#vermin most glorious

[genderfluidsgetguns]

.........

How am I supposed to say I have no idea what to say in order to talk to you without it sounding horrible and clumsy

There is no order-of-operations to talking to me—just do!

[yuesya]

Far beneath the royal capital of Leyndell and its myriad splendors, there lies a sprawling maze of darkened waterways and shadowed tunnels; antithesis to all that is good and gold upon the surface. All creatures who are shunned dwell down here, to while away their days within the dark.

Morgott and his twin brother, Mohg, had been cast down here upon birth. Demigod children of Queen Marika the Eternal and Elden Lord Godfrey they may be, even such godly, royal blood did not prevent exile. For they both were born Omen –wretched creatures who were not blessed with the grace of the Erdtree. The blood that ran through their veins was cursed, a quality that manifested upon their physical bodies as monstrous deformities. Hulking figures, and bestial horns.

It is a mercy that they still draw breath. That they are only chained and bound beneath the cavernous depths of the royal city. Other Omen are not so lucky; their horns are forcibly excised at birth, an act that more often than not results in death.

And death is something that Morgott is familiar with, too. There are corpses floating in the sewers, those of Omen and vermin alike. Bloated, deformed, crawling with maggots. It is a common sight, this scenery that is ever-present and ever-constant in the dreary darkness of this world.

(The only world that Morgott knows.)

“Brother!”

The distinct clink of chains is preceded by his twin brother’s booming voice. Loud, and echoing. Rats are sent scattering at his approach, fleeing in a messy wave that rattles Morgott’s own chains. The shackles upon his limbs hang heavy, as does the collar affixed around his neck, but this does not stop Morgott from lifting his head to heed his brother’s call–

–what is that?

… Wading through the foul sewer waters, Mohg’s towering, horned figure does not strike an unusual sight. What is unusual, however, would be the child sitting docilely in the crook of his arm, gathered haphazardly to his chest. No visible signs of any distress, or even any alarm at all.

It is a girl. Pale white hair, standing out starkly against the gloom of her surroundings. Blue eyes, abyssal and ringed with a distinct glow. Her appearance is one that is free of any blemishes and other such deformities –she does not appear to be cursed, so it is utterly baffling that such a child is here.

What madness is this?

“You –what have you done?” Morgott demands.

Mohg smiles. “Nay, ‘tis not I who is to blame for any of this! A little stray seems to have managed to wander down here on her own.”

“‘Fell,’” the girl corrects, tugging at the hem of his brother’s tattered sleeve with no compunctions. “I didn’t wander. I fell.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Mohg promptly acquiesces, readjusting his hold on her for better balance. “She seems to have slipped and fallen through the cracks –is that right?”

The girl nods agreeably.

… Except one does not just fall down into the bowels of glorious Leyndell like that. What is this child? And, more importantly–

Morgott clicks his tongue, “How are we to return her to the surface?”

Benign visitors from above are quite vanishingly rare, and for the most part the denizens of the depths below are simply cast aside and left to their fates. Morgott does not know when, or if their Lord-Father would choose to visit them again, and should this child expire during that time–

“Why?” Mohg asks. “We should just keep her.”

Morgott scowls. “Do not say such things in jest. You cannot just keep a child –surely she has family on the surface who are searching for her!”

Mohg peers down at the girl in his arms, “Do you?”

The white-haired girl shakes her head in clear dismissal of the notion. “Queen-Mother would only search for Godwyn.”

Morgott stares at the girl. So does Mohg, for that matter.

Queen-Mother. Godwyn.

The implications of her words–!

“… Your parents,” Morgott finds himself saying slowly, “You are a daughter of Queen Marika?”

“Yes.”

This strange child –one whom Morgott cannot sense any trace of divinity or his mother’s power from– is their younger sister? Half-sister?

This is… certainly unexpected.

[z3nitsusgf]

ouroboros

astarion/reader - got sidetracked and wrote angst

tw: ascended astarion :( angst angst angs, mention of c*z*dor

You awake with a blurry vision, a mismatch kaleidoscope of colors swims in your eyes. You expect to be in the cosmos, or a sort of heaven. But it’s not.

It’s all too clear and not clear enough, like you’re looking through sea glass. Dead flayed corpses lay at your feet, strewn in carnage and reeking of death. Your nostrils burn with the overpowering scent of… everything. Down to the molecule.

The scent of damp molded ruins, the smell of vermin crawling around, the irony sickly scent of raw flesh, the smell of Astarion… once so comforting, now a distant memory. He wears the smell of blood like perfume.

Your mind is hazy, like a fuzzy mold on a peach. It’s rotted and tainted, you can’t quite grasp at reality. And you think, for a split second, perhaps you’re watching your own death.

Astarion stands in front of you, his sight a comforting flame. But it feels different… wrong. He reaches up and touches you, a prayer for which no words exist.

You can’t quite tell why until he pulls at your lips, fingers sliding inside your mouth and grazing your gums. His fingertips prod and poke until he feels the sharp razor wire fangs that rest inside your maw. They feel raw, like an exposed nerve.

He looks at the pearlescent bone that glitters in the moonlight. Sharpened to a deadly sight. Strange. Your eyes widen in imminent horror. The realization of what has happened crashing down on you like you’ve been sent to the hells of Avernus.

“Look at the that, aren’t you just glorious?”

You feel that influx of tormented tears well in your eyes. A hateful rage bellows inside of you, gnawing at every aching nerve. You want to bite his fingers off, if only he’d permit you that much.

He does not. He commands you, holding you hostage in your own body. Making you placid and compliant.

“Darling, you’re perfect.”

He whispers into the shell of your ear, voice caressing the inside of your brain. You hiss, an unnatural sound that escapes your throat like a feral animal. That is what you are now. It shocks you more than it scares you.

Vampire spawn.

You bare your teeth, your new form fighting the unseen force that compels you into submission. He is your maker, your undoer, your god.

That is what he thinks.

“What have you done?” You murmur in the most heartbroken tone. Astarion feels only the tiniest pinprick of discomfort at the words. Overturned by his ravenous joy.

You are stuck with him. Forever. And not in the way you desired. You will never grow old, you will never change, you will never die.

You cry out. A wail breaching your heart as you feel that betrayal rip into your soul.

You feel starved, like your stomach has been emptied of any nutrients. Churning in claps of hungered madness. Your esophagus feels drier than the desert. Like unquenchable fire it spills through you, lapping at your organs.

Kicked up with sawdust and dirt. You choke, coughing on the air around you, gripping at your throat like a beast gone mad. Clawing at it, ripping at the skin till he pulls your arms away from your own flesh.

Astarion shushes you, his other hand caressing the side of your face like a doll. His doll.

“Shh, sweetheart, I know. It’ll pass.”

He’s observing you. Looking at your skin that’s grown pallid and lifeless. Smooth as silk and deathly cold. Your hair has turned starlight. Sterling silver and practically glowing, it matches his.

Your eyes have turned an oxblood vermilion. A bloody red, the color of life itself. Draped in heavy wet lashes that make you look most irresistible. Is this how you see him?

“You’re a monster.”

You whisper it, the ghost of your words passing through your lips like hellfire. It holds as much venom as a black widow.

Astarion’s eyes narrow, the once bright joy of his creation turning vile. And he snatches your face in his grip. Digging the pads of his fingers into your cheekbones and squeezing. It would hurt much more if you were mortal.

“How dare you-“

“How dare you!” You screech back, trapped in his hold. Hands gripping his wrist and digging into his flesh. You feel the carpal bone underneath shift and you think to yourself, ‘I could snap it’. You crave to. Dark demented urges calling for you to take your revenge.

“You did this to me, you turned me into a monster-“

“I saved you.” It’s terrifying how he truly believes it.

“You killed me.” That he has, undead beast you are. That life you held so close, so preciously - ripped straight from your hands.

“You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.” He sneers, his own fangs hissing at you from beneath his lips. He’s no privy to your ungrateful little tantrum.

“I am dead.”

He scoffs, “Did you honestly think I’d let you die? That’d I’d subject you to death from an unworthy hand?”

He means him. Only he could truly kill you. And he has.

Tears overflow your lashline, streaming down the plane of your cheeks and onto his palm. They’re chilled, even your crying has no warmth any longer. Lip quivering like a newborn babe.

Sweet, soft, ripe. Like a nectarine in the heat of the summer. Torn to shreds by a cold-blooded vampire because he needed to sedate his hunger for you.

Astarion loved you, that much you knew. Though his love has no bounds. He would rather rip your humanity away than part from you. Condemn you to centuries of suffering than see you gone from this plane of existence. You’re sinking into a sappy web of his love and you can’t get out.

Vampires are not gentle loving creatures. You never wanted to believe that. But now you are t sure what you believe.

“I didn’t want this.” You whimper, hands releasing his arm and dropping to your sides. You realize, you’ll forget everything. Soon enough.

Your childhood, your mother, your father, your companions. They will age and die and dissolve into the ground while you remain. Aging like a stone, withering down until nothing is left.

Who have you become in the wake of all that’s happened here?

Astarion regards you with chilled pity, “You won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you, to help you accustom to this new body.”

He thinks you fear changing without him. You snarl, snapping your jaw at him. He has these lines he won’t cross, but then he crosses them. And suddenly he has the very dangerous insight that he can break the rules with no consequence.

“I don’t want to accustom, I want to be mortal!” Fingers twisting in his blouse and threatening to rip it to shreds. He’ll sew it later if you do. Just like he’s done for centuries.

He rolls his eyes, the audacity. Inside you, something seethes.

“Don’t be so wet behind the ears, darling.”

You want to tear his spine out and beat him with it. Had you known his ascension would lead him to this… you’d have done yourself the favor and killed him before he became his old master.

You can’t fight back. Even if you could, there is a loathing diminutive part of you that still believes in Astarion.

Lover, hunter, friend, enemy.

He is your birth and your death. Your undoing and Armageddon, the beginning to your end. He is the divine creator and destroyer of worlds. He’ll burn the wax you were formed from and dine on your heart. He lives inside you just as you live inside him, a moebius strip, a snake always swallowing its own tail. Mutually assured destruction.

“Don’t you understand,” he murmurs, “our souls are intertwined.”

Your love, your moon and sun. You are his martyr, his religion. His.

Astarion leans into you, letting your shaking body melt into his. He cradles your skull, kissing the bloody puncture marks on your neck. A permanent salacious reminder. He grazes his lips across it, mouthing at the skin like a suckling kitten.

“I’ll always be here, my love.”

It hits you, in this terrible heart-wrenching moment. The cumulative force of it all slams into your chest, right beneath your breastbone and leaves you gasping for air you don’t need. You can never go back, you cannot undo what has been cast on you. It’s not a spell that will wear and fade, it is not an illusion that will glimmer into nothingness.

“Astarion-“ you weep, with nothing else left to do but crumble into yourself and let him build you back up.

You used to be scared of the love you held for him. Fearing that it would ruin you. Now that it has, you want to tear your own heart from your chest and burn it to ash.

Astarion is dead. All that remains is what Cazador left of him. Now all the remains of you is what Astarion has made you.

[mysticstarlightduck]

OC In 15 or Fewer

Thanks for the tag (here) @the-ellia-west (here)!

I think I'll go with Kane Mylestrom from Song of Thorns - I haven't talked much about him here yet and since I love writing this glorious emotionally unstable bastard of a character, I think it's about time you guys met him lmao!

(Character Description: Kane Mylestrom is a cocky young knight known as the Dragon of the Golden City for his many victories and pristine reputation in the elusive Order of Storms. However, the MCs soon find out that there is more to him than just an arrogant warrior, and that he may be more similar to them than his reputation would have them believe.)

"My duty is to my oath - you will not give me orders."

(Laughs merrily) "The road was long and night is young, my friends, I intend to drink away my sorrows and indulge in pleasurable company!"

"Finally, a challenger! Sparring with that hapless rabble back at the Keep was getting stale. Oh, this will be fun."

"Being brave does not equal never feeling fear. I often go into most of my battles afraid but fight because I know it's the right thing to do. It doesn't mean that fear goes away easily. Now, c'mon, Lyra, your governess must be looking for you."

"Now, I was hired to kill you - doesn't mean I have to do it quickly. Not after what you've done."

"I'm not helping you because I give a single damn about your fate - I couldn't fucking care less if you live or die, it's all the same to me. I'm helping you because you're the only person in this godsdamned shithole that can help me save the only person I still care about."

"That was a bad decision on your part. Funny though."

"If you do that I'll burn your city to ash and let my dragon feast upon your carcass, you double-crossing rat of a man!"

"Cute. Really cute. Try again."

"My name was spoken in glory and awe. I burned down armies, I ravaged enemy strongholds with my storms. It took a single word from that sleazy vermin to seal my fate."

"I made a promise. I never break my promises."

"I've never had friends quite like you guys. It's refreshing. Thank you, truly."

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab, @little-peril-stories

@the-ellia-west, @winterandwords, @cowboybrunch, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

[lets-try-some-writing]

In the AU where unicron is optimus father what would happen if the kids were harmed or in a dangerous situation thanks to unicron resulting in the response of the optimus and the rest of the autobots

More pain for my lovely boy. This is going to be complete angst so to make sure Prime gets some comfort eventually, I am going to make an additional two parts for this in different posts.

A Father's Wrath

After months of watching Optimus be ignored and feared by his own team, the bots Optimus had come to see as family, Unicron grew angered. The chaos god understood their initial fear, but as he watched his only creation wallow and slowly fall to loneliness, his patience wore thin. This was his son, his glorious creation who had lowered himself to protect and care for Primus's lesser spawn, and now said spawn were rejecting that kindness. It was despicable.

The chaos god tried to reign in his anger for Optimus's sake. If nothing else the human vermin that had taken up residence on his frame were there to support his wayward creation. But days turned to weeks, and weeks into months until at last Unicron could take it no longer. One day after Optimus had struggled in vain to try and speak to any of his team only to be promptly ignored, Unicron at last snapped.

In a fit of rage, Unicron transferred power over to his creation unknowingly, causing Optimus to once again fall to the ground in agony as his frame rearranged itself to make up for the surplus of power. It was unintentional on Unicron's part, but as Optimus flailed and screamed, the waves of power emanating from him struck the children and the team. The team grew ill, most purging on the spot as Optimus pulled himself together and stood on shaky pedes, his spark once again exposed. But the children... they did not fare nearly as well.

They collapsed and convulsed. Jack became violently ill, throwing up as blood leaked from his eyes and ears. Miko started having a seizure that very nearly stopped her breathing altogether. And Rafael screamed and clawed at his face as the worst migraine he had ever gotten assaulted him. Before Optimus could do anything, Fowler was called in and the children were taken away for immediate hospitalization. The team left in Vehicle mode and parked in the hospital parking lot to keep a general optic on the children for fear that they might die while Optimus remained at base.

Left completely and utterly alone, Optimus cried. His frame once again shattered so thoroughly could not shed tears even if he tried, but the mixed dark and normal energon that leaked from his armor was enough of a testament to his grief. Otherworldly cries and wails echoed throughout the abandoned missile silo for hours as Optimus wept, hating himself and everything he was in that moment. The Matrix thrummed within him, trying to calm him and comfort its chosen bearer in its own odd way, but Optimus only composed himself nearly a day after being left alone to drown in his guilt. By the time the team came back, Optimus was no longer crying, but he was frantic for answers.

Optimus: The children, are they well?

Ratchet: *refusing to look at him*...

Optimus: Please, tell me their conditions!

Ratchet: *turning to leave* ...

Optimus: *grabbing his arm to keep him still* I can endure this silence no longer! Tell me what has befallen the children!

Ratchet: *snarling and ripping his arm away* They live, no thanks to you.

Optimus: Ratchet-

Ratchet: Save it! If this incident has proven anything, it is that you are dangerous, too dangerous to be kept near.

Optimus: Wait!

Ratchet: We are done. Take what you need and leave. You are no longer welcome here.

Optimus: Please don't do this-!

Ratchet: LEAVE!

The dooming declaration hung in the air as Optimus stopped dead in his tracks, the blazing motes of light that served as his optics flickering and wavering. His outstretched servo shook and his exposed spark pulsed in shock and horror. He looked at the rest of the team, desperate for it to be some cruel joke or perhaps a mistake. But as he met the fierce gazes of each of his former team, he knew the truth.

They feared him, and they wanted him gone.

The only one who didn't meet his pleading gaze was Bumblebee who instead opted to look away, unable to watch as Optimus was sent away. The Prime shook and energon leaked from his frame in his own version of tears as he sputtered in vain. However after a moment of silence, Optimus shuddered, turned away, and began gathering the few items he would take with him. He did not want to strip his family of anything important, after all, they still had a war to win. So all the Prime took was the few personal accessories he brought with him to earth, a singular first aid kit, and a whetstone for his in built blades.

He looked back pleadingly one last time as the ground bridge was fired up and prepared to send him halfway across the country. But as he was met with only cold and frigid glares by most, he tore his gaze away and said only one sentence before stepping through.

Optimus: If this is what you wish of me, I will honor it... but let it be known that I never intended for this to happen.

Optimus: ...

Optimus: I'm sorry.

He stepped through and the groundbridge closed behind him the moment he was out of sight. As soon as Optimus was gone, the team sighed collectively, not out of relief like they expected to, but out of grief for what they had done. But despite those feelings, they did not call Optimus back and instead each took time to themselves to think over the matter.

Arcee had been the one to hate Optimus most adamantly after the reveal, but as she lay in her berth, she found herself sorrowful. Optimus had been nothing but kind to her, caring for her and showing her the utmost sympathy and respect after the losses of her partners. He never yelled, he never harmed her, and he even willingly took hits for her more times than she could count. He was Unicron's creation, but he was the kindest mech she had ever met. She hated to admit it, but laying there after he left, she cried and tried to tell herself that it was for the best.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack were both very torn when it came to the matter of Optimus. Both respected him and looked up to him, even after the reveal they wanted to serve under him as they always had. After all, wreckers don't judge a mech so long as he does good. But with how dangerous he had proven to be, in their minds they could not afford to accept the risk that he posed, not when the children were in their care. As much as they loathed sending their Prime away, to them it was only right. It was what good wreckers would do...

Ratchet despised himself the moment he saw the look on Optimus's face after he ordered him to leave. He wished more than anything to take back those words, but his spark... his spark screamed in terror whenever his old friend looked at him. The sight of Optimus's blazing form and the feeling of his sickening spark waves washing over him were engraved into his memory. He couldn't look at Optimus the same way, not after all he had seen since Unicron's near awakening. He wanted to believe that what he was doing was right, that he was sending away a monster that had posed as Cybertronian like some sleeper agent for millions of years. But the pain in Optimus's glowing optics... it made Ratchet regret.

No monster could have looked so betrayed and so very broken at being sent away.

As for Bumblebee? He was left in a state of internal conflict. Much like Ratchet, he was terrified of his Sire's true form and nature, but like Arcee, he couldn't just ignore the fact that he had only ever been met with love and care from Optimus. The Prime had raised him, taken care of him, fought for him, and never once done a thing to harm him. Bumblebee wanted to think that he was cutting off a parasite or getting rid of a spy when he blocked off his bond with Optimus. But as he watched his Sire leave the base for what was likely the last time, Bumblebee felt empty and more alone than every before.

He had betrayed his Sire on every level and his spark knew it...

The children were not allowed back to base for over a week afterward as they recovered. Thankfully they did not suffer any serious damage and healed quickly. But upon entering base for the first time since the incident and seeing Bumblebee issuing orders instead of Optimus, they grew concerned. Immediately they tried to ask what had happened in their absence only to be met with silence from Fowler and June. Even when they turned to the team for answers, the bots simply dodged their questions, eventually up and lying by saying that Optimus was taking a few days to himself because he felt guilty.

The children were suspicious as pit, especially once they noticed the lack of avatars from Unicron and the mysterious disappearance of Optimus's plants, but they accepted it. The reasoning seemed plausible with Optimus's personality... so they waited.

Every day after school the children asked about Optimus. Bulkhead and Wheeljack only met their queries with guilty gazes and did their best to dodge the question. Arcee outright told the children to leave her alone every time they tried to talk with her about the absent Prime, only further rousing their suspicions. Ratchet straight up wouldn't even look at the children and tended to wander off muttering something whenever they tried going to him. And so lastly, after an additional week of prodding and begging for answers, Bumblebee stepped up as leader and gave them.

Jack: Where's Optimus? I know you said he was taking some time off, but it's been nearly two weeks!

Miko: It isn't like him!

Rafael: Optimus is always working and never takes breaks. Did something happen to him?

Bumblebee: ...

Rafael: Bee?

Bumblebee: For your safety, Optimus Prime has been stripped of his badge and exiled for harming innocents, associating with the enemy, and traitorous behavior.

The children: What!?!

The children were distraught but could do nothing once the truth was revealed. They could only make a fuss and give the team the silent treatment in retribution. The team did not take Optimus's absence and the children's reactions well... and neither did the Prime even with the distance between them.

Optimus set up camp in his alt-mode once his frame had healed from the power burst. He hid out in an old garage on some farmstead where a human male and his daughter lived. He stayed undercover for nearly a week in his alt-mode, both to allow his frame to recover and to wallow. He was absolutely spark broken at being sent away and most of his time in alt-mode was spent lamenting his losses.

But the Matrix has never been one to allow its bearer to remain inactive for long, and it swiftly pushed Optimus to move, to do something. As such Optimus resolved himself and left his makeshift base of operations with one goal in mind.

He would continue to fight for his Autobots, weather they wanted him to or not.

Unicron tried to reach out to his creation multiple times during the whole fiasco, but Optimus ignored him, angry at his father for destroying the delicate balance he had forged with his team. As such Optimus went at his work alone, using his remaining access to Autobot codes and signatures to track down his old team to assist where he could.

He would not stand idly by, not while Megatron still lurked.

[thescarletkiller]

I’m just going to get straight to the point here, what gets people on your list to kill? If you do that of course since not everyone is the same

Mmm, I suppose anyone who’s ever wronged me. Anyone who has abused, degraded, harassed and assaulted me. Or even those that I consider just mere nuisances to everyone around them. And if some ‘innocent’ happens to catch me in the act, too bad for them. They shouldn’t have walked in at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

That’s what they are. Vermin. They’re nothing more than the dirt on my feet. Now, they’re the blood on my hands.

If I’m able to, I would be slaughtering all those pathetic wastes of oxygen on sight right now. My neighbours, the doppelgängers, my co-workers, everyone. No man, woman or child will be spared from my wrath. They all deserved to die. Every single one of them. After all they put me through, I feel nothing but contempt for them. Or in better words, hate. Pure, unadulterated hate.

Haha… you would never believe how I dream of tearing apart all of their insides and let all their blood run onto the ground. Their red fluids are the most glorious sight ever. The most beautiful substance I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It’s my own personal victory against everyone who’s ever crossed me.

I already have the power to end someone’s life. Why not do it to all those human pests and creeps in this rotten world?

[spaciousignatius]

NaruHina Month 2023 Day 21, Pirate/Sailor AU/Forced Separation - "Taken" by SpaciousIgnatius

When he was young, every kid dreamed of working on the Royal Navy’s ships. 

Every man they had ever looked up to from their town had earned their salt amongst the fierce waves, fighting with their fellow crewmen to conquer the winds, moving thousand tonne ships across the vast ocean blue, on journeys far from the worries of their small inland town.

Could Naruto go back, he’d smack the dreamy look out of his younger self’s eyes.

He had just barely stepped foot on the docks when the press gang had rushed him, the roughest of them driving their knuckles into his stomach, catching him off guard for their assault. It was only a moment he was caught unaware, before the reality of the situation set in, and he knew he could not fight it.

The press gang had got him, and he would likely die aboard some god damn ship.

He was enraged, and cursed the men as they dragged him. He cursed their mothers, their wives. The governors that let them steal men from the docks in the first place.

In the end, he could only hope that somebody he knew had heard him as he shouted, somebody to get the word to his Beloved, who he was to wed the next day.

The thought of her thinking he had left her, it was almost too much to bear as laid on the floor of these dirty quarters.

He truly hated this dreadful vessel. If he weren’t too weak or too hungry, he’d have shouted in frustration, damn the poor souls around him who were trying to sleep. Men who were just as beaten, bruised and exhausted as he was. There was nothing glorious about life on any ship, that was well known to even the most ignorant, but these Naval vessels took it as a challenge. The Captain himself took a personal interest in those amongst the crew who had been picked up by his press gangs rather than volunteering, so those like Naruto were rarely fed, and when they were, the crates and barrels were scraped from the underside for their gunk to fill their bowls. Because of this, the hungriest- those that were still alive, at least, resorted to hunting the rats and vermin that scampered around the cargo hold of the ship for their meals, usually catching the itch in the process. 

That was on a good day, he thought. It had been months since he’d had a clean drink of water, so he felt like his voice was always rough. Not that he had much to say to many of these men, anyway. Anything more than an ‘aye’ or ‘understood’ to those in charge was often met with painful discipline, so Naruto tended to keep his mouth shut.

Life had truly become a living hell aboard this damn ship.

Not for the first time, he felt his mind wander to what she was doing, if she was thinking of him too. On nights when it was cooler, and they could tend to the sails without the harsh fury of the sun to beat on their necks and faces, he’d steal glances at the moon, her bright beauty lighting the deck before him, and wondering if she was looking at it too.

One day, maybe, he’d see her again. And she’d make the moon look dull to his weary eyes.

[askvectorprime]

What happened to Damus in IDW2? Did he ever become Tarn?

Dear Tarn Troubled,

Damus was one of the very first Cybertronians to be forged in the immediate aftermath of the War of the Threefold Spark and the ratification of the Nominus Edict. His earliest memories were of emerging into a broken, empty plaza populated by a sparse crowd of war-weary Cybertronians, whereupon a haggard Nominus Prime quickly handed him off into the care of his mentor Derail, who—though well-intentioned—was too busy working construction rotas and helping to track down Threefold Spark holdouts to truly spend time with his new mentee. It should come as no surprise that Damus struggled to relate to the people around him, and so with no clear path forward, he immersed himself in Codexa’s archives, learning everything he could about Cybertron’s past. In the days of reconstruction, some forward-thinking Cybertronians came to realize that their empire had been built upon the misery of other races, but Damus never had to directly confront the cruelty that lay beneath the Expansion’s glorious imperial veneer: as he pored through the Cybertronian archives, he saw unstoppable Titan fleets waging war, brave explorers planting flags on virgin worlds, awe-inspiring works of art and music, verminous alien aggressors brought to heel by their so-called “betters”… and he quickly began to resent Nominus Prime for robbing him of the world he should’ve known, a world had never truly existed.

Damus might’ve become an archivist, or at worst a contrarian academic, but his early education took a turn for the worse when the people of Cybertron discovered his unique, deadly gift. When correctly modulated, his vocal harmonics could subtly interfere with the regular electromagnetic impulses that governed ordinary machines… and those that powered a pulsing spark: with enough time and training, he could literally talk anyone to death. Like the Insecticons who’d preceded him, Damus was foisted off into the care of the Cybertronian Science Ministry, where he became an object of curiosity for many of Cybertron’s intellectuals. Eventually, once they’d learned everything they could from this latest prodigy, Damus was released: however, his newfound reputation meant that few Cybertronians would associate with him, and fewer still would offer him the kind of academic position he’d hoped for. Damus eventually collapsed into the dregs of society, where he spent most of his days chasing one high or another… until the day the idealistic Termagax founded a new political movement intended to return Cybertron to its glory days.

As one of the first Ascenticons, Damus became an ardent adherent to the Ascenticon cause; after all, Termagax was the first Cybertronian he’d met who was unafraid of his lethal talents. However, in time, Termagax’s resolve began to falter, and after a string of political defeats that culminated in Termagax abandoning society altogether, Damus sunk back into depression. Soon, however, a new leader arose to take up the mantle of Ascenticon leader—a charismatic firebrand named Megatron. Determined to restore “Cybertronian greatness” by any means necessary, Damus stood by Megatron’s party even as a string of violent incidents began to turn the public against Megatron’s increasingly inflammatory rhetoric. At first, Damus was repulsed by the kind of thuggish, indiscriminate violence exemplified by “The Rise”. In time, however, some part of him began to rationalize its necessity, then begin to take a kind of perverse glee as more and more Ascenticon rallies collapsed into anarchic violence. After all, had Cybertronians not won their cosmic birthright through conquest, as the strong asserted their dominance over the weak?

When Megatron finally made his true intentions known and overthrew the Senate, the Decepticon leader had already sent Damus to assist Jhiaxus as the ex-Senator spearheaded a Decepticon uprising in the city of Tarn and successfully conquered the region. What Jhiaxus didn’t know, however, was that Megatron—correctly suspicious of the lieutenant—had deliberately sent Damus along as a mole to pass information on his doings back to the Decepticon leader and “bring him to justice” should Jhiaxus’s ambitions get the better of him.

As the triumphant Decepticons tightened their hold over the region, Jhaixus began developing a series of full-body upgrades that would hybridize traditional Cybertronian design standards with an experimental bodytype that metabolized both energon and highly-refined nucleon fuel rods. Jhiaxus successfully tested a prototype version of the design on himself, and it should come as no surprise that Damus was the first Cybertronian who volunteered to become the “perfect Decepticon”. Damus emerged from the surgery stronger, faster, and more alive, his unique abilities now greatly enhanced. To commemorate what he proclaimed to be an inevitable Decepticon victory, Damus adopted the nom de guerre “Tarn”, to honor the city where the future of Cybertron had been created… but, before Jhiaxus could begin mass-producing an army of “perfect Decepticons”, Elita-1’s resistance unit attacked! Along with Hot Spot, Cliffjumper, and Wheel Blaze, Elita was able to sabotage the technology and deal Jhiaxus a crushing defeat, permanently stymying any hope of creating an unstoppable army. That did not bother Tarn, however: he proclaimed himself an army of one, a one-man “justice division” who wouldn’t stop until these unruly Autobot saboteurs faced Decepticon law.

[lya-dustin]

All is bliss

Chapter 34

Cw: mentions of depression, racism(use of a slur), severed heads

Gif by @bonniebird

Taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @watercolorskyy @sweethoneyblossom1 @ewanmitchellcrumbs

A day after Ser Otto’s demise, Aemma received a black brocade gown made to match the famous green dress Alicent wore at Aemma’s mother’s wedding feast.

I am your humble servant; the white silk ribbon had written in an elegant Valyrian script.

The handmaiden had been instructed to press her hair with a hot comb and arrange it exactly as Queen Alicent wore it that evening twenty years ago.

Her mysterious ally had gotten the matching jewelry done in silver and rubies that matched her crown.

The Beacon of the Hightower shone green when calling its banners and during wartime.

The symbolism of the queen’s gown had given name to their faction and become her signature color.

And tonight, Aemma rubs salt in the wound by taking her glorious moment and using it as weapon against her.

“Tell your mistress I will do all I possibly can to repay her kindness, May.” Aemma whispered as May, her handmaiden, dressed her.

It was an insult to House Hightower and the Queen Mother especially. And what better way than to wear it for tonight’s feast done in honor of Ser Otto’s memory and as a show of strength on Aegon’s part.

The entirety of Otto Hightower’s household ---including his longtime mistress--- is put to the sword for their negligence.

Their heads will be displayed at tonight’s feast just as Daemon allegedly displayed Ser Otto’s head at Harrenhal yesterday.

Aegon doesn’t care about people seeing him as weak as he is brought to court in his father’s own chair, after all, the heads will distract them all.

At dawn, Daeron Targaryen, Alicent and Alicent’s two brothers were to escort the bones to Oldtown along with most members of their house leaving court ripe for the taking.

Tomorrow Aemma and Jena will begin turning the court against Alicent and turn all those cloaks from green to black while she buried her loathed father.

It would not be easy, but the journey to and from Oldtown would take at least two or three moons given all the fighting still going on in the Reach. A shame Samantha had to go; she was quite fun even Baela liked her, but her husband demanded she go and her stepson/lover as well especially now that word has gotten around about little Ellyn’s toy dragon being the only thing left by his killers.

The most credible and circulated rumor was that Daemon had known who the true killer of the bastard girl was and did not like being framed for it.

There were others, but all of them fell apart when word came that Daemon had been presented Ser Otto’s head by a ratcatcher who claims he saw who killed the little girl.

The real killer is the blood of the king, he had allegedly said.

After that all ratcatchers were arrested and put to death. Cats were to replace them, and most households will have to kill their vermin themselves if they do not have a cat or a dog.

Some had wondered what would happen to all the rat poisons the rat catchers had.

The first toast is interrupted when the ballroom’s doors are opened to her.

No one knew she was coming, and it made it all the better.

“All rise, for Queen Aemma Targaryen.”

Whoever made that dress had a death wish.

Aemma had mentioned it earlier, but seeing how perfectly it was replicated in black, silver and rubies was an entirely different beast.

The feast had yet to begin and yet when Queen Alicent gave her thanks for their condolences, her speech was interrupted by the arrival of her rival.

“If my position were not on the line, I would be the first to compliment her on this.” Jasper tries not to look proud at this scene he thinks she helped orchestrate. “Who knew the two of you would pull it off so well, darling.”

“She looks like---” someone down the table said and Jena decided to let the court know where her loyalties now lied.

“She looks like a queen.” Jena smiled as her friend passed by them and Aemma nodded in return.

Jena cannot tell who is more spellbound by the sight of Aemma, both Targaryen men cannot seem to care how insulted their maternal family is about it.

Queen Alicent had been told her gooddaughter may be attending and wisely left the chair available. It would have been doubly humiliating to be asked to move.

“I am sorry for your loss, goodmother.” Aemma says the words genuinely which makes it all even worse.

It was common knowledge that the Queen Mother had yet to give her condolences to her gooddaughter.

Jena had been amongst the first to tell her, using her status as the Master of Laws’ wife and Aegon’s mistress to see her.

It had been a shocking sight, Aemma looking so dead inside as she sat by the window contemplating gravity.

I am sorry for your loss, your mother was a good woman, those words had made the young queen turn and give her a look that was in itself a loud cry for help.

Jena was relieved to see her return to life, even if the naïve girl was long gone.

And the woman born from her ashes had come with a vengeance.

“The law says a son comes before a daughter, “Jasper reminds her.

“The law went out the window when Aegon was put on the throne, dearest.”

Aemma’s confidence lasts up until Aegon speaks and announced he would kill Daemon and his men just as he had killed those who had turned a blind eye to his grandfather’s murder.

Aemond winced at the turn of phrase, but that had not been the source of their greater discomfort.

Every single head had been put on a platter and left at every table like a centerpiece.

Alicent gets the head of Ser Otto’s mistress, Victaria Bulwer, while Aemond got Hightower’s steward and Aegon the head of his grandfather’s sworn shield.

Aemma gets the head of his housekeeper.

It was disgusting to say the least.

“I thought you might like it, Goodwife Megga loved to call you a darkie behind your back.” Aegon said as if Aemma would appreciate it.

But Jena told her that to get Aegon out of the way the moment she is made co-ruler she must be the perfect wife.

“I can feel her prejudice from her stare, thank you.” Aemma swallows her disgust and finds herself losing her appetite.

“Your lady wife should not see such things lest the babe be born stillborn” his mother warned as she tried to drink her wine while Lady Victaria’s green eyes stared at her in horror.

Death before Disgrace.

The words of House Bulwer who hoped Ser Otto would wed the young widow and give her that sought after heir to keep her cousins from taking the keep and lands.

Now that will never happen.

The woman had been disgraced before her death and even after.

“I am sorry, I did not know.” Aegon apologized and had the heads taken away making all of them breathe easier. “Let us hope little Aenys was unaffected by that fuck up.”

Why was he being nice?

“You look beautiful.” Aegon adds with a genuine smile. Aemond narrowed his eyes and hid his irritation with a sip of wine. He will need the whole pitcher if Aegon keeps this show of gentlemanliness up.

What the fuck was going on with him?

Was he giving Aemond and Criston’s advice a try still?

“How did you get your hands on such a dress, your grace?” Alicent asked with a sharp edge to her style of address.

“A gift from a merchant guild to sweeten the pot, they seem to have had trouble getting their petitions acknowledged by the late hand. Something about children being sold to rat pits and brothels.” Aemma answered and set right to work.

With a few well-placed words and a caress ---as Jena taught her yesterday--- she could get Mysaria’s list done before the quickening occurs.

[thebowynntradition]

Bowynn Gods: Owenn

Owenn  (Oh-when)  Owenn is the Bowynn god of healing, good health, surgery, recovery, medicine and herbalism and all other skills and attributes of mortal health. He is the patron god of Doctors, nurses, surgeons and those of the healing and health care professions. This includes shamans, druids, witch doctors and medicine men.

     Owenn was raised amongst the first tribes in childhood where he learned why people got sick and died. He was not a god but very much mortal. Owenn was one of those of the Great migration. And upon reaching Europe and settling in, he taught the first tribes of people the arts of medicine and healing and was beloved by all for his gifts. Sadly, on his travels, Owenn encountered a great snake, he was bit by the poisonous vermin and it was that which killed him. His body was found and cared for where he had fallen and a shrine was built in his honor. And yet, instead of the custom of cremating the body, the people found they could not carry out the task. Instead, the people wrapped his body in the most glorious of clothes and placed his body in the inner shrine. For 7 long months everyone from every tribe came to mourn Owenn’s tomb. Moved by this, the gods held a special council and answered everyone’s prayers. By Chumash and Kalma, with their grace and blessings, Owenn was resurrected as a god on the 7th day of the seventh month after his fall. He emerged from the shrine as a god and one of the Akua. In this form he has continued to bless mortals with his talents and divine gifts of healings.

Owenn and his 3 daughters of healing and health    

As a god and in time with the Akua, Owenn fell in love with a garden Kii and the couple had wed soon after. From their union, came forth three daughters who together were named "The Sisters." It is they who work with their father, Owenn, in his arts of healing. Not just for humans and the gods as well.

     As a god, Owenn is seen as a fully mature man, a father figure, with long teaming hair and thick beard. His head crowned with a copper circlet in the shape of a snake, symbolizing change from illness to health. Owenn’s demeanor is always gentle, never baring an ill word or hand to neither man nor animal. He is seen wearing a wayfarer’s robe of crimson and robes under that of various greens, representing the herbs he uses. His staff is wrapped with vines of herbs he uses in his healing brews. Often seen in his hand is a wood bowl which he makes medicine. In his totem form Owenn often appears in the form of a snake or frog, which is most sacred to him. Bowynn homes with altars and shrines to Owenn sometimes bare an image of a frog or snake with a coin in the mouth. Coins and herbs are the most divine of offers gifted to Owenn. Bowl bowls of herbs, clean water and incense are also the most common of gifts.

[jotunkhiicha]

Nora; her character reminds me of the personification of yesterday and tomorrow—not quite ever there, but always lurking.

Vermin.

Gazing out of her balcony window at the shattered cosmos beyond the planet’s delve, Nora swirls her lime tonic with a rapturous gaze. Even though these planets and stars, if the bitter remnants could be described as such, have had their entrails scattered across the chaotic spiel of the universe to tell of warnings—to forbade travellers from entering—she still adores the grotesque sight as much as the sight of them burning in their prime. These tattered remains meant that death, and the rapt destruction that naturally births death like Nyx and Thanatos, proved to her that death still lurked right on her tainted doorstep, even if lamb’s blood was sloshed upon her door.

She wished to taste that glorious moment where the last morsels of her life meet with the ruinous air. Much like sparks in a room filled to the brim with flammable gas, she desired to have her life rupture, to have her last moments be creating an operatic tragedy where she obliterates all she had made so no one else can sit atop her empire—could claim her fortune as their own. She wanted her corpse to be paraded around in the stars, to be full with the souls of those she has consumed in gluttonous fashion, and to have them be like swords that burst from her chest cavity.

And yet, be that as it may, these orchids are like lion cubs that she fosters in the hopes that, one day, they roar and eat her from the inside out—all claws and teeth.

Ah… let it be so. Let the world be as she desires, filled with rapt ruin and vivacious viciousness.

“Your Mind Flayer is… misbehaving.” Her secretary says as she grips onto a sleek object, one that seems wet as something dully thuds upon the floor.

Plop.

Nora leans back in her chair, her head handing over the back of it in a, strangely, alluring manner, as she still mindlessly swirls her glass and the spherical ice cube spins. “All children have tantrums, Eris. Not all require a… firm hand.” She drawls as she brings the glass to her lips, opening her mouth to pour the sour liquid into her gullet.

The liquid sloshes down and she smiles as the chill permeates through her entire body, clashing with her natural warmth and illuminating the dark pathways of her arteries and veins.

It sets her on fire.

Eris raises her head and drops an icepick onto Nora’s desk, one sullied with blood and, even under the dim light of the blue sun, she can see brain matter upon the weapon and the delightful splatters of blood upon her secretary’s white clothes—now this, this catches her attention.

“I believe this fulfils the requirement for your intervention, Nora.” She hisses as she places both hands upon Nora’s desk, drawing her in as she leans forwards as she comes to stand, gently taking the icepick and admiring the brain matter.

With one simple look, she knows whose brain it is; Eiphillia, one of her beloved friends and emanators of Nede Priamus’ divine power.

“Seems a shame about the suit, Eris.” Nora muses and she pulls her white napkin from her blazer pocket, strokes the icepick in a most scandalous fashion, before tossing the soiled item on her desk and wielding it as her weapon, “What is it you want?”

Her words slither up a vine and come forth as a forbidden fruit, desperate to be taken by her secretary.

Eris furrows her brows and folds her arms. “I want it to suffer for what it showed me.”

“Ask…” Nora taps her cheek with the icepick, catching blood on her cheek, “And you shall always receive.” She chuckles as she clicks her fingers and warps, in a red haze, to her beloved basement where she keeps all of her prized pets.

These concrete slabs are absolutely caked in blood and the iron is intoxicating. It hits her and drags her beneath the daze, beneath that iron stench that stars are born from. That stench of fresh blood and the squelching sound as she steps into this decrepit funhouse of horror, swinging the icepick around in her hand and delighting in the way the screams, the clamour, and everything else slowly dies as their beloved Priestess waltzes into the fray, clad in black robes of ruinous origin.

This is how it should be.

Her heels clack and she admires Eris’ handiwork in how she has strewn the corpses of the corrupted emanators across the halls. Some of them have tendrils coming out of their eyes, some have it out of their mouths and ears, and some have none at all; perhaps mere cannon fodder for the greater show. Flowers bloom where corpses lay in a show of her pet’s desire to see the outside world—clad in darkness and delusion.

When she comes to her observation room, she sees the door is propped open with a corpse, probably by Eris in her attempt to come back to the surface and warn her patron about the chaos beneath her heels to invite her within. It’s certainly a grand invitation and who is she to reject such an advancement?

Curling her fingertips around the edge of the door, Nora pushes it away from her, uncaring if she steps into the blood, brains and the entrails, as she steps over the leg of an emanator and sees her beloved Mind Flayer with its tendrils in some poor attendee’s brains, sucking upon the remnants of what they once were, and who they will never be again with a silent scream bursting from their parted lips.

Nora smirks as she walks up to the glass and taps it thrice with one of her baby blue nails, catching the creature’s attention and, when it recognises the familiar short silver hair, her dull grey eyes filled with unquestionable rage as she presses her nose against the glass, a palatable terror erupts into the world, igniting her mind at the sight.

She gently presses the microphone and keeps her index finger pressure upon it while she speaks. “You’ve been a very… naughty pet, Haichong,” her voice is like molten magma as it has been burned into its brain, searing her sweet, saccharine destruction into the depths of its mind, “And bad pets ought to be punished, don’t they?”

Like an Iron Maiden’s intoxicating embrace, fear comes into the Mind Flayer’s system like spikes piercing its flesh. Perhaps that is precisely what Nora is. She is both the spike and the balm—the end and the beginning.

Nora steps back and her heels clack against the concrete as she manoeuvres across corpses and organs alike, peeling her heels off the floor and uncaring of how much blood seeps into her trousers. She moves like a leaf in the breeze; deftly balancing between the dreaded twin stars of fate as she pushes the door to the cage for her beloved Mind Flayer.

Her nails scrape against the metallic door and she grins as she watches it writhe under her intense gaze, like that of a burning eclipse. Its tentacles slither across the back wall and it attempts to flee from its owner as she steps closer with slow, calculated steps while she twirls the icepick in her right hand lackadaisically, embracing the denouement of her pet’s independence—its defiance.

“It seems like you need to be house trained again,” She wistfully sighs and she tilts her head at it retreating, “It’s such a chore. So, sit tight and suffer well for me, Haichong. Maybe this time you’ll remember.”

The Mind Flayer screams at her while she scorches her lessons into its cortex, but she doesn’t relent—Nora never relents.

Reprieve, it begs. Suffer, she howls.

It is a constant cycle, like that of a world coming too close to its patron; it burns and it burns so bright. It’s meant to be painful, the light of the dawn and the twilight at dusk.

Just as the stars implode, and just as she has seen them be born, she will await the day that they take her with them for what she has done, and all she is bound to do, because a lesson learned twice is a lesson never learned at all.

[genderfluidsgetguns]

Gender, Sexuality, Romantic Attraction Tagging Game

How do: You put your gender, sexuality, and romantic attraction down with a line break between them—but, here's the catch, don't use any labels! So, for example, this, "Gender? Agender Sexuality? Lesbian Romantic Attraction? Demiromantic" would be this: "Gender? I hardly know 'er! Sexuality? Girl-kisser Romantic Attraction? My friends, I think"

So, here's mine!

Gender? Yours, fool Sexuality? Yes Romantic Attraction? Only if I know you well enough

TAGS (under the cut, and don't feel obligated to do it!) (and obviously those who I have not tagged can participate too)

@bassguitarinablackt-shirt @gloriousvermin @midnight-thedyke @littlebookworm69 @runwiththerain @cybercerealkiller @ishouldsleepbut @ssavinggrace @i-love-your-father @us-costco-official @scifikode @i-am-an-arson-enthusiast

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Kenji Misumi’s Yotsuya Kaidan (1959)

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Yotsuya Kaidan is Japan’s most popular and frequently adapted ghost story. While the core premise is basically consistent from version to version—penniless ronin Tamiya Iemon falsely accuses his wife of adultery as a pretext to divorce her and marry a wealthier woman, culminating in violence, regret, and vengeance from beyond the grave—the precise details of the narrative vary wildly between cinematic interpretations.

Shintoho’s 1959 film (helmed by Jigoku director Nobuo Nakagawa), for example, is a relentlessly dark (albeit vibrantly colorful) and bleakly cynical morality play; the protagonist is casually cruel and unrepentantly vile, with his grisly fate framed as karmic justice that the audience is intended to enthusiastically applaud. Keisuke Kinoshita’s 1949 duology, on the other hand, depicts Tamiya far more sympathetically; despite his (thoroughly reluctant) complicity in the terrible crimes committed against his spouse, he’s motivated primarily by economic factors beyond his control and the corruptive influence of his slimy, manipulative, verminous “friend,” Naosuke. Indeed, it is implied that the “haunting” is merely psychological—a subconscious manifestation of the central character’s guilty conscience. (Ironically, this “social realism” makes Kinoshita’s movie feel more subversive and revolutionary than Nakagawa’s comparatively lurid and gory effort.)

Kenji Misumi’s radically revisionist spin on the classic tale, however, probably takes the most liberties with the surprisingly malleable source material. Here, Tamiya (played by megastar Kazuo Hasegawa—which goes a long way towards explaining the particular “quirks” in his portrayal) is borderline heroic—an archetypal gruff-yet-chivalrous swordsman cut from the same cloth as Zatoichi and Tange Sazen. He’s also so passive and devoid of agency that he resembles the eponymous “specter” in Hammer’s The Phantom of the Opera, remaining virtually blameless for the (unnecessarily convoluted) series of events that result in his tragic downfall. He’s totally unaware of Naosuke’s devious conspiracy to humiliate, defame, and ultimately murder his wife, and although he still participates in an extramarital affair, the relationship appears to be purely transactional (and may not be overtly sexual; the extent of the “lovers’” physical intimacy is left deliberately ambiguous)—driven to desperation by poverty, he only indulges his mistress’ affections in exchange for money and lavish gifts. The editing, in fact, at one point explicitly juxtaposes his infidelity with that of his sister-in-law, who works part-time as a “waitress” at a “bathhouse” in order to supplement her husband’s meager income. Naturally, Tamiya’s relative “innocence” completely recontextualizes the story’s climax and denouement; whereas the character usually suffers an appropriately shameful, pathetic, undignified demise, Misumi allows him to achieve a measure of redemption via his glorious, honorable, beautiful death—sprawled at the feet of a bronze Buddha statue, wrapped in his wife’s favorite kimono, bathed in heavenly sunlight.

Pulpy, unsubtle, and unapologetically melodramatic even by Daiei’s standards, Yotsuya Kaidan isn’t the “best” adaptation of the original kabuki production, but Misumi’s various audacious departures from the “traditional” formula certainly distinguish it as one of the most interesting, unique, and undeniably compelling. For fans of chanbara and J-horror alike, it is essential viewing.

[paulisded]

The Ledge #588: New Releases (Pt. 1)

Once again, the music gods have put out so much great music these last few weeks that this month's new release show has to be split into two episodes! This week includes glorious returns from Lydia Loveless, The Exbats, Martin Zellar, Jim Jones All Stars, and many more.

But we also have a wonderful, heartfelt tribute to the late Justine Covault. "Sister In Crime" by Jay Allen and The Archcriminals takes a look back at a fabulous artist and label owner who tragically passed away earlier this summer. "This song is dedicated to the memory and written for one of my dearest and closest friends of the last 40 years, Justine Covault", Allen said in a statement. "She was an amazing woman, who meant a lot to so many people and we lost her way too soon. For me she was more than a friend, she was my most ardent supporter, not just in music, but in life, bandmate, roommate, and for the last 7 plus years my co-host along with Tom Baker in our monthly residency, The Mess-Around. Her impact on our little Rock ‘n’ Roll village here in Boston is immeasurable. Not just as an artist with her two bands, Justine and The Unclean and Justine’s Black Threads, but as a supporter, fan, promoter, and most importantly the founder of Red on Red Records, who in 3 short years created a multi-media home for many artists locally and from around the world."

We also have a last minute inclusion in tonight's show when it was announced that Ledge favorite Jeremy Porter and The Tucos have a new single coming out on October 28. The two track release is the tenth single in Jim Rinn's series of Detroit covers singles, and includes a remake of "While You Spiral" by Detroit power poppers The Waxwings.

As for this week's edition of "52 Weeks of Teenage Kicks", it's a recent bandcamp discovery of a single release by an Australian band called CrackWhore. The only info I could find about this band is from their bandcamp bio, "Dragged from the Collingwood sidewalk kicking and screaming, CrackWhore was (Still)Born 2002. Bred from the bowels of Melbourne, CrackWhore deliver nice and sleazy rock n roll." Sounds great to me!

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE SHOW!

1. CrackWhore - Teenage Kicks

2. Lydia Loveless - Toothache

3. Lydia Loveless - Do the Right Thing

4. Lydia Loveless - French Restaurant

5. The Exbats - Riding With Paul

6. Martin Zellar - Head West

7. Chris Mars - We Aint Gonna Play

8. The Replacements - Bastards of Young (Alternate Version)

9. Pixies - Crystal Closet Queen

10. The Breeders - Divine Mascis

11. Jay Allen and The Archcriminals - Sister in Crime

12. The Hi-End - Where Did You Sleep Last Night

13. Cold Expectations - (I Live With) Ghosts

14. Stars Like Ours - A Way To Remember

15. Screeching Weasel - Johnny Are You Queer?

16. Brad Marino - Grin and Bear It

17. Pavid Vermin - Great Party (Gotta Go)

18. Geoff Palmer - In the Grooves

19. Dave Strong - I'm Late (w/Kurt Baker)

20. The Dollyrots - Hot Mom With The Skinny Pants

21. The Dollyrots - A New England

22. THE BEATERSBAND - Saturday Night

23. THE BEATERSBAND - She

24. Jim Jones All Stars - Devil's Kiss

25. Jim Jones All Stars - It's Your Voodoo Working

26. Barrence Whitfield & The Savages - Bad Situation

27. The Nevrotix - Bone Rattle Beat

28. Torpedohead - Nothing To Declare

29. Orbis Max - Anyone's Yesterday

30. Autogramm - WannaBe

31. The Hangmen - Last Time I Saw You

32. Jeremy Porter and the Tucos - Five-Foot-Three and Tiger Eyes

33. Jeremy Porter and the Tucos - While You Spiral

34. Diamond Dogs - Get A Rock N Roll Record

[toastedpopsicle]

fucks me up how beautiful the world is and everyone in in it and how fucked up powerrful people have like doen immessurable harm to so many people who are my freidns and siblings and like there's so much beauty and kindness and immeasurable good in the world and I just get so fucked up that people like there are people who live on this world with it's people and decide that like the best course of action is to destroy and perver that beauty and kindness and weild power to exploit and dstroy and like how is any financial or social power worth looking at this gorgeous tiny little speck of beautiful light in an infitite emptiness and fucking like decideing to fucking destroy it. likte how can anyone with power live with themselves knowing that they're taking something perfect and incredible and beautiful and every beautiful thing that has been born of us and our lives and our incredible accoplmismt and fucking just like. decide that a number on a screen is more importatnt than allf of the incredible realized human people on this world. like there are more complete fully realized human experiences than any of us can conceptialsiosm and less than a single percentage of them have somehow accumulated the power to decide the fate of all of this increiible world and have fucking decicde that their personal grains are worth more than entiree human lives of literally wveryone else on the planet and like I don't belive in hell but that must be what hell is. thinking you're the single most important perons of billions. seeing the entire intrerconnected sytmthem of life and reality and deciding that t hyour

'e the single central point of all of it and you deservbe to decide the fates and lives of *billions* of other lives *hundres of billions of other lives* like every siungle one of of is a victim of single individuals with more power than any single being should ever have and like it fuicks me up that that's just happenings perople are letting it happe npeople are helping it happen when tyhey're allso victims of it. like therees not rational reason to belive in the sovrteignty or rights of these mosterous abberations who have deastroyed countless couinteless counteless lives and live in the upmost peak of compfort and luxury and like it just fills me bile and sickness and feels liks a perversion of the ideo of humanity like we''re the image of god and the fact that anyone can be so powerful and systemically cruel and look at humans and see pest s and vermin when even cockroaches are one of god perfect beautiful creations and deserve their slice of this glorious incredible irreplacable world that is for us all to share and shepard and protect and there are just poeple on it who think they're more important than anything else on this planet when we're all the same fucking miraculous life-slime formed into different shapes. and like even when and if you belive in alien life we're theonly earthlings and the only humans and we're a tiny little spark of somethingf incredibel and beautiful and anything anything that evven suggests at fucking extinguinshting that spark should be reviled and destroyed because that's t he only evil. seeing the tiny little spark in the vast emptyness that is the beauty of life and decinding that you['re more impoatant than that.