See I like Sans but not in the funny meme sexyman way I like him in the way that he promised Toriel to protect a child that was going to be served as a sacrifice from the start because he couldn't find himself to say no to her genuine laughter and sense of humor at every dumb joke they told each other, how he cracked jokes and pranks to make this child feel comfortable while warning them to be careful and reminding them that people loved them and having a gentle heart doesn't make you weak like to this day I still think about "Take care of yourself, kid. Cause someone out there really loves you." and "You didn't gain LOVE, but you gained love." Sans is our friend actually
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Dogstock are typical of what are often deemed the ‘evil’ races in many other fantasy works. They were created by some higher force to be slaves, they are carnivorous by nature, they resemble animals other than human in dentition and build. They growl and bite and walk behind.
The Uhasr (a dogstock culture) are descendants of such slave-infantry that was abandoned when the empire that used them to capture the steppes decided the land wasn’t so profitable after all, and more pressing matters drew their attention elsewhere. Like tools left spent on the ground, the unneeded, excess dogstock were left to survive on their own in Hochkiskuph. The native peoples, of course, did not welcome them any more, or see them any less as oppressors when the hand released the lead. To the Hochkiskuph peoples, the Uhasr are a predatory ghost, an echo that consumes them even in absentia. To the Uhasr, one human is much like another, differing in number and equipment, but never in essence. Uhasr are a species of wild animal with a human face. Humans are prey on two legs. Humans smoke and poison uncovered dens on principle, Uhasr abduct and consume men and women and children all the same.
A common trend I have noticed in media which aims to humanize monsters, is that it often relies on passivity. Humanity is contingent upon kindness. The monster that is A Person only so long as they are a harmless thing at heart, something which can be understood and befriended. Their violence is reluctant, their hearts noble. Grace is a concession to the dominated. Only the toothless beast, declawed and pinioned and caged, is one which has earned its personhood. The ontological enemy supersedes the ontological man.
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Daughter of the House of Dreams: A Fragment
Author's Note: This is the opening to a long-abandoned "Sleeping Beauty" retelling that I no longer plan to write, but I still like it as a piece of prose, and it sparked my enduring interest in second-person narration, so it feels relevant, and why should long-dead authors be the only ones who get to have their unfinished fragments published?
If you ever travel to Monetta City, be sure to visit Faraway Lane. Walk past the glittering new shops, and the shoppers in their bright silk dresses and top hats, and you'll find a cozy stone shop at the end of the street. This shop isn't grand and mighty like the other shops. It won't sniff and turn you away if your clothes aren't the latest fashion. It's a grandmotherly old shop that shakes its head at the prancing and preening of the younger shops, and invites you in instead. It holds no wares in its windows; it hardly has windows at all. But it has a warm and wide wooden door, with a shingle hanging above—Alessia Day, maker of dreams.
Don't ponder the sign's message too long—it means exactly what it says. Just slip inside, shut the door behind you, and look. Don't breathe too deeply, unless you want a week of crazy dreams, but allow yourself one gasp of astonishment. You won't be able to stop yourself. No living person has failed to feel awe toward the rows and rows of shelves, longer than streets and taller than palaces, filled to bursting with glass bottles in such bright colors that the dresses in the other shops' windows would weep in envy. Some bottles are the size of thumbnails. Most fit comfortably in the palm. Some are as large as breadboxes or steamer trunks or carriage horses, but the shelves manage to fit them all. And each bottle is filled to the brim with dreams.
If you don't understand, ask Alessia Day. You'll find her at a counter half a mile from the door, polishing bottles and humming a song you've heard but can't remember. She's an old woman now, and proud of it, but squint your eyes and start to daydream, and you'll see her as I remember her—a willow-wand girl with shining brown hair and eyes that sparkle with half-formed jokes.
Tell this girl how pretty she is (she'll laugh and call you crazy) and ask about her dreams. She'll tell you of her stock and sell you any dream you ask for—daydreams and pipe dreams, dreams of love, dreams of adventure, dreams of loved ones lost and loved ones found and people you've never met but wish you had. She'll show you dreams of lush and perfect islands, dreams where fishes fly through the air, and dreams where people swim the seas with fishes' tails. She'll pull down dreams that last a second but linger a lifetime, dreams that fill a month of stormy nights, dreams that fade on waking and dreams that drown out memories. If you let her, she'll talk of dreams until you drift off, and she'll bottle up your dream while you doze.
But if you're smart (I know you are) you'll step to the counter with a clear glass bottle, empty of everything but air, and ask for her story instead. She'd distill it in a dream for you, and be glad to do it—I once saw her whip it up in half a minute, and I'll bet she's even faster now. Buy the dream, but don't drink it right away. You won't be ready for it. Linger in the shop a while. Hear the story first from Alessia Day's lips, in that voice of hers that's sweeter than singing.
You won't believe half of it, but when you stagger from the shop and wander the empty, starlit streets, you'll ponder over passages until you stumble into bed at sunrise. And when you wake, the world will be different—you'll see tiny footprints on the windowsills, know things about the shadows on the walls, tip your hat to creatures in the corner of your eye, and realize there is another color no one else can see. You'll laugh and call it your imagination, but every second Tuesday, you'll start to wonder if the old woman was right, if the things she told you were true.
If you drink the dream she made, you'll know. I'll understand if you don't—some things are easier not to know. But if you do, and dream through her story, come to my house and ring the bell. My man will let you in—he'll know you by the wonder on your face. He'll bring you to my study, set you in my oldest, softest chair, and get us both settled with a steaming pot of tea. Then, once you've finished babbling, I'll close my eyes and tell you my part in the tale.
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I am just somehow OBSESSED with Takeru DRIVING. Like is he a bad driver? He speeds past the gang waiting outside of Daisuke's restaurant (or the restaurant where Daisuke works, whatever), so maybe? Is that his mom's car? Or is it his car? Why does he NEED a car? What is he doing that requires him to drive? Is it going to be a plot point in the movie? Is Takeru being a BAD DRIVER going to be a plot point? I need to know.
Ken and Miyako are also visibly startled when Takeru speeds past (Miyako JUMPS!!!!), while Iori and Hikari don't even flinch. What does that say about DYNAMIC?! Are Iori and Hikari more used to Takeru's (presumably bad) driving? That would make sense, no, cause they are (canonically???) closer with him? Just such a small interaction and I can interpret so much and draw so many conclusions!!! How fun!!!
There's just something really so fun about watching characters you've loved your whole life continue to grow - to see new details about them spring up, new traits, new things to add to canon.
It's the most delightful thing about the Digimon Adventure franchise to me. Sure, the stories they have told over the last decade have mostly been all various shades of mediocre, but the character moments - goodness, the character moments just don't hit the same in any other media for me. It's so special to me.
ETA: WAIT, looking at the screencap, Iori looks slightly concerned. Only Hikari looks calm (though she does turn her whole body to look at the car once it stops). Does this mean HIKARI is the only one comfortable with his driving? Cause Hikari is closest to him? (I don't even think their closeness is something that is debatable - I feel like it is PRETTY CANON that they are closest with each other???????????)
HERE'S HOW TAKARI CAN STILL WIN.
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