#Next Generation Scaffolding | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anthurak · 5 months

Text

Something I absolutely love about the alternate-timeline aspect of Scott Pilgrim Takes Off is that it really feels like a logical extrapolation and ‘next-step’ to the genre/trope-subversion and exploration of the original comic.

Remember how the whole idea of Scott Pilgrim the comic is taking a very basic, generic and ‘tropey’ premise; ‘Boy likes girl, boy must defeat girl’s seven evil exes in order to date her’, and uses it as the backdrop and framework to explore, deconstruct and develop its characters.

Like how the biggest conflict at any given point of the comic is never the actual battles with any of the Seven Evil Exes, but rather Scott being forced to confront some major problem with himself or his relationship with Ramona (usually the former). How the true ultimate ‘antagonist’ for both Scott and Ramona isn’t any of the Evil Exes, but rather themselves. Their own long-festering hang-ups and insecurities that they’ve been refusing to confront or acknowledge that have in turn led to them being pretty shitty people over the course of their lives. For as bad as Gideon is, he’s still only a mirror showing all the bad that SCOTT could become.

So with that in mind, it really feels like the anime simply took this idea a step further: What if we took the basic, generic and tropey premise that nonetheless served as the framework for the story and held it together… and broke it.

When the narrative guide and scaffolding that held the original story on a certain course is shattered when the story is just getting started, where does the story go?

It’s actually one of the ways I think Scott Pilgrim Takes Off can be appreciated even if you haven’t read the comic or watched the movie. Even if you aren’t familiar with the story, the first episode makes it pretty easy to guess how this story should play out: Scott meets Ramona, they have their first date, they really hit it off and seem set to become a couple. We’re introduced to what clearly seems to be our ‘Big Bad’ in Gideon and our ‘Starter Villain’ in Matthew. Again, even if you don’t know one thing about Scott Pilgrim, by the time Matthew Patel crashes the party you probably have a pretty good idea how this whole story SHOULD go.

And then Matthew (seemingly) KILLS SCOTT in their first fight!

THEN the second episode ratchets things up even further when all signs point to Scott, our title character, being ACTUALLY DEAD for real. And then Matthew, again the guy who should be the starter villain, goes and beats Gideon Graves, the guy who clearly SHOULD have been the FINAL BOSS of this story!

And then the third episode sees Ramona, the girl previously set-up as the designated love-interest, firmly established as the new PROTAGONIST of the story. With Ramona given both an overarching goal in finding what really happened to Scott, and an ongoing character-arc of meeting and reconciling with each of her ‘evil exes’.

Basically, even if you aren’t familiar with the full specifics of the source material, I feel like Scott Pilgrim Takes Off can still be enjoyed as essentially a show that at first sets up what seems to be a fairly wrote and predictable story before flying COMPLETELY off the rails at the end of its first episode into something quite a bit more unique.

#scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim takes off #spto #scott pilgrim ramblings #ramona flowers #matthew patel #gideon graves #rambling about genre subversion

305 notes · View notes

dostoyevsky-official · 2 years

Text

gorbachev’s funeral was a solemn affair kept purposefully small by an outsized police presence, ordered there by a regime that wants to distance itself as much as possible from his legacy but which cannot forsake something as momentous as the last general secretary of the ussr. at the same time, those in power hate the people who embrace gorbachev and what he stood for. therefore you have “elements of a state funeral,” a ridiculous amount of police, riot police, plainclothes police, military police, elaborate ways of making sure as few people show up as possible (gorbachev was supposed to lie in state until 2pm, but this was suddenly moved to noon; the burial was closed to the public, but it was actually open). one person was arrested for holding up an anti-war sign. surprisingly, many complained about putin snubbing the funeral due to “scheduling conflicts.” good riddance! who among those present really wanted to see him?

it was something of a quiet protest action against him and the war, even without posters. a pensioner at novodevichy cemetery told me as much: “this is the only way i can protest against what’s going on without getting arrested, and they know it. i couldn’t not take the opportunity.” but what is a protest if it’s sanctioned, quiet, and cordoned off?

at 9:30 am, crowds began to gather at the house of the unions in the city center, where all former soviet leaders were displayed in state. it was both larger than i’d expected and much smaller than i’d hoped for from moscow. from a city of 12 million, there were perhaps a few thousand people all together, many with red carnations. there were several gate systems to the memorial manned by cops who had orders not to let in more than 50 people at a time (i overheard one say so on his walkie-talkie). as with the the funeral procession later on, there was a good showing by the post-soviet generation and those who would’ve been too young to remember much of anything from the gorbachev years; there was also a fair amount of pensioners. the crowd moved fast—the cops didn’t want to let anyone linger for too long in any place—and after three security checkpoints and five gates, i was in the luxurious hall of pillars, though made austere for gorbachev. after seconds of looking at a man who embodied the twentieth century like few others, i was urged to move on as fast as possible. on the way out, a couple behind me, a man and a woman in their 50s, started crying. they were not the only ones.

across the street, a large “we will fulfill our mission” poster, written with the propaganda Zs and Vs, hangs on the scaffolding of the new bolshoi theatre, as if to put a period on what had already ended months, if not years ago. the crowds only became bigger when i left at half past ten. on my way to novodevichy cemetery, i ran into gennady zyuganov, head of russia’s communist party, and asked for a photo—why not. a smaller crowd of CPRF, left front, and other “left” parties gathered for some event near red square. later, i learned that he gave a speech celebrating the end of wwii with the victory over japan. zyuganov said that we must continue the fight and cleanse the earth of nazis, as russia is doing now. this, too, is part of gorby’s legacy, the shattered pieces of a massive, unfinished political project.

a few hours passed before gorbachev’s procession arrived to novodevichy, where the crowd was a bit thinner. i stood next to a young law student in his junior year who skipped his first day of classes to pay respects, chatting with him to pass the time. “how excellent that so many young people showed up,” he said. maybe a third of those gathered was under 30. “if we are here together, it means russia still has a future.” the police moved us around from time to time to “make space.” after finding my way to him again, i noticed he had two carnations instead of four: he gave two to a journalism student and exchanged numbers. a pensioner: “is she your sister? no? watch over her, keep each other safe.”

the procession was headed by a downcast dmitry muratov, a massive portrait of gorbachev in his hands: one nobel peace laureate parting with the other. among those present for the funeral service were ambassadors, including john sullivan from the US, the south korean, french, and german ambassadors, and suzanne massie, a historian who served as advisor to reagan and allegedly introduced him to the russian idiom “trust, but verify,” with pavel palazhchenko, gorbachev’s long-time translator.

after the service, a 21-gun salute, the crowds thronging to the burial by raisa gorbachev’s grave. alexei venediktov (editor-in-chief of the now-dissolved echo of moscow, another glasnost creation) recently talked about how he went to novodevichy with gorbachev around 2010. gorbachev started crying, telling him that all he wanted now was to be buried with raisa. the love he had for her was immense. out of all the biographies and gorbachev/perestroika studies i’ve read, it’s only taubman’s that covers how profoundly he loved her with the space that such a deep, lasting relationship merited.

during the burial: “who do you think is next,” from one pensioner to another, two strangers. “well... you know.” “yes, let’s hope it happens soon.”

a last opportunity to pay respects at a grave heaped, heaped, heaped on with roses and carnations, and then the throngs dissolved. it was the best of who and what you could see in moscow, or, russia’s conscience—what’s left of it—on public display. i have no doubt everyone at the memorial and the cemetery was anti-war. the palpable depression of this crowd was alleviated only by the reinforcing mutual presence of everyone there, a silent solidarity drawn from an organization that hasn’t been seen on the streets since march. you understand what people feel from what’s not said—the looks—the tears—the efforts of men and women in their 80s and 90s to stand for hours, so long as they could say farewell.

the possibility of such organization, reluctantly allowed for the funeral and which was widely admissible in years passed, was the legacy with which we parted today. the defining feature of gorbachev’s rule was openness, glasnost, a gust of fresh air blowing through a hot, humid room, more than economic ideas that were a halfway house for the conditions the soviet state found itself in, and which he didn’t fully understand. yet he opened windows and doors. he returned memory to the people, he allowed memorial to form, he brought sakharov from exile, and yes, he then turned off his microphone during the congress of people’s deputies. gorbachev was a complicated, flawed individual who rose through the ranks of a bloody, ruthless bureaucracy to lead an imperial superpower whose continued survival was his overarching political imperative. he couldn’t have been gandhi. at one point, he nearly killed yeltsin with nothing more than a prolonged party criticism session; he was, directly or indirectly, responsible for the deaths of those on the imperial periphery.

but what could have been instead? nothing is precisely inevitable. had andropov been healthier, the soviet union could’ve been held together to this day by sheer force, or perhaps by prolonged conflict in azerbaijan, or mass-scale repression in the baltics. set in this context, gorbachev leashed the security institutions of the ussr, but didn’t properly dispose of them. thirty years later, his failure is zyuganov’s gleeful speech on denazification, the descent into a fascist society waging genocidal war. his success was thirty years of lost opportunity.

where do we go from here? the feeling of helplessness predominates, resonating through the said and unsaid perception of what could have been and what we have had. the crowd goes home, the opposition stays in jail, the war continues.

#here's the writeup people/mutuals wanted #lithuanian anon: consider this an answer #gorbachev

780 notes · View notes

odditycircus-2002 · 5 months

Text

Medusa!Reader and Shang Tsung in Mortal Kombat 1 Story Mode Part 11

Spoilers for Mortal Kombat 1 Storymode: Proceed with Caution

The first thing you did when you and your group were finally able to get a safe distance away from Ying's Fortress was punch Shang Tsung in the face and then Quan-chi.

"That's for your part in the Other Shang Tsung's plan!"

Jerrod has to physically hold you back from doing more to them before reminding you there is a more pressing problem. He promises that both Sorcerers will face justice when this crisis is averted. Jerrod's assurance is enough to placate your fury for now. Shang Tsung scowls deeply at the Emperor's words but, for once, doesn't say anything.

You then turn to look back toward the fortress, finding legions of stone warriors marching as one in a long line, similar to ants. You listen as others start speculating about the army and strategies to defeat them, along with Titan Shang Tsung and Titan Y/N. Until the Shang Tsung you know, comes up with a good question about more than one timeline. Although, you looked like you physically wanted to vomit when agreeing with the Sorcerer.

"As much as it pains me to say, Lord Lui Kang, Shang Tsung is actually ri- ... Not wrong to think like that. My Titan self mentioned a timeline of her own, meaning there has to be more than two timelines."

"Precisely. We lack strength, but we could find it in other timelines."

Lui Kang appears surprised by your argument before his expression takes on one of deep thought. This gets the ball rolling as everyone starts strategizing to gather allies from other timelines in an overwhelming opposing force against Titan Shang Tsung, including a plan for Lord Lui Kang to reclaim his Titan powers again. You just hope he’ll be able to do so in time.

Meanwhile, your Titan self conspires with Titan Shang Tsung while overwatching the construction of the Portals Nexus point. Titan Y/N instructs Shao to defend the portals at all costs, as Titan Shang Tsung commands Geras to find Lui Kang. Although Titan Shang Tsung expresses frustration toward Lui Kang’s development, Titan Y/N assures her husband that they will succeed, and when they do, watching Lui Kang suffer will be all the sweeter to savor.

”You always know how to brighten my mood, my love.”

Meanwhile, you were observing the Dragon Army with the rest of Earthrealm’s champions, regrouping with them to talk strategy in Lord Lui Kang’s absence. Kuai Liang tasks you as the field medic and air support.

You’re not ashamed to say that when both Shang Tsung and Quan-chin opened their mouths again, you were seconds away from biting them both. Again, Jerrod had to hold your shoulder to silently tell you to drop it for now.

With everyone’s role assigned, you take to the skies. Immediately, some stone soldiers spotted you and started hurling boulders towards you. You were barely able to dodge the barrage of the first one, and even then, you got scrapped and bruised. So not only did you have enemies on the ground to assist against, but you also had them in the air, so nowhere was truly safe. Fortunately, you could stop constructing a newer portal by dismantling the scaffolding.

While you were supposed to be general air support, you often found yourself having to assist both Raiden and the Sorcerers. Such as with a Darker Rain and Smoke, turning both of them to stone after Shang Tsung and Quan-chi defeats them.

”Thank you so much, sweet Y/N.”

”Don’t tempt me to cut out your tongue and force Quan-chi to eat it.”

You finally got to take out some of your fury on a Dark Shao, which you 100% enjoyed helping to beat down. The fact his life force was connected to the portals was just a bonus. Although, he almost caught you off guard when you went to tend to Raiden to heal up his fractured ribs. Luckily, and unfortunately, Shang Tsung and Quan-chi saved the young Earthrealmer just in time. You didn’t miss Shang Tsung’s flirtatious look as he walked to confront Dark Shao. As much as you wanted to end Shao, you knew you had to heal Raiden first and even more this time considering he took a lot of hammer blows.

Fortunately, both Sorcerers succeeded and took both Dark Shao and Reiko’s souls, stranding the Dragon Army within Earthrealm. Saving your timeline. However, your relief was soon replaced with irritation when Shang Tsung reminds you and Raiden about how he and Quan-chi risked their lives to save the realms.

”I have to agree with Raiden. What you did hear was simply cleaning up your own mess.”

However, there wasn't a time to squabble amongst yourself. Not when there was still the remaining Dragon Army to defeat.

...

Back with your Titan self, you accompanied your Titan husband to Lui Kang's Hourglass. You arrived flanked by either side of your minions, some Shang Tsung crafted explicitly in a way so they may be gifted to you.

”Titans fighting Titans? Now that’s something new.”

You comment in amusement when noticing that Lui Kang has found Titan allies while giving them all an unnerving smile. A shiver of anticipation goes down your spine when Titan Shang Tsung reiterates the new plan he told you earlier of annihilating Lui Kang's timeline from existence.

"Shall we begin the process, my flower?"

"Let us proceed, darling."

Both of you then released your minions onto Liu Kang and his allies to keep them occupied. Shang Tsung and you walk hand in hand toward Lui Kang's Hourglass, stopping when you're both close enough to combine your magic with your Kitana and Mileena. The cracking of glass ringing out like chiming bells in your ears. Of course, Lui Kang's ever-faithful servant, Geras, attempts to save the Hourglass with his own blast of magic.

You let out a hiss before directing some of your magic to Geras, just enough to gain his attention so he looks directly at your eyes. Your gaze worked like a charm to turn Geras into stone. However, before you can celebrate, the construct shedded the stone off him like dried mud. So you bare your fangs in frustration as you try again to turn him into stone, only for him to then unpetrify himself. This cycle repeats long enough for Lui Kang and his allies to band together and use their power to overpower you and Shang Tsung's attempt at destroying the Hourglass, simultaneously repairing the relic of any previous damage. The magic overwhelmed you both to the point you and your husband were brought to your knees.

"Dearest!"

You shout as your face morphs into one of concern, with your snakes slithering in his direction and hissing in your shared distress. Shang Tsung gives you an assuring look.

"I have survived worse."

You both supported one another back on your feet to retreat into your timeline with the rest of your defeated minions. You glare at the rest of your fellow Titans, who were wise enough to not even look your way. Which only frustrates you more.

"Shang Tsung, I believe it's about time we gather some new allies of our own."

"Agreed." A/N: Remember to like, reblog, or comment! We just got one or two posts left to go!😁😁😁😁

Playlist

“Redemption” by Besomorph and Coopex

“Bloody Mary” by Lady Gaga

“Fix You” by Danny Olson

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mk x reader #shang tsung #shang tsung x reader #mortal kombat 1 #Oddball writes #kitana #geras #liu kang

64 notes · View notes

the-modern-typewriter · 10 months

Note

Would you talk about your process of writing short stories, if you don't mind? Do you outline it before hand? do you make it up as you go? is it the same w the prompts you get vs stories like The Blue Key or The Art of Turning 30?

It's different for stories that are prompted on here and stories like The Blue Key, The Gallery of Broken Things or the Art of Turning 30 which I have come up with entirely independently and unprompted.

It's also sometimes different for stories that are prompted on here, and other stories I've written based on a prompt from a friend, such as Escapology, Half Sick of Shadows and My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose - but these are more similar because they are still varying degrees of prompt based.

The first question, when I have an idea/prompt, is how big do I want the story to be. Some ideas require novels, some are perfect for short stories. Figuring out which is which comes with practice.

Writing from a prompt

Stories that are triggered by a prompt come (to a point, some prompts are more specific/detailed than others) with a certain amount of inbuilt scaffolding or clues as to what the story must be about.

I talk about different sources of ideas, including writing from a prompt, in this post. The prompt bit gives a sense of my general process when writing tumblr stories with more specific prompts.

For a non specific prompt...

The next tumblr inbox prompt I think I'm going to write when I have a sufficient moment is:

ah, could you write something about a vampire x mortal who always reincarnates

It's a tumblr drabble, I'm thinking 2000 words max, so fairly simple without an elaborate planned plot. It's just for fun. I don't go into the story assuming I am going to continue it. I also don't assume someone on tumblr is going to read loads of backstory and set-up, so I just skip to the most interesting scene that comes to mind with as little set-up as possible.

So, I know I have a vampire character and a reincarnating mortal character. The 'x' implies that the story is going to have, to some level or another, a romance thread.

However, the prompt otherwise immediately raises a lot of questions; the decisions/answers I make to these questions shape the story. Examples of questions that pop to mind.

Am I writing in the POV of the human or the vampire?

Does the mortal remember that they reincarnate or do they start from scratch every time?

When the story starts, does the vampire know that the love of their life reincarnates, or is this the first time that they are seeing their love after thinking they were going to live the rest of their immortal life alone?

How did the mortal die the first time? Was it happy or traumatic?

If it's not the first time they are seeing each other post reincarnation, how did the previous lives go? This will colour the relationship dynamic.

Why is the mortal reincarnating?

Why are the two of them seeing each other in the present of the story? What does each character want out of the scene?

I love an antagonistic dynamic and conflict is brilliant for short stories, so I might go one step further and immediately decide that I want the vampire and the mortal to be opposed/in conflict in some way.

If conflict, what conflict should I pick?

After a certain amount of this, it's just pick whichever answer I am in the mood for on any given day and go.

Writing without a clear prompt

This is more difficult, but I also tend to love these stories more when I do get inspiration for them. There also isn't one process that works for all of these as it tends to change a bit with every story.

(Although I don't tend to outline short stories.)

More often than not, when these stories happen it is because a very clear idea or nugget pops into my head or a strong urge to write about something in particular, and I tend to write the whole thing in a matter of days or hours. They have a lot of iceberg time in my head where I'm sort of thinking about them, then there's a click.

As an example:

I wrote The Blue Key because I love fairytales, the mythos of Bluebeard and haunted houses. I knew I wanted to write something inspired by Bluebeard in this instance, so I knew that I needed a house, a couple, a key and a locked door that must not/should not be opened.

Because I love these stories, I had them on my mind so I wanted them to play into the story. What does it mean to have so many stories about curiosity and its consequence, about having a love that you are not allowed to look at? I re-read some of my favourites and I came across this quote about Bluebeard by Margaret Atwood. I read people talking about how they would be smarter than the wife, or how they just wouldn't look, as if it's always that easy.

What would happen if you didn't know which story you were in? What would happen if the Bluebeard character was also trapped in a story that he didn't want to play out, where there was love as well as horror? What happens if you are in a story where you have the fairytale rules where you must give your wife a key and you must not tell her what is behind the door.

What happens then?

The Blue Key was my answer to that general brain mulch.

#writing stories #writing talk #idk

90 notes · View notes

pawthorn · 1 year

Text

I’m really interested in the next Adventuring Party, because the scaffolding was showing a bit at the end of that episode.

Brennan said it would take a few days to get to the Land of the Giants and the party zagged hard. They have talked about going to the Land of the Giants for several episodes straight. And suddenly they’re grasping for something else to do?

And the character with the strongest hook to the Giants is played by Zac Oyama. And Zac is not the type speak over other ideas, especially when Mother Goose really doesn’t want to go toward Jack and desperately wants to go back for the book.

So the moment of travel to the Lines Between gave Brennan a chance to give the players an epic moment, and then set them firmly back on the path they talked themselves out of.

And as much as railroading is called out as a bad thing, I think that was an important move. Not only for the story, but for Pib. We haven’t been inside Pib’s book. We haven’t touched any threads of Pib’s story with the whole group- those moments have happened to Pib alone. (Honestly, this seems to happen with Zac’s characters a lot. He’s a very generous player and gets a lot of joy out of playing support, and he thrives in the quiet moments.)

So hell yeah, Brennan, put them on horses and send them to the Land of the Giants. It’s time for Pib’s story.

#neverafter spoilers #d20 pib #d20 spoilers #dimension 20 #dimension 20 neverafter #neverafter #zac oyama #dimension 20 spoilers

343 notes · View notes

xxxdragonfucker69xxx · 2 months

Note

Hi! 10kDays has had a vice grip on my psyche for the last week or so, and I'm really excited to play the preview. However, I don't wanna make anyone else in my group GM this game just because I want to play it, so I'd like to try out the GMless mode of play, and so would they, but none of us have any experience with that style of game.

Is there any game you'd recommend we look at for a general picture of how you intend GMless play to work? I do own Ironsworn, which has a GMless mode, so if that jives with what you're intending that would be really convenient lmao.

Thanks for your time!

So there's a couple of thoughts i have here, starting with the shape of the game and the pieces of it that need different kinds and amounts of attention:

The game itself is kind of designed in three strands: courses, combat, and the Face game.

Courses are an adaptation of the Arc/quest mechanic from Jenna Moran's Glitch. I've found that they reduce the GM load hugely, for two reasons: you can roll up half an hour before game, ask "who wants to be in the spotlight, what does your quest say is happening in your life right now, and what needs to happen?", and drop something in. Connections and debts are also designed to give you improv prompts, and to a slightly lesser extent perspectives. The other benefit of Courses is that they move planning burden from "GM, night before game" to "player, whenever they want to think about their blorbo". So on a large-scale, "figure out what the campaign looks like" view, you can get away with improvising every session and just following your own character arcs. Likewise, the District moves and intentions are intended to give GMs an easy "i don't know what to do next" button, and the focuses of mask/gear/bell are intended to share around the responsibilities of worldbuilding. Ironsworn's oracles are another example of how to help outsource some of that decision-making, and it's the reason Appendix Yi is earmarked to be a million random tables. For more information on how oracles work, please google Jay Dragon's Sleepaway on your work computer (or at least read this Twitter thread from NightlingBug).

There are a couple story structures that are well suited to wuxia and this game. There's the Shaolin Soccer/shadowrunner/classic ttrpg setup where you are clearly a team, and there are enemy teams, and you are doing hijinks against them. But there's also a Jin Yong wuxia epic type thing where you have, let's say three or four PCs, and you're maybe nominally on the same side but you're clashing a lot and you're tied together by sworn and blood kinship and you keep running into each other. I think the most pared-down version of 10kdays you could run and still call it a full game is 3 players, characters living sort of far apart so they rarely run into each other, and interactions are 2 of the PCs clashing at a time while the 3rd player picks up any NPCs, throws in some District moves, etc. You could do a 2-player game but the kinds of interactions you could have would be severely limited, I think. The Face game of politicking and building support structures is kind of just... you two, face to face.

Now the problem on everyone's mind is fighting. It's attention-intensive, everyone's interested in it, and depending on your setup there can be loads of combatants that a GM would normally be expected to pilot. Again, there are a couple of scaffolds for trying to do this GMless. The sample Techniques in Appendix Jia come with combat tactics to make use of them, so any player can pick up an NPC combatant and figure out what they're going to do. Fight choreographing like this runs the pitfall of it feeling sort of bad to hurt your friends effectively, at least for some tables, but there is the incentive of hitting your friend's Bite highlight when you grab the corpo thug and bite them in the ass.

It is one of my mid-to-low priorities to create like algorithm type protocols for enemy fighters to run themselves, though that's still in the pipe dream phase. One thing I'm looking at here is Katabasis by Rathayibacter, which has a super cool system for easily lining up combatant actions, enemy or not). Maybe I'll end up with literal combat loop Turing machines or something.

There's one more option here which is to lean the other way -- to foreground the GM themselves being a player. I'm talking Ryuutama dragons, I'm talking Fellowship Overlords. Obviously I one hundred percent have not added this yet, and I'm not even set that I will, but it's definitely a tool I'm thinking of to help manage the wuxia/cyberpunk/other bullshit genre merger. If you went this way, it would look like picking a district -- secret note, each district is built to amplify a genre. Gongshan is made to focus on wuxia/the bell, Jiaotou is made to focus on cyber/the gear, Youzhou is made to focus on punk/the mask, Jingcai Xin is made to focus on court and courtroom politics, and Yuanhai is made to play Nezha Reborn. Pick a district that corresponds to the genre the GM is playing as, turn those Moves into Heroic/Humbling Moves and the landmarks/NPCs into Treasures and Connections, turn the Intentions into Skills. Now you can combine this with what I first talked about, sharing out cognitive load, and focus on playing as a district/genre. Is that meaningfully different from being a GM, who let's recall still counts as a player at the table? I'm a sicko who loves being a GM so I'm unqualified to comment, but try out any combination of these options and see how they take you.

#ten thousand days for the sword #ill just automate all of tatterpiging its fine #larian did it its fine

22 notes · View notes

powdermelonkeg · 1 year

Text

Tears of the Kingdom: The Final Analysis

Part 2

Picking up where we left off in Part 1, our next shot takes us to Hateno Village.

First and foremost, the mushrooms. ALL the mushrooms.

The mushroom umbrella is patterned with mushrooms, and the man in front of it looks to be wearing a mushroom hat.

Similarly, so is this girl with the broom. A mushroom emporium? Maybe a collector's thing, like golden bugs or gratitude crystals?

It looks as if they took over the Ventest Clothing Boutique; the shirt is patterned with mushrooms, and the flags now have mushroom hats of their own. For some context, here's the original:

Purely speculatively, I think this might have some kind of gimmick outfit that you earn by hunting down rare mushrooms.

Moving on.

We've got a somewhat better look at the strange new towers, this one on top of one of the smaller peaks surrounding Mt. Lanayru.

The next shot shows a camp in the ruins of Castle Town. All the malice and leftover guardian bits look like they've been removed.

This bit here looks like a plot of land. Maybe a Tarrey Town situation, where you expand camps by bringing them supplies?

We can see a tower and the rock portal in the distance.

And Link is here in his green garb, meaning that whatever this camp is, the return of Ganon hasn't done anything to dissuade them.

Link climbs up near the rock portal, and we get a better look at it, as well as the generator thing.

That is VERY deliberately made. Possibly a fallen ruin, but still, very portal-like.

The generator thing looks to have replaced Ta'loh Naeg Shrine

Because that down there is Kakariko Village.

EDIT: This is an error; I misinterpreted the angle of the town. Ta'loh Naeg is on the opposite cliff to this. Thanks @dracrownian!

Also, this scaffolding looks to have been built AFTER the sky isles appear, because this one is built on a piece of ruin.

Hyrule Castle floats in the distance, but now we can see beneath it. It's hard to tell from this far away, but it LOOKS like it's hovering over a pool of malice.

There's a quick shot through some trees

With some Zonai swirls off to the side

As well as some geometric shapes along the bridge. Between those and the ferns, I think this is near Faron Woods, but not in it, seeing as there are no tropical trees.

Edit: According to @fluffmugger, @priconstella, and @almostandrogynousdonut, this spot is actually up at Thyphlo Ruins!

And then this scene. Oh, this scene.

It took me awhile to find this geometry on the map. Especially with that spiral off to the right; most of them have correlated to where Shrines are, but this one doesn't. What clued me in was this bit here.

A bigger triangle-shaped rock with a small, short triangle beside it, slightly offset.

There's exactly one spot in Gerudo Desert that has these like this.

Southwest of Gerudo Town, right here. And there are two things of interest that stand in this area. The first, to the southwest, is the Gerudo Great Skeleton, which can just be made out here:

The second?

Arbiter's Grounds in Breath of the Wild was barely anything, just some vague pillars hinting at something-

-just beneath the surface.

The BotW pillars don't quite match exactly. They're definitely not the torii-style gates above in the sky isles. But they ARE arches, over on the left, and the top squares of the pillars match the square bricks peeking out of the sand as the temple rises. It could be that the arches in BotW are what the beta version of Zonai arches looked like.

We then switch to the castle. Recall-able rocks plummet down around it, which indicates sky isles above.

Due to the sheer volume falling at once, I'm willing to believe that the rise of the castle is what directly causes the isles to show up.

Also

These are Sheikah at the forefront

And this looks to be some kind of logging camp or new settlement. There's a sign here that I imagine is meant to be interacted with at a later date.

And I've hit the picture limit, so when I finish Part 3, that link will be updated here.

Edit: Part 3!

#loz #zelda #totk #theory #analysis #long post

146 notes · View notes

deathisararemercy · 1 year

Text

Sacrifice

Death x Reader

The center of town was where the real party was at. A small scaffold was set up in the plaza. White lilies were set in baskets around it in dazzling grandeur. On the scaffold was a grand table, set with a brilliant spread. Only one person was seated at it. Out of all the people in the town, they were the only person dressed head-to-toe in black. Muerte couldn’t see their face as a veil covered it, but he could tell their head was bent as they picked at their final meal. This year’s sacrifice.

A/N: I always write these when I'm sleepy, y'know? Not just the fics but also the author's notes in general. I think writing the notes are my favorite part. Do people even read these? Tweedledee-tweedledum- alright. Let's get into it, shall we? This is actually a lot cuter than what the title would suggest, but it also has such an ending with some different interpretations. This is a tiny tiny bit Halloween-y and out of season, but I swear I'll try to write something for Valentine's Day. That fic will definitely be cute and fluffy, I promise.

The fire was dying out.

Not that it mattered much anyway. He was Death; things like the cold, rain, or snow didn’t affect him. Building this campfire at the edge of the dark wood was wholly unnecessary. It was probably going to attract unwanted attention to himself. But watching the dancing sparks from the campfire was a nice distraction from seeing whatever it was that was going on in the town just down the hill. He could feel it in the air and the way the stars glared down at him. Muerte wrinkled his nose. The air smelled sour like rotten onions and inevitable death. But also lamb. He liked lamb.

He stomped out the dying embers of the fire and checked that the area was all nice and clean. The wind hummed a bit. He whistled in response. Satisfied, the wolf drew his hood and began the walk into town.

For what must have been a century now, the villagers of this village held a festival to “keep Death at bay” every year due to a horrible plague that once passed through the town. It had been an awful year with a poor harvest and horrible disease. Muerte could still remember the exhilarating smell of their constant fear. He never experienced anything like it; it was like walking through an electrifying haze for days that left him in a constant state of adrenaline. Despite that, he felt guilty each time he had to take a life during his stay. And there were many.

He was silent and solemn each time he arrived at someone’s deathbed, trying to be gentle. But the way the families screamed and begged, their wails and sobs as he grimly cut the cord tethering their loved ones’ spirits to the mortal realm, haunted him long after he left the town. The spirits had hated him too, pleading for him to send them back, just so they could live a little longer, just so they could say goodbye, and cursing him when he said he could not.

But Death is a promise, not a bargain to be made.

And the villagers had been terrified of El Lobo Muerte ever since.

Since then, each year, they’d put up torches that would burn all through the night and offer one person as a sacrifice, leaving them in the center of the largest field. One hundred years later, the festival was more of a celebration to keep away illness for the coming year and dress up in costume. Little decorations would be pasted up like wolves and skulls. Sickles would be painted red and hung up next to the fields of crops.

In reality, Muerte couldn't control when people died. He was just there to release the dead from the mortal realm and send them on their way to the spirit world. But it was cute, seeing the little paper skulls they pasted up, the decorated gourds, and- oh that smelled good. They were selling chopped pieces of lamb on skewers this year. His red eyes darted to the stall where they were selling them. A small crowd had gathered there. He’d come back and buy two later.

This year’s sacrifice.

Muerte leaned against a stall, watching them try to take another bite of food before pushing away their plate. They grabbed a golden chalice and took a long drink.

“Steeling your nerves. Interesting.’’

“What?”

The wolf looked around. He was leaning right against another lamb stall. This one was selling mini-pies. The cook looked up at him in confusion, not fear. Well, it looked like even after just a century, no one bothered to tell anyone what Death looked like.

The wolf grinned, baring his teeth. “Oh, it’s nothing. Say,’’ he leaned down to take a peek at the wares. “Could I have two of those please?”

==x==x==

The procession began at eleven bells. The town suddenly fell silent and solemn as a committee of hooded figures approached the scaffold. The sacrifice trembled as they rose, whether it be from fear, fatigue, or drink Muerte didn’t know. When they reached the bottom of the scaffold, a bouquet of lilies was procured for them by one of the hooded figures. The figures then surrounded the sacrifice until Death could barely see the top of their head. And then, they began to walk.

The crowd parted silently as the hooded figures led the sacrifice out of the village, closing the gap as the procession left. Their pace was horribly slow, but they did need to fill up an hour of time. Muerte followed the procession from a distance.

When they reached the edge of town, where the crowds were thin, the light grew dim, and the stars seemed a bit brighter, one of the hooded figures spoke. “This is the final time you will step foot in this village. Once you leave the light, you are to be led into the dark. With your back to the light, you walk into the cold embrace of death in order for the light to continue to burn bright for all those you leave behind.”

With that, the sacrifice was blindfolded, their veil covered their face again, and their hands were bound. They linked arms with one of the hooded figures and the small procession continued to the village’s largest field. The moon was full and beautiful, and the winds hummed a little tune. The wolf whistled quietly in response.

Muerte walked softly and silently, undetected by the mortals. His eyes glowed red as he tried to see further in the dark. The figures were just leaving the sacrifice there. No final words, no last requests. The figures led them to the center of the field, cleared away except for a cut tree stump, on which they seated the sacrifice. Then they just…left.

Something in Muerte’s chest twisted, his lip curling in disgust as he watched them leave the poor sacrifice alone. In the distance, the village bell tower rang twelve bells. He could faintly hear the person hold their breath expectantly. That was his cue.

“Well, well,” the wolf smirked as he pushed away the crops and stood in the clearing. “If it isn’t this year’s little lamb.” The person stood up suddenly, hopelessly trying to see the wolf in the dark. “Relax,” he chuckled, “I’m not going to eat you.”

“But-”

“Here.” He swiftly removed their veil and blindfold. The wolf suddenly hesitated. Those terrified eyes were…prettier than he expected. If he looked at them any longer, he just might-

Muerte spun them around, grabbing their shoulder so that they wouldn’t trip and fall. Their body was small and warm beneath his cold paws and firm grip. Could he just think clearly for one-

He drew one of his sickles and slashed the rope binding their wrists together. The villager yelped at the sudden release before righting themself. They turned around, and Death focused on staring at the point just between their eyebrows. Their eyebrows knit together as they examined him in the moonlight. Adorable.

“Are you…Death?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you are?”

They hesitated before giving their name. “My, my, my. What a beautiful name.”

“It’s the same as any other name,” they scoffed. He could see the faintest flicker of a smile flash across their face.

“Well, it’s the name of the person this town foolishly gave up this year. So I think it’s fairly important. Lamb?”

“Yes?”

The wolf howled in laughter, echoing through the silent night. If there was another villager out there, they’d surely be terrified. Muerte reached under his poncho and pulled out the pies, wrapped up in cloth. “I was asking if you wanted a lamb pie, cordero.”

Their face reddened. They snatched one of the pies away and turned their back towards him. “I- I knew that! I was just saying ‘yes’ as in ‘yes! I’d like a pie!’ you stupid lobo.”

Muerte placed a hand on his chest, gasping. “You dare call Death a stupid wolf! You better watch what you say. You never know what will be your final words.” The villager cast a glance back over their shoulder, gaze meeting Death’s. The two of them laughed.

Muerte sat down on the ground next to the stump. The villager stared at the stump before deciding to sit on the ground next to the wolf. They each ate their pies in silence, chewing thoughtfully. The wolf finished first, licking his lips. “You all outdo yourselves every year. That was delicious.”

The villager smiled, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. “Thanks. We try to make it nice for you.”

Leaning his head on his hand, the wolf shrugged. “At this point, it’s less about me and just having a nice new year. But you know, I enjoy seeing all the cute costumes. A little kid dressed up like that Puss in Boots, running up to me with a stick sword.” His eyes narrowed suddenly, looking at the villager’s face. “Hang on.” They stiffened. He leaned in closer, close enough to smell them and feel them breathe. “You have something…right…there.” He gently wiped away a stray crumb of pie from their face.

“O-oh. Thank you!”

Was that pushing it? He narrowed his eyes again as he looked between that beautiful face and the crumb stuck to his fur. He licked his paw clean, eyes trained on the villager. Their face reddened again. He could feel them trembling a bit, though Muerte was fairly certain it wasn’t from fear.

“Say,” he began slowly, testing the words out, “Do you think I really eat people?”

They were startled and hurriedly responded, “No, of course not! At least…I hope not.”

“Well your prayers have been answered,” Muerte said, rising to his feet. The villager quickly followed. “I don’t really eat people. Neither does that Big Bad Wolf people tend to confuse me with.”

“But the others,” they said slowly, “the others from the previous years. What happened to them?”

The wolf shrugged. “I always bring food because I know they’ll barely be able to eat anything from the nerves. Then, I take them wherever they want to go, that isn’t this village.”

Their eyes widened. “You can do that?”

“Mm, yes. Granted, not everyone likes the way I travel. And the universe isn’t particularly keen on me doing this. But I don’t kill anyone. And they usually survive the trip.”

“‘Usually’?”

“I’m joking, cordero pequeño.” Muerte grinned. “So what will it be? Where would you like to go?”

The little lamb paused. “I…I don’t know.”

“Come on. You can go anywhere in the world. Just say the word.”

“I think I just want to be able to see you again.”

That took Death aback. He blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Was it weird? Sorry, I just- Listen. I want to see you again.” The mortal gestured around the field, ethereal under the moonlight. “I know I said I don’t think you eat people, but I also didn’t really expect to be alive past midnight. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do. But,” they added, stepping slowly towards the wolf, “now I think I want to get to know you more. You’re a pretty funny guy, Lobo Muerte.”

His heart fluttered in his chest. Well, mierda. The moonlight was caught in their hair, and they smelled sweet and full of life. Muerte bent down, reaching behind the stump to pick up the discarded bouquet of lilies. Quickly before it could wilt under his touch, he pressed one flower to the mortal’s chest. He smiled softly, tapping the tip of their nose. “We’ll find a place for you. And I'll be sure to visit before your time comes for real. I’d like to see you again too. Is that alright?”

They grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“Alright then.” The wolf unsheathed his scythes and thrust them upwards, cutting through the air. A shimmering door of light opened in front of the two. He smiled seeing the wonder on their face. “Let’s go.” And he whistled as they went.

#puss in boots #puss in boots death #death x reader #puss in boots muerte #muerte x reader #the last wish #x reader #.writing

224 notes · View notes

chromaticflare · 10 months

Text

What the new signs and sigils in volume 12 probably do.

I can’t thank the WHA community enough for helping me with translating the spell info on volume 12’s bonus page. As of now, 7 people have sent and/or shared translations with me, and having so many sources to draw from really helped me to draw some meaningful conclusions. Here are my findings.

Findings From the Vapor Bubble

The sign underlined in blue had the same translation every time - "cooling.” It likely does exactly what the name implies; cooling stuff down. We'll just call it a cooling sign. I cannot tell you how long the spellmaking side of the fandom has been waiting for a canon way to make ice spells, and we FINALLY HAVE ONE!

Next, we have the sign underlined in red, which I got a few different translations for, including “gathering,” “collection,” and “assembly.” Based on these translations and the spell’s behavior/structure, it is likely that this sign allows spells to pull in and gather material from the surrounding area for the spell to then manipulate. I’ll be referring to it as a gather sign. Gather seems to share many similarities with collection, but gather's ability to pull in nearby material sets them apart, as collection can only absorb material either in contact with or very close to the spell.

Findings From the Pegasus Carriage

An important thing to note before we begin is that the pegasus carriage spell was first shown in Chap 1. Oftentimes, the closer you get to the start of WHA, the less ironed-out and consistent the magic system becomes. Many, MANY spells from the first 2 volumes (especially Vol 1) were retconned, changed, or replaced later on in the story. This spell is a great example of this.

We'll start off with the sigil underlined in green, which was consistently translated as being a "wind" sigil. We actually already knew prior to this that it behaves very similarly to a typical wind sigil based on its behavior in Chap 1, the only chapter it was ever shown in. Within this chapter, it was drawn on both the pegasus carriage and on Qifrey's sylph shoes. By Chap 3, Pg 2, the modern wind sigil had made its first appearance, and by Chap 4, Pg 2, the sylph shoe spell was changed to its modern form, directly retconning this sigil's inclusion within the spell. For all intents and purposes, the sigil seemed retconned, until now. I am unsure why Shirahama chose to bring this sigil back, but I doubt we'll be seeing it anytime soon. Let's call it the old wind sigil.

Next up we have the sign underlined in yellow, which was always translated as "gas." Literally no one knows what this is supposed to mean. However, we actually know this sign and its effects, as it is part of the wind sigil. When wind sigils have this bad boy (which we'll call gas), it makes them manipulate the air nearby. Aeroform sigils have a different sign in place of gas which makes them generate air instead.

Next up we have the sign underlined in purple, which was translated as "whirlwind." It made it's only appearance on the pegasus carriage Chap 1, and appears to be made of modified old wind sigils. That is literally all I know about it. It makes spinning air, I guess? I have zero evidence for this outside the name, so I'll just call it whirlwind. This one gets a big fat IDK.

Next we have the sigil underlined in blue, Wind Underfoot (it already had a name). We already suspected that it creates a wind platform below the spell capable of supporting weight, and all the translations we got (“wind with a foothold seal,” “scaffold-like wind,” and “underfoot wind”) seem to support this idea.

Lastly, we have the two glyphs underlined in red (which do the same thing), translated as "stabilize" and "balance." You might notice that both are float signs. Why would a float sign "stabilize?" Well, after going over it with three of my fellow magic system "experts," we managed to figure it out. Previously, we thought that what float did was make things ignore gravity, but this isn't the case. Instead, float causes the spell and what it manipulates to try and maintain or "stabilize" it's current altitude. We aren't sure weather this is in relation to absolute altitude or the surface below the object or spell, but the idea holds true for the floatglow lamp spell, the carriage spell, and the spell that Beldaruit used to dig up the ground that one time (it's a spoiler if I detail any more). If the official release of Vol 12 matches the translations, we may just have to rewrite everything we know about this sign.

I'm not even done with this post, I still have two more spells to go over, but at this point I've been writing for over an hour. I'll come back to this later and complete it.

Credits

Twitter

@acelessx (translation)

@Bonis_Kkha (spell analysis)

@hypomanix (translation)

@merchantarthurn (translation, scans)

@Okay668 (spell analysis)

Tumblr

@chromaticflare (writing, spell analysis)

@kirbypoyopoyo (translation)

@romistery (spell analysis)

@wild-icarus (translation)

Discord

crayoni#7716 (translation)

sora.haneul#4273 (translation)

@tulipweed (translation)

#atelier of witch hat #tongari booshi no atorie #tongari boushi no atelier #wha #wha spells #witch hat atelier #tbna #δ帽子 #super long post #long reads #long post #technical analysis #magic analysis #incomplete

65 notes · View notes

dragonsinkwell · 5 months

Text

Snippet #78

OKAY SO DON'T @ ME FOR COMING BACK OUT OF NOWHERE FOR THIS JUST @enigma-system AND ENJOY THIS PIC THAT TURNED INTO CRACK THOUGHTS. BLEASE GO AND LIKE AND REBLOG HER LOVELY PIECE. DON'T ASK WHY THE ONLY TWO THINGS I'VE WRITTEN THIS YEAR ARE DUMMY MICHAEL MYERS STUFF AND WHY HE'S THE ONLY ONE WITH A FULL DOCUMENT SCAFFOLD FOR A POSSIBLE HORROR PIECE SITTING IN MY FOLDERS THESE DAYS.

Once upon a time, ages past, a princess fair as snow once ran into this forest to escape her cruel and jealous stepmother upon the death of her father. Here, she found community with a family of dwarven brothers, maintainers of a local mine. All the same, it took little time for her to be located by the queen. The wicked woman poisoned the runaway, who was soon thought of as dead and placed in a glass mausoleum to mourn by the brothers who'd come to think of her as their own sister. A prince, on a royal hunt from his side of the forest, came across the coffin and thinking the princess lovely beyond measure asked to give her body a kiss (a strange request you admit, but perhaps this is that weird warping of history...) only for said kiss to bring the young woman back to life.

These days things tend to go a little different. Sure, princesses and the occasional prince come running out every couple of generations, but their reasons are far more varied. Sometimes, yes, still a step-parent overstepping their bounds, or sometimes a betrothal they simply cannot accept; one time even it was a wild tale of being cursed into the form of an ogre under the full moon. It's not a common event, but the contract of the forest always dictates someone here, in this specific cottage in this specific clearing to welcome them with open arms.

The dwarven family sold it ages ago, when the mine closed. After that it was a witch who held it for several centuries, calling it a 'lovely escape from the city life'. She sold it to a young elf couple who kept it for a few more, passing it on to their son when they decided to move. On and on both this cottage, the clearing it sits in, and to some degree the forest itself has passed from one owner to the next, currently resting calmly in your hands.

Now, exactly how you got it is a story for another day, for it is long and complicated, but suffice to say nobody is willing to play poker with you again after you've had even a single shot of dragonshine. Still, you're pleased with this quiet life. Hunting isn't hard here and the ground is quite fertile, plus, what you cannot catch or grow isn't hard to bring back from the castle city in a day's trip. Thankfully, for the most part you and your lands are left alone, barring one responsibility.

No one's quite sure when, or why, said magic was placed here, but there is no doubt it holds the forest tightly. It is what leads the previous runaways to this very cottage and what holds the specific duties to receive them kindly onto the owner of the cottage. Thankfully, it is never an eternal state, the provision is only until whatever fate the runaway has comes to collect them. You aren't exactly sure what happens to those who fail this job, especially when it's outright signed into a contract sitting in the home upon first entry, but you're in no hurry to find out.

Not that you're concerned. This is a rather rare event and it was the mentor to the wizard you won this place from who most recently fulfilled the task. Nobody's had to deal with a runaway so soon after another so as far as you are aware, you've got nothing to worry about. You get a peaceful life in a lovely setting, kept protected by the magic imbued into the land you live on. Which is understandably why when you return from your monthly trip to the city to bring back a cart of varied goods to help keep your home stocked full to a body laying unconscious in front of your door you scream.

That's a dead lump of a man right there in front of your house!

Terrified and no longer caring the slightest about the cart behind you, you can't help but creep closer to the bloodied body, though you keep an honest distance between it and yourself all the same. The body is large, tall, and certainly well-built; whoever it was could definitely throw a full tree log like a stick, that's for sure. Black boots, dark blue pants and a torn white shirt are both splattered with blood as is... his face?

Is that his face!?

No... no that isn't at all his face. That's a mask, a dirty, white mask that covers the body's whole head, with an eerie, blank 'expression'. As if a dead guy, covered in blood with a knife next to him isn't already horrifying, now he's one of those freaks who hides his whole face on top of that.

Where did he even come from? There were no footprints on the path you followed home, and you don't see anything torn up from this vantage point, no trails of blood leading towards your door. Did he drop out of the sky? No, there's no sign of broken branches or hole in the crown of trees. Then, perhaps appear out of nowhere? What kind of spell would send him here of all places to send a dead man?

'Lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, skin as white as snow...'

It's when you scan over the body once again that two things hit the corners of your brain in perfect synchronicity. First, and probably foremost, is that the body is breathing. The man is alive. Despite what got him here, it hadn't killed him. However, the second thought feels even more damning than the first: the set of conditions that, for some entirely unspecified reason, all the runaways destined to this clearing have.

Red lips. Black hair. White skin.

You stand there, mind as blank as the mask you stare into, fingers steepled against each other with your hands in front of your face, pressing against your nose and lips. This is certainly a predicament. You are fully aware of the contract you signed when you bought this place, but you also have to admit you never considered that you'd run into anything regarding paragraphs four or seventeen. Much less anything as strange as the body laying in front of you.

Does...?

Does this guy even count?

Like, really? Does a mask covering a whole head count as 'Skin white as snow'? Yeah, it's white alright, under all that grime, but that's not exactly skin... you hope. But then from what you catch around his neck the man is pretty pale. How often does he wear that mask? Has he ever taken it off? Either way he's not quite as white as a winter's day.

And then there's 'Lips red as rose'. Red lips is one thing, but does blood covering the bottom half of his 'face' count? But what would make that any different from any other kind of substance used to paint a person's lips? Nobody's out there with lips that naturally vibrant, that's for sure, so it's clearly leaving this part open to full interpretation. Whether you like it or not, it seems blood counts.

Which only leaves 'Hair black as ebony', but that seems to track a lot stronger. The miserable mop of tangled hair the man has is definitely a solid black. Could certainly use a wash, though, even if it is fake and tied only to the mask. You could put a proper bet on the last time that hair has even seen an honest cleaning being several years ago.

Part of you, a loud and raucous part, says there's no way this would fulfill anything more than one of the various marks to check off. That isn't his skin, his lips, or his hair. Heck, you don't even know if he's royal, on top of all the other inconsistencies. The most you could kind of say is the guy is probably rather pale, based on the skin around his neck and arms, but that's hardly snow-level white. That's its own level of never going outside nobility. The hair isn't his and you're not willing now to take the mask off and find out what color the man's actual hair is; that would require getting close to him and even unconscious you don't think he's safe to be near. You'll thank the blood splattered across the mask, his arm, and the knife laying on the ground next to him for that.

However, another part of you knows damn well how fae magic works and it was certainly a fairy of some kind who cast the magic over the forest and the cottage. It would undeniably be somehow both vague and specific enough for such an impossible case to count, and the question then turns into if you're willing to gamble against your contract. Knowing this man, technically, hits all three boxes of what everyone living here has always had to watch out for when it comes to runaways, do you feel clever enough to beat a fae's spell in linguistics?

...

Damn it...

It's with a heavy sigh that you cautiously step forward, not willing to startle the man if he wakes under the assumption he'd react the same way a wild animal would. Damn it all to hell. The answer quickly turns to 'no, you aren't going to bet against a fairy's way with words' because you know better than that. If it can be loopholed into counting you best assume it counts, bloody knife and all, and you refuse to be the first idiot to break the magical contract.

Plus, didn't it say something about keeping the owner safe? Or did you not read that contract nearly as well as you should have...

First thing's first and you kick the knife away, into some nearby bushes. You do not want the man to wake up and be armed, not that you think this keeps you any safer. Those arms are pythons and you're pretty sure he could wring you out like a wet rag. But at least you won't be stabbed. It's a thin reassurance but it's better than nothing at all.

Carefully, you step around the man's body with dainty steps until you get to the door to your cottage. You're quite sure he's completely unconscious and not going to wake up soon, if at all, but you've already decided that you're not a gambler. There's no reason to stomp around him and risk waking him up sooner than he needs to be conscious.

Which comes back to bite you with the door unlocked and open. Just how, exactly, are you meant to get him inside? He's no small feat and isn't a lightweight. You definitely won't be getting him upstairs to an actual bed, either. The most you'll accomplish there is bringing down some pillows and blankets, but that would still be better than leaving the poor guy outside here on stone and dirt.

It will all work out in the end anyway, right?

You take a few deep breaths and hope that your body is still limber and strong enough from the trip back up from the castle city to pull this stunt off. You figure if you get a good grip under the man's arms then you can probably drag him inside without too much trouble, and so that's how you start off. Carefully you squat down, weaseling your hands under his arms. It's hard, that's for sure, and you weren't wrong when you figured he was going to be heavy.

Still, you're not going to give up. It takes some work and you've got to lean over the man some to get a proper grip, now kneeling down to not strain your back too badly. The first pull is fruitless, convincing you to tighten your grip and grit your teeth for the second, which succeeds, however little. Progress is progress you tell yourself, even when you look down, from the eyes examining you to his feet in trying to determine how much mo-

Eyes?

Your attention snaps back to the man's masked face and you come to the realization you weren't at all seeing things not there. A blank, frigid gaze meets your own, staring right through your soul.

He's awake.

#snippet #halloween movie #michael myers #reader insert

24 notes · View notes

psalm22-6 · 1 month

Photo

Les Misérables, by M. Victor Hugo, tomes III and IV [aka what we would call Volume II: Cosette] The story now has for a heroine the daughter of Fantine, the woman who, in the midst of deprivation, was able to keep all her maternal feelings. In these next volumes there are, once again, numerous episodes and the first one is a bombastic account of the battle of Waterloo. But this episode only serves as a lead up to the theft of a watch from the pocket of a dead soldier. It is akin to a mountain which gives birth to a mouse. As for the rest of these big new volumes, there can be found within the same great qualities and faults that we signaled in the first volumes.

[. . .] Appearing alongside the continuation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables are two works which are themselves quite miserable; one written with blood, the other with mud. They are Mysteries of the Scaffold, memoirs of seven generations of executioners, advertised to be by Sanson and Canler’s Memoirs, Canler being the former police chief of the sûreté under Louis-Philippe. The Sanson in question is the son of the executioner who cut off the head of Louis XVI; he (the son) was dismissed ten or so years ago and who would believe it? A large number of applicants presented themselves for the terrible position which was to be filled. [According to Wikipedia it was actually the grandson, Henry-Clément Sanson, who republished the text in 1862 under the new name, due to money problems. The original text was partially written by Balzac.]

Source: Journal des arts, des sciences et des lettres, 30 June 1862

#les miserables #my translation #contemporary reaction #part 3

11 notes · View notes

anotherhumaninthisworld · 1 year

Text

Contemporary descriptions of the dantonist execution compilation

Their trial was over around one o’clock in the afternoon. Only Luiner was acquitted. But as he was detained as suspect for the sake of general security he was escorted to the Luxembourg. The fifteen others were sentenced to death, and driven to the scaffold around six o’clock. They were in three tumbrils: in the first was Danton, next to Delacroix; Fabre near the executioner; Hérault opposite Chabot. In the second, Phelippeaux [sic], Westermann, Camille Desmoulins, Basire and Launai d’Angers [sic]. In the last tumbril, one saw but l’Abbé d’Espagnac; his companions were almost all strangers and little known to the public. Almost all approached death with the same audacity that they had shown in court. Danton, who, like Hébert, was recognizable by his red collar, seemed to pay little attention to the crowd around him: he was chatting with Lacroix and Fabre. Hérault was the quietest. Chabot pointed to the sky, laughing. Desmoulins spoke almost continually to the people; the courage he affected seemed like a painful effort, he was an actor who was studying to play his last part well. Diederichsen, danish lawyer, was executed first, the heads of Lacroix and Danton were the last ones to fall. Only that of Danton was shown to the people, among prolonged cries of ”vive la république.” Suite du Journal de Perlet, number 561 (April 6 1794). A shortened version of this description is given in number 104 of Journal général de la guerre (April 13 1794). According to Michel Biard’s La Liberté ou la mort: mourir en deputé 1792-1795 (2015), these were the only contemporary journals that mentioned any details regarding the execution.

Camille had made incredible efforts to tear herself away from these execrable gendarmes, who have been the lowest servants of despots; so that in going to the scaffold he was completely naked to the waist, because his shirt was in tatters. I saw him cross the space of the palace at the Place de Sang (that's what I called Place de la Révolution) with a frightened air, talking to his neighbors with great agitation, and yet on his face was the convulsive laughter of a man who no longer has his head. Dictionnaire neólogique des hommes et des choses, volume 2, page 480 (1799) by Louis Abel Beffroy de Reigny. In his Testament d’un électeur de Paris (1795) Beffroy adds that he couldn’t restrain his tears in watching Camille pass by.

I saw the tumbrils pass by to the place of execution, containing the men who, a few days before, had been seen as those who were to consolidate the revolution. Some maintained a firm and calm demeanor, others only showed on their faces that humiliating vexation felt by a scoundrel who finds himself caught in the trap set up by his enemy. This feeling was depicted with the most striking expression on the decomposed countenance of Danton. Camille Desmoulins seemed indignant at the deceit of Robespierre, who had never showed him more friendship than on the eve of his arrest. Bazire and Chabot tried to speak to the people by whom they were surrounded; though they spoke loudly, the noise which was made around them drowned out their voices. One only heard them say that, had not Marat been assassinated, he would have been accused of conspiracy like them, and that with them he would go to his execution. The multitude regarded as blasphemous an assertion of which the truth, a few days later, was disputed by no one. They were executed on 17 germinal. Histoire Philosophique de la Révolution de France (1807) by Antoine Étienne Fantin-Desodoards, volume 5, page 371-372

Like Hugues Aubriot, who was imprisoned in the Bastille he had had built in order to trap others, when Danton had been condemned to death by the tribunal he had instituted, the crowd gathered in the square to feast their eyes on the horrible spectacle that the cries of the public promised them. I was going to see Méhul, who was by then living on Rue de la Monnaie, when I came across the tumbril in Rue Honoré in which this revolutionary hero was for the last time presiding over his stricken party. He was calm, between Camille Desmoulins, whom he listened to, and Fabre d'Églantine, who did not listen to anyone. Camille spoke with great warmth, and struggled so much that his unfastened clothes left his collar and shoulders, which the blade was about to separate, bare. Never had life manifested itself in him by more activity. As for Fabre, immobile under the weight of his misfortune, overwhelmed by the feeling of the present and perhaps also by the memory of the past, he no longer existed. Camille who, by cooperating in the revolution, had thought he was cooperating in a good work, still enjoyed his illusion; he believed himself on the road to martyrdom. Alluding to his last writings, he shouted: “My crime is to have shed tears!” to the crowd. He was proud of his conviction. Fabre was on the other hand ashamed of his, he, who had been pushed into revolutionary excesses by less generous interests, was overwhelmed by the awareness of the truth. He saw only torture at the end of the little road that remained for him to travel. Another physiognomy also attracted my attention in this cartload of reprobates, it was that of Hérault de Séchelles. The tranquility which reigned over the handsome face of this former advocate-general was of a different nature from the tranquility of Danton, whose face offered a caricature of that of Socrates. Hérault's calm was that of indifference; Danton's calm that of disdain. The pallor did not sit on the latter's forehead; but that of the other was colored with such a fiery tint that it looked less like he was going to the scaffold than returning from a banquet. Hérault de Séchelles finally seemed detached from life, the preservation of which he had purchased by so much cowardice, by so many atrocities. The appearance of this selfish man astonished everyone: everyone asked his name with interest, and as soon as he was named he no longer interested anyone. […] I went up to Méhul's, and, my imagination full of what I had just seen, I told him: “Tragedy well begun! I want to see the end of it, after having finished in three words the business which brought me. This Danton really plays his role well. We are all on the eve of the day that will end for him. I want to learn how to pass it well too.” "Useful study," said Méhul, who saw things with the same eye as me, and who would have accompanied me if he hadn't been in his dressing gown and slippers. However, the fatal tumbril had not stopped moving; the execution was beginning when, after having crossed the Tuileries, I arrived at the gate which opens onto the Place Louis XV. From there I saw the condemned, not mounting together, but appearing one by one on the fatal scaffold, to die immediately by the effect of the movement which the board or the bed on which was about to begin for them the eternal rest. The rest of the operation was hidden from me by the operatives running it. The accelerated fall of the blade alone told me that it was was being carried out. Danton appeared last on this scene, flooded with the blood of all his friends. Day was falling. At the foot of the horrible statue whose mass stood out in a colossal silhouette against the sky, I saw the rising, like a shadow of Dante, of this tribune who, half-lit by the dying sun, seemed as much to emerge from the tomb as ready to enter it. There is nothing as daring as the countenance of this athlete of the revolution; nothing as formidable as the attitude of this profile which defied the axe, like the expression of this head which, ready to fall, still seemed to dictate laws. Horrible pantomime! time cannot erase it from my memory. I found there all the expression of the sentiment which inspired Danton with his last words; terrible words which I could not hear, but which people repeated to each other, quivering with horror and admiration. ”Above all, don't forget,” he said to the executioner with the accent of a Gracque, don't forget to show my head to the people; it’s worth seeing.” At the foot of the scaffold he had said another word worthy of being recorded, because it characterizes both the circumstance which inspired it, and the man who uttered it. With his hands tied behind his back, Danton was waiting his turn at the foot of the stairs, when his friend Lacroix, whose turn had come, was brought there. As they rushed towards each other to give each other the farewell kiss, a policeman, envying them this painful consolation, threw himself between them and brutally separated them. "At least you won't prevent our heads from kissing each other in the basket," Danton told him with a hideous smile. Danton, as I have said, perishes as a result of a security more justified by reason than by politics. Warned of Robespierre's plans, Robespierre knows too well that he cannot send me to the scaffold without proving that he can be sent there himself." Resting on this idea, he fell asleep in laziness and pleasures. Souvernirs d’un sexagénaire (1833) by Antoine Vincent Arnault, volume 2 page 95-100. According to Biard in Danton: Le mythe et l’histoire (2016) this is the only semi-authentic source we have for Danton’s last words being ”show my head to the people, it’s worth seeing.” It’s still however somewhat dubious considering Arnault places Camille in the wrong tumbril.

#happy deathday dantonists!!#camille desmoulins #fabre d’eglantine #pierre philippeaux #herault de sechelles #and everyone else who was executed tbh #yes even you unknown danish lawyer #french revolution #frev #frev compilation #george danton #danton #did i seriously forget to add a Danton tag…

55 notes · View notes