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bingoboingobongo · 1 year

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task force 141 + home decorations

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, John Price

Warnings: mentions of the dismal housing market

A/N: should probably be studying for physics but GAHDHDHHSHS thanks so much to everyone for ur kind messages im feeling so much better

kyle "gaz" garrick:

ok so i know i said these were home decorations

but guys let's be real

u really think gaz has a house?

in this economy?

nah

he's got a nice apartment in london tho

he rents it out when he's on missions

but even though he has no house he still decorates the inside

plus the building always sets up lights along the roof and sidewalks

but enough dilly dallying onto gaz fr now

as we've established he's a bit of a nerd so he likes finding christmas versions of figurines and putting them around his place

if he can't find one he'll just smack a santa hat or elf ears on it and call it a day

he also keeps an elf on the shelf hidden around his apartment in case his younger siblings ever swing by

he'll set up string lights along the mantle

but since he has so much color from all the figurines he prefers a solid color light like white or maybe blue or if he's feeling crazy

he gets the biggest tree that can fit in his apartment which is still pretty small unfortunately

but he decks it out with all kinds of nerdy ornaments and figurines

his family also makes ornaments together every year so a lot of his ornaments are from that

if it's not feeling too cramped he'll put in tinsel and banners

but he likes to keep it at least a little classy

he doesn't want it to look like christmas vomited all over his house

john "soap" mactavish:

soap does want it to look like christmas vomited all over his house

im not gonna lie i can't tell if soap has a house or an apartment

on one hand i just feel like a house would be more reasonable at his age

but on the other hand idk if soap's mature enough to have a house

actually imma be fr idek how old soap is

but i could see him inheriting a nice house from his family

yeah let's go with that

he loves to go ham with christmas decorations

the outside always has all kinds of colorful lights lining the sidewalk, roof, and fence

and yes they're multicolored and flash on and off

he has the icicle lights for his fence because he thinks they look cool

and he has a bunch of inflatables of santa, the reindeer, the presents, etc.

onto the inside

pretty much the same as the outside ngl

lots of lights along the stairs and the walls

tinsel, banners, wreaths galore

and ofc he gets the biggest tree that will fit in his house

and he loves real trees

and then he decorates that with all kinds of ornaments

half of them are sentimental half of them he bought at walmart

he also has the candy cane lights down his sidewalk idk why i feel the need to add that but i do

simon "ghost" riley:

ok so ghost's decorations surprisingly do exist

it's not so much that it makes him feel festive

but when he was a kid he loved walking down the street and seeing all the lights so he decorates his house so that another kid can have that feeling

he likes the classic look of white string lights all around

so he'll just line his roof and sidewalks with that

but other than that that's about it for the inside

the inside is pretty sad too im ngl

he has a tiny little christmas tree tho

it's not big enough to put any presents under

but gaz always gifts him ornaments so he hangs those up along with a tiny star

it's pretty sweet ngl

tbh ghost's entire house is usually really empty

part of it's bc he just moved out from an apartment bc it was getting annoying having to pay rent when he wasn't even there

lord knows he's too paranoid to sublet

and another part is just that he really has nothing much to put in his house

so it's like overwhelmingly empty except that one spot with the tree

john price:

ok so i feel like price definitely lives in a cabin in the wilderness

what can i say he's living his 'little house on the prairie' dreams

except it's not a prairie but u get the idea

so he doesn't really decorate the outside because he doesn't want to draw attention and besides it's not like anyone will see

but on the inside it's nice and quant and christmasy

he has the fireplace on like 24/7

and he lines the mantle with christmas lights and tinsel

he likes to put sprigs of holly around his house because he thinks they're pretty

and of course you know he cuts down his own christmas tree

he doesn't line it with ornaments tho because after christmas he chops it up for firewood and it's too much of a hassle in his opinion

rodolfo "rudy" parra:

okay it shouldn't be a surprise that rudy loves decorating

honestly in a weird way i can see him still living with his family

but not in a like discord mod way in a "he loves his family so much" kind of way

plus it's just financially stable let's be real

again having a house in this economy?

idk man

actually no i lied im a liar

rudy has his own apartment but he returns home for christmas

anyways he always helps his family decorate

they put up lights along the outside of the house

and ofc they have a fake tree they put up too

i think rudy and his family always make a wreath together every year to hang on their door

idek if that's a tradition but i like it

actually i feel like rudy's parents would be pretty religious

so they definitely have a nativity scene along the mantle or something

and rudy simultaneously gives younger and older sibling energy

so i have a solution

i feel rudy grew up with an older brother and sister

and so they both had kids so now rudy has a bunch of nieces and nephews

and he loves them more than anything

and so there's so many stockings on the mantle

alejandro vargas:

alejandro's decorating style is actually more similar to ghost's i think

he really likes the classy look of white lights

so like ghost he goes for a bright white exterior

but he brings some soul into the exterior

alejandro actually prefers fake trees

he doesn't like the way real trees shed

plus it's just a hassle to take care of in his opinion

he has a lot of ornaments from rudy's family

and a lot of ornaments from target or something equivalent

he also spends a lot of time making sure that the tree is decorated as aesthetically pleasing as possible

oh yeah and ofc alejandro has a house

he is the king of making smart financial decisions

even in this economy

he likes using holly, mistletoe, honestly all the christmas plants in his house

and pine cones?

don't even get him started man

he lives for those things it's insane

you could be chilling at his house in august and find a pine cone left behind from christmas

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aristocraticvision · 2 years

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Chapter 53: Advancing the Agenda

Just as Pompey had driven the pirate scourge from Our Sea in record time, so too was Aulus Gabinius quick to move on to the next phase of Pompey’s plan – which was to wrest command of Rome’s eastern legions away from Lucullus.

Again, Gabinius used his powers as a tribune of the plebs to summon witnesses to the rostra to testify before the popular assembly. These witnesses painted a grim picture, describing the war against King Mithridates of Pontus in frightful terms.

One soldier testified that some of Lucullus’ legions, unpaid for years, had simply refused to leave their winter camps. The poverty of these fighting men, of course, stood in stark contrast to the immense wealth of their aristocratic commander, who had shipped back wagonloads of booty from the campaign.

So great was Lucullus' wealth that he had bought an entire hill outside the gates of Rome and was building a great palace there. Gabinius next subpoenaed Lucullus’ architects and bade them show their extravagant drawings before the people. As a result, the name Lucullus quickly became synonymous with outrageous luxury and excess.

In December, Gabinius’ term as tribune ended. Yet he was replaced by yet another of Pompey’s creatures, Caius Manilius, who wasted no time in furthering his master’s interests. Manilius immediately proposed a law granting command of the war against Mithridates to Pompey – as well as the governance of the provinces of Asia, Cilicia and Bithynia.

Any hope Cicero might have held to remain neutral on the issue vanished when Gabinius came to call, bearing a message from Pompey. The general asked Cicero to support the lex Manilia in all its provisions – an action that would place an even larger target on his back when it came to the aristocratic boni, or “good men.”

Unfortunately, Cicero had little choice but to comply. He worked on his speech for days, carefully crafting each word. Since it would be his first truly political speech from the rostra, it would be crucial to make a good showing – despite his personal feelings.

While Catulus and Hortensius spoke passionately against the measure in the senate – even going so far as attacking Cicero himself – as patricians, they were barred from directly addressing the plebeian assembly. Yet that was of no consequence. All of Rome knew their arguments by heart, as they had not changed since their opposition of the lex Gabinia.

As such, Cicero couldn’t help but make sport of them when he finally addressed the people.

“So what would my boni friends say of this?” he asked, rhetorically. “As always, they would agree – if any one man were to be given the supreme command, it should be Pompey, the most able general Rome has to offer! Yet they also argue that, despite his ability, no one man should bear that responsibility! That no one merits such a command – for it is far too much power to place in the hands of any Roman!”

“Yet that line of thinking has already been proven dismally unwise, has it not?” Cicero continued. “For let us face the facts – had Rome listened to the bleating of these ‘good men,’ Our Sea would still be swarming with pirates, would it not? So I say, let Pompey Magnus do to King Mithridates and his allies what he has already done with the pirates. Let him wipe them from the face of the earth!”

The crowd roared, and Cicero left the rostra to thunderous applause as Manilius stepped forward to call for a vote. Within a few hours, The lex Manilia passed overwhelmingly.

Thus had Cicero surmounted another great obstacle in his career. Yet now, he was hated by the boni more than ever.

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#ts4 story #ts4 simblr #simblr #ts4 historical #historical simblr #ancient rome #marcus tullius cicero #serving Pompey #the lex Manilia #chapter 53 #advancing the agenda #another victory over the boni

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thetoxicgamer · 1 year

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The Lord of the Rings Gollum devs “deeply regret” its dismal reception

Developer Daedalic Entertainment has published an official apology for The Lord of the Rings Gollum following the fantasy game's overwhelmingly unfavourable reviews from all quarters. According to PCGamesN's own Lord of the Rings Gollum review, the game is utterly disappointing and fails to turn its admirable ideas into anything enjoyable or valuable. It appears that other reviews have had a similar result. The Lord of the Rings Gollum Steam reviews are'mostly bad,' and the game has a low Metacritic rating. “We acknowledge and deeply regret that the game did not meet the expectations we set for ourselves or our dedicated community,” the response from Daedalic reads, “Please accept our sincere apologies for any disappointment this may have caused. Our goal as a studio, and as passionate The Lord of the Rings fans, has always been to tell a compelling and immersive story-driven adventure. Crafting a story with Middle-earth as our playground has been the greatest honor – and the biggest challenge we have faced so far.” I’ve said it many times before and I want to reiterate it once again: making games is hard. I’m sure there were plenty of time pressures and deadlines that had to be met, and it’s never nice to see a game fall short of its mark, because the people behind it are, in almost every case, working as hard as possible to make something great. Nevertheless, there’s no avoiding the fact that spending your money or time on a game that leaves you feeling cold is an unquestionable shame. Daedalic says it’s hard at work on updates, and is “committed to providing you with patches that will allow you to enjoy the game to its fullest potential.” It adds, “We will continue to keep you updated on our progress and provide transparent communication regarding the upcoming patches and improvements. Your passion and dedication as players has been the driving force behind our determination to make things right.” Hopefully the team is able to resolve some of the more notable issues, but Gollum’s problems extend beyond just its bugs and minor issues; they run deeper within some of its core design. There are good ideas in there, such as Smeagol’s inner conflict with his alter ego, but even those feel half-baked, and not in a way that you can easily just pop back in the oven to finish off. If you’ve been left wanting something else to cleanse your palate, take a browse through the best RPG games, or the best stealth games if you’re feeling sneaky. Alternatively, look forward to the biggest and best upcoming games for the rest of 2023, and perhaps you’ll find something truly precious. Read the full article

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whitneywrites · 3 years

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Words Associated With Sadness

anguish - severe mental or physical pain or suffering

blue - (of a person or mood) melancholy, sad, or depressed

brooding - showing deep unhappiness of thought

broken-hearted - overwhelmed by grief or disappointment

cast down - feel upset or disappointed

cheerless - gloomy; depressing

crestfallen - sad and disappointed

crushed - feeling overwhelmingly disappointed or embarrassed

dejected - sad and depressed; dispirited

depressed - (of a person) in a state of general unhappiness or despondency

despair - loss of hope; hopelessness

despondent - in low spirits from loss of hope or courage

disconsolate - without consolation or comfort; unhappy

doleful - expressing sorrow; mournful

dolorous - feeling or expressing great sorrow or distress

down - unhappy or depressed

downcast - (of a person) feeling despondent

downhearted - discouraged; in low spirits

down in the dumps - gloomy; unhappy; sad; in low spirits

down in the mouth - (of a person or their expression) unhappy; dejected

dreary - dull, bleak, and lifeless; depressing

droopy - lacking strength or spirit

forlorn - pitifully sad and abandoned or lonely

gloomy - causing distress or depression

glum - looking or feeling dejected; morose

grief - deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone’s death.

heartbroken - (of a person) suffering from overwhelming distress; very upset

heart-rending - causing great sadness or distress

heartsick - despondent, typically from grief or loss of love

heartsore - grieving; heartsick

heavy-hearted - feeling depressed or melancholy

hopeless - feeling or causing despair about something

inconsolable - (of a person or their grief) not able to be comforted or alleviated

joyless - not giving or feeling any pleasure or satisfaction; grim or dismal

low - a state of depression or low spirits

low-spirited - sad and despondent; depressed

lugubrious - looking or sounding sad and dismal

melancholic - feeling or expressing pensive sadness

miserable - (of a person) wretchedly unhappy or uncomfortable

mournful - feeling, expressing, or inducing sadness, regret, or grief

tragic - causing or characterized by extreme distress or sorrow

sorrow - a feeling of deep distress caused by loss, disappointment, or other misfortune suffered by oneself or others

woebegone - sad or miserable in appearance

woeful - characterized by, expressive of, or causing sorrow or misery

wretched - (of a person) in a very unhappy or unfortunate state

#word list #words #vocabulary #writing advice #writing help #writing tip #rp writing #rpc #rpt

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nomadthor · 3 years

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PROTECTOR - II - BUCKY BARNES

this is part two! click here to read the first part

prompt: the reader and bucky try to escape a sticky situation, bucky protects the reader at every available opportunity words: 1734 warnings: mentions of death, violence/gunfights, blood, angst, hurt/comfort notes: gender neutral reader

if you have any ideas or requests please send them to my ask so I can write them!

What you judged to be approximately a quarter of an hour, you apprehensively sat with Bucky’s hand cradling yours: you both awaited in strained quietude until you presumed the coast was clear after a stretch of secure silence. Despite his hesitant and disquieting demeanour, he seemed indifferent yet the elusive curl in the corner of his flushed lips told you the contrary. “We should get going now,” Bucky hoarsely commanded as he let your grip slip from his before he toiled to stand on and support his own body weight but he contrived with a throaty growl nonetheless. He briefly glanced at his bullet-ridden phone as its technical innards blistered from the globular apertures which still had fragments of the shrapnel embedded in the splintered plastic; how if only luck would have been on your side you could’ve called for help.

“Do you need a hand?” He softly questioned with delicate eyes as he presented his hand once more, you’d be being dishonest to yourself if you affirmed that you didn’t relish his solicitous, protective and balmy hands that made you feel secure and rid most of the anxiety and fret. You felt guilty and disinclined to acknowledge these feelings since ultimately you were just coworkers. “I’m good,” you muttered and heaved yourself from the floor, abruptly being reminded of the absence of room as the pair of you were now rubbing shoulders. The close proximity you both shared both filled you with satisfaction and compunction as you were anticipating the early arrival of sprouting feelings that would soon doubtlessly become unrequited; it was bittersweet. Something changed in that room and you don’t know what it was.

Frailly, he twisted the knob of the door and cautiously pulled it towards you both after becoming a human blockade as he shoehorned himself between you and the expanse of dubiety. He carefully peered around the corner with an attentive survey making sure to detect any almost imperceptible movements. With a swift flex of his head, he motioned for you to follow him as the set of you immediately scanned the conflict tarnished building for any means of self-defence: crimson stains and defunct cadavers besmirched the shattered debris rooted floor. Bucky trounced the pain from his laceration as his stagger shifted into a succinct strut with an acute limp. He hurriedly strode towards an adrift pistol with scarlet blemishes coating the finish before he checked the magazine to authenticate the unconsumed ammunition. “Take this,” he instructed unwittingly appearing abrasive but you were habituated to his inflexion and his adventitious gesture of compassion countermanded his sternness.

Hesitantly you took the weapon from his hand unsure whether you should have been first priority due to the circumstance of you not having profound wounds daubing your limbs. Bucky quickly discerned your concerned delay before he reassured you, “I’m a super soldier, I can manage,” he dryly quipped with a minute grin as he failed to find another weapon with any bullets left before he lead the way down the unsettled and dismal corridor, “besides, I trust you more than I trust myself.” Evidently, he was being sincere but you were taken aback by his forthright commendation as your conversations were plainly incisive and condensed; he was slowly unravelling to become exceedingly personable, he was just restricting this part from you whether it was deliberate or not.

He continued to escort you throughout the building acting as a human shield to protect you from any unexpected oncoming bombardment, although you didn’t refrain from keeping a close eye on your six. Bucky regularly and consistently checked on you throughout the whole ordeal and although admittedly, it was growing to become increasingly irritating it made you surge with appreciation and feel deeply indebted towards his consonant trouble. “I can handle myself,” you jested lightheartedly as you both approached a doorway and began to descend the concrete steps. “I know, that’s why I gave you the gun.” He retorted wittily as his heavy lumbering footsteps echoed through the towering washed-out stairwell. The descent was unnerving, to say the least, it put you at a monumental disadvantage due to anyone who would waylay from the upper floors would have a quality vantage point; they would metaphorically and quite literally have the higher ground. Despite this, your venture was thankfully undisturbed and you set forth to the final few rooms before you could evacuate the building and retreat to definite safety.

As you approached the final room a rogue bullet whizzed past your head, the brisk air skimming your head. The crack of the bullet as it became lodged in the wall beside you was devastatingly loud as it immediately pummeled your eardrums inevitably causing them to ring overwhelmingly. Bucky grabbed your arm and impulsively pulled you behind a counter for cover, unintentionally yanking too hard albeit with good intention. Nevertheless, you had worse things to worry about. “Where was that from?” You questioned as you clasped the gun firmly in your hands ready to tug the trigger if need be. The pair of you winced at the bullets that proceeded to soar just inches above your head as they became fixed in the now splintering walls, plastering chipping off and sinking to the floor. “On our six.” Bucky relayed as the gunfire paused which signified they’d either taken cover or needed to reload their magazine. You took this chance to peer over the ceramic tile countertop as you just barely caught the glimpse of a figure before the appearance and the shine of a metallic assault rifle instinctively cause you to duck before the bullets continued to rain once more.

The incapacitating sound of the bullets pummeling the walls and any surrounding surface ceased just about any communication as you couldn’t hear his voice over the resounding extermination. Systematically the gunshots stopped periodically as you peeked once more to return the fire which ultimately led to a drawn-out scrimmage where the winner was the one who eventually could land a shot. Alas, your gun eventually dry-fired as it choked due to the preordained fact it had run out of bullets. All that left your mouth were a string of curses as you angrily threw the futile firearm to the ground out of frustration. Your attention soon turned to Bucky who impetuously looked you up and down with dismayed eyes.

Dense and prolonged footsteps traipsed closer, sending jolts of panic through your body with every step. You couldn’t help but just stare at each other out of sheer panic and confessedly the thought of him being there with you was comforting and slightly eased the tension. He nervously bit his lip as he pondered, scrambling to think of a plan so you didn’t both become victims of the barrel of the gun that was leisurely parading closer. Bucky was already incapacitated with an injured leg so this was a major disadvantage but coming face to face with sudden death: anything was worth a try. He gave you a final longing look before hoisting himself above the counter with a struggle and promptly hurling hefty punches as the opponent made triumphant attempts at blocking them before powerfully pressing the butt of the gun between his eyes. Bucky’s neck contorted backwards as his whole body painfully and forcefully propelled to the floor headfirst with a belligerent thump. What could’ve easily knocked someone unconscious merely left him with obscured vision as he crawled backwards towards you.

The vermillion began to seep from his head as it left a sizeable gash on his eyebrow. Bucky’s head swayed as he barricaded himself between you and the formidable stranger who was glancing down the iron sight with a wicked grin, only doing it to savour the fear and panic, he elongated the process. Bucky looked absolutely woeful presumably thinking you were disappointed and displeased with his final efforts. The eye contact you made was beyond intimate and familiar. It was too late to do anything with the barrel of the gun pointed right at you, any sudden movements and you were unmistakenly dead. Bucky hopelessly and desperately embraced you as he used his hand to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. Exposed to all danger, his back was facing the gunman as he was willing to catch any bullets for you.

A sudden bang caused you to jump in your skin but was attenuated by Bucky’s secure and caring clutch. Staying nestled for a few seconds longer, the quietude became eerily bemusing as you pulled back from his embrace but arms still lingering on you. His eyes were wide and bewildered but relieved, they immediately scanned your body for any punctures before he even gazed down at his own body. He swivelled his cricked neck to witness the gunman face down and a bullet wound centred in his chest. A thud of a door being booted open as it slammed against the wall with force, you’d never felt so grateful in your life to see the familiar face of Sam who examined the room, panic-stricken, to find you both. He stared for a while at your clutched bodies, “come on love birds we’ve got to go,” he jested completely destroying the tension and morbidity in the air. Bucky gently turned his gaze back to you as he examined your face looking for any reaction out of Sam’s statement. Maybe he was looking for your revulsion or a snide remark but your silence spoke volumes as you slipped out of his arms and helped him up.

“Let’s get you patched up,” Sam composedly stated in regards to Bucky’s blood-engulfed leg, and the streak of red that flowed down his forehead. “How did you find us?” Bucky confusedly questioned as he approached Sam, bolstering his neck which probably was going to accompany an agonising concussion. “I traced your signal before it went offline, sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” Sam apologised as the pair continued to the exit of the building as you followed, lingering just behind. Completely ignoring the words that were being spoken to him from Sam, Bucky turned around and shot you a gentle gaze, his eyes soft and tender as he tried to analyse you again. Ambiguous as to whatever he was looking for he surely was going to get his answer sooner or later. What brings people closer than desperately hugging each other at death’s door?

= masterlist =

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animebw · 3 years

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Short Reflection: Summer 2021 Anime

Let’s be honest, Summer 2021 was a break that anime fans desperately needed. Winter and Spring were so stuffed to the gills with fantastic shows, it was impossible to keep up with them all. Anime has been overwhelmingly good lately, to the point it’s almost too much of a good thing. The pressure to keep up with everything worth watching in the past couple seasons means it’s almost certain a few worthwhile shows slipped through the cracks because there just wasn’t enough time. So it’s a bit of a relief that Summer has turned out to be such a low-ebb season. Thank god I only have to worry about a few shows that are worth checking out! Thank god so much of this season has been disappointing and can easily be cast off to the dustbins of history! After how incredible Winter and Spring were, we needed a season that was just plain mediocre to decompress. So sit back, relax, and let me walk you through the few anime this season that are worth a look.

That Time I Got Reincarnated As a Slime Season 2 Part 2: 3.5/10

At this point, it’s time to admit that the slime show is dead on its feet. Whatever spark of life it once had back when it started is gone, and it’s never coming back. The characters are flat and boring, the politics are hackneyed and overwrought, and it keeps pretending to have stakes only to solve everything instantly with half-baked bullshit. It’s honestly baffling how averse this show is to the idea of dramatic tension, how regularly it undermines every last attempt to make you think that something, anything, might pose the smallest challenge to Rimuru’s OP isekai protagonist self-insert masturbation powers. At least when Legend of the Galactic Heroes spent six straight episodes on political discussions, you knew there were actually gonna be meaningful conseqeunces when the bullets finally started flying. And at least those politics were more complex than a fifth-graders idea of “cool fantasy worldbuilding” shoved down your throat in a single indigestible chunk. The only reason I rate the second part of this season higher than the first is because of Veldora, who is easily the show’s most entertaining character by a country mile. Every time he’s on screen is a moment worth celebrating in this otherwise brain-dead piece of lavishly produced pig slop.

The Case Study of Vanitas: 4.5/10

Is it just me, or is anime on a steampunk vampire kick lately? Last season gave us Mars Red and Joran, and now we’ve got this tale of Parisian bloodsuckers fighting cursed beings, based on a manga from the author of the similarly Victorian campfest Pandora Hearts. Unfortunately, while Bones’ lavish production values are a step far above Xebec’s dismal treatment of that latter show, The Case Study of Vanitas only exacerbates its predecessor’s flaws. It moves way too slowly, the world feels underbaked, and it can’t quite find the sweet spot between goofy camp and high melodrama it’s so clearly shooting for. And whatever charms can be found amidst its deliciously gothic set design and action scenes, they’re quickly swamped by one of the most distasteful protagonists I’ve seen in recent memory. Say what you want about Pandora Hearts, at least it doesn’t have a prominent subplot where the main character repeatedly assaults a woman to somehow make her fall in love with him. Jeanne deserves so much better than this crap.

My Next Life as a Villainess Season 2: 4.5/10

What happens to a story when it outlives its premise and keeps going anyway? Is it able to continue justifying its existence, or does it lose the spark that made it special in the first place? In the case of Villainess Season 2, sadly, the results are far from promising. Now that we’ve “cleared” the game and wrapped up Catarina trying to avoid her characters’ doom flags, the story has lost all sense of direction. It aimlessly wanders from one slice-of-life scenario to the next, repeating several beats from season 1 along the way and coming up with few new ideas of its own. And that might be acceptable if this were a show with a truly iconic cast who are just fun to watch hang out and shoot the shit. Unfortunately, without the plot’s tension backing them up, it quickly becomes clear that most of Catarina’s harem is just kind of... bland and boring. There’s nowhere near enough personality and chemistry between them to sustain a show without an overarching plot to drive them. And that causes some serious issues when this season finally tries to bring some romantic progression to the table, resulting in a series of confessions and kisses that are more creepy and uncomfortable than enjoyably saucy. I really don’t want to be this down on a genuine bisexual harem. but outside of a few lovely moments scattered throughout this season- episode 8, in particular, might be the show’s best episode of all- I don’t know if it’s got any gas left in the tank.

I’m Standing on a Million Lives Season 2: 5/10

Is there anything more frustrating than a show that’s almost good? I’m Standing on a Million Lives took me by surprise last year as one of the few modern isekai to genuinely excite me, with smart writing and clever twists on the expected formula. Its characters were strong, its worldbuilding was engaging, and the protagonist’s arc toward self-improvement felt like a rebuttal of all the many misanthropic power fantasies saturating the market. By all rights, this show should’ve been hailed as an exemplar of the genre, maybe not Re:Zero tier but pretty damn respected all the same. Unfortunately, there was one small problem, a problem this season exacerbates even further: the anime adaptation is ass. Not only is the animation itself barely competent at the best of times, the seams where the story’s been cut for time are so visible that even I, having not read the source material, can tell where things are being rushed. Barely an episode goes by without at least one stupid, badly executed moment that pulls you out of the experience, and this season’s arcs were particularly littered with dumb contrivances. If only this property had been given to a studio with the talent and resources to bring it to life, this could have been something truly special. But no, pandering garbage like Shield Hero and Mushoku Tensei get lavish budgets and huge marketing pushes while actually entertaining, challenging isekai are left to beg for crumbs. And people wonder why this genre is so fucking broken.

Magia Record Season 2: 5/10

At this point, I’ve made peace with Magia Record. It’s nowhere near as good as the original Madoka, and it was probably never going to be even if the adaptation wasn’t such an obvious hack job. What it does have in its favor, though, is some of the most jaw-dropping action sakuga in the entire franchise. Season 1 looked pretty decent in its own right, but with season 2′s reduced episode count and increasingly battle-heavy plot, there’s at least one animation cut in every episode that absolutely knocked my socks off. Some of them are even a match for Rebellion’s movie budget! Couple that with the plot finally kicking into overdrive, the plodding slog of a narrative giving way to propulsive forward momentum, welcome returns from every member of the OG cast, and some of the first genuinely affecting character beats this anime’s managed to hit- seriously, Tsuruno gets more character in the final episode of this season than she did in the entirety of season 1- and Magia Record managed to actually excite me this time around. It’s still hampered by the bloated worldbuilding and underwritten arcs from the first season, but it’s a step up in every conceivable way, and I’ll be damned if I’m not looking forward to seeing how this all ends. Maybe the final season will go a step further and manage to be overall good!

The Idaten Deities Know Only Peace: 6/10

The Idaten Deities Know Only Peace is what you get when you take your standard-issue dumb shonen battle manga and stick it in a seinen magazine. It’s a Dragonball Z-style meathead punch-em-up where immortal beings beat the snot out of monstrous demons with crazy superpowers, only with way more blood, the gruesomeness amped up to Takashi Miike levels, everybody having sex, and edgy rape and pedophilia jokes. In other words, it’s trash. But it’s surprisingly entertaining trash, provided you can overlook how terribly it treats its female characters (because good lord, this show loves treating assault as tittilation). There’s some genuinely cool worldbuilding behind the seemingly simple gods vs demons concept, the plot progresses in unexpected ways that keep you unsure what’s gonna happen next, and Mappa’s fantastic production brings it all to life with an almost Jojo-esque flair. Plus, something about taking your standard anime violent slapstick and amping it up to R-rated levels of carnage really does make for a fantastic running joke. I certainly can’t recommend this show to everyone- seriously, if you are at all squeamish about rape or pedophilia being depicted badly in media, stay the fuck away- but there’s enough treasure buried in this trash that I’m glad I watched it.

Re-Main: 6.5/10

At first glance, Re-Main looks like your standard-issue pretty boys sports anime, water polo addition. Start watching it, though, and you very quickly realize that... wel, yes, it’s a standard-issue pretty boys sports anime, but it’s also filtered through a Jun Maeda-esque lens of surprisingly grounded melodrama. The main character, Minato, has suffered a head injury that’s made him forgot the past three years; he doesn’t remember playing water polo or any of the friends and teammates he played with. And the show takes the time to portray the reality of that amnesia, showing him slowly re-learn what his life has become and consider what path he wants to follow now. Even as it turns its attention to hitting all the typical sports anime beats- building a new team, teaching the amateurs the ropes, giving every central character a motivation and struggle related to playing water polo- it keeps finding new and interesting story beats to hit with Minato’s amnesia. There’s a massive turning point about halfway through the show that’s so audacious it really shouldn’t work, but god damn if Re-Main didn’t actually pull it off. On top of that, the writing is crisp, the characters are fun, and it know exactly how to hit all the tropes you expect from the genre. Sure, there’s shamefully little actual water polo in this water polo anime, but as a fun-sized snack to pass the time with a few genuine surprises up its sleeve, it was well worth a watch.

To Your Eternity: 6.5/10

It’s nothing short of agonizing what happened with To Your Eternity. Its first episode was about as perfect as premieres get, flawlessly setting the stage for an emotionally devastating tale of an immortal being’s journey to self-actualization through loss and love. But from that stellar starting point, it just gradually got worse with every arc. The story grew more bloated, the characters grew less interesting, and the slow march of its tearjerking moments started to feel more pointless than moving. And it all comes crashing down in the final arc, seven straight episodes of terrible writing and even worse production values that drive To Your Eternity into a fucking ditch. It is baffling how bad this series gets in its back half, to the point that incredible first episode barely feels like the same show anymore. Thankfully, its final episode is also incredible; in fact, it may well be the show’s strongest, most emotionally powerful episode yet. So at the very least, I remain hopeful that season 2 can continue that upward trajectory and restore what made To Your Eternity so special to begin with. If it can’t, though, then this show’s fall from grace will be a far greater tragedy than anything within its fiction.

Kageki Shoujo: 6.5/10

The biggest problem with Kageki Shoujo is that it’s a show split in two. The manga it’s based on originally started publication in a seinen magazine, but finished that run and switched over to a shoujo magazine after less than twenty chapters. And you can feel that shift even if you haven’t read the manga, because this show’s first five episodes are radically different from the tone and focus it eventually ends up taking. Yes, they’re still about a Takarazuka-inspired theater school and the young girls attending it with dreams of becoming the top star, but they also dive headfirst into a whole mess of thorny social issues like stalking, pedophilia, eating disorders, and predatory idol culture. It’s a powerful fucking start, marrying hilarious character antics with gut-wrenching Serious Topics(tm) in a way that would make Mari Okada proud. And then it reaches the end of its initial seinen run, and it almost instantly abandons those more weighty topics in favor of becoming a more straightforward theater school show. Still a good theater school show, but nowhere near as electrifying as that opening stretch. I still highly recommend Kageki Shoujo; it’s got some damn fantastic direction, and the odd-couple chemistry between its two leads is endlessly delightful. Just don’t expect it to maintain the power of those first few episodes as it goes on.

Fena Pirate Princess (Incomplete): 7/10?

If you asked me when Fena first started airing, I would’ve called it a shoe-in for one of the season’s best anime. A grand sense of adventure on the high seas, a lush production that hasn’t wavered a bit across its run, some of the best damn animated slapstick I’ve ever seen, and a story about freaking pirate ninjas? How could this not be one of the most ridiculously fun anime of the year? Now, though... I’m not so sure. It hasn’t lost any of its endearingly corny charms, but the longer it goes on, the more I’m frustrated with how it treats its titular protagonist. Fena is introduced as a spunky go-getter who’s constantly fighting impossible odds to pursue her dreams, even when she gets in over her head. She’s an instantly lovable heroine, the kind of ditzy-yet-undaunted wunderkind who brightens every scene just by existing in it. So it’s frustrating to see the story continuously strip her of more and more agency, turning her from a self-motivated character to a destined Chosen One who gets dragged around by the plot more than she actively engages in it. All she’s gotten to do lately is be told exposition about how special she is, get captured, get pushed around by other characters, and scream for her male love interest to save her. She’s barely an active agent in her own story anymore! I hope the show’s final stretch finally gives her cool shit to do again, because there’s so much to love about Fena Pirate Princess, and I’d hate for such a black mark to mar its charms.

Sonny Boy: 7.5/10

So, I don’t get Sonny Boy. I’m not sure it’s possible to get Sonny Boy. And yet, I’m pretty sure I love it regardless? Sitting at the stylistic intersection of Yuasa, Ikuhara, and Serial Experiments Lain, this show is a surreal, at times nigh-incomprehensible dreamscape journey, following a group of middle school students who one day get whisked away from their world and set adrift through a series of parallel universes, each with their own increasingly byzantine rules. It’s hard to pin down exactly what it’s saying, but it’s definitely saying something, and the philosophical puzzle it presents for the audience to unravel makes for one of the most engaging anime-watching experiences I’ve had in a long time. I have never seen another show this dedicated to capturing the feeling of being lost in a transient dream. I have never seen writing so good at capturing intensely specific feelings while simultaneously being completely open to interpretation. I have never seen animation put to such experimental, abstract use in storytelling, submerging and synthesizing so many different thematic concepts through visuals alone. Shingo Natsume has created a true art-house masterpiece here, and I can’t wait to see what new projects he’ll cook up next. Until then, though, you deserve to check out Sonny Boy for yourself. I can’t promise you’ll understand it, but I expect you’ll end up thinking about it for many years to come.

The Aquatope on White Sand (1st Cour): 8.5/10

I shouldn’t be surprised by how good Aquatope ended up being. It’s made by the same creative team behind 2018′s criminally underrated Iroduku, the show that set a new gold standard for portrayals of magical realism in anime. And yet, this tale of two girls working at an Okinawa aquarium on the verge of closing is even better than I expected. It’s a tender, gut-wrenching tale of facing down the end of a lifelong dream, how to move on when life diverts from the path you thought you were walking and you suddenly have to build yourself up from scratch again. As someone who’s currently struggling with paralysis in getting my own future goals up and moving, the fight to keep Gama Gama Aquarium alive struck me on a level I was in no way prepared for, and it all builds to a climax that left me sobbing on the floor. Add to that a cast full of endearing characters and a typically lush, lived-in production from PA Works, and you have the recipe for a true slice-of-life masterpiece. The first cours alone could’ve been the entire show and it would still be a triumph; the fact that the story gets to continue after what seemed like a natural stopping point only makes me all the more excited. How will this story’s second half expand on the first half’s fantastic foundation? When will the hinted-at magical realism elements finally step into the spotlight? Is it ever gonna grow the balls to let Fuuka and Kukuru actually be gay for each other? Eh, probably not that last one, but Aquatope is fantastic enough that even without explicit yuri, it’s still far and away the best anime of summer 2021. If it’s slipped under your radar, check it out now; I promise, you won’t regret it.

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dearqueerdeers · 4 years

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Okay I just feel like I’ve gotta say this. I really don’t like the fics/posts that assert that Joe and Nicky have trauma from their time spent in the lab. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love the writing, I love the level of thought and detail put into it, I love the willingness to explore topics such as trauma. I mean absolutely no disrespect towards anyone who does choose to write about Joe/Nicky lab trauma, it just really really rubs me the wrong way.

For starters, Joe & Nicky aren’t shown to canonically struggle with trauma from previous experiences. All of the immortals get shot/injured pretty regularly — events that would normally come with a fair amount of trauma for a mortal. But they’ve also grown accustomed to it.

The main reason that trauma fics/posts rub me the wrong way is the implication that trauma is something that never goes away. Joe and Nicky have been alive for ~900 years, killing each other and dying on the regular. When you step back and think of just how much pain these men have experienced over the years... it’s not pleasant. But it also strikes me as overwhelmingly pessimistic to assert that even after hundreds of years, even after likely hundreds of thousands of injuries and deaths and sufferings, that Joe & Nicky would be left with trauma after their relatively non-violent experiences in the lab.

The movie, in my opinion, establishes that all of the immortals (except Nile of course) have already worked through the trauma associated with death and violence. The way Booker so casually holds a conversation while his intestines are regrowing, the way Andy drives a car for a fucking WHILE without even noticing that her stab wound hasn’t healed, the way Joe sits back with relief when Nicky awakes after being shot, rather than rushing to comfort him — these to me all signal that, at some point in the past, each immortal has already grappled with and worked through their trauma associated with pain and death. That’s one of the things that always hits me about this movie, actually. The fact that the immortals are able to go through objectively terrible things (see: Andy & Quynh’s “what do you think being burned alive is going to be like?” “excruciating.” *each start laughing*) without batting much of an eye. I suppose this could be interpreted as an oversight on the part of the creators, but I think the immortals’ ease with death and suffering was put there intentionally to send a message: yes, bad things have happened, and yes, bad things will continue to happen, but you will not stay broken. That’s one of the things that makes The Old Guard special to me. The immortals are able to take something that was likely once a source of trauma for them (death and violence) and turn it into jokes and laughter and flippant remarks and even love, in the case of Joe and Nicky. More than just healing physically, the immortals have learned how to heal emotionally and mentally.

Which is why “Merrick’s lab gave them trauma” fics really don’t sit right with me. To me, writings like that erase all the hard work and emotional labor that the immortals already went through to overcome their trauma. I love the idea of the immortals bonding together and supporting each other through trauma. I love the idea of the immortals overcoming trauma. I love the potential tenderness and angst and most importantly I think, the ability of readers to see themselves in Joe & Nicky, and to see that trauma can be healed from. I’d love a fic or a post about Joe & Nicky circa 1099 overcoming their trauma of killing each other, or about Andy helping Quynh over the trauma of being a new immortal, or about Nile dealing with the aftermath of the fight to get in and out of Merrick’s lab. But to me, Joe & Nicky lab trauma not only erases all the hard work they put into overcoming their trauma pre-canon, but it also sets up the dismal picture that trauma is something that you never truly escape. And I refuse to believe that that’s true.

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estoniacobaltpayne · 3 years

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A Life Day Story

So, I had an idea of a cute Din n Grogu thing, based off the movie A Christmas Story. It's in Grogu's POV.

I hope y'all like it lmao. Be kind, I haven't written fanfiction in like 6 years or more lmaooo

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There it was.

The Holy Grail of all the parts and gadgets and gizmos on the ship.

The chrome-plated ball bearing from the landing gear with the engraved ridge around the center had single handedly consumed my every waking thought this Life Day season, and if I played my cards right, and deployed subtle tactics of persuasion, I knew it wouldn't be long before it was in my grasp.

As I sat in the cockpit contemplating the next move of my meticulous plan, loud grumbling from down below in the engine room could be heard through the vents. Thick puffs of black smoke weren't far behind.

Now, aside from bounty hunting, my father was the most notorious engine compressor wrangler in the parsec. A few kicks, screws, and well-timed curses was all it took to get the thing up and running again.

At least, that's what he claimed.

The woman watching me, a short tempered thing my father always addressed as Dune, scolded my 'subtle' attempt at securing the ball bearing (I made the mistake of pointing at it while looking at her, a rookie mistake). She grumbled out a curt, "no, that is not a toy, kid!"

Agh! No! What she had just said was every adult's secret deflection method against allowing me the toy! Their innate bias that what is functional can in no way be a toy came crashing down on me. I had blown my chance!

Dune watched the vent in horror as another stream of "dank farrik"'s and "damn this thing to hell"'s wafted through it. She quickly ushered me out of the cockpit and down the ladder to the hull in order to spare me the assault of words ill-intended for children.

She said it was time for me to head to the small Nevarro school, anyways.

As we walked the short distance, we met up with our usual walking partner. He was a young boy with dark hair who always had the best snacks packed for him by his mother. The first day I met the boy I stole his blue cookies.

Being locked away for so long kept me from learning the basics of speech and writing, so the only part of his name, Phixlana, that I was able to pronounce, was a short Phix; although it wasn't long before all my other classmates called him that as well.

In class, our teacher assigned us a writing prompt to be handed in the next day. Whoa boy. What a drag! Homework was tiresome and boring at the best of times, but my inability to write in any language made this assignment seem impossible to accomplish.

But wait! Did my large ears deceive me?

No. They did not!

The most glorious of prompts that would bring salvation to my plight!

"Write about what you would like most for Life Day!" proclaimed the droid.

This was my chance! I would use the force to wield the pen as my sword! It surely would do a fine enough job putting my prose to paper! It would be my scribe, and I was sure I would produce the most magnificent paragraph!

"All I want for Life Day is the chrome-plated ball bearing from the landing gear with the engraved ridge around the center! Oh! My! How marvelous!" the droid would read, expressing its satisfaction with a plethora of pluses on my A grade! The entire class would jump up and cheer, as the droid at the front would suddenly grow the ability to emote and dramatically express his overwhelmingly pleased feelings upon reading my assignment!

Oh! Oh no! This couldn't be! My dreams shattered as I opened up my tablet! What was supposed to be an A+++ on my beautifully thought out paragraph prompt, read as a measly C+. How excruciatingly agitating! I supposed I shouldn't tell my father. I'd spare him the disappoint I myself was currently enduring. And just below! How could I have not noticed before! The inscription of, "that is not a toy, kid!" at the bottom! This put a sour on my mood that lasted throughout the remaining duration of the day.

The gloomy cloud only let up slightly when dad took us out with Dune and the man of whom I did not know the name of, but fawned over me regardless whenever my father brought him another bounty. With all of us piled in the small speeder, we set off in search of the finest Life Day tree money could buy.

The trees the shady merchant showed us were dismal and pathetic at best, but my father was a world-class heckler, and never passed up an opportunity to bargain for his buck. After a moment of bickering with the merchant, my father let out a curt, "deal," after the salseman offered to knock back the price and load the large tree into the speeder.

All was well! Dune and who I had heard my dad proclaim as Karga sang tunes for me as my mandalorian father begrudenlingy drove the speeder back home.

Pop! Whap!

"Dank farrik!" drawled my dad. "Piston blew!" he exclaimed from the front seat of the speeder.

We climbed out and dad handed me a pan of bolts to hold as he replaced the piston. He worked quickly. Too quickly, apparently, because as he came back up to grab a bolt, his hand hit the pan, sending it flying straight into the icy blackness that was the busy road in front of us.

Time stood still as I watches the pieces fly out into the night, never to be seen again. Time stood still as I let out some of the only comprehensible words I knew.

"Dank ferret"!

Except I didn't say 'ferret'. I said the mother of all 'f' words. The 'F-----' word.

"What did you just say?" my father asked quietly; and might I add- far too calmly.

All I could do was stare wide-eyed at the mandalorian before me.

He only scuffed and concluded, "that's what I thought you said. Get back in the speeder."

I climbed back in. Whoa boy, was I done for. I was never getting that ball bearing now. It was only moments later that my dad hunched back into the small speeder. He leaned over to Karga and Dune and told them what I said. They both let out gasps of disbelief.

How I loved snacks. I loved eating, and the glorious taste of all the different foods the galaxy had to offer.

But right now, all I wanted was for my underdeveloped taste buds to shrivel up and die.

The bantha scrub Dune had in my mouth was disgusting. I wouldn't be surprised if it impaired me forever in some way.

Dune shifted her weight from one hip to the other, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. "I'm going to ask you one more time, kid. Where did you hear that word?"

I had probably heard my dad use that word twelve times a day, every day that I had known him but instead of saying as such, I panicked. Blanked. All conscious thought had left my brain like it was a house on fire. Instead of the word 'dad,' I blurted out the only other name I knew how to say; "Phix!"

Dune left the room with an understanding "oh" and went to call the boy's mother on the holopad.

Poor, poor Phix.

Surely he was getting his punishment a few kilometers away.

Despite my slip up on the speeder a few nights ago, and the disappointing grade in school, Life Day still came, and how glorious it was! How beautiful the tall tree was, sparkling with lights and the scrap my father and I had collected from around the ship!

But most importantly, how beautiful the gifts under the tree were!

Before I could even pull one into my lap, my Mandalorian father tiredly sauntered down into the hull of the ship. I could feel the excitement rolling off of him through the force. I didn't need to see his face to know he was happy as he plopped a present in front of me.

Karga and Dune soon joined us in the festivities, the latter of whom quickly fell asleep on the floor after all the presents had been opened. Karga asked if I enjoyed the celebratory day, and if I had gotten all the presents I asked for. I groggily looked at my palms. I had gotten many a splendid gifts. But not everything I had asked for.

My father leaned forward and directed his head towards the corner of the room.

"Hey, what's that over there?"

I looked up at his helmet expectingly. Over where? To where was he gesturing?

"Yes, over there. Behind that crate."

I waddled off of his lap, and over to the crate. Alas! A small package wrapped in shiny red paper! It was the perfect size for-

No. Could it be?

I tore off the paper in awe to reveal a box. And oh! What a glorious sight the opened box was! What was resting inside? None other than the chrome-plated ball bearing from the landing gear with the engraved ridge around the center! It was mine! Finally mine!

I excitedly waddled to the door to go outside and play. My dad came to open it, but quickly stopped when he sighted the roasted, imported porgs Karga and Dune had brought over. Now, my father was a notorious porg junkie, and was sorely disappointed at Karga's loud scold for him to stop picking at the feast; that it wasn't ready yet.

As they bickered, I opened the door myself and ran outside to play. How glorious it felt to have that ball firmly in the palm of my small hands! I threw it as far as I could, and wielded the force to bring it back to me. I rolled it down the ramp many a times. Oh what fun! Until-

Oh no!

Just one small slip of fate! With the tiniest of accidents, the ball rolled over the edge of the ramp and fell into a crevice beneath one of the landing feet! I couldn't even see it to force it back into my hands!

I rushed inside to alert my father of the atrocity! But before we could go back out to reclaim the ball bearing, the unthinkable happened.

Rustling could be heard in the back of the hull; the scratching of nails against metal and loud chirps sounded as well. My father picked me up and rushed back to see what was going on. Dune had woken up, and she and Karga went with us to investigate the crime.

Oh no! The horror! A thousand and one meerkats scampered about the floor, breaking crates and most abysmally, eating the beautiful porgs set out for us to feast on. The three adults hearded the scoundrels out of the ship, but it was too late.

The porgs were gone. All gone! Not even a wing!

The heavenly aroma still hung in the air, mocking us. My father dragged himself over and defeatedly kicked at the remains of what was to be a magnificent Life Day feast. However my father, ever the pragmatist, lifted his arms and declared, "everybody up. Get dressed. We're going out to eat."

Not much was open on Life Day; just a small restaurant owned by a family from a planet far away. One that did not celebrate Life Day, something for which we were thankful.

What a turn of events! But one thing was for certain, as I fell asleep that night, clutching my chrome-plated ball bearing from the landing gear with the engraved ridge around the center, I knew it was the best Life Day I had ever had, and the best of all Life Days left to come.

#the mandolorian #the mandolorian s2 #mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #fanficfion #din djarin #grogu djarin #save grogu #grogu #baby yoda #mando s2 #mando fluff #mando fic #mando fanfiction #star wars #star wars fic #star wars fanfiction

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allicekitty13 · 4 years

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Daughter Of The Moon: Part 2

Read On Ao3

Read On FFN

It was part of her nightly routine, sneaking out to the meadow just outside the base. There was a hidden tunnel she'd found just a little over a year ago, hidden to casual onlookers behind some vines that settled over a narrow opening in the cliffs which made up the northern side of a deer trail. Only a curious soul would think to examine the rocks the way Alice had; the casual hiker was unlikely to find the hidden path. It hadn't taken long for Alice to realize she wouldn't be found here. She was never followed, and anyone who did give chase wouldn't know what to look for.

The space was truly gorgeous; to the south of the field, a line of tall cedar trees indicated the beginning of an expansive forest; to the west, the ground cut off suddenly revealing beautiful clear blue lake miles below the cliffside. She spent hours each night laying in the wildflowers making up the majority of the clearing or sitting at the edge of the cliffs as she let her legs swing back and forth in the wind. It was a little sad, as she frequently thought, that no one other than herself would ever experience the breathtaking view.

It was only within the past few months the thought occurred to her that this was a place she'd be able to test the powers she inevitably held. She'd spent quite a bit of time in the library under the guise of protective research, reading up on everything she could get her hands on about the way witches utilized their power. She'd told the librarian, an ordinary woman named Bella, that with her dismal grades, she should, at the very least, know what to look out for on the field.

There wasn't much helpful information; after all, the library only stocked books on defeating witches, not training them. But she'd managed to piece together a few basic offensive spells. Unfortunately, little progress had been made. She'd failed miserably at most charms, only managing limited results at a select few of them. The day she'd produced a small flame from the tip of her index finger had been encouraging. While it filled her with glee, it did make her wish there was someone out there who might be able to guide her. Clearly, she'd missed a few pieces when compiling the jigsaw puzzle of limited information.

Alice had recently put together what she believed to be a freezing spell; this was what she had been working on that night when she was approached by a strange man who strode into the meadow from the tree line. He was tall and bulky, towering over her small form. His imposing figure, combined with his being a complete stranger, should have caused her to flee. Yet, the friendly lopsided smile he shot Alice's way as he plopped down next to her in the field was strangely comforting. Although fear and shock bubbled inside her being at seeing another soul inside the hidden sanctuary, he'd clearly witnessed her multiple failed attempts at the spell and didn't have a knife at her throat as any hunter would have on sight. She decided, despite her reservations, to take her chances allowing him to watch in silence.

Shortly after his approach and observing her frustration as she unsuccessfully made a few more attempts at encasing a flower in ice, the man introduced himself in a calm, friendly tone. "Hi Alice, I'm Emmett."

Alice paused; she hadn't said a single word to the man, let alone introduced herself. With eyes full of distraught surprise, she finally allowed herself to focus on the stranger. "How... how do you know my name?"

He pointed up at one of the tree-covered hills in the distance. "Up there, it's where we live. My entire coven, it's a long trek without flying, but it's there."

"Have you known I was here the whole time?"

"Yeah," He responded a bit sheepishly. "Our coven leader wanted to give you space for a while."

"Wait..." Her racing thoughts finally caught up to the situation at hand and the insinuation of Emmett's statements, unable to believe what she was hearing. "Coven? Are you saying... you're a witch and there's more like... right here?"

"Well yeah, thought that was obvious. Here," Emmett rolled up the sleeve of his sweater as he held out his left arm. In the crook of the man's elbow rested a small black crescent moon indicating the validity of his statement. "I'm a witch, just like you."

Alice's expression turned downcast with doubt at his declaration of her power. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm actually even a witch or if this thing." She pulled her hair to the side to expose her own mark." Was just an unfortunate fluke."

Throwing his head back in laughter, Emmett fell backward into the multicolored flowers beneath him as though there were some piece of information he knew, and she didn't. "Alice, if you weren't a witch, we wouldn't be talking right now." He took a moment to right himself as Alice stared on in bewilderment. "Have you ever wondered why no one follows you here? That tunnel is magically sealed; there's no way you could get through without a witch's blood. Anyone else would only see a plain rock surface."

"Well, if that's true, I'm a shitty witch. If you've known I'm here, then you know I'm failing at all this magic stuff pretty miserably."

"Have you thought about finding someone to help train up your power? Teach you some actual spells" He pointed down at the notebook she had set out in front of her, leaning over to glance through her notes. "It looks like you're doing your best; an actual teacher, some reliable instruction, and more practice time would do wonders."

"How and who would I go to for that? You do realize where I live, don't you, if anyone found out..." She trailed off; his downcast expression indicated that he understood her meaning.

Emmett pondered her observation for a while as Alice played with the grass in silence. "You make a fair point; what if you came up to the house? We have a guy like you. He was born to hunters but managed to escape; maybe he would have some insight."

Emmett seemed so please by the suggestion, but Alice had her doubts. "Is that allowed?"

"I'll have to talk to Esme to be sure, but she's pretty big on helping out witches in need." Emmett's smile widened as he thought over a game plan so sure that his idea would be a success. "Here's what we'll do; I'll talk to her. You'll meet me here tomorrow night; if she says yes, I'll take you."

Alice pondered over the proposition wordlessly as Emmett stared at her in anticipation, clearly an excitable man. She really didn't have much to lose by accepting the offer; at best, she would meet more people like her. People who might actually be able to help. At worst, this 'Esme' who she assumed to be the leader of Emmett's coven, declined the offer. A broad smile crossed her face as she nodded gleefully and exclaimed, "Okay, tomorrow night!"

Too excited to practice anymore, Alice immediately packed up her belongings, placing the notebook full of half-formed spells back into the worn-out backpack she kept in the secret meadow. It was safer to collect information mentally and transfer it to a journal in secluded safety. With a smile and assurances to Emmett that she would, in fact, return the next night, Alice made her way out of the clearing. She was overflowing with optimism; there were others nearby like her. People who might be able to help, there was even someone with similar life experiences. Someone who might be able to help her. For once, since that moon had surfaced behind her ear, she felt hope.

It had been hard to focus at school the next day; excitement and nervousness fought for control of her emotional state. The idea of meeting this coven had her on edge with glee; at moments, a smile graced her face in stark contrast to the usual uneasy frown she wore. This resulted in curious looks from the fellow students who'd grown used to her unwelcoming attitude. In other moments anxiety took hold; it was entirely possible Esme wouldn't feel comfortable allowing a hunter into her home. Permitting Alice to take solace in the meadow was one thing; it would be another completely to invite the daughter of their biggest adversary into her home.

Being on the outs with Riley hadn't made the stressful day any easier; he'd granted her request to be left alone and then some. If it was his fault, she didn't know, but the student body seemed to feel as though they had a duty to pick sides between the pair; opinion was overwhelmingly in his favor. Although it was at lunch when she'd had no one to sit with for the second day in a row that Alice decided she preferred things this way. Hiding in plain sight was easier when you were being blatantly ignored. For once, no one was watching her movements; for the first time in eight years, she didn't have to choose her words carefully. It was almost peaceful.

With this new mindset, the second half of the day progressed a bit easier, allowing her to concentrate only on what may happen later that night, causing the day to seem as though it flew by at an accelerated pace. Before she knew it, the final bell was reverberating its soft chime through the halls of the academy. Alice left school with an eager smile rushing home to wait in her room until it was safe to head out.

Once the neighborhood was submerged in silence and her home once again became silent, Alice made her escape with the most care she'd ever exhibited, refusing to allow tonight of all nights be when she was caught. She finally had a chance to receive answers, to find a place me might belong. With a deep breath, she moved silently down the tree. Stepped carefully through the yard, conscious of every stick in her path, the crunch each leaf whispered as she moved, only allowing herself to break into a run the second she was out of the sight of any potential onlookers.

Arriving at the clearing that night buzzing with tentative enthusiasm, she burst through the tunnel into the peaceful meadow hoping with all her being that Emmett's coven leader had given him the all-clear. She felt as though she was soaring upon seeing him waiting leaned up against a tree with a broom in hand and a bright lopsided grin. She bounced over to him wide-eyed with glee, ready for whatever the night held in store.

Emmett mounted the broomstick, instructing her to climb on behind and hold on tightly. It would be a short trip, but she'd never ridden before, and he didn't want her falling off. Nervous but unwilling to give up on this opportunity over something as simple as flying, she did as instructed. The mode of transportation was more than a little uncomfortable, and Alice struggled to find a sitting position that wouldn't bother her during the flight as she clutched onto his biceps, her slender arms too short to wrap around his massive frame.

Broom travel was quite surreal; Alice was unsure what she had been expecting, but it hadn't been the speed causing her stomach to lurch, the sting of the wind in her face, or the blur of the trees below as they passed by rapidly. The experience was overwhelming and slightly nauseating. She closed her eyes and gripped tighter to Emmett, unconsciously digging her fingernails into his upper arms. He seemed to sense her unease proceeding to tell her about his coven, a group of nine witches. The stories took Alice's mind off the almost dreamlike event allowing her to relax, to enjoy the weightlessness and freedom of soaring through the air in the moonlight.

As they landed, she hoped someone would be able to teach her to fly. Despite the rocky start, it was an experience she wanted to repeat many times more. Emmett seemed to be able to read her thoughts, though it was more likely she wore her adoration for flying in her expression, as he commented, "Don't worry, you'll learn to do that for yourself soon enough."

Attempting to hide the blush flushing her cheeks, she began to take in her surroundings. It was an unassuming location, just a small white single story farmhouse. The structure seemed to have been there unattended to for quite some time. The paint was chipping away, exposing the dry wood underneath. Alice struggled to believe a coven the size Emmett had described could fit into the ranch-style home.

"Doesn't look like much, does it." He laughed, taking in her expression. "Watch," He approached the door, drawing out an invisible symbol on the surface with a finger as he chanted out something indecipherable under his breath. As he finished, the spot on the entrance began to glow slightly, and he turned the doorknob pulling open the door to reveal an enormous room.

The pair entered into the space; the room was now revealed to be the entryway of a mansion. There were plants on nearly every surface; large picture windows showed an expansive courtyard outside, causing the space to feel very open and free. It was as though they'd been transported not only inside the building but to an entirely different location. Numerous doors lined the dimly lit area, and a grand staircase held focal point in the middle of the room. At the base of the stairs stood a gentle-looking woman with tawny brown hair. She stood with the most welcoming of smiles, hands clasped politely in front of her as the pair stepped into the foyer.

To her left, a tall blonde woman leaned against the banister with her arms crossed. Her face lighting up when the pair entered, a noticeable relief consuming her expression as she stared directly at Emmett. It almost seemed as though the woman was holding herself back from rushing forward to check that he was okay. Alice glanced up at her new friend to see him gazing back at the woman with equal intensity. It warmed Alice's heart, so see two people who so very clearly truly cared for one another. Looking away with a sly smile, she had to admit she was a bit jealous. Maybe, with the way things in her life were beginning to look up, one day she would find someone who looked at her with as much affection as Emmett and the blonde woman looked at each other.

Alice turned her attention back to the elegant brunette woman who radiated a gentle love and kindness. The woman, who greeted her as Esme with a warm embrace, invited Alice to follow through a large wooden door to her left. Inside a refreshments tray that held cookies, so fresh that steam still radiated from them and a pitcher of a liquid. Esme flicked her hand up as she took a seat in one of the comfortable-looking green cloth chairs sitting at opposite ends of a lovely ornately carved coffee table. The pitcher rose into the air pouring the yellow beverage Alice assumed to be lemonade into two glasses set out in front of both chairs.

"Please sit," Esme directed to the other open seat; her voice was soft, warm, and comforting. Alice felt safe and welcome in the woman's presence. It was a stark difference to the unease she'd typically felt around adults, a welcoming change. She dutifully took a seat, eager to hear what the woman had to say.

"We're pleased you finally have you here, Alice." Esme opened, "I've been watching you for a while. You've made significant progress, given your unfortunate circumstance. I must say," The woman paused, taking a sip of her lemonade. "I'm rather impressed at what you've been able to do with such limited recourses. The determination to figure all of that out, considering the dangers, is inspiring, my dear."

"Thank you, ma'am; I don't feel I've been able to do that much, though." Alice thought back to the previous night and her many failed attempts at freezing the flower.

"Please call me Esme; we're equals here. Emmett has informed me of your insecurities. You've come here today to meet with our Jasper, correct?"

"Jasper..." Alice's breath caught in her throat, wondering if maybe it was possible Esme could be talking about the same man who's story had been such a source of inspiration to her. Was it possible that the legend who'd escaped had survived and was right here? That she would not only be meeting him but potentially gaining guidance from the man? "You don't mean Jasper Whitlock do you?"

Esme nodded, eying the short brunette carefully, studying her reaction to the revelation. The older woman seemed pleased to see Alice wide-eyed and grinning eagerly with excitement. "May I assume you're pleased by this?"

Alice blushed, staring down at her feet, "I've always wanted to talk to him."

"I'm glad to hear that." Esme smiled, relaxing back into the chair. She went on to cheerfully explain that Alice was welcome in the house anytime day or night. Whether it be for a simple chat or an emergency. Esme considered her part of the coven and, by extension, her family.

Alice was shocked by the instant welcome and pure kindness. She wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting but was pleased by the development. The change of pace made her feel as though she could relax like she was able to breathe comfortably for the first time in her life. One day, she hoped to be able to leave home and join this so far wonderful group of people permanently.

"Alice," Her attention was pulled to the doorway where Jasper now stood leaning against the wall with crossed arms an almost nervous expression on his face. He was taller than she'd expected, much taller standing just barely shorter than Emmett but with a slimmer frame. He looked near identical to the photo she'd seen in class only the day before, golden curls framing his face and those same intense green eyes. The only difference was the scars that adorned his face, slicing across his cheek, barely missing his eye. Where his sleeve rode up, she should see one on his arm; she imagined they were many. She'd known he'd fought for his life, but such a visceral visual representation was jarring. It was the most prominent of scars that caused her heart to sink, breaking for the man who stood before her. Maria had told the story many times, of how she'd almost had him how she'd pressed a knife to the throat of someone she'd once considered her best friend without a second thought.

The pair stared at each other, unsure what to say in that moment. For two years, Alice had wanted nothing more than to speak with this man. Now, here she was with the opportunity, and no words came to mind. She wanted to rush over and hug him, to ask him any of the numerous questions she'd thought up. Yet, she was stunned to silence, unable to do anything but sit staring into those all-encompassing eyes.

"Well," Esme broke the silence. "I'll leave you two be; I'm sure you have much to discuss." The woman stood passing by Jasper as she exited the room.

#alice cullen #Jasper Hale #Jalice #Emmett Cullen #Twilight

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realactualfancontent · 4 years

Text

Whateley Family Fluff

Wilbur and Lavinia discuss travel plans and girls.

Wilbur Whateley kicked the door open, holding some kind of squirming screaming sack, he was covered in feathers, and blood, and one or two scrapes which oozed something yellow and fetid.

He looked panicked and triumphant all at once.

His mother jumped, already on edge because her son was nowhere to be found, his entrance didn't help.

"Wilbur? Wha-Where- What're yew doin'...with that." Lavinia gestured to the squirming bag. Trying to take her questions one at a time.

Wilbur froze, he hadn't been expecting his ma awake. This was supposed to be a secret mission. Though he'd been planning to show off to Twin right away.

"Killin' et!" His face split into one of those smiles that was slightly too wide, although accompanied by an uncharacteristic level of enthusiasm.

"Robbed the Bishop's chicken coop!"

She wasn't quite sure what to do with that. Not the petty crime, or animal murder. Boys would be boys after all, but the excitement, well that was a puzzle. She couldn't remember seeing him this genuinely pleased in years. She returned his grin with a hesitant smile of her own.

"Well, I'm glad yer havin fu- Wait, are yew bleedin'?"

It had taken her a moment to notice, between her poor eyes and the poor lighting it was more the smell then anything, more overwhelmingly the outside then usual.

Wilbur deflated with a sigh and an eyeroll. "Et's nuthin' a scratch es all." She was going to fuss now. "I'm finnneeeeee." It was a rather unconvincing whine and he watched her wring her hands shoulders sagging. The bagged rooster kept screaming.

Wilbur thunked it on the table with a sudden burst of violence that shut it up. He hoped not permanently. Lavinia started and tried to collect herself before speaking up.

"Et's not nuthin' let me take a look,'' Lavinia responded, moving to light the lamps, the attempt to sound like an authority was weak, and they both knew it. But still Wilbur dropped his twitching bag on the table and slumped into a chair two sizes too small for him to watch his mother root around in cabinets for some bandages or a clean washcloth.

Wilbur had never paid much attention to chickens before, and as he idly poked at one of the puncture wounds he was still surprised by how sharp those spurs were.

"I can dew et myself." It was protest for protests sake, although Wilbur really would rather handle things himself, he knew his mother would fret if he didn't play along, so he obligingly rolled up his sleeves, revealing the slow transition to yellowish scales.

"S'pose yew culd patch the shirt up tew, ef yew'd lak." He said, looking around the cluttered kitchen for something else to focus on and offering his mother something to do that didn't involve her getting in his way.

"Might be time fer a new 'un. Yer sleeves are gettin' a bit on the short side. Looks lak yew've had another growth spurt."

Wilbur made a noncommittal noise. They both knew what the other was thinking, that if Wilbur was growing, so was The Twin. That time was marching slowly onwards, that soon, all of this, Lavinia included, would be blasted away to make way for greater things.

Wasn't the sort of thing you made small talk about. Wilbur winced as his mother applied a damp cloth to one of the numerous scratches, feeling this whole thing was pointless as anything in the house was probably as filthy as a chicken's foot.

After a moment's awkward silence Lavinia ventured to pick up conversation again. "What 're yew killin' the chicken for?" The bag was still twitching periodically.

"Jus' need et's blud fer sumthin es all." Wilbur shrugged.

"Are you wurkin' on a ritual or curse or... uh, summin' sumthin'?" Lavinia ventured when it came to Wilbur's magical practice's he was getting increasingly less likely to share the details.

Maybe that was because when he did she couldn't really follow him and just tried to nod at all the significant points. She'd never really understood. She’d picked up disjointed scraps from her father, a string of odd words here, a rough idea there, but Lavinia Whateley, despite what folk about here would have you believe was no witch. All the things that came so easily to Wilbur and her father just left her feeling confused and scattered and usually in possession of a headache.

"Ain't yer business," Wilbur said, jerking his arm away, rolling down and rebuttoning his sleeve.

Lavinia’s shoulder’s sagged and she looked away, picking at a moth hole in the table cloth. “Sorry, jus seems yew’re excited, wanted t’ know whut et were about es all.”

If Wilbur was the type of person who had any compassion for dogs he might have compared Lavinia’s countenance to a kicked puppy.

Same guilt inducing effect.

And the irritation at it was plain on his oddly proportioned face. “I’m makin’ a whistle. Thought one of ‘em space ponies might make travellin’ easier.” There he’d told her. She could stop with the sad eyes.

Lavinia’s eyes widened again, surprise, a little panic. FUCK HE COULD NOT WIN.

“Travellin’? Yew’re plannin’ on another trip.”

The London trip had been unprecedented. Wilbur had never expressed much interest in the human world at all. And he’d come home with such a dismal outlook on the whole experience she didn’t think he’d leave again.

She’d hoped he wouldn’t leave again.

Leave her alone. With that upstairs.

She loved her sons. She told herself that daily. But when it was just her and the nameless twin she had a much harder time believing it. Wilbur could walk and talk and act almost like any other surly teenager. But the thing upstairs just stomped about and made hungry noises. And although she had no proof there was a lurking fear that one day the cows and vermin they brought it wouldn’t be enough and it would find its way down stairs for her.

“Wuldn’t be so long. Cuple days et most, since I’d have the Byhakee t’ travel on.” Wilbur cut in, noticing his mother’s distress, and making some token effort to calm her. Stumbling over what he hoped was the correct pronunciation of Byhakee.

“Oh,” that helped a little, although she hadn’t the foggiest what a Byhakee was. Probably a space pony. “Where’d yew be off tew this time? Still lookin’ fer the book?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Among other things, one ‘ve my correspondents wanted t’ meet. Were real irked I didn’t see her last time I were in London.”

“Her?” There were so many things to pick out of the sentence but the pronoun stood out more then anything else. Wilbur, ordinarily speaking, was barely interested in people, let alone girls. But then he was growing up, it wasn’t really that surprising, well, no more surprising then anything about Wilbur. Still, Lavinia couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Wilbur picked up on the shift in mood and shrank as much as his nearly seven feet would allow. “Ain’t lak- she’s just a friend, sorta, real keen t’ see sumthin’ alien’s all…” He trailed off into a mumble, face flushing a sickly yellow. It was his turn to pick at moth holes in the table cloth, giant fingers doing so far less deftly then his mother had.

Lavinia’s smile widened, her pink eyes glimmering with delight in the low lighting. She’d been a romantic in her youth, maybe some of that was still left and it was what had her so excited despite Wilbur’s protests. Or maybe it was because this was a sign that Wilbur was more human than he’d care to admit.

This was the sort of conversation you expected to have with your child at some point. The kind of, dare she think it, normal moment she’d all but given up on these days.

“What’s her name?” Lavinia asked.

“Emmaline,” Wilbur answered, sagging as he prepared for an interrogation.

One that came promptly.

A barrage of banal things, like how did you meet, what’s she like, is she a witch?

Wilbur answered in as few words as possible. Trying to stress the very platonic nature of the relationship. Not that his ma was picking up on how uncomfortable he was. Or that he was flushing the shade of an egg yolk.

“Is she pretty?”

“Dun know, and et dun matter anyways.” He snapped, “I ain’t interested in romance and ain’t no one’s goin’ t’ be interested in one wit’ me. Stop badgerin!”

Lavinia flinched at the outburst while Wilbur retreated into a sulky silence.

He’d have felt worse about spooking her if she didn’t absolutely have it coming. Hassling him like that.

After a moment Lavinia gave him a tentative pat on the shoulder and offered her son an attempt at a smile. “Don’t be so down on yerself Wilbur, just ‘cus folks round here are-”

“The wurst.” Wilbur cut in. Not sure what she was getting at but never one to miss a chance to insult the people of Dunwich.

Lavinia nodded.

“Well just cus’ they’re the wurst don’t mean everyone es, an’ I’m sure there’s plenty ‘ve girls who won’t be put off by yer unique features.”

Wilbur’s dark eyes widened as he stared at his mother completely boggled. He opened his mouth to try and form a response and took a moment to do it, mouth hanging open.

“Yew need t’ get yer eyes checked. Since yew clearly dun know just how bad I look.” Lavinia might try to dress it up, but Wilbur didn’t feel any such compulsions.

“I’m a ganglin’ mess ‘ve spare parts an’ I smell wurse ‘en most morgues.”

Lavinia’s pale brows furrowed and her scrunched up into a frown. She’d been hoping to give a pep talk there, but really couldn’t think of anything to refute Wilbur’s statements.

She gave him another awkward pat on the shoulder. “Well, we can dew sumthin’ ‘bout sum ‘ve that at least. Spruce yew up a bit afore yew go callin’ I’ll make yew some clothes that fit proper and an’ yew’ll have a good scrub t’ get as much ‘ve the Dunnich stink off yew as can.”

“No.” Wilbur’s abnormally deep voice reverberated with extra gravitas. Even if there was an underscore of horror to it.

He hated baths. He hated being wet to start with, hated that the tubs were too small for second and then there was the ordeal of actually scrubbing his leg fur and getting soap in his stupid useless hip eyes.

What was the point of being able to see into the fourth, fifth and sixth dimensions when he couldn’t see through the pants he had to wear.

Lavinia looked disappointed in him. A trick that was losing it’s potency over time but still held some sway.

“She already knows I stink like a pig, she’s expecktin’ et, I dun need t’ take a bath.”

“Wilbur, yew only get so many chances t’ make furst impressions, dun yew want et t’ be a gud ‘un?”

“Not that much.” Wilbur scowled at her patronizing, considering hexing her tongue to shrivel right there.

Not that Lavinia wasn’t, technically, to his everlasting vexation, right.

“Guess I’ll consider et.” He conceded after a moment.

The rooster bag twitched and made a pitiable noise.

“I’ve got t’ take care ‘ve that afore it croaks.” He said, standing up and swiping the bag in one motion. Glad for an excuse to end the conversation he shuffled off with an unusual speed to his awkward gait.

#Wilbur Whateley #lavinia whateley #The Dunwich Horror #fanfic #Emmaline #More behind the scenes stuff from the blog timeline

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spewagepipe · 3 years

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Spewage Litmus: Dark Souls III

For those with adequate patience and endurance, Dark Souls III offers up beautiful visuals, an inventive gothic-horror-fantasy setting, and a finely-tuned, deep, and engaging melee combat system. The barrier to entry cannot be overstated, however: Dark Souls III refuses to provide even the most rudimentary guidance to struggling or neophyte players – indeed, it will obfuscate critical information or even actively mislead them. This makes it all but impossible, without the benefit of outside assistance, to access the sublime rewards that the game has in store.

APPROVED

DSIII was my first From Software game, for better or worse. In spite of giving it the “approved” rating, it would not be totally inaccurate to say that I basically hated the entire experience, so I feel like some further explanation is due.

Many of the games I have played before that focused on melee combat have felt both “spammy” and tedious. Apart from occasional (and often shockingly rare) cases that call for a guard-breaking heavy attack, riposte, or dodge, they overwhelmingly consist of mashing the basic attack, ad nauseam. This is perhaps the most crucial consequence of DSIII’s design: it gives the player reasons to interrupt the otherwise constant flow of their attacks.

If the player’s stamina bar runs dry, they can no longer attack – but they also cannot dodge or block incoming attacks. Performing an all-out assault will leave the player vulnerable, so instead, they must carefully husband their supply of stamina. It’s vital to break off a string of attacks while there is still enough stamina in reserve to protect against the inevitable retaliation. This creates a natural rhythm to the combat, where the player must periodically take up a defensive posture and react to the enemy’s “turn” to attack.

All of the standard melee combat concepts also make an appearance: heavy attacks can break a defender’s guard or stagger them, light attacks can interrupt the target’s actions. Counterattacks reward careful timing with extra opportunities to reverse the battle’s momentum. But these elements take on a whole new significance when they interact with the stamina system, creating fascinating, emergent changes to the rhythm of a fight.

The problem with Dark Souls 3 and the other FromSoftware games I have tried is that they have more of a difficulty cliff than a difficulty curve. The fastest way for a player to improve their skills is to face down challenges that are at, or just past, the limits of their current skills, making incremental but readily achievable improvements while the game steadily escalates. Dark Souls 3 does not do this. Instead, it sets the player against challenges that are well beyond their current competence, causing them to flounder and their rate of development to lag. As long as they keep at it, they’ll eventually improve enough to move on, but not before they have seen the same encounter(s) enough times to resent the entire exercise.

The first game I play that avoids this mistake (while retaining the rest of this superior melee combat) will surely make Dark Souls 3 seem far more dismal in retrospect.

#dark souls iii #dark souls #from software #soulsborne #video games #game design #review #fromsoftware #dark souls 3

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mellicose · 4 years

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Doctor ... WTF?

An impassioned rant about the steady decline of Doctor Who, the trajectory of the Thirteenth Doctor, and the righteous indignation after The Timeless Children, not only as a Whovian, but as a woman-

I love how certain people are spinning The Timeless Children as being good, yet the BBC has released (2)TWO statements basically telling fans the following:

“Doctor Who is a beloved long-running series and we understand that some people will feel attached to a particular idea they have of the Doctor, or that they enjoy certain aspects of the programme more than others. Opinions are strong and this is indicative of the imaginative hold that Doctor Who has – that so many people engage with it on so many different levels.

We wholeheartedly support the creative freedom of the writers and we feel that creating an origin story is a staple of science fiction writing. What was written does not alter the flow of stories from William Hartnell’s brilliant Doctor onwards – it just adds new layers and possibilities to this ongoing saga.”

Creative freedom, huh? Ask Joe Hill about it. Or Gaiman. The writers, including Chibnall, are only free to do what the Beeb and the other show investors tell them.

They go on:

“We have also received many positive reactions to the episode’s cliff-hanger. There are still a lot of questions to be answered, and we hope that you will come back to join us and see what happens, but we appreciate that it’s impossible to please all of our viewers all of the time and your feedback has been raised with the programme’s Executive Producer."

Uglylaughing.gif

There is a huge, monumental difference between 'not being able to please everyone all at the same time' and basically making a whole fandom, New and Classic, young and old, come together with the same level of disgust and disappointment.

I also find the people arguing "Canon? What canon?" about the Doctor now being the Lord and Savior of the Shining World of the Seven Systems to be foolish at best, and disingenuous at worst.

No canon?? So what have I been steeping myself in for years - a vague approximation of a tale? Please. Of course, writers have embellished and alluded, but tampering with the unspoken but well-known 'no touch' rule about the Doctor's origin is ... well, it's canon, in and of itself...

...which Chibnall completely wrecked, and I can't imagine why. Hubris? By all accounts, he was a fan. I thought Moffat was a dick for bringing back Gallifrey, but now, to me, my disappointment then vs now is like comparing a fart to a shitstorm.

Please excuse the scatological references, but I'm using it deliberately. It is a swirling turd, which I and many others wish we could flush down and forget forever.

In another RadioTimes article - which basically is the BBC - amongst the usual apologetics, Huw Fullerton drops this little gem:

“The glory days of David Tennant et al were in a different TV landscape, and if the Tenth Doctor touched down now it seems unlikely he’d command anything close to the ratings he did over a decade ago.”

Yeah, you can all take a break to have a hearty laugh. Or throw up. Whichever. Did they just hint that, basically, the incarnation of the Doctor who continues to get as much love (if not more) than Four, who still consistently gets thousands of butts in seats in conventions worldwide, and has made the BBC hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling in merchandising “wouldn’t command the ratings he did in 2008?”

As Gary Buechler of Nerdrotic said in his response to this article: “Actually, if David Tennant had been given as many chances as Jodie Whittaker, it would’ve had Game of Thrones-level ratings.”

And I agree. Not because I’m a Tenth Doctor stan, but because it’s just ... categorically true. His seasons consistently got average rating of 7.5 to 8 million viewers - and this in a time before BBCiPlayer, so 7-day catch up ratings meant nothing. It was butts on sofas then, which, to me, speaks of a massive, sustained interest.

But Huw goes on to say that such things mean nothing. And that the huge, telling sink in both overnight and 7-day ratings between the 11th and 12th seasons, and the dismal 4.69m 7 day ratings for The Timeless Children - the lowest for a NewWho finale since its reboot - shouldn’t be taken as a loss of interest from the fandom.

Then, pray tell goodman, what does it mean? Does it mean that fans are following the Thirteenth Doctor’s adventures in spirit? Ratings are tanking. Outside of the precious few who blindly tweet and write articles about the show solely based on its now female protagonist, people are notoriously furious, especially after the execrable season finale.

Yet BBC’s Piers Wenger, who once produced the show, says “I don’t think it’s been in better health, editorially. I think it’s fantastic and I think that, the production values obviously have never been better.”

Right. Okay. So, putting Tom Ford makeup on a pig makes it haute couture, huh? The writing is appalling, and after two excruciatingly painful to watch seasons, the Doctor has failed to appear - all I’ve seen is borderline sociopathic navel gazing from an ‘alien’ wearing a pastel duster.

How dare you besmirch the unfailingly cool reputation of the long coat, Chibnall? Jodie? How??

I will not let someone piss on my head and call it rain ... ‘because it’s a woman.’ Assuming I’ll accept it just adds insult to injury. Who do they think we are, as female fans? I will not cosign garbage to further an agenda that is ultimately damaging one of my favorite things ever, Doctor Who. I agree that politics, and a positive moral, have always been a part of DW, but at it’s best the writing was so good that it only added to the entertainment. Now, the BBC is feeding us all the bitter pill, without the kindness to hide it in a piece of tasty cheese. It gives the impression that they believe we are already so indoctrinated that we no longer need artifice!

Well, not only am I not indoctrinated, but I refuse to ingest.

I refuse to allow people to silence me because the Doctor is now a woman, and so am I. That, I shouldn’t say anything, or complain, because it’s an act of rebellion on womankind, not only in entertainment, but in general. Well, to that I say ... er ... I disavow.

Disavow. Disavow.

And this from a woman who once criticized Peter Davison for saying that casting a woman was “a vital loss of a role model for boys,” taking it as a sexist comment when in truth, it was just a relevant narrative concern about gender-swapping the traditionally male-presenting Time Lord. Just changing a character from male to female doesn’t do anything but demonstrate a tone-deafness about the emotional and physical differences between men and women, which exist whether we want to address them or not. This is why genderswap reboots are terrible. They are trying to further the feminist agenda, while surreptitiously painting traditional, every day femininity as weakness, and something to be avoided at all costs. I reject the modern Hollywood representation of what a ‘strong woman’ is meant to be. I can be clever, yet sensitive enough to comfort a friend when they confide their fears about a cancer relapse. I can be funny, and not at the expense of the man in the room. I can be brave, but not at the expense of my friends. The mind boggles as to why they thought their current tack with the Doctor was going to be any good. The Doctor is a woman, but more importantly, she’s a Timelord. Where are they? Is the alien that we’ve known and loved for the last 60 years truly gone away, and Thirteen is from a whole different timeline? If so, I don’t want to know her.

And it breaks my heart.

Why continue to support a corporation who thinks of me, the fan, as no more than a heartless, thoughtless consumer? A drone? A sheep who has no conscious idea of what I like or need?

I’m done. It’s been two seasons of absolute dreck, with absolutely no sign of a course-correction due to the overwhelmingly negative response. I may be many things, but I’m no masochist - even in the name of love. And Chibnall, knowing that many fans would go back to the classic stories to cleanse ourselves, went back to the beginning and took a giant shit there too.

Oh, the cleverness! the absolute schadenfreude of not only tampering, but rewriting the Doctor’s origins! I suppose that tells me he truly was once a fan. But no longer. Even if it turns out that the Master is as full of crap as Chibnall and it’s all an orchestrated lie, I don’t care anymore. Every inexplicable, terrible thing that happened before has already exhausted my patience with the narrative.

As veteral DW writer and script editor Terrance Dicks said:

If you’re concentrating on putting forth a political message, rather than on doing a really good show, I think there is a danger, maybe, you can do both but it would be hellish difficult, and I think that there’s maybe a danger that the show wouldn’t as be as good as it could or should be, because you’re not looking at the right aims.”

It seems like all that has been lost in time. Big corporations are buying up beloved science fiction properties, and systematically destroying them by trying to mix their politics into the mythos. [see ‘the fandom menace’]

I say, don’t support things that make you unhappy, in the name of nostalgia. That’s how they continue to upset us, while lining their pockets with our hard earned money. Complaining amongst ourselves, writing emails, or making angry Youtube videos no longer works anyway. Now is the time to just ... let it go. No more special edition DVDs, novelizations, or pretty action figures. Hit them in the pocketbook. We will still have fond memories of better times. I will not let them hijack, retcon, and retool them too.

There is a telling paragraph hidden in the depths of the article, which makes my DW fangirl sink:

It’s not as simple as “the ratings are down so Doctor Who will be cancelled,” as for the publicly-funded BBC there’s an interesting question about exactly what ratings are for beyond bragging rights. Obviously they need to make TV that people want to watch – but which people?

Not us, Huw. That’s who.

#dw #doctor who #doctor who season 12 #doctor who season finale #tenth doctor #dw negativity #the timeless children #or as I call it:#the timeless sham #issa no from me dawg #that little comment about dt really made me snort #i really hope he heard about it and had a long knee-slapping laugh #oh dear #the bbc really are deluded #they are truly drinking a koolaid whose potency boggles the mind #like can they see how off the mark they are?#do they have friends?

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thebaileymail · 4 years

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LFRP: Ryder Bailey

The Basics ––– –

Race: Hyuran Midlander

Gender: Male.

Sexuality: Homosexual

Marital Status: Single

Age: Twenty-one

Birthday: Fourteenth of the Third Astral Moon.

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Natural brunette; currently dyed a wheat blond.

Eyes: Blue-green, often bloodshot from fogweed consumption, and wide-eyed with excitement.

Height: Five fulms and nine ilms.

Build: On the cusp between muscular and lithe. Ryder spends much of his time exercising, running about and maintaining a generally healthy lifestyle.

Distinguishing Marks: Although Ryder has no salient marks on his visible form, the man almost always beams with something of an infectious smile.

Common Accessories: A long rifle strapped to his back, whom Ryder lovingly refers to as Olga. Sometimes whizzing around him is something of a metal contraption, not dissimilar to what one would think a crappily made magitek bit would look like.

Personal ––– –

Profession: Treasure hunter, bard

Hobbies: Writing, exploring, making friends, cooking, blitzball

Languages: Common, Ilsabardian

Residence: Lavender Beds, the Drunken Moogle

Birthplace: The city-state of Sharlayan, in Dravania.

Religion: Common belief in the Twelve. Affinity to Thaliak

Patron Deity: Thaliak

Fears: Death, loneliness, being rendered immobile, ancient curses, not being good enough, Garlean weapons of mass destruction

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: None.

Children: None.

Parents: Sandy Bailey (Mother), Kenneth Bailey (Father)

Siblings: None.

Other Relatives: A few of Ryder’s aunts, uncles and cousins live with his parents in the Old World.

Pets: Bella, his ‘magitek bit’.

Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Ryder is not seen smoking often. Instead, he will bake fogweed brownies (with gunpowder added for an extra kick) for himself and his friends rather often. Alcohol: Moderately.

RP Hooks ––– –

Treasure hunter: Cryptic caves, magical memento and curious curio; those are but a few of the things which light the twinkle in Ryder’s eyes. He can be found by wayward travelers in mystifying hotspots of treasure and danger, or by any market, attempting to vend off his dismal magical finds to (un)willing merchants.

Bard: Fantastic fables and captivating canticles are what Ryder brings to life as he regales tales of his adventures, and of the many people he has come across during his travels. He fancies himself something of a bard. And, as such, he loves hearing stories and turning them into songs. He believes all should be immortalized through tales and music, and he seeks to do exactly that.

Overwhelmingly personable: Ryder has something of an animated attitude about him; his infectious smile beaming towards any and all. He has no quarrel with walking up to strangers, exchanging stories or banter. If anything, it is one of the things he loves most.

Past acquaintances: I’m open to pre-established relationships with Ryder, whether it be as a past friend in Tailfeather where he grow up, a distant family member, or anything else, so long as it feels right!

Sniper: Ryder battles with his trusted rifle, Olga. He can be hired, for the right price, to perform all manner of combative functions, including bodyguard work, hunting, or even assassinations if it is legally approved.

Dim-witted: Although resourceful, blessed with a few wise moments, Ryder is a little dumb. A tendency to believe that people are inherently good mixed with a clear lack of intelligence has the Hyur easily manipulated to do, perhaps, unsavoury things.

Versatile: Ryder is designed to be able to be proactive in nearly any environment. I can easily give him reasons to be just about anywhere.

Contact Information ––– –

You can contact me here on tumblr - or on discord (Roy#0437), and I’ll be delighted to work something out!

I’m European, although I’m known to stay up unreasonably late for a good scene, especially nowadays!

I’m mostly looking for something beyond slice of life RP. Rather, I’m in favour of long-term connections which provide my character with ample development outside of your usual taverns. (I’m also a sucker for open world RP)

My characters are lore-abiding, and I’m personally most interested in other characters that are as well. Stretching or bending lore is absolutely awesome, but things that directly go against what the game has provided us with is just not my cup of tea, sorry!

I am a big fan of DM’ing small events for a few people (whether freeform or with /randoms). Noble parties, research, adventuring, name it and I’ll be keen to do it so long as it provides some measure of character development (and it pretty much always does). Although Ryder’s adventures are most often focused on treasure hunting!

#Xiv #balmung #Ryder Bailey #feel free to reblog!

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omfgtrump · 3 years

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Hollywood Does What Senate Won’t: Gives Don The Boot!

With his impeachment trial beginning and the possibility of conviction a near impossibility, we turn to the Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, Sag-AFTRA, for inspiration and a moral compass.

The union voted “overwhelmingly” to find probable cause that Trump had violated SAG-AFTRA’s constitution in inciting the January 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol and “sustaining a reckless campaign of misinformation aimed at discrediting and ultimately threatening the safety of journalists, many of whom are SAG-AFTRA members.”

On the other hand, the Republican party, who gave a standing ovation to Q lady, Marjorie Taylor Greene, has already decided that inciting an attack on the U.S. Capitol and to quote Sag-AFTRA, “sustaining a reckless campaign of misinformation aimed at discrediting and ultimately threatening the safety of journalists” as well as the Capitol police, members of Congress and the vice president, does not rise to the level of a conviction and being barred from running for public office again.

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/juliareinstein/marjorie-taylor-greene-qanon-gun-facebook-squad

In fact, with such overwhelming evidence against him, The Don’s lawyers won’t even try to argue the facts: their defense will be to claim the proceeding itself is constitutionally illegitimate. A defense ready made by the 45 Republican senators who voted to derail the trial before it started.

It will come down to what I call the Sargent Schultz (of Hogan’s Heroes fame) defense: “I see nothing, I know nothing” and for good measure, I am not even here. In other words, regardless of what you witnessed, it doesn’t matter, because there is no basis for a trial. Since the trial shouldn’t exist, you can’t vote to convict because that would be an acknowledgement of the fact that there was a right to have a trial. Feels a bit Kafkaesque.

youtube

Once again, we are confronted with the stark reality that the Republican party is willing to risk the very democracy it is charged to defend and abandon all its principles, to pledge its allegiance to The Don.

But not SAG-AFTRA

The Don, true to form, seeing the handwriting on the wall, beat them to the chase. Resigning before they call to say: “You’re fired,”

Below is his resignation later. I reprinted it in full because it such classic Don.

Ms. Carteris:

I write to you today regarding the so-called Disciplinary Committee hearing aimed at revoking my union membership. Who cares! While I’m not familiar with your work, I’m very proud of my work on movies such as Home Alone 2, Zoolander and Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps; and television shows including The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Saturday Night Live, and of course, one of the most successful shows in television history, The Apprentice – to name just a few!

I’ve also greatly helped the cable news television business (said to be a dying platform with not much time left until I got involved in politics) and created thousands of jobs at networks such as MSDNC and Fake News CNN, among many others.

Which brings me to your blatant attempt at free media attention to distract from your dismal record as a union. Your organization has done little for its members, and nothing for me – besides collecting dues and promoting dangerous un-American policies and ideas – as evident by your massive unemployment rates and lawsuits from celebrated actors,

Who even recorded a video asking, “Why isn’t the union fighting for me?”

These, however, are policy failures. Your disciplinary failures are even more egregious. I no longer wish to be associated with your union.

As such, this letter is to inform you of my immediate resignation from SAG-AFTRA. You have done nothing for me. Regards, President Donald J. Trump

SAG-AFTRA’s response was a simple “Thank you.”

I appreciate the elegance, the high mindedness and the desire not to engage and breath oxygen into the situation.

But here would be my response.

Dear Mr. Trump,

First let’s set the record straight on a few things. What you did in those movies is not called work: It is called a cameo. And even though you are no longer a member, we feel it is our patriotic duty to due justice to your presidency. At present, there are numerous projects being explored. Too bad we won’t be able to consult you or even cast you, but we promise that we will create compelling, dramatic and riveting entertainment. Exactly what you would want.

Here are a just a few that are being considered by two new production companies: Orange Rot Productions and Golden Showers Productions.

Vlad and Me: A buddy picture for the ages. The plot revolves around a president of the U.S. sharing secret information for love. For any old movie fans, there is one scene of Vlad and a certain orange haired president that equals the steaminess of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr on the beach in “From Here to Eternity.” Purportedly, its climax has a golden shower.

The Insurrectionist: a deep dive into the coordinated attempt between White Supremacy Groups and people in government to overturn an election. The opening scene is one of the scariest things ever produced. Take a seat Chucky. The scene opens with a mob storming the Capitol. The camera zooms in on crazed man taking a fire hydrant and smashing it over a police officer’s head. The camera then zooms in on an orange haired man in the oval office watching TV yelling: “Did you see that shit? That’s better than any WWF thing I’ve ever seen. Do these people love me or what?” The phone is ringing. Aides are trying to get the president’s attention to no avail. “Tell them I’m not in. Look at this shit, isn’t it just amazing.”

From Riches To Rags: This film follows the ruinous descent of a president of the United States as he loses all his friends, money, the debtors who want their due and ultimately is imprisoned. Rumor has it that some of the jail scenes at the end are quite chilling.

Let’s hope that with the current president doing the work of the president and not just making cameos, we will emerge from this nightmare and once again be able to say: “How about we go to a movie?”

Regards,

Disciplinary Board of SAG-AFTRA

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#IFTTT #WordPress #trump #politics #potus #capital hill #washington dc #white house #america #usa

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i-try-writing · 4 years

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my first actual post lmaoo

its my shitty attempt at a gothic style short story but im somewhat proud so...

atmospheres

It’s a well known fact of life (especially in my household) that humans, despite their lacking in other areas, have an exceptional ability to pick up on atmosphere and mood. Therefore, I am very careful with moods and atmospheres, as what you dismiss as nonsense will often come back to haunt you.

It was a dismal and white afternoon, with an unappeasably electric atmosphere. Everyone was restless, tired of the dusty rain, floating about elegantly like some sorrowful ballerinas, refusing to touch the ground. The long summer day was causing the blinding white sky to seem never ending, and we only got more restless and impatient with the weather, and in what dad dubbed ‘an act against god’ (to make it sound more enticing) I was forced outside to get some exercise. I made my way down to the grass of our garden, and further along into the woods, one of my favourite places to take shelter.

I was new to the sense of woods in the rain, I had never gone into our woods when it was overcast and sodden. Slimy Dark twisted trees cast fear into my mind, and the restless energy that was so potent in the house was only intensified out here. Restless is not threatening, so despite my wish to go inside, I stayed out in the rain.

However, as I said earlier, atmosphere is a crucial thing to be aware of. So when I passed the old Victorian angel statue, covered by moss and trees - no longer its own object, and the most malevolent feeling came over me, I knew I had to get out. I could feel adrenaline in my throat, energy gathering inside of me, static energy on a balloon and yet I could not move a muscle. As the energy got more intense within me, I started marching towards the open space of our garden. Every step only charged me up more, filling me more and more with the most ominous and evil feeling I will ever feel. I did not look back to see what I was scared of, I was far too terrified by whatever was in the forest that made me feel like that. With every step I got faster and faster, until soon I was sprinting back up through the forest, as if every step gave me a shock from the ground that shoved me forward.

I reached the clear of the garden, and collapsed on the grass.

The rest of the day continued as it had begun, restless, electric, stale. I continued as I had begun, sleepily and bored, however there was a new feeling, taking up a small space in the back of my head that gave a low hum. It was the kind of feeling that needlessly activated fight-or-flight instincts and therefore left you needing to move spontaneously, explosively. It was a lukewarm feeling. It makes you feel ill.

When the sun finally made the trees its grave and it became acceptable for me to finally sleep was when the object that had forced me out of the forest finally revealed itself.

I was back in the forest by the statue, just as I had been, but I was viewing myself. I was not in my own body. I once again was hit with the overwhelmingly malevolent feeling, but this time I really did not have an ability to run. My conscience was glued to where I was, being forced to deal with the situation. I watched my earlier self, about to be hit with this same feeling, and I watched another creature approach her. This creature was like nothing I had seen before. It was a creation worse than hell. It had every body part necessary to be human, and it looked nearly human too. It had arms, legs a torso, a head, but each part had a quality that made it uncanny, and terrifying to look at. It seemed to be emitting light, a small grey light, the kind of light that would infiltrate your mind and shine light on the darkest places. It moved too humanly to be human. The movements were jarringly smooth, and every step towards my earlier self was not a step but a slither of its foot along the ground. As it reached her, it extended its translucent paw-hand to her, each of its silky long fingers gliding through an invisible maze in front of it. It reached my face, a solid material that was suddenly easily permeable, seeing as the hand seemed to go through the face and wrap around my brain. I felt that in my dream-conscience. I felt the hand squeeze around my brain. The creature must have sensed this and was alerted to my presence, as it moved without moving, to stare my conscience dead into whatever I was seeing out of. And then I was back in my body, but in the woods, at night-time, with only the memory of this creature. And the need to run. So I ran again. But this time I didn’t stop at the grass, no, I hurtled up through whatever door I can find, even if it wasn’t open, it doesn’t need to be. I sprint up my stairs and stopped outside my bedroom door. The intense need to feel safe again pushed me straight through that door, into the room. In front of me was the creature again, on top of my comatose body with its hand around my brain. This time it knew I was here. It let out a thousand tiny screams in one second, a cacophony only fit for the ears of a demon, laughing but in pain at the same time. And then I was truly back in my body, eyes closed but there. I could feel everything again, my legs and arms and fingers and toes, there was life in every section, and I was alive again. I could feel the random pain in my gut, the scrapes on my elbow, the bruises on my knees, the scar on my forehead, and a cold, soft hand wrapped strongly around my brain.

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