of victory in my ears. I finally understood it. She was still a miserable little sadist, but the source of her power was the people around her, and I was one of those people. When I saw her edging in for the kill, I had the power to knock the knife out of her hand, and now I knew that none of her friends would jump in to stop me.

By the eighth grade the social dynamic had completely shifted into three distinct camps: Hers, mine, and the boys, who had segregated themselves for some reason and owed allegiance no one. Happily, there didn't seem to be any more outcasts. The boys who had been bullied were now a member of the Boys. The girls who had been outcasts were absorbed into our group. Looking a certain way, dressing a certain way, and social awkwardness weren't grounds for alienation any longer. I don't know if she was even the leader of her group anymore.

None of this felt as tangible or serious by the time we were in high school. There were easily four times as many people and we all started to exist in nebulous, overlapping friend groups. My old bully wasn't particularly popular or noteworthy anymore, but I never stopped hating her. I kept the memories of the fear and emotional pain she'd inflicted in my pocket and I was careful not to lose them.

The last time I saw her, we were 21. I was having a drink in our town's pub with my roommate, someone who I went to our high school but I'd gotten close to only later. My old bully walked in and saw my roommate. They'd been on a team together, gone to a few parties together. She made a beeline for our table with a "Hey girl!" eager to catch up. She only recognized me afterwards. We acknowledged each other and she went back to chatting with my roommate. When she said goodbye, she moved in to give me a hug. I hugged her back.

I wonder if she ever remembers the things she used to do and say as a child. Does she remember it at all?I can remember how much I hated her, but now my anger has a different target. Where were the adults in our lives for all of this? Why did her family fail to teach her how to be kind? Where were her teachers in grades k-8 who failed to notice this behavior and create a plan to combat it in a healthy way? Why didn't any adults step in when kids were being tormented for their appearance and neurodivergences?

I don't know why I'm writing about this now. I was rummaging through my pockets and found that old hate, I guess. I never did lose it. But I'm casting it out now. It's easy to say that children are cruel, but more accurate to say that they don't have to be, not when the adults in their lives show them how to forge a kinder road. I hope my old bully, an adult woman now, found that road at some point. I hope she's walking it, and I hope that she has people with her who love her. If she remembers any of it at all, I hope she forgives herself.

You were a child, and someone should have been looking after you too.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

3E Exam

On the second floor of the Library was a classroom where the 3E exam was held. Exam day was always exciting for the current students. I was like a horse race and bets were cast on who would come up on the top of the class. Tigre’s name appeared on the roster with no last name and no preliminary ranking. Some people thought it was a prank. A few others thought it was an error. Others, seeking to buck the trend, put down money on his name as a dark horse.

Tigre walked in through the morning rain accompanied by Toyama. Behind the desk was a cold-eyed man in rimmed glasses. Tigre didn’t recognize Manstein but Toyama was friendly and nodded. “Morning.”

“Coming in early? You’re the first student here.”

“I felt it would be wise to get him accustomed to these new surroundings first.”

This was a morning of great change for Tigre. It was the first time he put on a Cassell uniform, putting on a tie all by himself, understanding how his outfit put together. Toyama insisted on pulling his hair back and tying it even though Tigre found that a bit uncomfortable. It made him look less like a potential rockstar and more like a proper student.

Manstein frowned. “His eye color is a bit audacious.”

Tigre was used to wearing contacts by now, but his contacts were blue. Toyama had taught him to order his own. The blue mixed with the natural color of his eyes and made a striking aquamarine.

“We had ordered black but the contacts came in as blue. It is not a natural color but it couldn’t be helped. It was too late to order new ones.” Toyama explained.

Manstein shook his head. “Regardless, you explained to him the importance of the test so I trust he’ll be well behaved. No disruptions of this test can be tolerated. Do you understand?”

Tigre looked at Manstein. They were about the same height with Tigre being a fraction of an inch taller. Tigre just smiled. “I understand.”

Manstein glared a bit longer. It was supposed to be intimidating but Tigre felt more intimidation from Cassell's snarling raccoons.

Toyama led him around the classroom pointing at the desk with his name on a paper label. “Are you comfortable here?”

“Yes. But… you keep telling me I’ll do fine on the test and the test is simple. But you seem very worried. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Just relax and be kind to the other students. Sit quietly and wait for the test to begin.” Toyama patted Tigre on the shoulder and quickly left him alone in the room.

Tigre wanted to follow him out. Such an abrupt goodbye without any more chances for questions left him uneasy. But his last instruction was to sit quietly and be kind to the other students so there wasn’t anything else he could do. He just sat at the desk and waited. 

Outside the window the sky was dark and the rain poured down a constant steady shower.

His mind thought back through all his experiences with Toyama, from learning words and phrases, to understanding how to use a cellphone. Pointing to things, Toyama would explain what they are and how they worked. But for this, Toyama gave him a little information and nothing more. And that’s why he felt so uneasy. Toyama was always free with his explanations and knowledge but suddenly that free flow of information had shut off, leaving him dry at the tap and wondering.

“Well, well, well, someone got here before us?” A tall black woman with a cloud mass of curly locks stood in the door. Behind her walked two other women. The differences between them were subtle. The one in front was the tallest but only by about an inch and a half. They all wore the same uniform but each one had a pin that was different. The one in front had a ladybug, the one in middle had a butterfly, and the one in back had a dragonfly. 

Other than that he would definitely have a hard time telling each one apart. 

The one in back, the dragonfly, sat next to him, the butterfly sat next to her and the ladybug filled the end of the row closest to the door. Dragonfly leaned over. “Hey I’m Porsche Smith. Nice to meet you!” 

“Porsche… that’s a car right?”

The Ladybug laughed outloud and Porsche Dragonfly Smith turned to her and stuck her tongue out. “Anyways. What’s your name?”

“Tigre…” He said shyly.

“Tigre?” She stood up and looked at his name tag. “Like… Tiger? That’s an animal, right?” She said putting one hand on her hip.

“Uh…”

She tilted her head quizzically. “Is that your real name or do people just call you that?”

“I…” Tigre was taken aback. No one had asked him if his name was real before. What made a name real? Did people just call him Tigre? Was Tigre not a ‘real name’? If not, what was his real name?

The Ladybug sighed. “Two seconds in and you’ve already given someone an existential crisis. I’m Celeste Smith and this is my sister, Ruby.”

“We’re all sisters.” Porsche sat down. “So where are you from?”

“Mexico.”

“Really? You don’t look Mexican? Are you parents from there?” Celeste “Ladybug” Smith asked.

“I uh…”

Celeste tilted her head and squinted. “¿Hablas español?”

“Sí un poco.” Tigre responded.

“You’re just shy.” Celeste smiled kindly at him. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite!”

Ruby glanced over at him. “I’m just a little nervous about the test. That’s all. We got here early to see if maybe there would be some instructions but we haven’t received any.”

“Yeah it’s kinda rude. They tell you how this one test is going to set up some arbitrary placement in the whole college and yet they don’t even give you anything to study!” Porsche said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was hoping maybe we could ask someone and get more info.”

“I wasn’t told much either. Only that I would hear a series of questions in a language I’d never heard before. And I was supposed to write my best answer.” Tigre said helpfully.

“Wait, the questions aren’t in ENGLISH?!” Celeste slammed her hand on the table and all three girls stared at him.

“I… Well, I don’t know about that…” Tigre mumbled.

“It better be in English or I’m suing. How are they going to give us a foreign language test and expect us to pass?”

“Maybe it will be in Latin?” Ruby suggested.

Other students walked in and the girls suddenly raised their fingers to their lips. “Our secret.” Porsche said.

The girls all raised their heads at once and flashed their white perfect teeth at the people walking in, meeting eyes with all the men. 

A man with a pair of grey eyes and a rakish playful smile leaned on the desk in front of Celeste. “So these are the triplets that’s got everyone talking.”

“Really? Everyone?” Celeste said. “Not one is left out?”

“I’m certainly not. The name is Moses. Moses Anderson. It’s a bit old-fashioned, but that’s how my family rolls.”

“Old-fashioned in a modern world? Isn’t that another word for backwards?”

“Nothing wrong with tradition, so long as those traditions are good.” Moses crossed his arms over his chest.

Celeste sneered. “I happen to disagree with that. Tradition has never done me any favors and I’m here to break it!”

“Fiery, I like it.” Moses said. 

“Your name starts with A, so that means you’re at the front of the classroom right?” Porsche examines her nails and then pointed to the front of the room as a signal for this guy to move along.

Tigre shrank a little, happy that the women were absorbing most of the attention in the room. He’d never been around so many people before and was happy to disappear into their collective shadow.

“Woah so… Tigre isn’t a glitch in the matrix?”

“Huh?” Tigre asked, not understanding anything in that sentence. His mouth dropped open at the dark haired boy in front of him.”

“I’m Charles. Charles Xavier. Welcome to the school for the gifted.” He held out his hand.

“I… I’m Tigre…”

“That your superhero name or what?” ‘Charles Xavier’s’ eyes looked him up and down.

“Um…” Tigre glanced away. He got a bad feeling. He didn’t like how this person was looking at him. That half smile and those narrowed eyes stirred up a painful sensation in his chest and he imagined reaching across and grabbing his throat.

This reaction only seemed to intrigue Charles who lowered his hand. “What’s the matter? Tigre got your tongue?”

Before anything could happen, Manstein entered and spoke up. “Now that everyone is here, I will now tell you the rules of the test.”

"Cheating is absolutely forbidden, and violators will be disqualified! In the name of the chairman of the discipline committee, I ensure that the learning atmosphere at Cassell College is relaxed, but my rules are the strictest. Do not try to peek at other people's test papers. Cameras cover the entire classroom. There are no blindspots! And don't try to carry any little electronic devices. Radio waves are monitored in the classroom too! I know you are all geniuses, but I can tell you that people even smarter than you have also taken exams in this classroom, and all the cheating methods you can think of now have already been tried.”

Tigre looked over at the girls sitting next to him. He had already told them about what he heard on the test. Was that cheating? Was he already disqualified?

A flash of lightning burst through the clouds and brightened the classroom in brilliant light.

“if you do not pass this exam, what awaits you will not be a first class education in the world at Cassel College, but a disqualification." Professor Manstein continued, "The exam will officially begin in three minutes, now turn off your cell phones and place them on the corners of your desks along with your student ID cards."

Celeste, Ruby and Porsche immediately complied, their dark hands moving in unison, like a set of three perfectly trained dancers. Tigre’s breath stilled at the sight.

Manstein tapped his wristwatch and a black curtain silently emerged from above the carved wooden windows. The classroom was dark for only a moment. At the same time the classroom wall lights jumped and flickered on, and Manstein walked along to give each new student an white paper and a sharpened pencil.

Tigre was suddenly wracked with uncertainty. If the test was wrestling a bear or climbing a cliff face, he would be very happy and confident. But this was nothing like he’d ever done before. He didn’t want to let Dr. Toyama down. If he failed he would be kicked out and he would never see the Doctor again!

“Hey!” 

A whisper made him look and the three girls were smiling and giving him a thumbs up. He nodded and took a deep breath to calm himself. Toyama said he would do fine. He just had to believe him.