#the caves of steel adaptation looks great

[daneelsolivaw]

i was watching the trailer for the crow and ?????

[plutodetective]

There’s a new Asimov fandom, time to post the 80s VHS game again.

[saurotitan]

My Superhero Ideas: The Midwestern Marvels

This is based on something I started thinking about while coming up with my "spidersona" Cave-Spider, which is the simple fact that the midwest doesn't get any superheroes in mainline comics. Sure, there's the Great Lake Avengers, but those guys are literally a joke. To rectify this massive travesty I brainstormed a few ideas and wrote quick character profiles for the first members of a team I'm tentatively calling the Midwestern Marvels. I'd love to get some feedback from you all on this idea, and if you've got any character ideas, character art or constructive criticism feel free to let me know.

The Iron Brigadier:

Name: Thomas Miller

Age: 24/ 183 (time travel mishap)

Aliases: "The Old Soldier" "The Last Black Hat" "Kang's Little Oopsie"

Abilities: Trace amounts of super-soldier serum in bloodstream due to transfusion provide Miller with peak human performance in athletic endeavors. Trained marksman with upgraded 'Spencer' repeating rifle, talented hand-to-hand combatant, owns a bayonet crafted from a damaged piece of Sam Wilson's flight harness. Trained public speaker.

Overview: A member of the Civil War group known as the Iron Brigade, Thomas was just another young man fighting for his country. One day on an especially bloody battlefield Thomas was wounded and separated from his fellow soldiers, and out of nowhere a flash of light appeared. When the light dissipated Thomas saw three men in odd costumes fighting (Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Dang the Conqueror). Ignoring his injuries, Thomas ran over to help the man wearing the colors of the American flag, picking up a broken piece of Falcon's wing from the mud to use as a knife. Upon realizing the fight was three on one Kang attempted to retreat to the present day, bringing Mr. Miller along for the ride in the chaos. Kang fled the scene shortly after, leaving a very confused Thomas Miller to collapse from wounds sustained in 1864. In order to keep him alive until medical aid could arrive Steve Rogers gave Miller a blood transfusion. Now trapped in the present day, Thomas is the last man standing from a force of men who never gave up while fighting a good fight. He is the sole beneficiary of a veteran's pension fund set up for those who served in the American Civil War, and occasionally gives talks on the importance of cooperation and equal rights. He actually had to take lessons on public speaking after coming to the present day but he believes in the message he's spreading with all his heart. Thomas recognizes the Union he fought for has flaws but he's still glad to see that the future turned out pretty bright.

Hodag:

Name: Lawrence Jackson

Age: 19

Aliases: "The Forest Beast" "The Midwestern Mutant"

Abilities: Inhuman strength, bullet-resistant hide, retractible claws, tail, steel-crushing jaws, rapid regenerative healing, adaptive camouflage. Skilled cook and excellent with computers

Weaknesses: Sensitive hearing, mediocre low-light vision, requires more food/water/minerals than normal human to fuel regenerative healing capabilities. Not a great climber and has trouble making sharp turns while running.

Overview: Lawrence was born looking relatively normal despite possessing an x-gene and probably would've gone through life without an issue if not for his college professor Dr. Smith. Doctor Smith was a cutting-edge researcher in the relatively new field of mutant genetics, and wasn't going to let little things like morality or ethics get in the way of a promising test subject with vestigial mutations just waiting to express themselves. Smith staged a "lab accident" that caused a shift in Lawrence's DNA, expressing his latent mutant traits. To cover his tracks the professor blamed a nearby fight between local hero Cave-Spider and a crew of armed robbers. Cave-Spider and young Mr. Jackson wound up going head-to-head in a widely publicized brawl the next night outside Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin (the troll capitol of the world!) before cooler heads prevailed and the real culprit could be identified. Sadly, Dr. Smith had fled the region while his former student was distracted, trapping Lawrence in his monstrous form with little hope for a cure. Dubbed the Hodag by the local media, Lawrence now tries to use his strength to protect the innocent from those who would harm them, running a soup kitchen for mutants in downtown Milwaukee. He, Cave-Spider, and Iron Brigadier were all founding members of the hero group The Midwestern Marvels.

Zaj:

Name: Ying Kue

Age: 21

Aliases: "The Hmong Dragon" "The Minnesota Powerhouse"

Abilities: Flight, fire projection from hands, pyrokinisis, strength sufficient to lift a freight train, hand-to-hand combat training, magic resistance, costume is strong enough to deflect multiple RPG rounds. Bilingual and able to play the trumpet.

Weaknesses: Sustained fire from heavy weapons can eventually wear through defenses, reliance on fire renders some rescues challenging (rescuing cats from trees, rerouting floodwaters, etc). Powers are recharged by sunlight, meaning winter operations may leave Ying drained from shorter days. Time management skills are a constant challenge. Allergic to shellfish and unsure of how to expand knowledge of magic.

Overview: Daughter of a Hmong immigrant family living in Minneapolis, Ying gained her powers on her 18th birthday when trying to save an elderly neighbor from frostbite during a blackout that struck seemingly out of nowhere. When she asked others in the neighborhood about the old man no one seemed to know who she was talking about, and upon checking his apartment all Ying found was a costume and a note : yours now. Taking this as a sign, over the following years Ying would make a name for herself as a protector of Minneapolis, a vocal supporter of Asian-American communities, and the first new member of the Midwestern Marvels after the group's inception after a team-up against mutual foe Road Rage. She still struggles to make time for her family, her personal life, her hero career, and exploration into just what her powers are, but time management is a struggle for everyone these days.

Thoughts?

[onceandfutureoshainspector]

- MISTER TIMS, in the flesh! i thought he’d be taller.

- i guess that’s the end of the RANDOLPH SAFEHOUSE missions. seems kinda short, but that’s probably because i’ve been grinding away at them so hard. gonna go back to SANCTUARY and empty my pockets before deciding what to do next.

- hm. i hadn’t really considered that there would be remnants of the u.s. military after the great war.

     - the image i sorta had was “the bombs fell, almost everyone who wasn’t mutated or hidden away in a bunker/basement/cave died within about a year or two, eventually enough people living in non-contaminated areas started expanding outwards and adapting to the brave new world, the bunkers opened releasing more people out into the world, etc”.

          - the idea that there would be enough infrastructure left to keep the american military running as the same organisation didn’t occur to me, much less that they’d have the capacity to build or improve on anything.

               - since it survived the war, i wonder what happened to it? i’m pretty sure i saw a loading screen tip or something (maybe in new vegas) that said the BROTHERHOOD OF STEEL was more or less descended from the u.s. military, but their POWER ARMOUR doesn’t look like this i don’t think?

                    - or maybe it does actually. idk, i haven’t been back to the PRYDWEN for a while.

[s1nn0hh]

the previous refs for gaia and erida sucked so i tried remaking them. new 'ref' for my girlies

stories of the two below the cut (long post):

Erida:

Erida was born before everything went to hell, and was only 10 when time first froze and the human population began dying out in the Dark Future.

The shelter she and her parents hid in only had enough to support for one person, and her parents took the decision to leave it all to her, sacrificing themselves for her own safety and leaving the shelter to ensure she won't have to see them perish. That was the last she ever saw of them.

During that time, she took great interest in history and sought out to find out what caused time to stop forever and leave the future in such disarray. Coincidentally, Grovyle hid in her shelter while on the run from Dusknoir and his Sableye henchmen, and the two joined forces after sharing a common goal; becoming fast friends very quickly.

Erida knew that showing any form of emotion or vulnerability in the world that surrounded them was a death sentence, and she steeled her emotions and inevitably buried them so deep that she wouldn't tell anyone how she felt, even if Grovyle and Celebi had to persuade her hard enough or if she felt it was "worthy of talking about". And even the times where it all came down crashing on her, she didn't allow herself to get too overboard and calmed down in a minute. It didn't do wonders to her. (this will come bite her down the line, don't worry.)

With how much she shielded Grovyle and Celebi from attacks no matter how grave and dangerous, it didn't take long before she got plenty of her own scars to share. The former absolutely hated seeing her like this, but there wasn't much they could do.

And then the separation after fleeing from Dusknoir and his henchmen through the passage of time happened.

Erida woke up and found herself on a beach, staring at the sunrise. She then noticed that what woke up her up was this strange clay doll who introduced herself as 'Gaia' that saw her unconcious on the beach front.

Erida introduced herself and said that she was a human, to which Gaia very kindly informed her that she looked like a Duskull in every way, with the addition of a concerning amount of scars on her body and a few on her mask. Erida looked at herself, and panic ensues as she remembers being a human, but nothing else beside that.

Koffing and Zubat come down the line and 'accidentally' bump into Gaia, knocking the Relic Fragment she had out and snatching it as they sprinted inside Beach Cave.

Erida ran right after them, Gaia following tail before she managed to ask for her help.

After retrieving the fragment, Gaia says that she thought about starting an exploration team with Erida, the latter agreeing to it and not seeing why not.

The two join Wigglytuff's Guild under the name of 'Team Terrageist', and after retrieving Spoink his lost pearl the next day, Erida is overcome by this.. strange feeling. Like she is missing something from her life with the feeling weighting her heart. She feels as though she should consult Gaia or anyone about this, but simply brushing it off as she didn't wish to bother them or by claiming it didn't matter. It begins.

After accidently activating the Dimensional Scream by bumping into Drowzee and Azurill in Kecleon Market, that feeling only worsens.

Gaia can see it on her face that something is up, and she was lucky enough that Erida didn't fully adapt to the whole "locking herself from the world" mantra yet so she tells her about what she saw.

After the whole ordeal that followed with Drowzee's arrest and the Fogbound Lake, Erida came to realize something about that gut feeling; she likes Gaia. She likes being around her, and she doesn't make her feel so foreign in her surroundings, much more than she'd like to admit. But unfortunately for her, she has already mastered the art of "not showing vulnerability" and doesn't wanna bother her with such a thing and believes that Gaia doesn't feel the same (she absolutely does but we will get to that later.)

Dusknoir comes along to the guild and Erida, for some reason, gravitated towards him. More than Gaia did, anyway.

After he came to save them from Manetric's wrath after getting conned by Team Skull, Erida came to him seeking guidance to help her with her own abilities. With him gleefully agreeing and teaching her every part with such patience, she saw him as a guiding light and parent in a way, in an environment unknown to her. Oh, how foolish she was.

Grovyle eventually came down the line, and it didn't take her long before another feeling resurfaced. She felt like she knew him before, but she had no way to prove it to anyone or how she could without being outed as an enemy due to his active search and theft of the Time Gears, and how he pretty much assaulted her and Gaia in Quicksand Cave and Crystal Lake before fleeing somewhere else. Oh well, guess she'll have to hold onto it. It didn't kill her before, it won't kill her now.

Her, Gaia and Dusknoir discuss on what will happen next after he informed everyone about his mission and about Grovyle, before Gaia opens up with telling Dusknoir about Erida, where she found her, her ability, and how she claims to have been a human despite no memory beyond that. He tells them he has no idea (<- lying to their faces) but promises to help with all he can do, and Erida is once again plagued by a feeling that something bad is gonna happen. You know the drill by now.

Grovyle is caught, and Dusknoir is about to return to the future. Before that, he asks Gaia and Erida to come forward. They bid their goodbyes, but Dusknoir had other plans. He kidnapped them to the Dark Future, where he showed the two his true colors, with his own lashing tongue as he talked about how much he merely saw them as a stepping stone.

After the whole drama in the Dark Future and once they escaped back to the present, Erida's mind is in ruins. The man who she looked up to, the one who she thought cared about her and Gaia so much.. did he lie? Did he even care? She felt so overwhelmed by everything, but she wasn't gonna let Grovyle or Gaia know. Right know, her main focus was to ensure that the Time Gears are brought back to Temporal Tower. Even if they were so, so worried about her. Erida spent her time trying to pull off her own attacks without the way Dusknoir taught her. It all came out flimsy, and she could only do it the way he taught her to. A new fear materialized within her. She was gonna end up like him. It felt so irrational and stupid, yet so real. She only distanced herself from those around her because of that.

Fast forward to the Hidden Land, and Erida's entire world came crashing after realizing what will happen once the gears are brought back to the tower, and how it came from Dusknoir and not from Grovyle. She was going to disappear. She will never see Gaia ever again.

The battle against Primal Dialga started, and Erida shielded Gaia from every hit and attack, despite the latter's worries. He eventually fell, and the gears were put in place. Erida could feel something emanating within her as they descended down the tower.

Erida began to disappear, and Gaia had to watch it unfold. With their hands clutched onto one another, Erida told Gaia all that she felt about her. How much she loves her. How much she wishes she wasn't cowardly and hid her feelings before this had to happen. Gaia told her that she loved her just as much.

And with that, she was gone. Erida was no more.

At least not until Dialga brought her back as a favor to Gaia. After a very tearful reunion, the two headed to the Surrounded Sea, where they came in for treasure, and left with an Egg.

The egg hatched, and Manaphy came out it. Erida and Gaia were so ecstatic.. if only they knew how much of a mistake this was.

Manaphy may have been happy, but it has not been a week before he nearly died under their care, and they knew he couldn't be with them. He had to be in his native environment, lest he would really die if he stayed with them.

After Walrein came to take him back to see, Gaia bid his goodbye with tears for years, as if he was one of her own. But Erida felt a familiar fear culminating within her. A child trusted her, and he nearly died because of it. Just like the way it happened with him.

That night, Erida did not shed a tear. The steel cage wrapped itself around her heart once again.

A week later, she and Gaia evolved. But whereas her peers and own partner celebrated it, Erida could barely look at herself as his image stood in her shadows.

She knew what happened with Manaphy wasn't her own fault. She and Gaia were only 22 when it happened. She knows that very well. It was a mistake. Please, she had to believe that it was a mistake.

That feeling that she was turning into the one person she feared the most grew within her, until she evolved once more a few years later. She now bared his image. She was just like him. Didn't matter if she looked different or acted different, all she could do when looking at the mirrors was seeing him.

And it only worsened as inexplicable nightmares arrived. People from her past and present blaming her and feeling disgust at what she allowed herself become, with Cresselia herself blaming and Gaia for the cause of the world's dismay, and that they are better gone.

Erida jolted from her sleep in fear, and she knew it was all real. She as a parasite to the people she loved, and she had to go. As she shakingly headed for the exit, she heard Gaia wake up and ask her what was wrong, and if she knew if she had the same nightmare as her.

At that point, Erida broke. She cried and cried, and told all that she saw and felt. The self-loathing and hatred lingering in her tone as she dumped all those fears that she harbored in her chest for 36 years.

Gaia only approached her and held her close as Erida cried her life away.

The day later, it turns out that the nightmare was caused by none other than Darkrai, as revealed by the actual Cresselia, and Erida knew what had to do be done. With her, Gaia and the real Cresselia, they ventured into the depths of Dark Crater and get rid of Darkrai once and for all.

Upon meeting the wretched man, he monologued about how he orchestrated everything. The collapse of time, separating Erida from Grovyle, and eventually down the line: cursing with her nightmares of the very man she feared of becoming.

But she didn't budge. For the first time in her life, she had something to fight for. And she wasn't gonna let him pull that heinous act again.

With his defeat, Darkrai fled through a passage in time that was destroyed just in time as Palkia arrived, and his existence was but a mere stain in her mind.

With the danger of life ending no longer hanging above her head, Erida learned to love herself and felt happiness in what felt like a lifetime. She was free.

Gaia:

Gaia hailed from a Baltoy/Claydol society that lived far off in the region's mountains, the clan existing long before time stopped.

Whereas a lot of the members of Gaia's species were essentially "mons of a few words", Gaia came out as the exact opposite. More open, more talkative, and just more active than the average Baltoy or Claydol.

She wanted to see the world beyond the confines of where her own folks resides, but such an act was forbidden due to the leaders believing that the world outside was cruel and unforgiving, and if she were to leave, she could never return.

Gaia, despite her own needs and desires, obeyed to the sayings and stayed put. She was gonna have to accept the boring mundanity one way or another. At least that what was she believed.

On one fatal evening, a cry was heard by one of the elders. Everyone had to evacuate, immediately. Nobody knew what for, but it didn't take long before they found out why.

A strange wall of light spread across the walls, leaving a grey and dull color behind it. Everyone tried fleeing, but it was far too long. The light enveloped them, leaving them suspended in place. All, but Gaia.

She was all on her own from there on out. What was once a lifelong yet unachievable dream turned into a nightmarish reality that she saw happen in real time.

From there, she went off to travel the region on her own, seeking solace in a place she could call home.

But such a task was easier said than done, as every place or dungeon was filled to the brim with territorial Pokemon that saw only a glimpse of her and immediately went on the pull.

Near-death scenario after near-death scenario, she knew that running away forever wasn't gonna work, lest she'd die trying. And during one of her many dungeon excavations, she came across a weird rock that seemed like a fragment of something: a piece of marble that looked as though it belonged somewhere, with a weird symbol in the middle.

In a way, it acted as her own personal treasure. She wanted to know what it belonged to, if it even belonged to anything.

After many days and nights of venturing through dungeons with kind folks ever so occasionally helping her on the way over, she came across a town near the region's coastline that she knew she could reside in until she figures out what to do: Treasure Town.

While the town itself didn't anything in terms of housing or residency, there was one place suitable enough for her to lay low, that place being Sharpedo Bluff.

During that night, sleep was only something she could dream of doing, as her head was plagued by a thousand thoughts. What will become of her people? Why happened on that very mountain that caused everything to stop in place? So many questions, yet none to answer. She grieved what she did not understand.

The morning later, she wondered to herself what she was gonna do with the fragment, wondering if she should ask that Wigglytuff fellow from the guild up in the mountain to help her or seek any other person who'd know. As she wandered off into the beach to think, she came across two Pokemon; a Weezing and a Zubat, who looked very eagerly and the fragment that she held, asking her how much she was willing to sell it for, to which she just walked away before they'd try to pursuit her.

Heading down to the beach front, she watched as the sun rose in the distance, feeling a sense of serenity wash over her, only before she looked aside and saw a Duskull laying unconscious not too far from her. Rushing over, she saw how the Duskull was red and had a hell-load of scars on their body, as if they just went through fight of a lifetime.

Fearing the worst has happened, she nudged them lightly to see if they aren't dead, and their movements as they slowly got up gave her enough hope.

Gaia asked the Duskull if it was alright, to which the Duskull; that introduced herself as Erida, said that she was a 'human', despite her appearance suggesting otherwise.

She believed that Erida was playing some sort of game on her, but the latter persisted that she knew she was a human before, but has no idea what happened before she got turned into a Duskull.

Gaia believed her enough and wanted to help her with her own peril if she was willing to help her solve the mystery behind the fragment she held onto. Of course, fate just had to be against as the pesting poison duo from earlier bumped into her, causing the fragment to fly out of hands and for the two to snag it as they dashed inside the nearby Beach Cave, daring her to follow them.

Just as she was about to say something, Erida immediately ran after them, to which Gaia followed suit. After facing off against the two and retrieving the fragment, it dawned upon Gaia that she had to be strong if she planned on solving the mystery behind her treasure. Seeing as the opportunity fresh in her mind, she asked Erida if she wanted to join her and form an exploration team together. She had this.. weird feeling that she somehow felt stronger with Erida by her side.

She didn't want to sound too desperate in front of her, and it seems to be a good idea with Erida as she didn't have anywhere to go to, giving her memory problem.

After heading to and agreeing to apprentice there as a team, Gaia was filled with this strange sensation that everyone was.. judging her. Be it her own guild-friends, or the people she helped. It was like silent judgement, unspoken but directed at her. It was demotivating, but she had to carry on.

Time went by, and after the many excitements that came with the discovering of Erida's Dimensional Scream, uncovering Drowzee's true intentions and the Fogbound Lake expedition, Gaia felt something towards her teammate that she didn't think she would have felt for anyone.

Erida.. made her feel like herself. As if her own appearance did not matter, and that it was who she was as a person that mattered. Even if Erida had that solemn look on her face and wasn't so much as willing to share her own issues the way Gaia did, she could tell she cared.

Those feelings were so foreign to her, and she didn't even know if Erida even felt the same way (<- baby if you only knew..), but even so.. she grew more closer to her.

It's a pretty identical case with the whole Dusknoir scenario, honestly.

The big man felt like a father to Gaia, and he gave off the same feeling of safety and comfort that a parent figure could give (much more than anything her parents did anyway).

After he saved them and gained their trust, Gaia more or less asked him if he knew anything about Erida's condition, telling him every part as far as she knows. This will come back to bite the two.

Grovyle is caught, and Dusknoir has to return to the future. Same kidnapping scenario happens, and both Gaia and Erida hear things they wish they didn't hear.

By the time the two returned from the dark future, Gaia noticed how much Erida is distancing herself from everyone, and she has no idea how to help.

The two were as close to Dusknoir as they could've imagined, and his betrayal hurt her just as much as it hurt Erida.

But when she even brought the possibility that Dusknoir was using and lying to them back then, she could see it in Erida's eye that her whole world was coming in close in her, even if she didn't utter a word to answer her question. She felt as though all of this was her fault, even when it was not.

The way to the Hidden Land and to Temporal Tower stays the same, except Gaia feels immense regret for ruining the chance of closure with the first person she ever cared for, and Erida knowing that she is going to lose everything, including the person she loves yet hadn't told her what she felt.

She saw how much Erida cared for her when fighting against Dialga, and how Erida shielded her and stalling him until he eventually fell. That told her everything.

When Erida admitted her feelings to her as she disappeared in her arms, Gaia's world felt empty. Even with the sun shining, it all felt so cold. Time moved on, yet she was stuck in place.

Home didn't feel like home anymore.

Erida was eventually brought back, and after Gaia cried in her arms for what felt like hours, the two agreed to never separate.

After heading to the Surrounded Sea and taking the Wonder Egg that Manaphy later hatched out of, everything in Gaia's life felt as though it was perfect. Nurturing new life with the person she loved.

Of course, such a thing couldn't have lasted forever. Manaphy, despite how much he loved them, and how much they loved him, couldn't stay with the two on dry land.

When Walrein took him back, Gaia felt immeasurable sadness within her that she could not put into words. She looked over at Erida to see how she handled it, and could only see that look of despair that was hidden by her own expressionless face as she saw Manaphy getting further and further.

Something was bothering her, and she knew it was serious. But Erida would simply brush it off. Say that she was fine.

That wasn't the case by the time they both evolved. Whereas Gaia felt comfort in her own evolution, she could sense Erida sink into indescribable misery as she looked at herself in the mirror. She got better at hiding at how she felt, too. Gaia had no idea.

By the time Erida evolved into a Dusknoir, Gaia could sense just how much her wife suffered. She refused to look at mirrors. She distanced herself more from everyone, believing that they would jump her if she did so much as show her face in the streets.

Nightmares began taking a toll on the two, and Gaia shivered at what she saw.

Her own place of birth, getting erased by the tides of time as a civilization of millennias gets reduced to nothing, and she could only watch as such a thing is used to blame her for the world's despair.

She woke up, only to see Erida reaching for the door at the middle of the night. She asked her what was going on, and Erida simply broke down and Gaia saw just how much the years of emotional suppression took a toll on her.

Gaia held onto her as she cried every single tidbit she struggled with.

She was scared that the fear of inevitably turning into Dusknoir came into being.

She was scared that the people that claimed to love her feared and despised her.

She was disgusted with her own ugly, scarred body.

She was the reason the world was suffering, and she was willing to go as far away as possible if it'd meant going away as far away possible.

But somehow, simply being here with Gaia.. felt like all those fears just went away.

Darkrai's presence came and went with his defeat by the hands of her, Erida and Cresselia, and Gaia felt relieved. All of this felt unreal, yet her she was. With the woman she loved. She, too, was free.

[autolovecraft]

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. I knew his teeth, with the front ones missing on the upper jaw—never, for God's sake, show those wounds!

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. Birch returned over the coffins to the door. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

Birch. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Perhaps he screamed. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age.

He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

[raeynbowboi]

My Own Fakemon

I’ve always liked the idea of creating my own fake pokemon, but I absolutely and completely suck at drawing, so I kind of just have to describe the pokemon, their types, and their descriptions. The fakemon I’ll be presenting today are largely inspired by Ancient Greece, but like any Pokemon region, they are not all strictly beholden to this theme. My fictional Greek region would be Helatris, made from combining the Greek name for itself (Hellen) + Patrís, meaning homeland or birthplace.

GRASS STARTER

Seedyr >> Caprance >> Lechevre Grass >> Grass/Dark >> Grass/Dark

Ability: Overgrow Hidden: Prankster

Inspired by satyrs of Greek Mythology, it was decided to be a grass type due to the satyr’s association with woods and wilderness. Satyrs also have a reputation for being mischievous, or even deviants, as well as being drunkards. This penchant for naughty misbehavior is what led me to making the later evolutions into Dark types. Their names borrow from Seed + Satyr, Capra (the Genus for goats) + Prance, and Lech (a heartbreaker) + Chevre (French for Goat).

FIRE STARTER

Tauroast >> Furnox >> Minotorch Fire >> Fire/Steel >> Fire/Steel

Ability: Blaze Hidden: Rivalry

Inspired by the Minotaur of Greek Mythology, it was imprisoned in an elaborate labyrinth made by the inventor Daedalus. Its fire-typing is explained as the Minotaur being Bull-headed, mapping onto the Year of the Ox on the Chinese Zodiac. Its Steel-type is a bit of a stretch, but by giving it chains on its wrists and neck, along with iron hooves and metal-coated horns, it should work. After all, Lucario manages to be a steel type just fine enough. Its names come from Tauros the Bull + Roast, Furnace + Ox, and Minotaur + Torch.

WATER STARTER

Undiva >> Neeried >> Sirenade Water >> Water/Ghost >> Water/Ghost

Ability: Torrent Hidden: Soundproof

Finishing out our main starter trio, we have the water-type starter inspired by the tales of the Sirens from the Odyssey. Granted, yes I am aware that they started off as bird women, but Water/Flying would give it a dual weakness to Electric, which is the same reason Minotorch is neither Fire/Rock nor Fire/Ground. Its water typing is rather clear, as sirens are associated with the sea and treacherous waters. Their ghost typing is explained as their ghastly wails and haunting melodies being an otherworldly power, with the forms themselves resembling watery spirits or the drowned women of a shipwreck. Their names are inspired by Undines (Greek elemental spirits of water) + Diva (a famous female opera star), Nereid (a sea nymph) + Eerie, and Siren + Serenade.

Regional Birds

Prinzap >> Hellectros >> Impereagle Electric/Flying >> Electric/Flying >> Electric/Flying

Ability: Lightning Rod, Volt Absorb Hidden Ability: Electric Surge

Inspired by Zeus’ eagle, these electric birds take mild inspiration from the Thunder Bird as well. Their names are derived from Prince + Zap, Hellen + Electros, and Imperial + Eagle.

Socranium >> Platome >> Arischolar Psychic/Flying >> Psychic/Flying >> Psychic/Flying

Ability: Trace/Magic Guard Hidden Ability: Psychic Surge

Based on Athena’s owl, this three stage evolution is heavily inspired by the famous thinkers of Ancient Greece. Its names originate from Greece’s most famous philosophers: Socrates, his pupil Plato, and his pupil Aristotle. The secondary parts of their names come from Cranium, Tome, and Scholar. I did consider the much punnier Aristowl, but felt it was a little too much to sound like a pokemon name.

Other Pokémon

Woolfy >> Fleeceit Dark >> Dark

Ability: Illusion Hidden: Impostor

The first stage would look very much like a normal sleep, though close inspection does reveal it to be a wolf pup under a sheep skin. But the evolved form is even more dastardly, with the wolf much more visible, wearing the sheep skin as a disguise. Going from cute to sinister. Their names come from Wool + Wolfy and Fleece + Deceit.

Ponomino >> Pegazeph Flying >> Flying

Ability: Gale Wings, Guts Hidden: Aerilate

This two stage evolution takes inspiration from the mythical pegasus, with the first stage being a baby horse, and the second stage being fully evolved. In fairness, this could also be a Helatrian Ponyta and Helatrian Rapidash option. The names come from Pony + Palomino (a light, creamy-colored horse), and Pegasus + Zephyr, Embodiment of the West Wind.

Nymaid >> Koremos Fairy/??? >> Fairy/???

Ability: Adaptability Hidden Ability: Magic Guard

This pair of pokemon are based on the nymphs of Greek mythology, and appear in multiple forms based on different climates. Originally, I was just going to use actual types of Nymphs found in Greek Myth, but this felt more encompassing.

Grassland - Fairy/Bug Forest - Fairy/Grass Volcano/Ash - Fairy/Fire River/Sea - Fairy/Water Desert - Fairy/Ground Snow/Ice - Fairy/Ice Ruin/Cave - Fairy/Ghost

For the most part, I based the types on typography of the world. Their names come from Nymph + Maiden and Kórē (meaning girl or maiden in Greek) and Érēmos (meaning wild, uncultivated land in Ancient Greek). They vary by location and only appear on specific terrain tiles or specific routes. And yes, each form has a slightly different level-up moveset, just like Wormadam.

Corvittles >> Raveness Dark/Flying >> Dark/Flying

Ability: Gluttony, Pickpocket Hidden: Gale Wings

This pokemon is based on the Harpies that were sent to curse King Phineus by assuring he never ate another bite of food for the rest of his life. It’s dark and flying due to crows being willing to eat about anything, and many moves such as Thief, Embargo, Knock Off,  Punishment, Snatch, and Pursuit are all great moves for the harpies that so brutally punished a mortal king. Their name combines Corvid (meaning crowlike) + vittles (food, slang for victuals), and Raven + Ess (a common suffix used to denote femininity) and also sounds similar to ravenous (meaning to have a large appetite)

Seerpent >> Oracoil >> Serpythia Psychic/Poison >> Psychic/Poison >> Psychic/Poison

Ability: Forewarn, Anticipation Hidden: Telepathy

Inspired by the Oracle of Delphi, also known as the Pythia, she was created when the god Apollo slew the Python, and she emerged from the dead snake. The pokemon uses design elements of the greek monsters the Gorgon or the Lamia to incorporate the serpentine origins of the oracle by making the evolution line a mix of fortune teller and snake. It’s also an underrepresented type combo, as Galarian Slowbro and Galarian Slowking are the other other pokemon that share this typing. The names combine Serpent + Seer, Oracle + Coil, and Serpent + Pythia. The Oracle of Delphi was always a woman, so this pokemon would be 100% female.

That’s all I have for you guys, but if this does really well, who knows. Maybe I’ll do a part 2. And if someone feels like drawing these fakemon, don’t forget to link it back to this post.

[snowydaffodils]

Late Night Wonders

535 words | 1st Person POV

A Wonwoo fluff/scenario thing ✨ Enjoy!

---

It's been a week since I've moved. Following a bad breakup just a few months ago, staying confined in a space with all the memories attached wasn't doing any good. Psychologically especially. With my family's support and my friends' cheers, I took a leap and moved away. New job, new atmosphere, new places, new people.

So far, the new job has been a great distraction. It pulled me out of my dark cave as I busied myself with work and took my time adapting. Moving and settling into the new building also helped keep me busy.

But fast forward one week later, everything was set and my first weekend arrived. Without anyone to hang with, I stayed indoors, but it felt just as suffocating as it used to be. I did everything I could have done - housework, movies, cooking, books - yet nothing could bring me away from the thoughts clouding my mind. I couldn't find a single intriguing movie, and I wasn't able to engage with any book.

And then after an agonizing day, I realized skies turned dark once again, and evening lights were turned on. I had enough of walls confining me indoors, and stepped out to the balcony in hopes for a breeze of fresh air and a clear head. There weren't any chairs just yet, so I settled on the floor, my back against the side railings as I spend the minutes memorising every single landmark I could see within my balcony's view.

It wasn't long when I was introduced to the sound of people coming home, then someone opened the door and stepped outside. My head turned to look.

"Oh?"

A low voice stunned me for a moment before I stood up and turned around, and a man stood on the balcony beside mine, his hands in his hoodie pockets, and his round glasses accentuating his unique eyes.

"Oh, um, hi," I greet the man, the neighbor I haven't met yet. "I just moved a week ago, sorry I haven't introduced myself yet."

The longer I looked at the man, the more familiar he seemed to be - like someone I've met before. Perhaps we crossed paths in the lobby at one point? He didn't seem to recognize me, though, so maybe it was just an odd feeling, but he was polite and friendly as he nodded to me in return.

"I see," he says, taking a seat on the floor as well, opposite of me, after he closed the balcony doors, blocking the chatter that came from the inside. His movements were slow, but not annoyingly slow. Just relaxed enough to feel like he was comfortable. Somehow a welcoming feel could be felt radiating from him. He then pointed to his door.

"I live with some pretty noisy guys, I apologize in advance if we'll disturb you, but do tell if the noise is too much."

I took my seat on the floor again, relieved that the man seemed pretty nice and comfortable to converse with.

"No, its quite alright," I tell him. "I'm not very fond of complete silence, anyways."

"Has the place been great for you?" he asks, his eyes scanning around the view I had previously observed.

I follow his line of sight. Seoul at night is truly a masterpiece. The lights seemed like fallen stars or flying lanterns, and the Han river, visible from where I was, was flowing brightly, even in the dark. "Its been pretty great. Distracting."

He looked at me this time. "Escaping from something?" he asks again.

I send him a polite smile, "Aren't we all?"

He returned my smile. "I guess we are," his eyes flickered over to the balcony door, or to the noise behind it.

"You live with your family?" I ask, directing at the door.

For a while there he looked at me, like he was expecting a question, but I wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Eventually, he shakes his head. "Friends. But they might as well be."

"They sound great, though."

They did. They sounded like cheerful laughter and never-ending excitement, and it was unusual to want to escape from that.

"They are," the man chuckles, agreeing with my opinion.

"But I need time and space to gather my thoughts once in a while. I've always spent an hour or two out here for air or just to peacefully read a book."

I nodded. I can definitely relate to his sentiments, but I can't help but feel like I was intruding on his personal time. He seemed to have gotten a hint of the discomfort and immediately spoke up.

"I don't mind you here, though. You genuinely seem like a great comfort."

I laugh. "Never heard that one before, but you sound so honestly sincere."

"I am," he chuckles. He then shuffles his feet forwards, and through the steel railings he slipped his hand so that it reaches your balcony.

"I'm Wonwoo."

---

next

[theliterateape]

I Like to Watch | Zack Snyder’s Justice League

by Don Hall

Mythology is fun.

As a kid I loved reading Edith Hamilton’s book on the Greek gods and the myths. Hercules, Perseus, Apollo, and Hera—this fell completely in line with my love for superhero comics. The strangely petty human traits of envy, greed, and lust combined with the power to level cities make for some great storytelling.

Zeus was basically Harvey Weinstein in the retroactive revision we’re mired in today. If Harvey could’ve changed into a golden animal and boned unsuspecting ladies looking for careers in Hollywood I’m pretty certain he would. The gods and demi-gods of the Greeks dealt with daddy issues, mommy issues, bad relationships, and fighting. Lots of fighting. Sometimes for the good of humanity but more often for the glory of winning.

Zach Snyder is in the business of tackling myths and reframing them with a style all his own. His career has become its own myth.

From Dawn of the Dead (not so much a reboot of Romero's zombie mythology but a philosophical reimagining of the genre that arguably jumpstarted The Hollywood fascination with it), 300 (a borderline homoerotic take on the myth of the Greek underdog), and Watchmen (a ridiculously ambitious attempt to put one of the most iconic takedowns on the potential fascism of the superhero legend machine ever written) to his nearly single-handed hack at answering the Marvel juggernaut with Man of Steel and Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice, Snyder is in the artistic business of subverting and re-envisioning the mythologies we embrace without even seeing them as such.

Snyder's style is operatic. It is on a grand scale even in the most mundane moments. The guy loves slow motion like Scorcese loves mobsters and Italian food. When you're tackling big themes with larger than life stories, the epic nature of his vision makes sense and has alienated a good number of audience members. With such excess, there are bound to be missteps but I'd argue that his massive take on these characters he molds from common understanding and popular nomenclature elevates them to god-like stature.

Fans of Moore's Watchmen have much to complain about Snyder's adaptation. The titular graphic novel is almost impossible to put in any other form than the one Moore intended and yet, Snyder jumped in feet-first and created a living, breathing representation of most, if not all, of the source material's intent. Whether you dig on it or not, it's hard to avoid acknowledging that the first five minutes of Watchmen is a mini-masterpiece of style, storytelling, and epic tragedy wrapped up in a music video.

Despite a host of critical backlash for his one fully original take, Sucker Punch is an amazing thing to see. More a commentary on video game enthusiasm with its lust for hot animated chicks and over-the-top violence that a celebration of cleavage and guns, the film is crazily entertaining. For those who hated the ending, he told you in the title what his plan was all along.

The first movie I saw in the theaters that tried to take a superhero mythology and treat it seriously (for the most part) was Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie. Never as big a fan of the DC characters as I have been of Marvel, it was still extraordinary to see a character I had only really known in pages to be so fully realized. Then came Burton's Batman movies. The superhero film was still an anomaly but steam was gaining. Things changed with Bryan Singer's X-Men in 2000, then Raimi's Spiderman, and those of us who grew up with our pulpy versions of Athena, Hermes, and Hades were rewarded with Nolan's Batman Begins. A far cry from the tongue-in-cheek camp of the 1966 TV Batman, Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne was a serious character and his tale over three films is a tragic commentary filled with the kind of death and betrayal and triumph befitting the grand narrative he deserved.

I loved Singer's Superman Returns in 2006 because it was such a love letter to the 1978 film (down to the opening credits) but by then, the MCU was taking over the world.

Snyder's first of what turns out to be an epic storyline involving perhaps seven or eight movies was Man of Steel. It was fun and, while I had my issues with the broodiness of Kal El, the odd take on Jonathan Kent, and a redheaded Lois Lane, I had no issue with Superman snapping Zod's neck. Darker and more tragic than any other version of the Kryptonian, it was still super entertaining.

Then came Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. By 2016, Marvel had codified their formula of serious characters wrestling with serious issues of power and responsibility peppered with lots of good humor and bright colors. Snyder's desaturated pallete and angst-filled demi-gods was not the obvious road to financial competition.

I'll confess, I hated it. BvS felt half-rendered. Lex Luthor was kind of superficial and played as a kind of Joker. The whole Bruce Wayne wants to kill Superman thing felt undeveloped and the "Martha" moment was just stupid.

When Joss Whedon's version of Snyder's Justice League came out in 2017, I was primed for it to be a turd and I wasn't surprised. So much of it didn't work on any level. I dismissed it as DC trying and failing miserably and was comforted by the coming of Thanos.

Following Thanos and the time heist was COVID. Suddenly, we were internationally sidelined and the movie theater industry caved in. Streaming services started popping up like knock-off smartphones and Hollywood was reeling, doing anything and everything to find a way back. Since Whedon's disastrous helming of Snyder's third act, fans online had been demanding to #ReleasetheSnyderCut but no one was ever really taking them seriously until all movie production was shut down for a year.

The stage was set to remedy a mistake (or at least make some bucks on a do-over of a huge box office failure). Snyder had left the production in part because of the suicide of his daughter and in part due to the constant artistic fights over executives looking for the quippy fun of the MCU but he still had all the original footage. Add to that the broiling accusations that Joss Whedon was "abusive" during the reshoots, the path seemed destined. For an additional $70 million and complete control, Snyder delivered a four hour mega-movie streamed on HBOMax.

Of course, I was going to watch the thing as soon as I could.

The Whedon version opens with an homage to the now dead Superman (including the much maligned digitally erased mustache on Henry Cavill). The SynderCut opens with the death of Superman and the agony of his death scream as it travels across the planet. It's a simple change but exemplifies the very different visions of how this thing is gonna play out.

Snyder doesn't want us to be OK with the power of these beings unleashed. He wants us to feel the damage and pain of death. He wants the results of violence to be as real as he can. When Marvel's Steve Rogers kicks a thug across the room and the thug hits a wall, he crumples and it is effectively over. When Batman does the same thing, we see the broken bones (often in slow motion) and the blood smear on the wall as the thug slides to the ground.

The longer SnyderCut is bloated in some places (like the extended Celtic choir singing Aquaman off to sea or the extended narrations by Wonder Woman which sound slightly like someone trying to explain the plot to Siri). On the other hand, the scene with Barry Allen saving Iris West is both endearing and extraordinary, giving insight to the power of the Flash as well as some essential character-building in contrast to Whedon's comic foil version.

One thing I noticed in this variant is that Zach wants the audience to experience the sequence of every moment as the characters do. An example comes when Diana Prince goes to the crypt to see the very plot she belabors over later. The sequence is simple. She gets a torch and goes down. Most directors which jump cut to the torch. Snyder gives us five beats as she grabs the timber, wraps cloth around the end, soaks it with kerosene, pulls out a box of matches, and lights the torch. Then she goes down the dark passageway.

The gigantic, lush diversity of Snyder’s vision of the DC superhero universe—from the long shots of the sea life in the world of Atlantis to the ancient structures and equipment of Themyscira— is almost painterly. Snyder isn't taking our time; he's taking his time. We are rewarded our patience with a far better backstory for the villain, a beautifully rendered historic battle thwarting Darkseid's initial invasion (including a fucking Green Lantern), and answers to a score of questions set up in both previous films.

Whedon's Bruce Wayne was more Ben Affleck; Snyder's is full-on Frank Miller Batman, the smartest, most brutal fucker in the room. Cyborg, instead of Whedon's sidelined non-character, is now a Frankenstein's monster, grappling with the trade-off between acceptance and enormous power. Wonder Woman is now more in line with the Patty Jenkins version and instead of being told about the loss of Superman, we are forced to live with the anguish of both his mother and Lois Lane in quiet moments of incredible grief.

To be fair to Whedon (something few are willing to do as he is now being castigated not for racism or sexism but for being mean to people) having him come in to throw in some levity and Marvel-esque color to Snyder's Wagnerian pomposity is like hiring Huey Lewis to lighten up Pink Floyd's The Wall or getting Douglas Adams to rewrite Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

I loved Snyder's self-indulgent, mythologic DC universe.

So much so that I then re-watched Man of Steel and then watched the director's version of BvS (which Snyder added approximately 32 minutes). The second film is far better at three hours and Eisenberg's Lex Luthor now makes sense. Then I watched Zach Snyder's Justice League a second time.

After nineteen hours of Snyder's re-imagining of these DC heroes and villains, I saw details that, upon first viewing, are ignored or dismissed, but after seeing them in order and complete, are suddenly consistent and relevant. Like Nolan or Fincher, Snyder defies anyone to eliminate even one piece of his narrative no matter how long. With all the pieces, this is an epic story and the pieces left at the extended epilogue play into a grander narrative we will never see.

Or maybe we will. Who knows these days?

[whumpster-fire]

Whumpster-Fire Watches His Dark Materials: S01E07

The Iorek vs. Iofur fight has no armor. Sigh...

Okay I would be inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt here that this was another “We tried it, it didn’t work” thing because animating how the armor moves on their bodies and deforms when hit to the level of detail and quality this show has seems like it could be incredibly difficult, and surely nobody would actually be stupid enough to depict a culture literally called Armored Bears taking off their armor for a ceremonial duel to determine the kingship.

But apparently no, they did this on purpose.

God damnit. You know, I should’ve expected that given the creative team’s apparent failure to understand how important daemons are to humans that they’d also fail to understand how important armor is to bears, but Jesus Christ.

Rant/analysis under the cut.

We wanted him to be as animalistic as they are, that part of their nature. They’re warriors, and you can imagine Vikings or Samoan warriors or Maori warriors. In a fight to the death, you would imagine it being man-on-man and you would have little protection and very little weapons. That’s just the way they fight and settle disputes like this. The fact that they fight without the armor, to me, means the sheer size of Iofur means more than him with the armor on. It just makes him more powerful as a king to make that choice, and for Iorek to have to obey those orders. I think it’s a very, very awesome thing to do. It shows that they’re more animal than I think most people anticipate, and the more bear we can get out of them, the better it is.

THAT IS NOT HOW PANSERBJORNE WORK. I’m sorry Joe Tandberg, I know you’re the expert on the TV show version of this character since you play, but like... this is such a bad take.

First of all, taking your armor off to fight a duel is a very human thing to do (and not universal in human culture either - I’m pretty sure there were armored duels in medieval and renaissance Europe. Panserbjorne have their animalistic aspects yes, but their relationship with their armor is Not. One. Of Them. A Panserbjorne’s armor isn’t just a tool, it’s their soul, it is a fundamental part of their identity. Like, Iorek being stripped of his armor was symbolically stripping him not just of status and rank but also of “personhood” in bear culture, a part of making him no longer a bear in the eyes of the law and to be killed on sight if he returned to Svalbard. It’s not a religious thing that a duel of such importance should be fought without armor, it’s a religious thing that it must be fought in armor, because how could the outcome of the duel be seen as respectable and legitimate if the combatants were not fighting as themselves? Panserbjorne aren’t Vikings or Samoans or Maori, and they’re not just polar bears who happen to wear armor for protection either. A bear fighting without his armor is not a true warrior.

Second of all, removing the armor took away a MASSIVE symbolic and thematic aspect of this fight. The threat to Iorek and his apparent vulnerability was portrayed just fine in the novel. Here, let me show you:

Beside her, the smiths were making the final adjustments to Iofur Raknison’s armor. He reared like a great metal tower, shining in polished steel, the smooth plates inlaid with wires of gold; his helmet enclosed the upper part of his head in a glistening carapce of silver-gray, with deep eye slits; and the underside of his body was protected by a close-fitting sark of chain mail. It was when she saw this that Lyra realized she had betrayed Iorek Byrnison, for Iorek had nothing like it. His armor protected only his back and sides. She looked at Iofur Raknison, so sleek and powerful, and felt a deep sickness in her, like guilt and fear combined.

...

Lyra looked at the two of them, so utterly different: Iofur so glossy and powerful... splendidly armored, proud and kinglike; and Iorek smaller, his armor rusty and dented.But his armor was his soul. He had made it and it fitted him. They were one. Iofur was not content with his armor.

...

Iofur’s armor was in a pitiful state by this time, the plates torn and distorted, the gold inlay torn out or smeared thickly with blood, and his helmet gone altogether. Iorek’s was in much better condition, for all its ugliness: dented, but intact...

In the setup to the fight it’s made clear that Iofur has better armor. It’s more protective, it’s in better condition, it’s meticulously checked and examined by a team of smiths, it’s more kingly, to Lyra’s human perspective. And Iorek just shows up in his armor that he made in a cave from a box of scraps, and it’s beat up from all the fights he’s been in with it and has a patina of rust and certainly doesn’t look pretty.

But then, when they actually fight, Iofur’s fancy armor falls apart, and sometimes even gets in his way as it’s damaged, because just like Iofur himself it’s all looks and frills. And this isn’t just a fight, this is a clash of ideology. As Iorek himself says: “Iron is bear-metal. Gold is not.” This fight is Iofur’s desire to be something he’s not, his imitation of humans, pitted against Iorek’s certainty in what he is, and in the importance and power of the values and traditions of his culture. The armor is just as important as the tactics (which were also thrown out by the adaptation in favor of Muh Power Of Friendship) in symbolizing this. Iorek’s armor prevails, and Iorek himself prevails, because he has not lost touch with what it means to be an Armored Bear.

But I guess they decided to just throw out all that meaning because, uhh, they wanted the bears to be more bear-ish or something. (while wussing the fuck out on showing Iorek bitch-slapping Iofur’s jaw off his helmetless head (helmetless because his armor doesn’t fucking work), tearing his throat out, and eating his heart to claim his victory).

[bagcitylights]

John Lee Hooker (August 22, 1917 – June 21, 2001) was an American blues singer, songwriter and guitarist. He was born in Mississippi, the son of a sharecropper, and rose to prominence performing an electric guitar-style adaptation of Delta blues. Hooker often incorporated other elements, including talking blues and early North Mississippi Hill country blues. He developed his own driving-rhythm boogie style, distinct from the 1930s–1940s piano-derived boogie-woogie style. Some of his best known songs include “Boogie Chillen’” (1948), “Crawling King Snake” (1949), “Dimples” (1956), “Boom Boom” (1962), and “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” (1966) – the first being the most popular race record of 1949.

Early life

There is some debate as to the year of Hooker’s birth in Coahoma County, Mississippi, the youngest of the eleven children of William Hooker (1871–1923), a sharecropper and Baptist preacher, and Minnie Ramsey (born 1875, date of death unknown); according to his official website, he was born on August 22, 1917.

Hooker and his siblings were home-schooled. They were permitted to listen only to religious songs, with his earliest exposure being the spirituals sung in church. In 1921, his parents separated. The next year, his mother married William Moore, a blues singer who provided Hooker with his first introduction to the guitar (and whom John would later credit for his distinctive playing style). John’s stepfather was his first significant blues influence. William Moore was a local blues guitarist who learned in Shreveport, Louisiana to play a droning, one-chord blues that was strikingly different from the Delta blues of the time. Around 1923 his biological father died. At the age of 14, John Lee Hooker ran away from home, reportedly never seeing his mother or stepfather again.

Throughout the 1930s, Hooker lived in Memphis, Tennessee where he worked on Beale Street at the New Daisy Theatre and occasionally performed at house parties. He worked in factories in various cities during World War II, drifting until he found himself in Detroit in 1948 working at the Ford Motor Company. He felt right at home near the blues venues and saloons on Hastings Street, the heart of black entertainment on Detroit’s east side. In a city noted for its pianists, guitar players were scarce. Performing in Detroit clubs, his popularity grew quickly and, seeking a louder instrument than his acoustic guitar, he bought his first electric guitar.

Career

Hooker’s recording career began in 1948 when his agent placed a demo, made by Hooker, with the Bihari brothers, owners of the Modern Records label. The company initially released an up-tempo number, “Boogie Chillen’”, which became Hooker’s first hit single. Though they were not songwriters, the Biharis often purchased or claimed co-authorship of songs that appeared on their labels, thus securing songwriting royalties for themselves, in addition to their own streams of income.

Sometimes these songs were older tunes that Hooker renamed, as with B.B. King’s “Rock Me Baby”, anonymous jams “B.B.’s Boogie”, or songs by employees (bandleader Vince Weaver). The Biharis used a number of pseudonyms for songwriting credits: Jules was credited as Jules Taub; Joe as Joe Josea; and Sam as Sam Ling. One song by John Lee Hooker, “Down Child”, is solely credited toTaub, with Hooker receiving no credit. Another, “Turn Over a New Leaf” is credited to Hooker and Ling.

In 1949, Hooker was recorded performing in an informal setting for Detroit jazz enthusiasts. His repertoire included down-home and spiritual tunes that he would not record commercially. The recorded set has been made available in the album Jack O'Diamonds.

Despite being illiterate, Hooker was a prolific lyricist. In addition to adapting the occasionally traditional blues lyric (such as “if I was chief of police, I would run her right out of town…”), he freely invented many songs from scratch. Recording studios in the 1950s rarely paid black musicians more than a pittance, so Hooker would spend the night wandering from studio to studio, coming up with new songs or variations on his songs for each studio. Because of his recording contract, he would record these songs under obvious pseudonyms such as John Lee Booker, notably for Chess Records and Chance Records in 1951/52, as Johnny Lee for De Luxe Records in 1953/54 as John Lee, and even John Lee Cooker, or as Texas Slim, Delta John, Birmingham Sam and his Magic Guitar, Johnny Williams, or The Boogie Man.

His early solo songs were recorded under Bernie Besman. John Lee Hooker rarely played on a standard beat, changing tempo to fit the needs of the song. This often made it difficult to use backing musicians who were not accustomed to Hooker’s musical vagaries. As a result, Besman would record Hooker, in addition to playing guitar and singing, stomping along with the music on a wooden pallet. For much of this time period he recorded and toured with Eddie Kirkland, who was still performing until his death in a car accident in 2011. Later sessions for the VeeJay label in Chicago used studio musicians on most of his recordings, including Eddie Taylor, who could handle his musical idiosyncrasies very well. His biggest UK hit, “Boom Boom”, (originally released on VeeJay) was recorded with a horn section.

Later life

He appeared and sang in the 1980 film The Blues Brothers. Due to Hooker’s improvisational style, his performance was filmed and sound-recorded live at the scene at Chicago’s Maxwell Street Market, in contrast to the usual “playback” technique used in most film musicals. Hooker was also a direct influence in the look of John Belushi’s character Jake Blues.

In 1989, he joined with a number of musicians, including Carlos Santana and Bonnie Raitt to record the album The Healer, for which he and Santana won a Grammy Award. Hooker recorded several songs with Van Morrison, including “Never Get Out of These Blues Alive”, “The Healing Game”, and “I Cover the Waterfront”. He also appeared on stage with Van Morrison several times, some of which was released on the live album A Night in San Francisco. The same year he appeared as the title character on Pete Townshend's The Iron Man: The Musical by Pete Townshend.

On December 19, 1989, Hooker appeared with the Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton to perform “Boogie Chillen’"in Atlantic City, N.J., as part of the Rolling Stones' Steel Wheels tour. The show was broadcast live on cable television on a pay-per-view basis.

Hooker recorded over 100 albums. He lived the last years of his life in Long Beach, California. In 1997, he opened a nightclub in San Francisco’s Fillmore District called John Lee Hooker’s Boom Boom Room, after one of his hits.

Death

Hooker fell ill just before a tour of Europe in 2001 and died in his sleep on June 21 at the age of 83, two months before his 84th birthday. He was interred at the Chapel of the Chimes in Oakland, California.

His last live in the studio recording on guitar and vocal was of a song he wrote with Pete Sears called "Elizebeth”, featuring members of his Coast to Coast Blues Band with Sears on piano. It was recorded on January 14, 1998 at Bayview Studios in Richmond, California. The last song Hooker recorded before his death was “Ali D'Oro”, a collaboration with the Italian soul singer Zucchero, in which Hooker sang the chorus “I lay down with an angel.” He is survived by eight children, nineteen grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren, a nephew and fiance Sidora Dazi. He has two children that followed in his footsteps, Zakiya Hooker and John Lee Hooker, Jr.

Among his many awards, Hooker has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and in 1991 he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Two of his songs, “Boogie Chillen” and “Boom Boom” were included in the list of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s 500 Songs that Shaped Rock and Roll. “Boogie Chillen” was included as one of the Songs of the Century. He was also inducted in 1980 into the Blues Hall of Fame. In 2000, Hooker was awarded the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award.

Music and legacy

Hooker’s guitar playing is closely aligned with piano boogie-woogie. He would play the walking bass pattern with his thumb, stopping to emphasize the end of a line with a series of trills, done by rapid hammer-ons and pull-offs. The songs that most epitomize his early sound are “Boogie Chillen”, about being 17 and wanting to go out to dance at the Boogie clubs, “Baby, Please Don’t Go”, a blues standard first recorded by Big Joe Williams, and “Tupelo Blues”, a song about the flooding of Tupelo, Mississippi, in April 1936.

He maintained a solo career, popular with blues and folk music fans of the early 1960s and crossed over to white audiences, giving an early opportunity to the young Bob Dylan. As he got older, he added increasingly more people to his band, changing his live show from simply Hooker with his guitar to a large band, with Hooker singing.

His vocal phrasing was less closely tied to specific bars than most blues singers. This casual, rambling style had been gradually diminishing with the onset of electric blues bands from Chicago but, even when not playing solo, Hooker retained it in his sound.

Though Hooker lived in Detroit during most of his career, he is not associated with the Chicago-style blues prevalent in large northern cities, as much as he is with the southern rural blues styles, known as delta blues, country blues, folk blues, or front porch blues. His use of an electric guitar tied together the Delta blues with the emerging post-war electric blues.

His songs have been covered by Buddy Guy, Cream, AC/DC, ZZ Top, Led Zeppelin, Tom Jones, Bruce Springsteen, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Van Morrison, the Yardbirds, the Animals, the Doors, the White Stripes, MC5, George Thorogood, R. L. Burnside, the J. Geils Band, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, the Gories, Cat Power and the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion.

http://wikipedia.thetimetube.com/?lang=en&q=John+Lee+Hooker

[cruciferousjex]

Negociations (an Entrapdak fluff? ficlet)

Some context: Prime has begun his invasion on Etheria. After being horribly rejected by Prime and left for dead once again, Hordak is saved by Scorpia who - unable to stand his pain - tells Hordak that Entrapta is alive on Beast Island. He ofc goes to find her. At this point the two of them are hiding out on Beast Island together, as it is ironically one of the few safe places left on the planet.

>>>

They sat huddled together near the entrance of the cave, listening to the dull roar of the nighttime wildlife. Night was was by orders of magnitude louder than day on Beast Island. Night was when the shrieking birds came out, when the carnivores screamed for mates, when the great reptile beasts roared and stomped to protect their eggs. It was an insufferably atonal symphony of horrors only broken, for Hordak anyway, by the sound of Entrapra's voice, and only then because he still could not quite believe that he was hearing it, that it really was her, here, next to him, neither having betrayed him nor having been killed.

The first fear was quickly eclipsed by the second when Scorpia told him the truth of what Catra had done. He supposed he should have killed Scorpia for this betrayal, for having kept it from him as long as she did, but in the choas of the invasion she'd slipped away. He did not give chase, Scorpia was not his priority. His sole focus became Beast Island and the recovery of Entrapta, so that they might resume their research and find a way - any way - to escape the planet. Prime could not be stopped. Their only option would be to steal a ship and escape as far from the planet as was possible in this pocket universe, and then genetate a portal - to anywhere.

But tech was not on his mind as he made his way to Beast Island, nor even escape. What was on his mind - quite primarily and to his equal fascination and dismay - was her hair. As he tossed the bodies of a pirate crew off a Horde armored transport - stolen from him and his to reclaim, after all - somewhere in the back his his mind floated her hair, the soft weight of it on his shoulder, how smooth it had felt when it once or twice touched his face. Her hands, her eyes, her ... her *voice.* It was admittedly bizarre, that in the aftermath of his every failed plan, of Prime's invasion of Etheria and complete rejection of him, that the only thing he could think of, that occupied his mind day after day like a vulture pecking and gnawing on a corpse, was the hair and hands and eyes and voice of a woman who was most likely dead.

[[MORE]]

She wasn't. Of course she wasn't. He chastised himself for ever having underestimated her. She had of course survived on Beast Island, as she was brilliant and adaptable enought to survive anything, and had in fact saved him from certain death not long after his arrival there, swiping him from being ground to death in the gullet of some giant scaled and fanged horror. She tossed him out of harm's way with her hair and put the beast down via handmade crossbows she'd built from the island's steel tensile vines, the arrows tipped with poison extracted from that same vine's flowers. She was dirty, her clothes were ripped, but this was all just one more adventure to her, another opportunity to collect data. Hordak was speechless at seeing her again. She just laughed and asked what had taken him so long.

But now here they were, together again, huddled together in the dark. It was getting cold. A fire was not an option, as it would alert every wild animal in the vicinity to their presence.

"I have an idea," she said, grabbing his arm to get at the one of the armor's control panels. She used a sharpened stick to open it. She took a moment to admire the controls "Looks good. You've maintained this very well, Hordak."

"Of course," he huffed, unconsciously touching the purple carved gem at his neck. It was the last part of you I had, he didn't say. It is my treaure, my totem.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Making you into a heater," she replied, and shivered. "Just reroute the temperature controls, and - there! That should work."

He gingerly touched the plate on his chest, which gradually rose in temperature. "To what degree?" he asked. "Am I to warm the whole cave?"

"I suppose I could do that but it would probably overheat and there's not a lot here to repair you with. No, this is enough to warm you, and, um ... me."

She gave him an odd look, expectant but sheepish.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I, um ...."

"What?"

She bit her lip. Gestured to him. "Can I...?"

He opened his arms to her, and she crawled into his lap.

>>

Everything settled within him at this contact, a calm that was utterly unfamiliar to him, but was so clearly the fulfillment of weeks of despair and fear and longing. Just this, Entrapta's arms around him, her legs around his waist, the happy sigh she gave as her head came to rest against his shoulder, the metal plates of his armor warming them both. Her hair slowly, perhaps unconsciously, wrapped around them, sealing them in an odd but effectively temperate cocoon. Hordak tilted his head, placing his face right at her hairline, and closed his eyes.

Her fingers crept up to the jewel at his neck.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"Likewise," he whispered back.

His hand rose to meet hers. Their fingers intertwined.

"This should not have happened," he said.

"What should not have happened?"

"I never should have allowed Catra to take you from me."

"You can't control everything, Hordak."

He grumbled.

"We're together now, that's all that matters," she said, and wrapped herself even tighter around him. A tendril of her hair snaked forward and tenderly stroked his face. In a swift movement, before he even knew he was doing it, he pressed the tendril to his lips and shut his eyes.

When he opened them again Entrapta looked up at him wide-eyed, fascinated by this new development. A blossom of adoration opened in his chest - god, her eyes, those sweet big eyes looking up at him as though he were the moon, it was unbearable.

He tilted her chin up towards him and kissed her, a brief soft kiss.

Oh," she said, blinking.

"Oh?" he asked, his ears lowering slightly. Had he gone too far?

"I didn't know, " she said too quickly.

"You didn't *know*?" he repeated.

"I mean I didn't think about it," she replied, also too quickly.

"You didn't think about what?"

"If you - um - if you -" she stammered, flushing. " I mean - you're - your species are clones, you reproduce by cloning, doesn't that make, um ... kissing and ...and such ... redundant?"

Hordak smirked.

"Not that I thought about kissing you," she said, quickly, definitively.

"You clearly did," he said with a soft chuckle. "You clearly put quite a bit of thought into it it."

Her eyes went wide. "I meant - you know what I meant. "

He nodded and gently stroked her face. Tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. She shut her eyes.

No one's ever kissed me before," she whispered.

"Then shall I kiss you again?"

She nodded. This kiss lasted longer, and this time she returned it. Her hands rested at his shoulders. He moved to kiss the side of her mouth, her cheek, her temple, her neck. She sighed, relaxing into him.

"My species," he said between kisses, "are not all clones. The clones are Prime's invention, and he left us...intact, in that way."

"Oh," she breathed, tilting her neck so he could kiss the crook of her shoulder. "Why?"

"For the purposes of conquest," he said. "Sometimes such things are needed in certain kinds of ... negotiations. And for the establishment of dynasties. It serves Prime's purposes that his genetics are ... available. So to speak."

He kissed her ear and nuzzled up into her hair. Ah, her wonderful, prehensile, talented *hair.* He breathed deeply.

"So we're...negotiating," she said.

"I suppose."

"Establishing dynasties?"

He chuckled softly. "Eventually. Maybe. If that's what you want. We could establish a fine one," he said, not allowing thoughts of *if we survive, if we get off this planet, if we can construct another portal* to invade this moment.

"We don't need to get too far ahead of ourselves," she replied. "Let's just stick to, um...negotiations, for now."

He smirked. "As you wish, Princess. As you wish." He touched her face, stroked her hair. "Anything you wish, for as long as I'm alive."

She smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him. "Hordak," she whispered. He pressed his face to her hair, then looked out over the horizon, past the ocean, where there lay the dull glow of interplanetary war, going unnoticed by the noisy creatures of Beast Island. The amount of time he was alive might not be much longer, he realized - but it would have to be.

Entrapta touched the crystal at his neck, then his face, then rose slightly and kissed him - this time fully, with a softness and trust that dissolved him, that, if he could, he would write into the very sky.

It would have to be.

[writersblockandapotoftea]

Worldbuilding Post

DWARVES

Dwarves are an agender and asexual humanoid species that frequent the caves and mountains on both continents of Unitien. They are divided into two species, modern and elder. While elder dwarves are largely thought to be extinct, modern dwarves ascribe many of their culture and lifestyles to them, including their love of trap making, forging and their luscious beards.

Now, before delving into Dwarves and their culture, one must learn about Dostine, the goddess of dwarves, tricksters and blacksmiths. She is known by dwarves as All-Creator and creates the dwarves in a secret ceremony that follows the specifications of this poem.

One dwarf is forged of gold, Two are of molten steel and bronze Three from the bones of old The last four are the best, Made from silver and all the rest.

Dostine loves all of her children dearly and the ceremony is preformed every fifty years or so, meaning that there are twenty new dwarves every century. No human, elf or dragon has ever seen it. She also gifted the dwarves with the four massive interconnecting tunnels that allow them to go to whichever part of the world they so please, meaning there are modern dwarves on both continents and in the southern straights, all with their own unique quirks.

Straitien Dwarves ride jewelled spiders, which are blue and white spiders that allow them to climb all over the cliffs and avoid predators. There's even a contest where they joust across the canyon on a massive spiderweb. They also are less likely to wear heavy clothing as they live in a jungle, so it's not unexpected to see a dwarf wearing nothing but a loin cloth around humans, then nothing in the jungle. 

Eastern Dwarves are the dwarves who occupy the Barliosian Empire. They are more adapted to cold weather and take great pride in their workmanship as where they live is full of iron and other ores. 

Western Dwarves don't live underground, rather in massive pyramids built overtop of over-mined quarries. They have darker skin and coarser hair to deal with the sand in their local environment. They like roasting camels over massive fires for food.

Modern dwarves are a welcome and frequent sight in the human cities and towns wherever they are found, acting as blacksmiths, miners, and small business owners. Dwarves are easily differentiated from normal humans by their thick beards, small stature, unique forging abilities and ability to consume anything poisonous with no repercussions.

No one quite knows why modern dwarves and humans get along so well, as elder dwarves and humans often fought bitterly, but where there are dwarves in a community, they are well beloved. Even in the dwarven settlements deep in the mountains, there is usually at least one human. This is because of the dwarven tendency to adopt children from other races, as they cannot have their own. These adopted children are well cared for and are given the nickname of switchers, as the dwarves often rescue them from unhappy homes, leaving cursed jewels in the crib of the adopted child. Other switchers are left at the doors of Mountain keeps to be found by dwarves in times of famine. While many humans view them all as male due to their beards,  all dwarves have no notion of gender in the sense that humans and elves do. They view everyone as equals and organize their society in terms of what needs to happen for everyone to thrive.

Domas: This rank means parent and can be held by anyone with a youngling. They raise and protect their youngling or switcher and teach them the tools of their trade and when the youngling is old enough; they send them to find their own cave, usually nearby so they can maintain their lifelong bond.

Trapmasters: These are the masters of the forge. They craft armour so light that it feels like a woollen coat and shields so strong they protect you from a dragon's breath. Every dwarf practices for years hoping to become a trapmaster. However, as they can only be appointed by Dostine, the goddess of dwarves, there are only two remaining in the world.

Carvers: These fine folk spend their days in pursuit of the true beauty of stone and crystals. They polish, whittle and crack these into beautiful works of art and sculptures. The most talented of them can turn jewels into windows that never crack and reflect light in a thousand different patterns. They tend to never become domas, instead recruiting younglings from larger families. Forgers: These are the dwarves that go out into the larger world. They are talented, hardworking and make things of a much higher quality than human smiths could ever dream. These dwarves are accompanied by switchers because it is an innate dwarven instinct to see a child in need and adopte them.

Miners: These are the ones who are pulled down, down, down into the darkness by some unknown voice. They dig and dig and they have no idea of what they're about to find. They come up with gold and jewels and iron and go back down again. They are probably the strongest of dwarves and are also the warrior class of modern dwarves.

Prayerhands; These are the holy and scholars people of modern dwarves! They are also in charge of dwarven funds, acting as treasurers and conducting official business with human officials. They dress in all grey and shave their beards in reverence to Dostine, who has no beard and are frequently referred to as women by humans. Do not do this. Please ask what their preferred pronouns are. Your head will remain in place for much longer if you do.

Humans and modern dwarves have fairly stable relations, with the humans exchanging gold and silver for various services. However, some concepts that humans have are completely alien to dwarves. These include the concept of drunkenness, as dwarves cannot get drunk as their livers process alcohol inhumanly fast. Other concepts include the idea of marriage, sexual attraction and gender; however, they do understand aesthetic attractions.

If you have stuck with me for this long, congratulations, you have more patience than my younger brother.

We're finally entering the mysterious world of the Elder Dwarves; strange creatures with six arms, thick beards and more talent for forging than all the trapmasters combined. Elder dwarves are currently thought to be extinct, although some trolls claim to have seen them in the deepest caverns.

Thought to be greedy, always hungry and quite mean, Elder Dwarves were considered monsters by trolls, humans and elves, and frequently clashed with them in territorial disputes before sealing off their caves and tunnels for nine centuries, before modern dwarves appeared and began to make ammends. (Modern dwarves argue this point quite fiercely, pointing to the evidence that Elder dwarves had closely knit communities and largely fungus-based diets, like their own) They had their own language, the ability to stick to walls and were terrifyingly quick on their feet. The things they created that were found by humans gave rise to energy-storing crystals, zeppelins, clocks, ballistas, and even the system Epidamnos uses to keep the ocean from destroying it every stormy season.

The few Elder Dwarven caverns that are accessible by modern dwarves are called Pitches and are filled with bones, artifacts that glow with malicious energies and lava pools. Many Prayerhands believe that Elder dwarves bathed in the lava and it was actually an important part of their forging process, as the writings that are translated describe them being friends with a mostly extinct species of dragon, the Earthshaker dragons, who spewed lava so hot that even the gods were fearful of angering one. How the Elder Dwarves managed this, no one is sure. One theory thinks that they watched over the hatchlings, keeping them safe from hungry demons and greedy monster hunters that came from the surface looking for an easy kill. Earthshaker dragons are blind until they reach adolescence so having the dwarves to protect them while providing them with the lava they needed would form an inevitable  symbiotic relationship that benefited both parties.

It is unknown why elder dwarves had six arms and modern dwarves only have two. Humans assume it's because dwarves needed to assimilate better to human culture or risk extinction, but dwarves aren't sure, as some dwarves are born with four arms to this day. They tend to become miners, as the extra limbs make it much easier to fight and mine at the same time. Some believe that Dostine merely decided that she didn't like making the extra bones and gradually shifted. Others think that as the dwarves moved back to the surface, the terrain became easier and there were less demons to fight,  they simply didn't need them anymore, and so Dostine removed them.

Another key difference between Elder and Modern Dwarves is that while Modern Dwarves are agender and asexual, Elder Dwarves enjoyed representing themselves in various genders unrecognizable to humans and made a wild array of jewelry and combs. The jewelry currently found is mostly bracelets that jangle in a pleasing way. With all their arms decorated, they would have been able to compose entire rhythms with their bracelets. Certain bracelets seemed to be reserved for certain people, with one half of all bones found wearing bracelets of pure ruby, with the other half wearing bracelets of amethyst.

However, bones from Elders are incredibly rare because, as stated in the poem above, Dostine enjoys recycling and most of what is known about Elder Dwarves is patched together from paintings, frescos and a few pieces of jewelry found in Pitches. Perhaps if modern dwarves dig deep enough, they will find their answers, and maybe even some old friends.

[nutmegpirate]

Greyhame Dunfihr

[GENERAL] Age:  44 Gender: Male Species: Mountain Dragon Height & Weight: 8' (2.4m) at shoulder; 23' (7m) long; 7 tons Birthday: March 13th Occupation: Quarrier/Stonemason Orientation: ironically I still have no clue Relationship Status: single sad boi Faction: Drakensang [IDENTITY] Personality: + Diligent + Honest + Gentle - Softspoken - Callous - Awkward If he could, Greyhame would exist as background. He never says much, even when addressed directly, as he is easily flustered and finds it much easier to work with only his own thoughts. He's honest to a fault, brutally so sometimes - he'll be truthful even when the truth might be better withheld to spare others' feelings, or to keep a secret safe. He's terrible with secrets, and learning any causes him almost constant stress that he'll accidently tell them to someone. Some people may think him rude or callous because of his honest nature, but he's a sweet and gentle soul for those who get to know him. Though he may not flatter you with compliments, he'll pick you up when you fall, and his quietude makes him a great sponge for outpourings of excessive emotion. Thanks to his preference of solitude, though, he's emotionally distant himself and his social skills leave much to be desired. Backstory:

They told him they caught the poachers near the quarry, trying to cross the Giant's Plateau to Ironvale from Grauran. They told him how the wagon was laden with trophies of their conquest, as much valuable material as they could carry from the dead dragon. They told him how the old couple caught them on their land and alerted the authorities in time for them to be caught. And they told him how the couple offered to care for the egg until its parents were found - and when they realized what the bloody spoils meant, how they left the egg in the couple's charge permanently.

All this they told him because, eggbound at the time, he could not possibly know himself.

Naomi and Edric Dunfihr were their names, the quarry owners. A human couple who had long wished for children but never been blessed with any. The orphaned dragon egg was not quite what they were expecting, especially at their age, but Naomi became attached at once. When baby Greyhame hatched, the Dunfihrs cared for him as they would their own son, though not without some assistance from their draconic faction neighbors. Though their baby was the size of a small steer with an appetite twice that, the Dunfihrs made sure he lacked nothing in his upbringing that his dragon mother would have provided. Even in their kind home, Greyhame developed several skittish, nervous habits that the Dunfihrs attributed to his traumatic beginnings, even if he couldn't remember the events himself. When he outgrew their cottage by the quarry, they built a new addition designed to suit him for many more years.

Being a mountain dragon, Greyhame was naturally drawn to the earth and the stone, and when he was old and large enough, he accompanied Naomi and their hired hands into the Dunfihr quarry to work as a miner and stonemason. Here, he found his element, his true calling. He could sniff out faults in the stone and tear out whole blocks with his bare talons, and he could carry twice as much quarried stone out of the pit as his fellow quarriers, in half the time. The quarry's business increased at once with Greyhame around to speed production along. Though his awkward claws could never master the delicate facades and engravings that Edric created in their workshop, his strength aided in maneuvering even the largest blocks of stone easily for transport and building projects.

Edric passed away peacefully at home when Greyhame was just twenty-eight, and Naomi joined him four years later. Management of the quarry fell solely on the dragon's shoulders, leaving him little time for mourning over the years. He didn't mind though; he liked working. It kept his mind occupied. He left his adoptive parents' cottage - it was too small for him, anyway - and moved into the caves near Grauran's heart, making the walk each day for work. When loneliness began to trouble his free time, he headed into the Plateau and the mountains beyond, exploring the wilds and searching out little treasures of the earth to bring home to his cave.

Still young for a dragon, but accustomed to the mortality of humans, Greyhame feels older than he actually is. The possibility of many, many more years ahead of him scares him a little - can he really go on forever, by himself? Abilities: - Seismic Sensitivity: Attuned somewhat to the movement of the earth, he can sense cavities and weak points in stone, as well as identify minerals by scent. - Fire breath: Though belonging to the earth in element, Greyhame possesses the biological ability to breath fire, like many of his airborne cousins. Digesting food produces hydrogen, a lightweight and flammable gas, to be stored in sacs next to his lungs. He can expel the hydrogen through his throat at will. When exposed to a steel catalyst in his teeth, the hydrogen ignites and creates a fountain of flame. This ability is limited by the amount of gas he is able to store, and must be recharged by eating, but being flightless, Greyhame can be a little more liberal with his fire. - Glamour form: It's not easy being huge in places designed for human-shaped folks. As such, Greyhame has developed a humanoid glamour form, based on the features of dragonborn. Taking on and maintaining this form expends a lot of eon, so he can't hold it for long, but it might come in useful in case of emergency. To date, he has only used it once, to put a baby bird back in its nest. (looks like this, height and weight consistent with old info) Strengths & Weaknesses: + Physically sturdy + Hard worker + Good listener - Poor socializer - Occasionally unaware of his size - Little to no fine motor skills Likes & Dislikes: + Rocks, minerals, gemstones - anything out of the earth! + Popcorn. It's his favorite snack but it takes a lot to satiate him. + Little flowers. He thinks they're cute and they give him a warm happy feeling, though... he isn't sure why. - Being put on the spot. - The color red. Makes him uneasy. - Being yelled at. [EXTRA] - His claws are heavy, adapted for gripping rock, and his scales protect him from most hard falls, so though he is flightless, nothing keeps him from reaching the highest mountain crags by climbing. - He's quadrupedal but can rear up temporarily on two legs, or crouch/squat to use his foretalons. - He has a harness designed to work with his clumsy claws so he can carry "saddlebags" on journeys or deliveries, or even just into town to buy milk. - Reading is a little slow for him; he might have mild dyslexia. - someday he wants to wear a sweater, they look so comfy - Voice is deep like this but a little more gravelly; this is also his current theme song. Relationships: - Naomi Dunfihr: adoptive mother (deceased) - Edric Dunfihr: adoptive father (deceased) [RP PREFERENCE] Media: [Discord] |  [Google Docs] Methods: Paragraph | Literature | Script | Headcanon up for anything! Timezone: MST

[autolovecraft]

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. An eye for an eye! The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

[vidaandthecity]

Holding Space for the Spaces that Held Me

There’s a big move coming up in my life. Those who truly know me know that moving has never been simple for me. Its never been just the physical movement of my belongings from one place to another, or similarly the movement of my self from one neighborhood to a new one. Moving has always symbolized a new chapter and the end of an era. Moving has been letting go, saying goodbye, facing new challenges, and experiencing new adventures.

Today I sit here in the apartment that my son grew up in. The same place he uttered his first word, “dada” yes I know, “mama” took way longer. I’m sitting in the same place I had his first birthday, where he took his first steps, first haircut, first dance moves. The same place I cried myself to sleep when I found out my father died, followed by my grandmother’s death months later. It was the place I said I would never return to, “never say never” is what people say. Yet, here I am. Five years ago, I came back with my son in tow, a small infant at that time, with my fears and post partum depression dismantling all that I had once held as normal. Soaked in the unknown virtues of motherhood and yearning to be back with my family; I came back eager to soak up all the knowledge that mami, (a single mother of six) had to offer. Her best advice was and still is, “Disfruta tu hijo, que este momento no vuelve.” So I did just that and submersed myself in all the little miracles my son offered me daily. I was his personal paparazzi, and have hundreds of photos and videos to prove it. I lived in the moment and saw him grow right before my eyes. I came back to these familiar Brighton streets, the smell of the beach I had grown up in, a love-hate relationship with this neighborhood that no longer felt as familiar. I got to enjoy my grandmother’s last few months on this planet and see her hold my son. Something both my pops and grandfather never got the chance to do. Shit happens for a reason.

Soon, I will be saying goodbye to this place. Like I’ve said goodbye to so many other places that were special to me for other reasons. It is truly a bittersweet tango, a wrestling of my yearning, an inner tug and pull. These places I left knowing instantly that I would never return to, and if I did return it would never be or feel the same again.

I’ve moved a lot in my life. Mami moved us a few times when I was kid. Back and forth, back and forth. She would always say, “el cambio es parte de la vida.” I hated it, but she was right. Change is an inevitable part of life and with that change people move. And so we moved and moved and moved from place to place, state to state, city to city, borough to borough.

My first memories of a home are pretty dope. It was just me and mami, my brother was small. I remember my father being present, coming home throwing down his plate of arroz con habichuela, pollo guisado, maduros with a side of aguacate. The most perfectly green and ripe aguacate you could ever hope to see. He would moan with every delicious bite and suck chicken bones dry. I used to watch him enjoy his food and think that’s how a man should eat.  I remember my parents either dancing or fighting. There was never an in between, I mean I don’t remember them watching television together or talking about the weather. They were always an intense sight to behold.  

We lived in a tiny apartment on 191st street and Wadsworth. The floors were red oak, always shining in Mistolin and smelling like pine oil. There was a giant wooden wall of bookshelves that towered from the floor to the ceiling. This bookshelf housed mami’s beloved books of poesía, our encyclopedias, (we had 2 collections) and papi’s massive medical textbooks. It was a tiny apartment, with a heavy red steel door that one day while playing almost took my bottom lip straight off, I still have the scar to prove it. There were popcorn ceilings, except in the bedroom. Where I remember staring at the ceiling while laying with my mom, looking at the lines and her pointing out all these majestic figures that appeared within the cracks of paint. There was a beautiful princess with a gorgeous gown wearing a crown, then a disfigured monster, with a massive nose and scary eyes living in a cave, a bird with a long elaborate feathery tail, and what appeared to be a knight riding a stallion yielding a grand sword. She would point to these figures and ask me, “Keka, que ves alli? Qué te parece a ti?” We would go back and forth sharing what we saw, the way you stare at clouds forming shapes in the sky.  We found ways to be happy.

There was music, lots of music all the time. Music played on our stereo, music blasted from cars zooming by, from fire-escapes, and in bodegas and restaurants that made you feel like you were stepping into a discoteca. There were people that looked like us. Unlike here in Brighton where most don’t look like me. People who had traveled to this city from the same island that my mother and father had come from. People that ate plátanos, spoke Spanish, danced merengue, and smiled at you when you entered the corner bodega. We lived in Washington Heights in the eighties. My father was a young doctor and mami was the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever seen.  I haven’t seen her glow that way since we moved from there.

Our building was like a big famila. We were more than vecinos. We were birthday parties, Nintendo maniacs, gossiping housewives, funny Saturday nights, barajas and brujas, primos y primas, poetas y bachateros. We were alive and blending and becoming a new set of Americanos. We were first generation of American-Dominicans growing up with our mother’s who still had their dreams and their toes firmly set on the sands of playa Boca Chica y Juan Dolio. But you couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by the concrete jungle and all the players on Saint Nicholas avenue. After all is was the eighties, at the height of the crack epidemic. The city was changing and all the jodedores, the crackeros, the negociantes, and the men that had more labia than a library were in full pursuit. The mujeriegos and their queridas, the nosy viejas and the horny viejos all waved hello and had a refrain for the day. It was the old school Dominicans versus the nuyorminicans. There was danger, sex, drugs, and excitement in that hood. There was love too. Lots of it. Don’t get me wrong. But that love wasn’t enough to keep my mom there. So she moved us to Brighton Beach, to be near her mom, where I’d spend most of my years going to school, even though years later destiny would have me right back there. In the heights, right where I had started.

Destiny is a funny part of moving. Sometimes we move without planning or ever expecting that move. Sometimes moving is our only choice. We move to survive, or to escape a bad memory. We move out of necessity, to change the page, or to hit the reset button. We move for love, to pursue love, keep love or maintain love. We move for opportunity, for a change of scenery. We move back to what we know, or away from what we know. We move to make sense out of life. Sometimes we move in search of something without even knowing what that something is.

Moving molds us in ways that being stationary does not. I always wanted to be one of those people who grew up and lived in the same place all their life. Its like the show Cheers, when you walk down the street and everybody knows your name. It’s a stability I’ve never known. It is being a part of a place, a community, an unspoken family or a people in such an intimate way. People who move often don’t have that. We belong to many places, and people, and instances, and lifetimes.

What I do have from this life of movement is the uncanny ability to adapt to my surroundings. I can come to a new place and reinvent myself, make new friends, learn the routine, find new spots that bring me peace and renew my senses, and find the strength to make this new world, this new shelter, feel like home again. So yes, I am a woman of many homes, of many places, and languages, and faces, and moments that all come together to make up this great big life that I have lived. I guess that’s the way I make peace with this.

Brighton beach had its charm, we had good times there too growing up with my grandparents, aunts and uncles’, having primos’ visit during and holidays and summer breaks. Our weekends were consumed by Saturdays on the beach, park visits, and summers in Coney Island. It was a nice way to grow up.

Then we moved to Fort Lee. These were my rebellious teenage years. My hardest move to date. It was quite the transition. A wealthy snobby town that slept on the edge of Jersey kissing the heights via the Hudson river. Fort Lee was just a hop and skip away from the exciting concrete dance floor I had left as a small girl. So I hopped and skipped. Back and forth. Escaping until I felt like I could breathe again. The George Washington bridge became my best friend. I learned her trails and paths, her highs and lows, her best views, and the best time to cross her. Fort lee was just a house, it never felt like home. It was my first real boyfriend, my first heartbreak. It was sneaking out of my window, jumping fences, and leaping over ponds. It was prison, deportation, and learning the truth about my father. It was Hector Lavoe and Marc Anthony, and the death of Aaliyah, Biggie and Pac. It was the 90’s and the world was changing yet again. It was breaking the rules, and playing with fire, cutting school, and dancing, and making money, and falling for the bad boys because the good ones’ bored me. It was breaking hearts and not giving a fuck because I had been broken too. It was coming into my womanhood and learning how to fight and stand up for myself in ways I had never done before.

Then there was Kissimmee Florida, a humid hell that drove me insane. So at 17, I moved myself as a teenager, against my mother’s wishes, against my own fears and hesitation. I moved and moved and moved. I came back to Manhattan with the famous 5 dollars in my pocket, and worked my ass off, and pursued a new love that was never love, and hustled till I dropped. It was moving to the Bronx, and Jersey, and back to the heights, renting rooms, sharing bathrooms and kitchens, and hiding my C-Town compra’s from roommates that got the munchies after smoking haze all day. It was borrowing sofa’s for the night, summer park benches, it was Monique and I in her Jersey adventures, and back to the Heights, every inch of the heights and now on to Harlem. It was dating one loser after the other and not truly loving any of them except for the one who taught me that not all love looks and feels the same. Sometimes love is ugly, just like the move, just like the change that comes with the move.

During that time my moves were equivalent to breakups. It was the way I ended a relationship, or mourned one. Some women get a new hairstyle after a break up, I would move to a new place, avoiding parts of the city that reeked of my ex’s. Places that had once been my favorite getaway had now become emotional landmines. And so I would move, fall in love with new parts of the city and wait till the scent wore off before revisiting the places that bad love had ruined previously.

Once I had graduated college and had a steady job I got my single lady pad in the Fordham Road section of the Bronx and quickly moved my sister in. It was our pink boom-boom room.  A tiny, shitty apartment, but still all ours.  Every time I visited my mom and grandmother in Brooklyn, they would go on and on with the same song and dance, “Ay mija cuando tu te vas a salir de ahi? El Bronx esta demasiado peligroso. Mira ponte a oir las noticias."  I would look at them and the fear in their eyes, and laugh, “Lo sé mami… Lo sé mamá… No se preocupen, yo soy una tigera.” Just to make them laugh and relax.  They were right though. It wasn’t the safest place to live but it was ours in the meantime. It was poetry, and magic, and single living, and poverty and riches, and self realization. It was bachata dancing, and smoking hookah, and kissing under traffic lights, it was writing till my fingers went numb, it was sisterhood, and drums, saxophones, and piano keys. It was sex and the city, purging old loves, it was finalizing the kind of kick ass woman I wanted to be. It was the end of many friendships that were artificial, and the beginning of some new awesome connections. It was where I met my now husband. It was learning to be still and learning to let go. I became pregnant while living there and all of a sudden I felt like that wasn’t home anymore.

One day with my son, who was a newborn at the time strapped to me (kangaroo style), I decided to walk my dog. It was about nine in the morning, a beautiful summer day and here I was surrounded by dirty needles, giant mounds of dog shit, used condoms, and football playing transvestites prostituting just up the corner from me in broad daylight. I think its moments like that, when moving becomes instinctual. It is those moments that the art of movement becomes an urgent need. I remember I was so grossed out that my dog had scooped a condom into his mouth, and spit it out after I frantically yelled at him. I ran my ass home, crying baby and all, called mami and told her, “I got to move ASAP, I cannot raise my kid here.” Thirty days later I was out and moving into what is now the living room where I’m typing this.

So here I am now anticipating this next move that will happen in a couple of months. A little sad to be leaving my favorite vecina, my mom and best friend, but excited for what the future holds. I’ve come full circle.  This time the move is so much different from any other time I’ve moved. It is a move that has been in the works for the last three years. It is a move that has required so much teamwork between my husband and I. A move that pushed us to learn, and educate ourselves, and knock on many doors, and meet so many people. So many rejections, and losses, and failed attempts, but we made it happen in one of the most difficult states, my beloved New York. We are finally here! We bought our first house. A house that we will fix, and design, and make our own.

So to say that I’m feeling nostalgic is an understatement. I’m holding space for all those places that held space for me when I needed it most. I’m paying tribute to all the addresses that I called home, that sheltered me during thunderstorms, the walls that kept my secrets, the kitchens that fed my soul, the living rooms that witnessed my poems and music unravel, the bedrooms  that cradled me during break ups, and the ceilings that became hidden works of art. Thank you to all those places, some humble, some beautiful, some borrowed, some mine, some far, others near, some quiet and peaceful, others loud and dangerous. I am grateful for each move was growth, each home, a chapter so lovely and all mine.

Written by: Maria Billini

(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)

*Image courtesy of talented artist Roeqiya Fris.