#there isn't really a point to this

[tea-time-terrier]

Does your dog have any built in programming that is particularly helpful? (Or just really amusing)

[ecosystem-administrator]

the road to Horizon

I was watching a video recapping someone's journey through FFXIV and it made me think back on the start of my own, so I have some thoughts to ramble here, on my departure from Azeroth and arrival into Eorzea. From the perspective of a WoW refugee who arrived before the big waves of exodus, who left before all the bad news broke at Blizzard.

I don't talk about it much. At first it was because I was still grieving what I'd left, adjusting to the new normal I'd found for myself and trying not to be that person who compares everything to their only other experience in the genre; then, it was because the news had broken about all the things broken in Blizzard behind the scenes, and suddenly it no longer felt cool to have ever enjoyed what they were doing. But I started playing WoW during Wrath of the Lich King, and I continued to play until somewhere in the patch cycles of Battle For Azeroth. 2009-2019, a full decade of investment in the lore, of anticipation and disappointment, of theorycrafting my way around plotholes so I could keep enjoying the things that were enjoyable.

At some point, there was a news announcement coming, and I found myself anxious, dreading the possibility that the plot would focus on some of the characters I'd come to like, and in doing so wreck the stories I'd been building in my head. I had to stop and replay that moment for myself: I was dreading my favorite characters getting spotlight time, because I was afraid of what the writers would do to them. This is, I had to finally admit to myself, no way to live. I had reached my limit. My trust was broken, years of disappointment having finally dismantled my hope. I had to walk away. I wouldn't uninstall, not yet - but I would instead try out that beautiful Final Fantasy game my fiancee and some of her friends had started playing. I had watched over her shoulder one time a good while back as a tiny pink cupcake of a girl drank a goblet of poisoned wine, and at the time I had envied the power of the scene on display. Perhaps starting fresh with a new story would help ease the grief of finally stepping away from a decade of giving my heart to a game that was simply no longer giving back.

It takes time to adjust to a new game, of course. New controls, new abilities, what do you mean crafters are classes just like combat classes, wait what's the difference between a class and a job, how do I know whether I'm where I'm supposed to be, what do you mean dungeons aren't optional content, etc. I stumbled my way through the start of ARR, increasingly enthused to be learning a whole new set of lore but still anxious about how new I was. In FFXIV, we call new players 'sprouts' and tend to them; but I hadn't yet learned that mindset. I had to be told not to remove the sprout icon that flagged me as new and learning, because to me it looked like a 'kick me' sign on my back, a bright waving flag that said "Fresh Meat". That's what it would have been, where I had come from. I didn't know any better yet.

I made my way out of Gridania, around the capitals, through the baby dungeons, back to Ul'dah to get my invitation to the Scions, doing my best to absorb new lore, new controls, and new attitudes simultaneously. So it wasn't until I was leaving Ul'dah and headed out into Western Thanalan toward the Scions, on foot because I hadn't unlocked mounts yet, because I hadn't yet gotten the Horizon aetheryte, that I suddenly had a series of revelations.

I couldn't see player levels just by looking at them. I would have to click on a player and examine them in order to identify what level they were. Conversely, no one could see my level unless they went to that effort. They couldn't tell at a glance if I was overleveled or underleveled, if I was out of place in a zone or where I was meant to be.

The plot I had been through so far had gradually converged on this point in a way that suggested the story was melding with the starting storylines from the other two cities. In WoW, there are overarching plotlines for zones sometimes, but the presence of a Main Plot is a very recent development. Players rarely take the same path from starting zone to max level; but here, we were all walking the same road.

There were no factions. We were all walking the same road, and this was what struck me the hardest. From level 1 to level 70 (at the time I started lmao), every single player around me was somewhere on the same plotline. No one was a threat. There was no world PvP. I would never be ganked, griefed, have to wait for critical NPCs to respawn after max-level players from the other faction had come in and killed them.

Me, to me, at level 15 as the light began to dawn:

This is really how it felt, after all those years of WoW. The road to Horizon was the place where I finally realized I wasn't a soldier anymore, an erstwhile mercenary trying to dodge getting drafted back into a forever war. Of course there were still enemies, but all of the enemies were NPCs. I didn't have to worry about enemy PCs coming in raids, about staying out of their way or deciding to stand and fight. There were no such thing as enemy PCs. The war was, finally, over.

And so I trod onward lighter, still on foot until someone saw fit to give me a chocobo, my faction tabard abandoned in the dust of Thanalan, only an adventurer at last.

[myfavoritebisexual]

today my straight coworker was talking about how hard it is to date right now. i was telling her how much i agreed but how i've been having such a hard time as a bisexual nonbinary person trying to date. i told her that most of the people i meet or see on the apps are straight men who don't respect my identity or lesbians who don't want me because of either or both of those parts of my identity. occasionally i'll meet another queer person who gets it or even a straight man who is respectful. but they are so incredibly few and far between and don't often have much, if any, chemistry.

[the-haunted-office]

Timmy's death had been relatively quick, although it hadn't been painless by any stretch of the imagination.

He could remember the day everything happened. His job was standing at the copier, making more copies of documents to send off into other parts of the building. That was pretty much all he did - stand at the copy machine making copies of things for the full-time employees who actually had employee numbers. It was an endless, mindless task, not to mention strange for a company that claimed to be "paperless", but he wasn't going to argue with anyone about that. He just wanted to do his job and go home. Additionally, he wasn't the type to argue in any case.

It was March 17, 2011. A Thursday. 4:25 PM. Almost the end of the standard American work day. He'd taken a brief break from his monotonous task to use the restroom. All the water he kept track of drinking throughout the day made him particularly regular in this regard. It was while he was at the sink washing his hands that he heard everything happening outside. People screaming. Clamor. Things being knocked over. It was one of the loudest, scariest things he'd ever heard, and he honestly thought a shooter had gotten into the building. Some ex-employee who came back for revenge.

Soap still on his hands and the sink still running, Timmy scrambled into the nearest bathroom stall, closed it, locked it, and crouched down on top of a toilet so his feet couldn't be seen underneath. Of course the stalls still had those cracks everybody could peep through due to their poor construction, but it was the first thing he could think of. He crouched there, hand over his mouth to keep himself from breathing too loudly, tasting soap. He'll never forget the bitter taste of it. Or the scent. Suave Rainwater. Something that was supposed to be refreshing but just smelled like a dead-end job.

Unfortunately the assailant causing all this ruckus wasn't a human - it was an extraterrestrial parasitic mist, and there was nothing he could have done to escape it. It could pass through walls. It could see through walls. His soul - the color of honey - is what it saw and that is what it wanted.

He didn't hear a thing as it came right through the bathroom stall and filled his lungs, strangling him inside out with icy fingers so cold they burned, paralyzing him in a matter of seconds. The pain had been immense, but mercifully brief, and that was the only mercy in it, because immediately thereafter he felt the very curious sensation of being pulled through a tube much smaller than he was. Like being sucked through a straw. It thankfully didn't hurt, but it was terribly uncomfortable.

And then he found himself in the belly of the mist, alongside all of his coworkers whom had been consumed before him.

Some of them were already being melted alive - their souls were being disincorporated off the plane of existence and into total oblivion. No remaining behind as a ghost. No ascending. No afterlife. Not even darkness. Just nothing.

Timmy knew at some point his turn would be next, but when would that be? All he could do was cower and cover his eyes and ears to try to block it all out, but that could only do so much. Their screams and cries and wails penetrated every sense he had and twisted and beat him down until all he could do was cry like the others.

He's since been rescued, and although now the danger of being digested by a mist entity has passed, that fear of oblivion still lingers. If he passes on... what will become of him? Will he get to go to a paradise with his loved ones like Stanley did? How could he? He doesn't have any loved ones. Except for his father. Would he be waiting for him? Timmy hadn't heard a word from him since the day he left.

Emptiness fills him, creating a void. He had no one waiting for him.

Perhaps his death hadn't been so quick and painless after all.

[joycrispy]

Zepotha will never be Goncharov because when it comes down to it, tumblr culture is collaborative, while tiktok culture is merely iterative, and those are not the same thing.

[akanemnon]

Wow, not even 5 seconds in and they're already starting a fight.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[captain-krow-drozdov]

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes:

[platoapproved]

I loved him. I knew it, as incomprehensible to me as he was. — THE VAMPIRE LESTAT

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Making and Remaking Memories

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[benevolenterrancy]

honestly. if you decided to create giant fucking corpse-head-spiders to populate your world with then this is exactly what you deserve.

[egophiliac]

Hi it's just to let you know that the official romanization of Revaan's name is Raverne ! Also they have romanized Baul's name to Baur !

Twst coming back at us again with the least expected romanization! thank you everybody (oh god my inbox) (no it's great, I literally asked for this and the reactions have been INCREDIBLE, thank you all!)

I do like Raverne though, I think it's got a nice fancy sound to it! (I had kinda suspected it was going to be an R instead of an L, so the fact that it's SO close to Laverne except for that is hilarious to me personally.) and Dragoneye Duke is honestly probably the best translation for his title, I wasn't envying the localizers that one. :') Baur instead of Baul I was NOT expecting, but in retrospect I think his name's supposed to be a reference to the Bauru crocodile, so that actually makes way more sense!

someone else also said Meleanor has become Maleanor, which is the REALLY weird one to me, because I was so surprised it was written as Mel instead of Mal in the first place?! oh god no I can't decide which one I like better. 😭 (I wonder if they might change it to Mal...they have made romanization changes before) (like I remember House of Distraction being corrected to House of Destruction in Playful Land) (I did check and she's still Mel for now, but I dunno, they might Mal her up and some point and save me from having to make a decision about which one to use) (HECK I CAN'T DECIDE)

uhhhh thank you for letting me ramble about anime names, let's just say MONOGRAMMED SWEATERS FOR EVERYONE

[fox-guardian]

starting to feel like part of the reason that Sam and Celia's romance thing feels a little off rn is cuz like. what do you mean they're actually dating. he asked her on a date and she said yes. and it's working out so far. it's chill and fine. what do you mean they're not pining for 4 seasons, not communicating, and then getting together only after one of them walked through hell to drag the other out and make sure they know they're loved and wanted. they haven't even patched each other's wounds yet hello. aren't y'all moving a little fast.

[gen-toon]

[undertheredhood]

bruce 'tired single dad' wayne: *lecturing jason once again on something he did during a fight*

jason 'theatre kid extraodinare'' todd who immediately starts fake crying on the spot: do you just not love me anymore?

[kedreeva]

At some point in your life, there will be a moment where exactly - or near exactly - half the people in the world are younger than you, and half the people are older.

And I think that moment should be the one your soulmate Mark appears at, not at birth or puberty or something. Both because at birth is kind of boring but it's also very you-centric and soulmates are about the thing outside of you being a part of you, and I think it would be nice to include The World.

But also I think it would have fascinating implications for scientific and social studies. Longevity trends tracked by the average age soul marks appear. Tragedies causing a rash of recent marks to disappear (because the people are no longer the middle). Marks appearing early during baby booms.