#a fantasy world but /evil science experiments/ on the other hand are a must because i know the people love their Angst

[pineappleoracle]

can i hear more about hybrids n stuff? i love these and i’m keeping all the links to them in a folder so i can come back to them :D

I THOUGHT I ALREADY POSTED THIS I JUST DISCOVERED IT IN MY DRAFT IM SO SORRY ANON

holy crap its been AGES i hope whoever sent that ask still sees this

lets talk about my ideas for hybrids n stuff :D this time with some illustrations!

as i mentioned in those End hcs, "hybrid" refers to two wildly different things: mob hybrids and actual hybrids in the real sense of the word

but first to explain both of those, i'll have to explain how new players even... happen

because sure, there's the way we are used to, two people with compatible reproductive organs love each other very very much, but then since this is still minecraft and the universe still works like a really weird game, there's also the second option: spawning

Spawning: It can happen that players, just like mobs, simply... spawn into existence. It's quite rare in modern times, since there seems to be a "player cap" which means spawning can only happen in areas with very few to no other players. They don't spawn in as newborn babies of course, that'd severely limit survival chances. Spawned players seem to appear at ages between 10 and 20 years on average, but never too young (or too old) to be completely unable to fend for themself. They know how to speak and have at least basic reading skills from the start, along with enough general knowledge of the world to survive. It's pretty much seen as a fact that the ancestors of at least all modern player species were spawned players, created by the universe to fill the suddenly so empty world again. (if the ancient civilizations spawned or somehow evolved from mobs is hotly debated)

Spawned players are the origin of the Mob Hybrids. Their distant ancestors simply spawned into the world with their player code mixed with that of a mob and then evolution took over from there. (Suggesting somebody is a mob hybrid due to having a human and a mob parent is in fact seen as a huge insult, if not worse) What kind of mob traits mob hybrids have can differ by a lot, but more on that later.

"True Hybrids", as they're sometimes called, are on the other hand always the result of two different player species having a child together. The more different the species of the parents are, the less likely they are to have a child who is a hybrid with an equal amount of traits from both. (Basically, if the real world animal counterparts can have hybrid kids, a minecraft hybrid player is almost 100% guaranteed to happen too)

But why are true hybrids so relatively rare? What happens when the child doesn't turn out to be a mix of their parents?

- Depending on the specific species situation, it's very likely the child will simply default to the species of one parent with maybe a few minor traits of the other (these minor traits then only have a very low chance of being passed on further, and the chance decreases even more with every following generation)

- The code gets overwhelmed with all the different species information and corrupts. This gets exponentially more likely the more different species are mixed together, which is why hybrids of more than two species are EXTREMELY rare. Now corrupted species code sounds incredibly serious, but player code as a whole is a very robust thing. In the case of hybrid code corruption? The code still knows the player is supposed to be a hybrid of some sort, but what kind is lost, so it simply... hits the randomizer. The child can physically be any possible species of mob hybrid, completely unrelated to the parents in that regard. (Instincts can still be a bit scrambled, brains are very complex things)

Here now are a few graphs on this stuff:

^Animal species closely related, hybrid child very likely

^Possible results of two very different species having a child

^Example family:The child of two wildly different hybrids with no species in common is basically guaranteed to result in code corruption and a randomized species

Now then, with all of this established, lets talk about some more Hybrid things!

First of all: While yes, player code is very robust, that doesn't mean its extremely resistant to corruption happening in the first place - rather, its really good at fixing any corruption. But fixing doesn't always mean returning things to their previous state. And magic, if used right - or completely wrong - can corrupt player code in really specific ways. If species code corruption happens to a player after birth, this can lead to completely random changes to their appearance (though completely changing species is almost impossible), but whether those changes can be passed on to descendants varies on a case to case basis. This is how curses that full-on alter a player's appearance function! Another thing intentional code corruption through magic can do is force dormant species traits to manifest in hybrids that otherwise wouldn't have, as these corruptions do not follow what's natural at all (which can lead to interesting things like extra limbs/eyes/mouths).

There is a completely natural and much more mild version of “code corruption” too, which occurs so frequently its not even seen as a glitch and is instead called “unlocking”! Magic is an extremely common thing in the world, being basically energy capable of altering the code of reality, but there’s both hotspots and places with almost none. Servers, since they are created with magic, are always hotspots, while the bigger and older a player settlement in the greater minecraft world the more likely it is to be a magic desert - that’s because players, no matter the species, absorb tiny bits of magic over time. If someone from a big city (or anywhere outside the servers and not near a different type of magic hotspot, if they’re young enough) moves to living on a server, it then very commonly happens that they suddenly develop hybrid traits after some time, despite previously appearing to not be a hybrid at all (they don’t have to appear to be human, though that’s most common). Their bodies suddenly have magic to absorb, and that magic ends up being just enough to bring out dormant code, and suddenly they wake up one day with dog ears or sheep legs that they “unlocked” over night. (Compared to forceful code corruption, which is comparable to torture and treated as such, the unlocking process is almost without any discomfort and often happens unnoticed while the player is asleep)

A few more things about code corruption:

Shapeshifting is a result of species code being permanently glitched. (Is it a bug or a feature? Yes.) There are many different types of shapeshifters, some being independent species capable of passing their abilities on to their children and others the rare glitch resulting from hybrid parents. (Or mad scientists or evil corporations attempting to recreate the shapeshifting ability artificially to use for their own gain.) As a general rule, the stronger the shapeshifting ability, the more unhealthy it is, as it raises the risk of corrupting the player code further (like a rubber band, it can’t be stretched indefinitely and will eventually snap)

Void Walkers are the prime example of the rare case where hybridization somehow results in a separate, “stable” species. (Void Walkers started as hybrids of End Avians, Endermen and Shulker Hybrids.) This does not happen often and for some reason seems most common with End-related species, possibly due to how weirdly the Void affects code. Due to this origin, Void Walker hybrids are very rare, since they still somewhat count as hybrids as well. (And its the origin of their shapeshifting abilities!) This rule applies to all other species of hybrid origin too of course (for example, all other shapeshifter species).

While there’s many horror stories about laboratories full of terrible experiments attempting to find a reliable and controlled way of code corruption, The Watchers are the only ones besides powerful gods said to be capable of intentionally altering a player’s code to their whims. It’s said this is how they forcefully keep their dying kind alive, kidnapping players and making them one of their own.

And now, back to more general hybrid things!

Having the instincts of their mob counterpart(s) is usually the case for a hybrid, but unless in high stress situations, those instincts are easy enough to control or completely ignore.

Hybrid discrimination can occasionally happen in some places, but overall doesn’t, because hybrids are just so common its extremely rare for a place to just not have many. Getting kidnapped by someone wanting to do weird experiments however is more common, but is usually not because someone is a hybrid in general but because of what kind of hybrid they are. Shapeshifters living outside of servers especially have to worry about that sort of thing, since they’re such an unusual rarity.

When it comes to a specific classification, hybrids as a whole kind of count as one big species (like how “avian” is a blanket term for all the different avian species), but at the same time the different types of hybrids are usually identified by what mob(s) they’re hybrids of, since that of course leads to drastic differences in their biology. A dog hybrid and a creeper hybrid are both under the “hybrid” umbrella, but physically so different that considering them the same because of that would be silly.

Speaking of creeper hybrids, they’re a good example of Centaurism, called that because the origin of the word was simply calling horse and cow hybrids that had the four-legged lower body of the respective mobs “Centaurs”. Inspired by that, more and more words were invented for other passive mob hybrids with the same four-legged body shape, like deer hybrid centaurs being called cervitaurs, and so on. At some point “centaur” became an umbrella term for hybrids with the four-legged lower body of a mob because all those individual names were too many and too unintuitive over time. And some more time after that, scientists researching hybrids with unusually many limbs decided that “centaurism” should be the term to refer to a hybrid that has either four (or more) legs or four (or more) arms due to their mob side. (The unofficial term for the very rare hybrids with a code mutation that gives them both extra arms and extra legs, doubling the amount they should have is “octotaurs” (spider hybrids with four arms and four legs don’t count for example, as that still adds up to the amount of limbs that’s normal for them to have)). Creeper hybrids are often used as the main example for centaurism, as either variant of it is likely to happen for them, be it because creepers are facultative bipeds (quadrupeds that can also walk on only two legs and use their forelimbs like arms and hands when foraging) or because they are classified as a result of glitched code.

^An example illustration of the three most common body types for creeper hybrids (excluding the rare octotaurs): One with four limbs (two arms, two legs), one with six limbs (two arms, four legs) and another with six limbs (four arms, two legs).

And finally: In some cases it gets very hard to tell what’s a hybrid and what’s an independent species, especially in the case of Avians vs. bird hybrids. Some researchers even say there are no real bird hybrids because they all mixed with End Avians when some of those first came to the Overworld a long long time ago, while others argue that according to the rules of player spawning, there logically must be bird hybrids just like with every other mob. Similar heated debates are happening about merfolk and fish hybrids. Minecraft taxodermy taxonomy is an absolute mess.

#minecraft #mc #pine's minecraft headcanons #so i got this paper to write right now and all that science talk has infected my brain as you can see here #creeper post coming soon im putting way too much thought into their biology #shapeshifter post too probably i got a ton for those as well by now #i dont want to go too much into discrimination based on species especially not for hybrids who i see as super common because this is #a fantasy world but /evil science experiments/ on the other hand are a must because i know the people love their Angst #is there a reason why i default to creepers (and dogs) towards the end besides the creeper post? yes and its totally that i was listening to #a Joe Hills stream with a Doc cameo while working on this #dont think i should tag this as a specific fandom tho despite all the obvious references #this is general minecraft worldbuilding! i just happen to have my inspirations #these tags are brought to you at 2am #the centaur example pictures are not that's why this isn't actually posted at 2am(CEST) #(update from when im actually posting this: hey its 1am actually so at least in some way im still early-) #(once again im so sorry i opened my drafts and was very shocked to find this still in there) #(the only explanation i can offer is that i have started university)

[richincolor]

K. Imani’s 2020 Faves

What a year! I decided to use a fancy planner to keep track of my reading this year and I started off on my usual pace, but with quarantine and a slew of so much literary goodness, I'm on track for a new reading record. I knew this year was going to be a banner year for Black SciFi/Fantasy and I wasn't disappointed. So, of course, this list will be full of Black SciFi/Fantasy because I couldn't get enough!

Legendborn by Tracy Deonn

After her mother dies in an accident, sixteen-year-old Bree Matthews wants nothing to do with her family memories or childhood home. A residential program for bright high schoolers at UNC–Chapel Hill seems like the perfect escape—until Bree witnesses a magical attack her very first night on campus. A flying demon feeding on human energies. A secret society of so called “Legendborn” students that hunt the creatures down. And a mysterious teenage mage who calls himself a “Merlin” and who attempts—and fails—to wipe Bree’s memory of everything she saw. The mage’s failure unlocks Bree’s own unique magic and a buried memory with a hidden connection: the night her mother died, another Merlin was at the hospital. Now that Bree knows there’s more to her mother’s death than what’s on the police report, she’ll do whatever it takes to find out the truth, even if that means infiltrating the Legendborn as one of their initiates. She recruits Nick, a self-exiled Legendborn with his own grudge against the group, and their reluctant partnership pulls them deeper into the society’s secrets—and closer to each other. But when the Legendborn reveal themselves as the descendants of King Arthur’s knights and explain that a magical war is coming, Bree has to decide how far she’ll go for the truth and whether she should use her magic to take the society down—or join the fight.

Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko

Nothing is more important than loyalty. But what if you’ve sworn to protect the one you were born to destroy? Tarisai has always longed for the warmth of a family. She was raised in isolation by a mysterious, often absent mother known only as The Lady. The Lady sends her to the capital of the global empire of Aritsar to compete with other children to be chosen as one of the Crown Prince’s Council of 11. If she’s picked, she’ll be joined with the other Council members through the Ray, a bond deeper than blood. That closeness is irresistible to Tarisai, who has always wanted to belong somewhere. But The Lady has other ideas, including a magical wish that Tarisai is compelled to obey: Kill the Crown Prince once she gains his trust. Tarisai won’t stand by and become someone’s pawn—but is she strong enough to choose a different path for herself?

A Song of Wraiths & Run by Roseanne A. Brown

For Malik, the Solstasia festival is a chance to escape his war-stricken home and start a new life with his sisters in the prosperous desert city of Ziran. But when a vengeful spirit abducts Malik’s younger sister, Nadia, as payment into the city, Malik strikes a fatal deal—kill Karina, Crown Princess of Ziran, for Nadia’s freedom. But Karina has deadly aspirations of her own. Her mother, the Sultana, has been assassinated; her court threatens mutiny; and Solstasia looms like a knife over her neck. Grief-stricken, Karina decides to resurrect her mother through ancient magic . . . requiring the beating heart of a king. And she knows just how to obtain one: by offering her hand in marriage to the victor of the Solstasia competition. When Malik rigs his way into the contest, they are set on a course to destroy each other. But as attraction flares between them and ancient evils stir, will they be able to see their tasks to the death?

A Phoenix First Must Burn edited by Patrice Caldwell

Sixteen tales by bestselling and award-winning authors that explore the Black experience through fantasy, science fiction, and magic. Evoking Beyoncé’s Lemonade for a teen audience, these authors who are truly Octavia Butler’s heirs, have woven worlds to create a stunning narrative that centers Black women and gender nonconforming individuals. A Phoenix First Must Burn will take you on a journey from folktales retold to futuristic societies and everything in between. Filled with stories of love and betrayal, strength and resistance, this collection contains an array of complex and true-to-life characters in which you cannot help but see yourself reflected. Witches and scientists, sisters and lovers, priestesses and rebels: the heroines of A Phoenix First Must Burn shine brightly. You will never forget them. Authors include Elizabeth Acevedo, Amerie, Dhonielle Clayton, Jalissa Corrie, Somaiya Daud, Charlotte Davis, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Justina Ireland, Danny Lore, L.L. McKinney, Danielle Paige, Rebecca Roanhorse, Karen Strong, Ashley Woodfolk, and Ibi Zoboi.

#2020faves #weneeddiversebooks #blackgirlmagic #ownvoices

[antihero-writings]

Such Fragile Things

Beautiful cover art by niuan_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her insta in the replies!! 

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix (the first chapter works for SOTN too)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle, soft, and breakable...but what he  feels when holding his newborn son (ch1), and in his final moments (ch2), is anything but. 

Chapter 1: His Son’s Life

Dracula did not read romance novels. He wasn’t really one for novels in general, especially written by humans. Science. Philosophy. Medicine. Not flights of fantasy.

But the humans have a word for this…and it isn’t quite scientific.

That word is ‘love.’

…But that can’t possibly cover it.

But ‘love’ was always a silly little notion. Love was flowers and candy. Love was sappy letters and maudlin advances. ‘Love’ was sensitive and easy to break. ‘Love’ was soft.

But this… this is anything but soft.

This is a thing that does the breaking. It is painful, and sharp in the way it pierces him so thoroughly. It is tethered so tightly around his heart, that if he tried to sever its bonds his heart would burn, and quite possibly break.

This is daggers and I’d die for you. This is a stake stabbed through the chest.

And that is not what he knows of love.

The the baby boy murmurs quiet nonsense beside his sleeping mother.

Vlad stands over the cradle—(a cradle his parents made out of metal, and cotton, and dedication)—the fabric soft against his fingers.

His mother. A human. Completely, and thoroughly. No turning necessary. He could have turned her…but that would have sullied the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, the blue of her eyes.

So many humans are out for blood without thirst involved. He needn’t corrupt one that didn’t experience such desires.

Just an ordinary human, who was either brave or very stupid… or maybe a bit of both to walk straight into the demon’s castle. Maybe she was just curious. …He hoped it wouldn’t kill her one day, like the cat who meant well.

His mother. Lisa. With golden hair, and certain shimmer to her words too.

His father. Dracula. A vampire. The vampire. The king of night and all its hordes. A scary story, full of blood and death and the moon was full that night.

—(Could he even be a father after all that killing? Was there a father behind all that bloodshed? Dare he even try to keep something alive, when these hands were constructed to kill?)—

And Adrian. Just born, already with one foot in each world. Half human. Half vampire. The stars dripped from the ceiling, and the sun spilled in through the window.

Would they hurt him for it?

Would this fact grant him safe passage into both worlds, or make him hated by both? Had he cursed this being to a life of not belonging? Or had he given him an opportunity no one else had; to belong to both?

Would being Dracula’s son make him a villain? Or would it make him a prince? Would the humans fear and hate him? Would the vampires bow to him?

Would being Lisa’s son make him a hero? Would the humans accept him as one of them? Would the vampires exile him as a half-breed, impure, no matter if his father had a castle, and a crown, and fangs all too ready to sink into their necks?

Barely noticeable now, he has golden hair like his mother, and fangs like his father.

…He wonders how this creature, so full of light, could come from the king of night.

Then Adrian starts crying.

The king of night is uh…not equipped for this. He’s never comforted a crying child before. He’s made more than a few cry in his time, but he’s never been on the other end…it seems the much more difficult side of things.

He has half—(okay, more than half)—a mind to wake Lisa for help. …But Lisa has done enough for today. Surely he can handle one crying baby.

Vlad is careful not to let his nails pierce the child’s skin as he scoops him up, cradling him in his arms.

Adrian is so small. It doesn’t feel like he’s made of thumping, pumping blood and bone. He feels as if he’s made of glass, and Dracula fears he’ll shatter in his hands.

Dracula has killed so many things in his life. He has killed humans, and animals and, yes, another vampire or two. But he doesn’t want to kill this one. He is so desperate to keep him alive he thinks he might die himself before he saw anything touch him.

Lisa stirs, and Vlad moves the child further away so as not to wake her. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, by the basket full of toys he will soon play with, and the alphabet charts he will soon learn with.

Dracula did not read romance novels. But he had once heard a lullaby, and he wonders if he can remember the lyrics.

At the gentle song, slowly Adrian calms down in his father’s arms, and looks up at him with those golden eyes.

And Dracula wonders if the world was always this big.

Vampire’s eyes are usually so cold and dark. But he is only half dark, and his eyes are full of sunlight.

He looks up at his father, this dark thing, the killer, the monster king. The creature they said could never learn to love.

And Adrian smiles.

When Dracula returns that smile, it is not an evil sneer tugging at his lips. It is like his face breaks, pouring out all the joy inside him. He leans forward and rests his forehead gently upon Adrian’s.

“My boy.”

***

Chapter 2: His Father’s Death 

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder/ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania fanfic #castlevania fic #alucard #dracula #alucard castlevania #castlevania alucard #dracula castlevania #castlevania dracula #lisa tepes #draculisa #dracula x lisa #lisa x dracula #alucard & dracula #dracula & alucard #ADRIAN & VLAD #vlad & adrian #vlad tepes #Vlad Dracula Tepes #adrian tepes #adrian fahrenheit tepes #adrians childhood #adrians birth #castlevania netflix #netflix castlevania #tepes family #castlevania symphony of the night #father son feels #father son

[symphonyofthewrite]

Such Fragile Things

Beautiful cover art by niuan_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her insta in a reblog!! 

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix (the first chapter works for SOTN too)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle, soft, and breakable...but what he  feels when holding his newborn son (ch1), and in his final moments (ch2), is anything but. 

Chapter 1: His Son’s Life

Dracula did not read romance novels. He wasn’t really one for novels in general, especially written by humans. Science. Philosophy. Medicine. Not flights of fantasy.

But the humans have a word for this…and it isn’t quite scientific.

That word is ‘love.’

…But that can’t possibly cover it.

But ‘love’ was always a silly little notion. Love was flowers and candy. Love was sappy letters and maudlin advances. ‘Love’ was sensitive and easy to break. ‘Love’ was soft.

But this… this is anything but soft.

This is a thing that does the breaking. It is painful, and sharp in the way it pierces him so thoroughly. It is tethered so tightly around his heart, that if he tried to sever its bonds his heart would burn, and quite possibly break.

This is daggers and I’d die for you. This is a stake stabbed through the chest.

And that is not what he knows of love.

The the baby boy murmurs quiet nonsense beside his sleeping mother.

Vlad stands over the cradle—(a cradle his parents made out of metal, and cotton, and dedication)—the fabric soft against his fingers.

His mother. A human. Completely, and thoroughly. No turning necessary. He could have turned her…but that would have sullied the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, the blue of her eyes.

So many humans are out for blood without thirst involved. He needn’t corrupt one that didn’t experience such desires.

Just an ordinary human, who was either brave or very stupid… or maybe a bit of both to walk straight into the demon’s castle. Maybe she was just curious. …He hoped it wouldn’t kill her one day, like the cat who meant well.

His mother. Lisa. With golden hair, and certain shimmer to her words too.

His father. Dracula. A vampire. The vampire. The king of night and all its hordes. A scary story, full of blood and death and the moon was full that night.

—(Could he even be a father after all that killing? Was there a father behind all that bloodshed? Dare he even try to keep something alive, when these hands were constructed to kill?)—

And Adrian. Just born, already with one foot in each world. Half human. Half vampire. The stars dripped from the ceiling, and the sun spilled in through the window.

Would they hurt him for it?

Would this fact grant him safe passage into both worlds, or make him hated by both? Had he cursed this being to a life of not belonging? Or had he given him an opportunity no one else had; to belong to both?

Would being Dracula’s son make him a villain? Or would it make him a prince? Would the humans fear and hate him? Would the vampires bow to him?

Would being Lisa’s son make him a hero? Would the humans accept him as one of them? Would the vampires exile him as a half-breed, impure, no matter if his father had a castle, and a crown, and fangs all too ready to sink into their necks?

Barely noticeable now, he has golden hair like his mother, and fangs like his father.

…He wonders how this creature, so full of light, could come from the king of night.

Then Adrian starts crying.

The king of night is uh…not equipped for this. He’s never comforted a crying child before. He’s made more than a few cry in his time, but he’s never been on the other end…it seems the much more difficult side of things.

He has half—(okay, more than half)—a mind to wake Lisa for help. …But Lisa has done enough for today. Surely he can handle one crying baby.

Vlad is careful not to let his nails pierce the child’s skin as he scoops him up, cradling him in his arms.

Adrian is so small. It doesn’t feel like he’s made of thumping, pumping blood and bone. He feels as if he’s made of glass, and Dracula fears he’ll shatter in his hands.

Dracula has killed so many things in his life. He has killed humans, and animals and, yes, another vampire or two. But he doesn’t want to kill this one. He is so desperate to keep him alive he thinks he might die himself before he saw anything touch him.

Lisa stirs, and Vlad moves the child further away so as not to wake her. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, by the basket full of toys he will soon play with, and the alphabet charts he will soon learn with.

Dracula did not read romance novels. But he had once heard a lullaby, and he wonders if he can remember the lyrics.

At the gentle song, slowly Adrian calms down in his father’s arms, and looks up at him with those golden eyes.

And Dracula wonders if the world was always this big.

Vampire’s eyes are usually so cold and dark. But he is only half dark, and his eyes are full of sunlight.

He looks up at his father, this dark thing, the killer, the monster king. The creature they said could never learn to love.

And Adrian smiles.

When Dracula returns that smile, it is not an evil sneer tugging at his lips. It is like his face breaks, pouring out all the joy inside him. He leans forward and rests his forehead gently upon Adrian’s.

“My boy.”

***

Chapter 2: His Father’s Death 

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder, ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

#castlevania #dracula castlevania #alucard castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania netflix #netflix castlevania #alucard #dracula #adrian tepes #adrian farenheit tepes #Vlad Dracula Tepes #castlevania fandom #castlevania fanfic #castlevania fic #Tepes family #lisa tepes #dracula & alucard #draculisa #Dracula x Lisa #alucard & dracula #lisa x dracula #father son feels #father son relationship #father son #dracula & adrian #adrian & dracula #vlad & adrian #adrian & vlad #castlevania dracula #castlevania alucard

[tales-of-magic-and-chaos]

Cozy library in one of their houses, LOTS of cuddles for a hurt/comfort insecure!Loki with Tony and Stephen comforting him and like reading to him while he falls asleep knowing they love him

Thank you for this lovely prompt!

I had a lot of fun writing this story, hope you’ll like it! I also posted it on Ao3: Morpheus

Surprisingly, Loki loved Midgardian fiction. More precisely fairy tales, fantasy and all stories of foreign and fantastic worlds.

He could spend hours, if not days, reading these books. Escaping through them while staying in the comfort and security of the library.

Tony has been worried in the beginning, seeing his lover isolating himself and reading until he forgot to eat or to sleep. Even though he was far more resistant than humans, Loki still needed to rest and eat. Retreating himself this deep into his own world was far from healthy.

It was Stephen who reassured Tony by reminding him how much peace and comfort Loki could find in books.

The library was Loki’s sanctuary. It always had been, to be honest. Even back on Asgard, Loki always found refuge and comfort in the middle of this comforting and almost mystical place that is a library. Books always have been his confidents and best friends in tough times. Allowing him to escape loneliness, bitterness, distress. They taught him the most precious of his knowledge : magic. They reassured him through the entirety of his life, it was no surprise that even if he now lived on Midgard he still found such comfort in reading.

Stephen, too, found comfort in reading. But, contrary to Loki, he found this comfort through learning more about magic, science or whatever subject he was currently interested in. He did read fiction and diverse other books but the real comfort to him was perfecting his craft and knowledge. He always found comfort and peace in perfecting his knowledge and skills. Books have always been a means to improve himself.

Tony realized he completely understood his lovers. After all, he too found refuge in his own sanctuary, though it was his lab and not the library. He too spent days working on his inventions, forgetting to sleep and eat. He too felt immense relief and peace working on his suit and inventions, surrounded by his tech in the familiarity and comfort of his lab.

They all found different safe places throughout the years, when they needed solitude and comfort.

That said... Maybe it was no surprise that Loki specifically loved Midgardian fiction so much. Well, of course Tony and Stephen were always astounded to see a god who saw thousands of marvelous and mysterious worlds in his life being as amazed as a child each time he read Midgardian stories. But, all these experiences he lived were certainly precisely why he loved these books so much.

There was a feeling of profound familiarity despite a cruel sense of loss and disorientation with these tales. Midgardians’ collective imagination found his roots in myths that were somewhat closely familiar to Loki, because he often knew the truths behind these myths. It was fascinating, as much as disorienting, to see how these truths had been changed into something totally different throughout the centuries. The truth had been shaped and metamorphosed through means that had nothing to see with lies or intentional manipulation. It was only the results of oral transmission and romanticization. Humans were always exploring their history through fiction. Truly fascinating. Midgardians really were amazing story tellers.

Asgardians legends never equaled the beauty of Midgard stories in Loki's opinion. Oh, for sure, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of legends narrating Aesirs' most glorious and epic fights. There was the wise and profound philosophy hidden behind poems. There were tales of love and adventures sung. But it was nowhere near what stories were in Midgard.

Stories were more to Midgardians than mere glorification of the past. Of course, their tales took their source in humans' history. But while Asgardian legends were just pleasant memories that warriors loved to tell again and again and again, for Midgardians it was something totally different that was at stake.

Transmitting their history was absolutely crucial for Midgardians, way more than for the immortal Aesirs. There was always the threat of death and of the erasing of their heritage. They always were one disaster, one tragedy, one pandemic away from the loss of an immeasurable heritage. Humans' memories and myths were not the words of rambling elders thousands of years old, there were lively and diverse stories continuously changing and transmitted.

In Loki’s eyes, it was why the Midgardians gave so much importance to telling stories. Storytellers were in a way the guardians of humanity's whole history and heritage. These fantastic and fictional worlds were more enthralling and mysterious than anything else Loki saw in his life and despite this, these stories were vibrating with infinite echoes of the past. Midgardians stories were as diverse and wildly lively as their creators. Full of dreams, of hope, of memories. It was like a cauldron for changes and evolution all the while transmitting elders’ memories and thoughts.

Loki could not help but be simply amazed. It often left him dreamy. How sweet it must be for midgardians children to be soothed with such beautiful and fantastic tales. It was nowhere near the legends of his childhood. The Aesirs always related the same stories of glorious victories, of fierce and valourous heroes and of the, oh so incredible, conquests of Asgard through the Nine Realms. The Elders always loved to narrate these same tales of war and conquests. Especially those about the Jotnar and their Realm.

Oh, how many times did he hear how the brave and mighty warriors of Asgard defeated the terrible and truly monstrous Jotnar? How many times did he hear how Odin defeated Laufey? How many times did he hear these stories of heroic war, of glorious violence, of marvelous destruction?

He always hated these stories. It wasn’t the preservation of a heritage or fantastic tales meant to inspire like in Midgard. It was just old chauvinistic warriors patting themselves and the back for war memories already narrated and heard thousands of times.

Perhaps it was bad faith. After all, war was obviously central in Asgardian culture. All the children learnt early how to fight and defend themselves and their Realm. Those not able to fight like respectable and heroic warriors were… weren’t.

It surely was not a surprise to see this theme being this preponderant in Asgard’s myths. Since the dawn of time until Ragnarok. It simply was a very long life made of glorious fights, feasts and wars.

Asgardian mentality was always about being the most powerful and brave warrior. Tactics? Cunning? Magic? Oh no! The only power was strength. Physical strength. Submitting your enemies with your sword, or your hammer, was the only true and honorable power. How could you ask for respect and consideration if you were not even able to show the strength of a true Asgardian warrior? How could you be worthy of being a warrior? How could you be worthy of being an Aesir? How could you be worthy of being an Odinson?

The answer was easy.

You could not.

And in the end, they were right. They were so right.

He never deserved to be a respected Aesir warrior nor a true Odinson for he was nothing more than a Jotunn runt after all. A weak, evil and monstrous Jotunn, one of those that Aesir parents warn their children against, when they narrate them the wondrous Asgardians legends.

He would never be worthy in the eyes of the Aesirs. In the eyes of the warriors. In the eyes of his brother. In the eyes of Odin.

A monstrous creature. Directly from Aesirs’ most known stories.

A stranger.

An imposter.

His whole life was made of lies and horrific legends. He wasn’t him, Loki. He was a Jotunn, a creature made of ice, evilness and violence, as narrated in the legends. Sometimes he couldn’t figure himself as real. Sometimes he forgot he was something else than a monster feared and hated. Sometimes he was losing grasp on reality. Sometimes he was feeling like an outsider. Observing life and reality from the exterior. Like a simpte fictional being allowing people to shape him as they wanted. Just an horrific tale and a sweet lie.

A lie as sweet as the lips that were softly kissing his forehead. As sweet at the tender hand caressing his hair. As sweet as the perfume of books, cinnamon and fire floating in the air. As sweet at a profound and soft voice he could hear.

But these sensations were nothing like lies nor fiction.

As he was reconnecting with his body and reality, he could feel more and more of those sensations coming to him. The soft warmth of the fireplace. Someone holding his hand and softly caressing the back of it with his thumb. His lovers by his sides. A whisper.

« We’re here, Lokes. We’re here, I promise you. » Another kiss. « And you’re here with us too. »

A reminder.

The other voice never stops reading. The hand in his hair doesn’t stop either.

It probably hasn’t stopped since the beginning.

But which beginning ? When did the voice start ? When did the caresses start ?

He didn’t know.

He hasn’t even been aware of being disconnected from the world. He hasn't been aware of being cuddled by his two favorite people in the world. He wasn't aware of the comfortable room he was in.

Maybe it has been hours since his lovers, worried to not have seen him in a long time, joined him and took him in a warm and loving embrace.

It felt like an eternity. Or an instant. Or just. It felt just good. Timeless. But good. Immensely good.

Stephen softly caressing his hair while he was snuggled to his side. His soft voice never stopping from reading.

Tony cuddling him softly, his eyes closed, while he was listening to Stephen's voice too.

The Cloak was carefully covering them and they were comfortably settled in the couch, surrounded by soft cushions. The room's warm colors were only adding more to the feeling of peacefulness and cozyness that Loki felt each time he was in the library and in his lovers' arms.

Anxiety, sadness and dread were already disappearing. Oh, they would come back, sure. They always did.

But for now, he was safe and loved. In the security of his sanctuary and in the comfort of his lovers’ embrace. All was well. He knew his lovers were here for him. And he knew Stephen would never stop reading and Tony would never leave his side, not until they were certain their lover was ready to leave this little bubble of peace. He could allow himself to rest now, lulled to sleep by Stephen’s voice and Tony’s soft caresses.

#frostironstrange #ironstrangefrost #loki x tony x stephen #strangeironfrost

[michaelbogild]

Quotes by Mehmet Murat ildan

A beautiful mind is like a beautiful path! The more you travel with it, the more you find peace and happiness!

A beautiful smile without any reason is the smile of the existence!

A bird without wings and a man without art are both condemned to wander in low places; they can never soar up to those unrivalled heights.

A cat’s New Year dream is mostly a bird! Don’t be like a cat; in New Year, dream something that you have never dreamed! Target for new things!

A good book is a lighthouse; a wise man is a lighthouse; conscience is a lighthouse; compassion is a lighthouse; science is a lighthouse! They all show us the true path! Keep them in your life to remain safe in the rocky and dark waters of life!

A little happy house is the strongest castle in this whole universe!

A long walk in a long beach shortens every kind of sorrow!

A romantic person will know from the bottom of his heart that no source of light can ever replace the mysterious beauty of a candle!

A street full of shadows will teach you what life is much better than the street full of lights!

A waterfall cannot be silent, just as the wisdom! When they speak, the voice of power speaks!

An uneducated society will eventually turn into something lower than a herd of animals!

Are you a stupid sheep in the flock or a free eagle in the sky? Look at the mirror, what are you? Are you some dullish cattle in the herd or a wise owl in the forest? Look at the mirror, what are you?

Autumn is the greatest reminder: It reminds us how dreamlike beauties our earth has and it reminds us how all these beautiful dreams can easily vanish!

Carry your bag by yourself; carry your umbrella by yourself; open your door by yourself; light your own candle! Do your job by yourself! Don’t use others! Don’t behave like a king, don’t behave like a queen! Be humble!

Clouds in the sky very much resembles the thoughts in our minds! Both changes perpetually from one second to another!

Cowards cannot pass beyond the walls or beyond the wire fences! For them, frontiers are always the end of the road!

Disappointment means that things haven’t worked out the way you wanted! And now what to do? Very simple: Stand up and walk! Cut the tragedy because our limited time must always be used for the forward movements!

Don’t follow any leader; don’t obey to anyone; crowds are slaves; take an independent stance; take orders only from your own mind!

Don’t say deep things to shallow people and don’t talk about shallow things with the deep people!

Elephants don’t know anything about the world of ants; the peaks of mountains are oblivious of what is happening on the plains!

Enlarge your windows till you get a window where you can see the whole universe with one look!

Every long separation is a test: A test to see how powerful or how weak the will of reuniting is!

Every morning is a revolution against the darkness!

Every New Year must be celebrated at the heart of nature - in the middle of a forest or by the side of a lake under billions of stars - because it is nature who has made our existence possible!

Every season has its own art and the art of autumn is to bewitch the people!

Every time it rains, the soil counts every drop to know exactly how many times to thank to God!

Farewell is a beautiful and a soft word and yet it is a horrible and a heavy thing too!

Flowers are the Romeos and the Juliets of the nature!

Flowers have the greatest talent in converting an ordinary place into a magical palace!

For a dark street, sunshine is most welcome; for a wounded soul, love is most welcome!

For a new year to bring you something new, make a move, like a butterfly tearing its cocoon! Make a move!

For the cowards, all doors are locked; for the daring, all doors are open!

For the land, the sea is beautiful; for the sea, the land is beautiful!

Forest is a dream where you may find yourself and dream is a forest where you may lose yourself!

Full moon is a good fisherman; every eyes are easily caught in his net!

Genius tries to conquer the world with art, with songs, with words; stupid tries to conquer it with sword, with guns, with arrows!

Give freedom to colours and then you shall meet the rainbow everywhere!

Great artists come and go; they are born and they die; but there is one exception who has been living for thousands of years and still continues creating new works, new beauties every year: The Autumn!

Happiness has only one colour: The Bright! The bright of red, the bright of green, the bright of any colour! Happiness is bright! It shines, it sparkles, it glints!

He who does not walk against the arrows cannot talk about the strength of his shield!

If the storm underestimates your power, nothing happens to him; but if you underestimate the power of the storm, you sink!

If we had known everything in this universe, we would have had to find another universe to feed our curiosity, because what keeps alive man is the curiosity!

If you are good at building bridges, you will never fall into the abyss!

If you are sure of tomorrow, there is no fool greater than you!

If you close your eyes, no lighthouse can help you!

If you do not have the concept of distance, you may reach an unreachable place!

If you feel you have to open a particular door, open it, otherwise all your life that door will haunt your mind!

If you have carefully examined hundred people you met in your life journey, it means that you have read hundred different books! Every person you know is a book; world is full of walking books; some are boring, some are marvellous, some are weak, some are powerful, but they are all useful because they all carry different experiences of different paths!

If you have ever walked in Paris, you will see that Paris will ever walk in your memoires!

If you love yourself first, you will find your Valentine much quicker!

If you move faster than the music, it will look strange; if you move slower than the music, it will look strange! Be like autumn leaves which follow exactly the rhythm of the wind!

If you open your eyes very wide and look around you carefully, you will always see a lighthouse which will lead you to the right path! Just watch around you carefully!

If you see a castle under fog, you must walk there to meet the extraordinary dreams!

In a society where everyman is fox-minded, you need to be foxier than the fox!

In autumn, don’t go to jewelers to see gold; go to the parks!

In deep waters, you encounter only the wise and the brave; in shallow waters, the ignorant and the coward!

In defeat, look at the stars; in victory, look at the ground! From the stars, you get hope; from the ground, you get caution.

In the middle of nowhere, an old wooden bridge is a golden bridge!

Instead of politicians, let the monkeys govern the countries; at least they will steal only the bananas!

Leave city, leave reality; enter forest, enter fantasy!

Let me tell you something big: Give importance to little things!

Let the people discover you! You might have the key of the locked doors in their lives! Open yourself to the world; you might be the magic the world needs!

Let yourself disappear in the darkness; if you are loved, people will come and find you with torches in their hands! Love is a great searcher; it always searches the loved one! To see who really love you, just disappear!

Lighten your life with a simple life!

Magic of the nights is always much impressive than the magic of the days!

Man must be able to think freely and he must be able to express his thoughts freely! He who is against this is not only fascist and primitive but at the same time is a very great coward also! Only the brave and the honourable men are never afraid of freedom of thought and freedom of expression of ideas! Just like the cockroaches do not like the light, evil minds also do not like the freedom of thoughts!

Man must behave like a lighthouse; he must shine day and night for the goodness of everyman.

Max Lucado says that ‘A man who wants to lead the orchestra must turn his back on the crowd.’ That is true and a man who wants to find out the truth must also do the same thing!

New Year’s most glorious light is sweet hope!

No flower is happy in a vase, because vase is nothing but an ornate coffin for the flower.

No king has a throne more beautiful than a bench covered with the autumn leaves!

No matter how right or how beautiful your path is, never try to impose your path on others! Remember that flowers by no means pull bees by force to their world! Your path is your poem; if people like your poem, they will fondly join you in your path!

No season appeals to the eyes as much as autumn; no season touches the souls as powerfully as autumn and no season invites us to the world of mournful thoughts as intensely as autumn!

Not every lake dreams to be an ocean. Blessed are the ones who are happy with whom they are.

Nothing is more mysterious than watching a lonely man who is taking for a night walk in a foggy street!

Photography is an art of teleporting the past into the future.

Pigs are dirty, but I will tell you something dirtier: Liars! Untruth always smells like rotten garbage!

Rain is nature’s art; umbrella is man’s art.

Real love and Sun have something in common; they are so bright that they don't have shadows, they are free of darkness!

Rumi says love turns thorns into flowers. This means that hate turns flowers into thorns!

Searching for the real faces of every face we met! This is what our life is!

Silent streets have many things to say.

Similar souls wander in the similar places! They may not know each other, but often they touch the same winds, they step on the same leaves, their looks are lost in the same horizons!

Simple life and peaceful mind are very close friends!

Smile is a good reply to the dark world.

Some looks are heavier than the thickest books because they carry the saddest stories of life!

Something reduces the speed of the world and that something is stupidity! Stupidity is a boring friction!

Sometimes you must do crazy things to discover the life beyond your life, to enter the unknown zone beyond your known zone!

Strong winds create giant waves; strong wills create giant men!

Sun gives light; torch gives light, candle gives light; smiling gives light.

Sunset is so marvellous that even the sun itself watches it every day in the reflections of the infinite oceans!

Sunset is the opening music of the night.

The best thing you can give to a child is to create an environment where the child can develop an independent mind so that he will be the man of no one and the instrument of no system!

The fate of the bridges is to be lonely; because bridges are to cross not to stay!

The first step to be a good man is this: You must deeply feel the burden of the stones someone else carrying.

The greatest storms on our Earth break not in nature but in our minds!

The Moon always finds an opportunity to turn our attention from the ground beneath our feet to the sky above our head!

The most beautiful springs are those that come after the most horrible winters!

The most beautiful sunset is the one which suddenly appears in front of you while you are walking pensively!

The most precious light is the one that visits you in your darkest hour!

The scent of the morning is prepared by the night; the scent of the night is prepared by the day; everything helps everything!

The trains always arrive at your station. The question is which one to take?

The wisdom of bridges comes from the fact that they know the both sides, they know the both shores!

There is a hidden message in every waterfall. It says, if you are flexible, falling will not hurt you!

There is no real silence for the sensitive ears and there is no real tranquility for the sensitive hearts!

There is nothing more beautiful than living a simple life in this complex universe!

There is so much beauty in autumn and so much wisdom; so much separation and so much sorrow!

There is so much hope in a little flower and so many flowers in a little hope!

Those who mastered in the art of falling have no fear of rising!

To get inspiration, go to the nature; for silence, go to the nature; to question the meaning of life, go to the nature; to feel the existence, go to the nature; to protect your mind, to reach the truth, to think about the universe go to the nature!

To speak with the shadow, you must know the language of the darkness!

To think is sacred; let every person think freely! To express what you think is sacred; let every person express his thought freely! If you do this, you prove that you are a conscientious and a moral human being! If you don’t do this, you just declare yourself being fascist!

Tradition kills originality; you keep repeating the same things in tradition! Behave like the sky; always create new and different things; be original!

Umbrella is comfort, rain is life! You must often leave comfort to touch the life!

Watching the infinite horizons gives you infinite dreams, infinite ideas, infinite paths! Choose a great target and then you will see that great instruments will appear for you to reach that target!

Water is the most perfect traveller because when it travels it becomes the path itself!

We are all on the stairs, my friend; some of us are going down, some us are going up!

We see what we are only through reflection and thus the more our reflections occur, the less our mistakes will be!

What do you need in the New Year? You need a dream; your dream needs an action; and your action needs right thinking! Without right thinking, you can have only unrealised dreams!

What is the name of your dream? A lovely wooden cottage in the middle of a forest? Or walking in an endless autumn path? What is the name of your dream? Don’t give a name, always give a list! Fill yourself with dreams because dream is the path to reality!

What you do when nobody is there is your true you!

When everything looks like a magical oil painting, you know you are in Autumn!

When the moonlight and the waterfall come together, all other things fade from the scene!

When the spirit of nature touches us, our hearts turn into a butterfly!

When the sun is setting, leave whatever you are doing and watch it.

When you are happy, you feel the sunshine even inside the fog; when you are unhappy, you feel the fog even in the sunshine.

When you are on the bright side of life, do not forget the people who are on the dark side and remember that man can easily slip from one side to the other!

When you increase the number of gardens, you increase the number of heavens too!

When you lose your path, you get an opportunity to discover a world you have never known! And better worlds are often found this way! Darkness and uncertainty hide presents in itself!

When you read a book, book also reads you! The book will know who you are from the sentences you underline!

Winter invites white; white invites silence; silence invites peace. You see, there is so much peace in walking on the snow!

Winter is dead; spring is crazy; summer is cheerful and autumn is wise!

Wise man is the rooster of the universe: He awakens the unawake!

Without the stairs of the past, you cannot arrive at the future!

You can never leave a place unless you leave that place in your mind!

You can walk in a dream while you are awake: Just walk in the misty morning of a forest!

You either keep your childhood innocence or you rot!

You need a temple to feel good spiritually? Go to a beautiful garden!

You need new roads to discover new places!

[irenadel]

i wanna talk books so I made a meme

@doorsclosingslowly here’s the answers to your questions :)

6. If you read in more than one language, is there a difference between the experience of reading in your native language(s) and reading in other languages?

Virginia Woolf has a great quote in A Room of One’s Own where she says that women writers need to develop their own “sentence” and that this can only be developed through creating a tradition of female writing. She says that while reading male writers is pleasurable, it isn’t useful for the female writer, that she can’t learn from the way men write. Their “sentence” isn’t suitable for female writing. I’m.... unsure of how much I agree with her on this but I find the theory useful for describing how I approach literature in Spanish vs English.

Especially in terms of language, not so much in regards to narrative or worldbuilding or even themes, I find Spanish to be pleasurable but not useful. I very rarely find myself reading something in Spanish and thinking “ooooh, I wish I could do that! I want to steal that! How did they come up with this?” The “sentence” for writing in Spanish isn’t one I recognize or want to imitate... except maybe for VERY few exceptions like Carlos Fuentes and Borges. Whereas I can spend a lot of time reading English un-selfconsciously and then suddenly be struck by a turn of phrase that I must somehow or other make my own. That almost never happens to me when reading Spanish.

9. Fiction or non-fiction or both? In what ratio? Where do you draw the line between the two?

Oh god, this is embarassing. Erm... fiction to a fault. On 2020 and 2019 I did try to make a concerted effort to read more nonfiction, ESPECIALLY more popular science books. I still kind of childishly consider myself to not be “smart like that” and that science isn’t for me, because I don’t understand it. I used to think science fiction wasn’t for me, for similar reasons. When I do read nonfiction it tends to be history and literary criticism.

I’m finishing my degree on English literature and though I had a period of hating hard on literary criticism, I think it was mostly me rebelling against the French brand of it. I HAVE to admit I love reading new historicism, especially now that I’m working on my dissertation and I had to read a lot on Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre.

Hopefully 2021 will be the year I read a bit more science.

11. The worst book hangover you’ve ever had

Augh... I remember two in recent years. Let me see... in 2017 I finished the last book in the Realm of the Elderlings. I had read the first book in the series around maybe the mid 2000s. I devoured it in a single weekend, still hungry for more of the story. I did not have access to the rest of the trilogy for a couple of years after, but as soon as I got them I read them as fast as I could. I remember reading those books during class, pretending to pay attention to a lecture on Linguistics but actually fully engrossed in Robin Hobb’s world.

It’s a world that was with me for more than 10 years. Characters that I knew intimately from multiple re-readings for more than 10 years. My dissertationg is about the first trilogy for crying out loud! I hadn’t wanted to read the last trilogy and the last book on the trilogy because I didn’t want that connection to end. But finally I gave in...

It was a book hangover because I was reading late at night when I realized, halfway through the book, a character I loved deeply was probably going to die and I just HAD to know, I HAD to be sure. So I read through the night going from disbelief to anger, to grief, to grim acceptance. I wasn’t able to put down the book until 11 am the next day, by which point I was openly sobbing and would have thrown the book across the room except I think I was reading in my computer.

The second book hangover I remember was less because of sprinting through the book and more because of the circumstances. Last December I had decided to finish as many books I could in hopes of reaching my Good Reads goal (which I didn’’t) and I was going through His Dark Materials pretty quickly when on the 25th I got the news that my grandmother died. I wasn’t able to go see her at the hospital or at a funeral, or even go see my dad and uncles because she had died of covid-19 and the situation was still pretty dire in the city.

Then Philip Pullman decided to be an absolute asshole to me and the characters in his book arrived to the Land of the Dead. Being an atheist fantasy series and me having just recently come to terms with the fact that I’m not even agnostic... it was very tough to go through Pullman’s exploration of mortality and the importance of life on Earth. I agreed completely that materiality and the here-and-now far outweigh any contemplations of an afterlife... but my grandmother had died very suddenly.... she had still been a pretty strong old lady before she contracted covid... I had spoken to her a couple of days before and she was still strong enough to bitch about litter getting inside her room...

I finished The Amber Spyglass in a rush as well and somehow it got mixed with my mourning process and my anger at myself for having taken my grandmother’s life for granted... for not having cherished the materiality of her existence when I had the chance... I hadn’t finished writing my dissertation’s first draft yet and there were some heavy issues going on in my household.... I was exhausted from having to survive the year and I think I still am... and it all mixed up with the bittersweet ending of Pullman’s His Dark Materials and the inevitability of loss... all I remember from between the 25th and the 31st of December 2020 was exhaustedly reheating Christmas food, trying to write, and slogging through The Amber Spyglass... it feels like it was a week-long literary hangover...

14. The book that, in hindsight, really should have clued you in to the fact that you’re _________ (queer/in love/doomed to be an academic/etc)

So this is slightly NSFW but I should have known, and stopped being such a snob about it, that I had WAY MORE in common with the furries than I cared to admit given that my first impression of Smaug the Golden when reading The Hobbit at the tender age of 8 was “wow! he’s dreamy!” *facepalm *(also betraying a worrying tendency to crushing on irredeemable assholes and other miscellaneous villains...) I have accepted my status as a weird monsterfucker AND a weird alienfucker. Inhuman anatomy makes me hot, and I should have known it from DAY ONE!

23. The book you expected to hate, didn’t, and then got angry about not hating

The Hunger Games, which I’m STILL salty about and will probably remain salty about for the rest of my life.

I hateread it because a friend told me about how he hated it, given his bitter ex loved it and though I agree with all his criticisms and have a bunch of my own... I still cannot stop finding stupid Katniss profoundly likeable! CURSES! A pox upon your house Suzanne Collins! I still think your dystopia is a cowardly, white-lady-who-has-never-feared-state-violence dystopia, I still think your love triangle was absolutely unnecessary and I still think you tried to cop out of admitting you (and your character) like pretty dresses by making the pretty dresses compulsory. Be brave! Don’t give me this “I’m not like other girls” bullshit! Be brave! Make your violent spectacle reality show as a criticism of the USA’s consumerism and callousness a voluntary thing! Don’t wash your heroine’s hands clean of the sin of wanting fame and fortune and survival at all costs!

But... fuck... I... still like Katniss... I’m glad little girls in 2008 got a heroine who kicked ass, looked good and wasn’t a perfectly strong and powerful person all the time. I’m glad they got competence and vulnerability... Fuck my life...

31. Bonus question: rec me something!

This is hard... since I get the feeling we have very different tastes in reading material but... If you haven’t heard of the Vampire: The Masquerade roleplaying game (or even if you have) take a crack at the Baali Clanbook. Even if you don’t understand the game mechanics I think you’ll enjoy the history portion because it’s about a clan of devil-worshipping vampires who do their devil worshipping through implanting evil insects on people... and I suspect it might be up your alley...

#book meme #doorsclosingslowly

[drcreatureflix]

More Family Content: Setting Up A Grimdark Campaign

Grimdark is a setting style thats focus on dystopian fantasy violence and the ammoral, think less ‘Starving Games 9: the diverging maze runner, girl is special but in love with two guys’ nonsense and more the Warhammer. I myself, (being someone who never grew out his angsty side) is an absolute whore for this kinda stuff. The main appeal for this setting is no matter who you are, you are a villain. But thats good. Cause everyone is  a villain in a grimdark campagin and being the villain is cool sometimes. So I thought I would give you my process of setting up a Grimdark D&D Campaign if anyone wants to try it.

Inspiration

Well before we commence on actually scarring our players we need ideas. And to quote Picasso, “good artists borrow, great artists steal”. So lets look at some recommendations for you to read or look up or play to steal-I mean take ‘inspiration’ from.

The Warhammer Franchise: If you looked up Grimdark in the dictionary you would find a image of the Warhammer universes with the words ‘For The Emperor’ covered in heretic blood. The Warhammer Franchise has two Grimdark settings, the ‘40k universe’ and the ‘Age of Sigmar universe’, both good examples. The 40k universe being a high gothic sci-fi universe as the zealous and xenophobic imperium of mankind and their space marines who fight gods of chaos and egyptian alien terminators... and Orks (Yes actual orks) who paint things red to make them ‘go fasta’. Age of Sigmar is the more fantasy side with Giant bat zombies and Rat hulks and whatever the Hell-pit Abomination is supposed to be. Both good starting points, if you would rather read then trying to play the games and get drowned in lore, for the Age of Sigmar angle try ‘Scourge of Fate’, ‘Court of the Blind King’ and ‘Rulers of the Dead’ for my recommendations, though Age of Sigmar has book series for each faction in the game so choose an aesthetic you would like. For 40k, could not recommend anything outside the Horus Heresy series, yes its over 50 books but pick the first one ‘Horus Rising’ and that should help. Warhammer actually even has ‘Warhammer horror’ series set in the universes as well if you want to go a spoopy angle.

The Starcraft Franchise: Moving alittle over and returning to the realm of science fiction there is the Starcraft franchise. The starcraft games really pull from the previous mention Warhammer for its concepts and designs and pulls it off well. Plus I really enjoy the world building almost as much as the warhammer stuff (Okay last time I will mention Warhammer). So go onto youtube and look  the games up or go buy and play them. However there are some books aswell if you would rather just read up on the lore like ‘Flashpoint’ and ‘Queen of Blades’. Obviously this is if you want to go for a more sci-fi or steam punk styled game but its D&D, do want you want (And if you want to do a sci-fi, look up the Dark Matter suppliment). But overal a good idea of how to do Grimdark.

The Song of Ice and Fire Books: Now put your pitchforks and torches down, I know season 8 of Game of Thrones was the equivlent of a hooker; that being you expect a huge payoff but you get robbed the satisfaction, being left with nothing but disappointment and a strange itch in your groin afterwards that reminds you of what you hoped for. But we are talking the books not the tv series (Though you can include it I suppose). Many of us know this franchise for its sheer bleak outlook of alliances and the concept of loyalty and the roulette of life that may just kill someone important at any point. Obviously a more medival approach for Grimdark but a good one and I would recommend it to anyone (When he finally finishes writing THE DAMN FINAL BOOKS). Obviously the whole book series is the reading recommadtion so find them cheap somewhere and delve in headfirst.

Other more Eldritch recommendations: Cosmic horror and grimdark go together like a fat kid and diabetes so I thought I would throw some quick recommendations for if you want to explore this angle aswell:

The Yellow King-Robert Chambers: A collection of short stories revolving around cults and maddness... yes please.

Bloodbourne-fromsoftware:  Phenomenal game, explores both classic gothic and cosmic horror, I have drawn from this game for inspiration A LOT more than I am comfortable saying. If you can’t get through the game, maybe try the Offical Artwork book as it can gve images that you can use a inspiration for scene dressing in game.

The HP Lovecraft bibliography and the Cthullu Mythos: Seperating the man from his work, the penned work of HP Lovecraft is still some of the best written cosmic horror from the arguable father of cosmic horror... once you get over the racial stuff.

The Dark tower book series and IT- Stephen King: A more light hearted apporach to Cosmic Horror but still good horror to pull inspiration from. Main issue, if you wish to read up on Stephen King, set some time aside  

The Darkest Dungeon-Red Hook Studios: Not gonna lie, I love this game probably too much (I will probably blame it for my obesity if I wasn’t aware thats it’s my fault I am a fat f*ck) I think it shows exactly how bad it probably would be a adventurer (I actually base my own stress rules on this game-more on that in another post) so is a good representation on what a grimdark fanatsy world would be like on these characters.

Session 0

Alright now that you have successfully ripped off every grimdark franchise-I mean collected recommendations for inspiration, let’s move onto what to discuss in your Session 0.

1. What are your players okay with?

This one is painfully obvious but a session 0 is like when you lose your virignity; you don’t set some bounderies or go into it somewhat prepared, you are gonna face a sticky situation afterwards and probably get your head kicked in by someones dad for corrupting their kid (Just me?...).On the topic at hand, its good to know what your players are okay with and can inform your story direction. For instance, I had a player who want to play a reform brothel worker but i would not allow it due to the circumstances of another player.  Normally the questions I ask beforehand is is the following

Are you okay with detail viseral descriptions of violence?

Are you okay with scenes of torture/depravity?

Are you okay with depictions of slavery or prostitution?

Are you okay with themes like suicide or mental/phyiscal abuse?

Are you okay with sacrifical death or occult themes?

Are you okay with swearing?

Following this you should adjust according to suit your players, you want them to enjoy being evil, not weeping at the evil around them. So before you do anything, set your bounderies.

2. What is their motivation?

Another obvious one but also important one. To help establish characters in the world they live in, you must discuss their motives. Why are they on a quest? What are their intentions with the reward after? And so on and so on. Then once you have that and have discuss you can help the players fit the world alittle more. A thing I have told my players is to think of a motive for a character and turn it into an obession; this is due to the theme of obession is thorough throughout many grimdark settings as it’s easy to make a character’s good intentions twisted when they become so obessed with and wrapped up in it.

Of course you’ll get players that while wanting to play grimdark still want to be the token good upstanding hero because reasons (These would be the people that go to a pick and mix shop just gets white mice the bland pricks). But it is okay, you can work with it and truthfully I like the dynamic of the bright eyed advenutrer and friends that slowly gets tainted by the reality of the world they live in (If you want some inspiration on this I recommend the show Madoka Magica).

3. Understanding

Okay this is a more serious point. Alot of players I have played grimdark have kinda took some of the darker elements for granted as well they haven’t experience things like that. Which in turn can hurt players that have experience in those matters. So I always ask my players (And I am asking you too future grimdark DMs) to look into these themes, research and understand why they are not right and why we should not really have them in real life. If you are playing something like this just so you can be a slave trader without consequence then may I ask you to leave the table.

Playing to be a villain is good, playing to be an asshole is bad.

And that should help, I would in0clude some the additonal rules I use aswell like Stress and Bleeding but I will save them for another post after I am finished rewriting them for the third time and this post is already so goddamn long. If you also have recommendations for new DMs when it comes to running Grimdark, by all means share them. Thank you for reading.

#dnd #dnd 5e #dnd 5e homebrew #dnd 5e campaign #dnd 5e character #dnd 5th edition #dnd campaign #dnd discussions #dnd grimdark #dnd dark fantasy

[wiseabsol]

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 6. Favorite character you’ve written? 14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?) 15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing? 19. How do you cope with writer’s block? 24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author? 33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like? 34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 

My favorite part is when you make discoveries about your world and your characters as you write the story down, and when you write something and go, “Oh, there we go, there’s the solution to this problem that was going to come up later.” For example, I recently had an evil mentor toying with a magical item while giving a lecture to his pupils. The magical item was mundane--essentially, just putty that you could mold into whatever shape you wanted, then solidify, then switch back to putty to reshape. And as I was writing that down, I went, “Oh, THAT’S what my protagonist is going to knock him out with down the line. That’s way better than her using a lamp. Excellent.” 

My least favorite part about writing is getting started. Once I’ve cleared the hurtle of the blank page, writing becomes much easier and more exciting. But getting myself to start has become much harder since I developed my editor/critic’s brain.  

6. Favorite character you’ve written? 

In one of the text-based rps I’m writing with my best friend, I’m playing a shapeshifter named Sparrow, who is charming, funny, flirty, politically-savvy, and super vain about his appearance (think a courtesan-type character). He also has one of the most gut-wrenching backstories of any character I’ve ever written, and is struggling with triggers from that backstory. His romance with my best friend’s character is also my favorite romance that I’ve written with her, and it came as a surprise to both of us, since we were just testing out the characters at the time.   

14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?) 

I do a lot of brainstorming and outlining, though my outlines aren’t plot-related ones so much as very detailed character summaries. I’ve honestly been struggling with plot lately, but I’ve been doing better character work, so I’m winging it more now. While I usually have a general idea of how the story goes, the actual writing of it clarifies the details and makes changes to my plans. On the bright side, the results are less stilted than my old work, since they’re not chained to plot outlines, but stem from the characters more organically.  

15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing?

I’ve started telling myself, “Fuck it, let it be messy, I’ll fix it later.” Letting go of perfectionism is hard for me, but doing so has been helping.   

19. How do you cope with writer’s block? 

Honestly, the best way to cope with writer’s block is to just try something and see if it sticks, or leave yourself a note and skip ahead in the story to something you want to write. However, as I mentioned in an earlier ask, I haven’t been able to do much writing lately. And that’s hard, because I feel guilty for not writing, and I know if I just do it, I’ll feel better. Which is a bad mindframe to be in, especially because this year has been awful. I’ve been telling other writers to be gentle on themselves, because it’s hard to be creative when you’re stressed, but I struggle to take my own advice. So right now, I’m trying to give myself permission not to write, and to instead focus on other things. Editing. Reading. Playing videogames. Baking. Doing house/yardwork. Something to still ticks things off of my to do list, but also things that I can look at and see, “Yes, you did get something done.” It’s not a perfect system, and it does fall into the productivity trap, but it’s what I’m trying. When the stress passes, maybe then I can dive back into writing.  

24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author? 

I think it was when I was applying for undergraduate college. I wrote in my application essay that I wanted to write stories that would show my readers that things can get better for them. I was writing as a hobby before then, but I think that’s when I decided that yeah, I wanted making stories to be a part of my future, and I wanted to write stories that I could publish someday. 

33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like? 

Mostly I end up rewriting the chapter or story in question. Draft one is for realizing and getting down the idea of the thing. Draft two is refining it to that thing and losing all of the flab that the story doesn’t need. Often I have another file on the side where I paste in what I’ve cut out, in case I change my mind and want to add it back in later, or in case I can use it in another project. I also save the original messy draft and do the cutting in a copied file. That way, I can reassure myself that the original still exists for me, and I can reread it when I’m feeling self-indulgent, but I’m also only giving the best version to my readers.  

34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

-- Writing every day is a good idea, and does work well for the writing process, but it’s an unrealistic standard to hold yourself to, especially if you have a day job, kids, and other adult responsibilities. Don’t feel guilty if you can’t write every day. The guilt is just going to make you freeze up instead of returning to the work. Be gentle with your expectations for yourself.  

-- If you’re including triggering or sensitive subjects in your work, and are planning to share that work with others (and ESPECIALLY if you’re planning to profit from that work), you should be doing your research about those subjects, portraying them as accurately as possible, and asking yourself if your story really needs that content to work. It is also a good idea to employ sensitivity screeners for that content, especially if you’re writing from a place of privilege and/or don’t have personal experience with the issues that you’re depicting.

-- Once the work is out there, no one has the right to ban it. They can be critical of it, yes. But not ban it.  

-- Writers of privilege must include diversity within their work, even if they’re scared of getting their depictions of people from other genders, races, classes, religions, and so on wrong. And they will get it wrong. When that happens, just apologize and try to do better in the future. But staying in your lane is a bad idea, for three reasons: 1.) You should be striving to have empathy for others, and you can’t do that if you’re only writing about people who are similar to you. 2.) Writers of privilege have an easier time getting their work published, and so should be trying to push the market/publishing industry into a more diverse direction. And 3.) You should be showing readers of privilege that the world is a diverse one, rather than catering to their narrow worldview.

-- Getting defensive when someone is critical of your work is perfectly natural, but it’s also dumb. It’s so, so dumb. You have made a product, and no product made by human hands is perfect, and every writer has blind spots. So when someone is critical of your work, try to keep this in mind: this is not an attack on you. Let yourself feel the hurt in private, and eat lots of ice cream, and when you’re feeling better, look at the criticism and ask yourself: What led the reader to this conclusion? How can I fix it? What can I learn from this? This is assuming that the critic is working with you in good faith, by the way; sometimes they’re completely off of the mark, or are upset because you didn’t give them the story that they wanted. But if someone is going, “Hey, this is a little racist/sexist/homophobic/ableist/etc.,” sit up and listen. And for the love of god, don’t fight them over it. You’ll make yourself look like an ass. 

-- Don’t workshop your story too early. Try to get a full draft down before you submit something for consideration. For one thing, you’re still figuring out what your story actually is. For another, writing workshops, while useful, have a tendency to pull your work to the middle / make it more acceptable to a general audience. Sometimes this will soften and even kill your bravest writing. Instead, use writing workshops as an opportunity to find writers who understand the themes you’re aiming for and the subjects that you’re discussing. Their input will be what you need.  

-- With the current laws about copyright infringement, getting paid for your fanfic is a bad idea. If you want that to change, then fight to make the laws more lenient. As if it, you’re risking screwing over other fanfic writers by doing that. Does that suck? Yeah. But that’s also the reality we live in right now, and you’re not going to have a good time if a corporation like Disney slams you with lawsuits.

-- Genres like fantasy, science fiction, horror, romance/erotica, and murder mysteries are real literature. Saying they’re not has its roots in classism. 

-- There is no such thing as apolitical writing. 

-- Poets are underrated. Support them. Most of the time, they’re doing braver and more socially-important work than you are, and they’re doing it concisely, too.     

-- Your first draft is going to suck. This is a good thing. You learn a lot more from bad prose than from good prose, more often than not. 

-- Having your work rejected by publishers really is nothing personal. Sometimes it just wasn’t a good fit for them at that moment in time. If they’re interested in seeing more from you in the future, though, keep them on your list and send them something else during their next screening period. They don’t say that unless they mean it.         

#technopanzer #Writing #I'm not sure all of these are unpopular opinions but some of them definitely are

[itsclydebitches]

It Chapter Two: Aged-Up Protagonists and the Umbridge Effect

Writing reviews, metas, and the like is a lot about timing. If you don’t craft your writing in the immediate aftermath of your source’s release, someone else will beat you to it and, chances are, your audience will be less enthused about reading the same arguments weeks later. (Admittedly, that’s up for debate. I for one am happy to read about the same shit for years on end.) Thus, when I didn’t have the time or the mental energy to write about It: Chapter Two immediately after seeing it in theaters, I knew within a few days that I’d lost a lot of ground. Fans and critics alike have already spoken about the film’s major draws, namely the update on Richie’s sexuality and the canonizing of a beloved, thirty-year-old ship. We’ve also covered the issues that arose out of those positives. In 2019, is it necessary to show a hate crime in such violent detail? By giving us queer characters, have Muschietti and King unintentionally fallen into the trap of treating them badly? One is dead and the other mourns while the straight couple passionately kiss beneath the lake. Faithful adaptation vs. modern activism is a tricky balance to strike. I could rehash all those arguments here, but why bother? They’ve been articulated better by others already. Besides, falling behind means that I now have the space to discuss something just as important to me.

The Losers’ ages.

Now, I’m not sure if you all have noticed, but fantasy adventures aren’t really geared towards adults. That is to say, stories often contain adult content, but that’s not the same thing as putting adults at the center of the narrative. I’ve experienced a niggling sense of displeasure that’s grown stronger with each passing year and it took until my mid-twenties to figure out what it was: I am no longer the hero of many of my favorite stories. Because I’ve grown up. Harry Potter is concerned primarily with the trials and tribulations of characters between the ages of eleven and eighteen. If we return to that world---such as through a certain cursed play---the focus must shift to the new, shiny generation. Anyone who falls through a wardrobe is bound to be a child and if they dare grow up? They’re no longer allowed access to such a fantastic place. Kids are the ones who find the Hundred Acre Woods, or fall down rabbit holes, get daemons, battle Other Mothers when the world gets flipped, or head off onto all sorts of elementary and high school adventures. Sometimes, even those who are adults mistakenly get caught up in this trend. Frodo might be in his fifties, but as a small, kindly hobbit he comes across as younger than the rest of the Fellowship. Since the release of Jackson’s trilogy I’ve corrected more than one new fan who assumed (somewhat logically) that he is in his early twenties, max. It’s an easy mistake to make when we’ve grown accustomed to children and young adults taking center stage in so many fantastic, high-profile adventures.

Of course, there are plenty of counters to this feeling. Just look at Game of Thrones. Though we see much of the story through younger perspectives---such as the Stark siblings---the vast majority of the cast is made up of adults, playing just as pivotal a role as the up-and-comers. Fantasy, Science Fiction, and other speculative story-lines are by no means solely in the hands of minors, yet I think it’s also worth acknowledging that a good majority of those stories do shape our media landscape. Or, if they’re not strictly minors, they’re characters who embody a sort of static young adulthood, the Winchesters and the Shadowhunters and all the television superheroes who might gesture towards markers of adulthood---we have long term relationships, hold down jobs, can impersonate FBI agents without anyone batting an eye---yet are still able to maintain a nebulous form of youth. They all (try to) look and act as if they’re right out of college. The standards of film and television demand that actors appear twenty-years-old even when they’re pushing forty, and the standards of much literature insists that twenty is simply too old for an adventure, period. I can still clearly recall two moments of shock (later agreed upon by my friends) when I encountered unexpectedly older protagonists in genre fiction: the realization that Sophie actually spends the majority of Howl’s Moving Castle as a very old woman and that The Magicians takes place in graduate school. “Wow,” I remember thinking. “When’s the last time that happened?”

What does all this have to do with It: Chapter Two? I don’t have any big twist for you here. It was just really refreshing to see such a fantastical story where our cast is all forty or older. Seriously, can we take a moment to appreciate exactly how much King undermined expectations there? The first half of the novel is structured precisely how we assume it ‘should’ be. There’s a mysterious threat, there are children caught up in the middle of it, and ultimately only they are capable of saving the day. We know this story. We even have the characterization of the town itself to reinforce this structure, a place so warped by evil that only the very young with their open-mindedness and imagination are capable of seeing Derry for what it truly is, illustrated beautifully in the film by Mr. Marsh straight up not noticing a whole room full of blood.

Though they’re It’s prey, children are also the only ones who have any potential power over him. You have to be able to acknowledge a problem in order to fix it and King could have easily ended his story at the first chapter alone, with the group somehow managing to defeat Pennywise for good the first time they set foot in the sewers. A part of me is still shocked he didn’t, if only because the young savior as an archetype was embedded within Western culture far earlier than It’s 1986 publication. From Carrie to The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, Pet Sematary to Firestarter, King is no stranger to putting children at the center of fantastic tales. Yet he’s also given us numerous adult protagonists, managing to find an enjoyable balance between the two, both within individual novels and his entire corpus. It represents that balance, not just imagining a story where seven (yes, I’m counting Stan) middle-age adults manage to finally save their town, but actually setting up a twenty-seven year jump to allow for that. It's the best of both worlds, exploring the difficulties inherent in both childhood and adulthood, arguing that we need each---that imagination and that experience---if we hope to come out alive.

While watching It: Chapter Two I took note of how many people laughed throughout the film, and not just at the moments set up to be funny (looking at you, Richie). Rather, the film that two years ago had scared the pants off of movie-goers now entertained them in a much more relaxed manner. No one was hiding behind their popcorn; there were no shrieks of fright. I’ve seen more than one reviewer express displeasure at this change. What the hell happened? Isn’t an It film supposed to be scary? Well, yes and no. I think what a lot of people miss is how providing us with an adult cast inherently changes the way fear manifests, both literally in the case of Pennywise’s illusions and thematically in regards to the film itself. This sloppy bitch, as established, preys on children. His tricks have the illogical, fantastical veneer that reflect how children see the world: you’re scared of women with horrifically elongated faces, zombie-like lepers, and hungry mummies. They’re literal monsters emerging out from under the bed. Of course, as adults watching the story we’re easily able to see how these monsters represent much deeper, intangible fears: growing up and disappointing your father, falling ill like your mother always claims you will (to say nothing of contracting AIDS in connection with a budding queer identity), and the danger that comes with being alone and ostracized. Sometimes It: Chapter One gestures more firmly towards those underlying fears---such as the burnt hands reaching for Mike when we know his family died in a fire---but only once does it make the real horror overt, when Pennywise takes Mr. Marsh’s face and asks Bev if she's still his little girl.

Outside of pedophilia and sexual abuse, Chapter One’s real horror is mostly coded, symbolic, left up to (admittedly rather obvious at times) interpretation. It’s just under the surface and we’re meant to be distracted by the fact that, allegorical or not, there’s still a very creepy thing hunting our protagonists from the shadows. For two hours we take on a child’s perspective, biting our nails at all the things we once imagined hid inside our closets. We’re scared because they’re scared.

That mindset irrevocably changes once your group grows up. Forty-year-olds simply don’t freak out in the same way a bunch of thirteen-year-olds would, especially now that they know precisely what’s happening and have the mental fortitude to combat it. At least to an extent. Chapter Two isn’t as traditionally scary for the simple reason that the film now acknowledges what all adults eventually must: there’s nothing in the closet, there’s nothing hiding under your bed. Or if there is, it’s something tangible that can be handled with a calm(ish) demeanor and a well-placed ax. An adult might scream when something jumps out at them, but they’re not as inclined to cower. Adults might still be scared, but they’re better able to push that fear aside in order to take action. The group first reached that point in the sewers--- “Welcome to the Losers’ club, asshole!”---and now fully embodies that mindset with nearly three decades of growth and experience to draw on. This is why Ben investigating the library as a teen reads as teeth-chatteringly scary, but Ben and Bill as adults investigating the skateboard produces only a comment about how they're getting used to this nonsense. They know, and we as the audience know, what the real threat is and whether or not we need to shield our eyes when something starts clunking its way down the stairs.

All of which isn’t to say that Chapter Two isn’t scary. It’s simply scary in a much more realistic manner, killer clowns and Native American rituals aside. The fears have been aged-up along with the cast, stripping away the child-like fantasies that made us wet our pants in Chapter One. What’s the scariest moment outside of the jump scares? When two men and a kid beat a gay man and then chuck him in the river to drown. You’ll note that, unlike in the first film, Pennywise doesn’t actually have to do much work here. Seasoning people up with fear? The rest of the world is doing that for him. That first scene detailing a truly horrific hate crime (which, by the way, is based off of true events) results in a meal delivered straight to Pennywise’s arms. It’s people who targeted that couple, beat one of them within an inch of his life, and then tossed him over a bridge, bleeding and shrieking for help. All Pennywise had to do was scoop him from the water and take that first bite. He’s incidental to the film’s most cringe-worthy scene. We can argue all we want about how it’s Pennywise’s influence that “makes” the town this way, but any queer viewer knows that's simply not the case. In 2019 we're still living this horror, no Pennywise required.

Likewise, the two children we see murdered are much more overtly grappling with fears that have nothing to do with fantastical monsters. Dean, the little boy Bill tries to save in lieu of Georgie, is rightly petrified because a seemingly crazy adult is now stalking him. We as the audience know that Bill is just trying to help----that he’s not the real danger here----but that’s not the perspective this kid has, nor is it the issue the film is grappling with. We first see him approaching an idol of his, Richie, and instead of an enjoyable experience he winds up getting yelled at. The It films are only tangentially interested in the status of fans and their relationship with celebrities, but we know it’s a common theme for King’s work overall. Look at Misery and look at this cameo: a disenchanted fan of the 21st century, criticizing a writer’s novel and leveraging him for money. “You can afford it,” he tells Bill, swindling him simply because he can. The context of this little boy as a fan and Richie as the older, bigger, larger-than-life comedian adds another layer to the interaction. It’s not just an adult verbally attacking a child, it’s an adult this kid worshiped enough to recognize and quote his material from memory. Who easily walks away from that?

This little boy then finds Bill shrieking at a sewer opening, is manhandled by him, and told in the scariest way possible, born of Bill’s own fear, that he has to get out of dodge, fast. There are scary things out there, Dean freely admits that he’s heard kids’ voices coming from the tub drain, but right now the scariest thing is how badly the adults in his life are failing him: parents (from what little we can gather) are distant, his comedic idol is mean, and now this stranger is traumatizing him in the middle of the street. Once again, it’s easy to see how Pennywise isn’t needed to sow fear or even enact cruelty; he’s not a requirement for horrible things in the world, he’s merely their reflection. We see the same setup with the little girl under the bleachers. That scene demonstrates precisely how not scary Pennywise is. Here’s this child putting aside her discomfort over his looks and agreeing to be his friend. What’s worse than a clown with a creepy expression? The knowledge that all the other kids have already rejected you because of a birthmark on your face. Bullying is the far greater threat and one we’re 100% more likely to deal with in our lives than a killer clown, so the second film re-frames Pennywise to better acknowledge this. He’s scary because things like bullying and neglect exist to give him an easy in. He’s even scary because in this moment, hiding under the bleachers, manipulating this little girl, he’s fully embodying a child predator. Chapter One was a primal, “There’s a monster hiding in the shadows” kind of fear. Chapter Two is a, “We’re all going to die from climate change” kind of fear. Logical and largely inescapable. Characters like Richie don't need Pennywise to take some fantastic form to scare him. Homophobia has already done all the work.

Ultimately, I think of this as the Umbridge Effect. Who’s the most hated character in the Harry Potter franchise? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not the Dark Lord responsible for two wars, attempted genocide, and the death of our title character.

We despise Umbridge because she’s real. She’s relatable. She’s grounded in a way that Voldemort could never hope to be. We have no fear that an all-powerful sorcerer is suddenly going to come out of the woodwork and attempt to enslave and/or eradicate everyone without magic. That’s just not on our list of things to worry about. A corrupt politician, however? An instructor who uses her power to emotionally and physically torture students, getting away with it because of a cutesy, hyper-feminine persona? We’ve seen stuff like that. We’ve lived it. Umbridge represents all the real wrongs in the world when it comes to bigotry and privilege. Therefore we hate her---we fear her---in a way we could never hate or fear Voldemort. Now, in It: Chapter Two, Pennywise is the new Voldemort. Is an alien clown with an unhinged jaw and three rows of teeth technically scary? Sure, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the real problems that plague the cast: abuse, anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, the fear that someone will hurt or outright kill you over some part of your identity. These are things we continue to fear long after the credits roll and the lights come up, and they’re now barely coded in the story:

It occurred to me halfway through my viewing that the people laughing at the characters’ new plights were the same ones who didn’t flinch when a gay man’s head cracked into the pavement. I had both hands over my mouth during that scene and I wasn’t snickering whenever Eddie had a panic attack, or Ben’s self-confidence took a hit. Because those moments, like our opening, hit pretty close to home for me; I didn’t find them embarrassingly humorous in the way much of my theater did. So many reviews in the last two months have insisted that Chapter Two isn't scary, but I think that depends entirely on whether or not you're struggling with these now explicit threats. We're not dealing with mummies and creepy portraits anymore. Instead, tell me how you feel about holding your partner's hand in public. Do certain memories make you vomit? Or freeze? Consider heading upstairs to the bath? The horror is dependent on how the audience views Bill's stutter coming back, or the bruises on Bev's arms. 

The cast grew up. It’s a fantastic twist. It also means that the horror needed to grow up with them, resulting in a film that could no longer function as a simple, scary clown movie. Our ending reminds us of that. When did people laugh the loudest? When the Losers’ club was bullying Pennywise into something vulnerable. And yeah, I get it. It’s a cheesy moment that we feel the need to laugh at because it’s just so unexpected. Awkward, even. Since when are badass horror monsters defeated with a bit of backyard peer pressure straight out of middle school? If this were any other story, Pennywise would have been defeated by Eddie’s poker. The most scared member of the group finally finds his courage! He has faith that this simple object can kill monsters! He throws it in a perfect arc, splitting the deadlights in two! That’s a heroic ending. Something epic and fantastical, relying on the idea that the Good Guys will win simply because they believe in themselves... but that’s not how the real world works. That ending is a child’s fantasy. Sometimes you do the heroic thing and end up dying anyway. Which isn’t to say that the heroic thing is useless. It saves Richie’s life. It’s just that a single act can’t cure all our ills in the way that storybooks often claim they can. 

How then does an adult deal with huge, intangible problems like bigotry and mental illness---the things Pennywise now fully represents? By saying “Fuck you” to those things again and again with all the support you can possibly wrangle up at your side. You refuse to let those issues control you; you drag those child-like representations into the light and remind yourself just how small they really are. We don’t get to beat something like depression by spearing it with a fire poker in some overblown finale. If we did, we’d all be having a much better time. All you can do is band together with friends and scream that you’re not going to let your fears define you anymore. Pennywise is a symptom of all the true horrors in the world. Sadly, you can’t beat those with a baseball bat. But you can acknowledge the heart of the issue, literally in the case of five friends squeezing until that one symptom, at least, is gone.

Image Credit

#1:https://www.screengeek.net/2018/07/10/it-chapter-2-character-mashups/

#2:https://earlybirdbooks.com/the-re-read-the-lion-the-witch-and-the-wardrobe

#3:https://www.vox.com/culture/2019/7/4/19413771/stranger-things-season-3-review-recap-hopper-elevenrussians

#4:https://comicbook.com/movies/2019/08/08/harry-potter-movies-review-10-years-late-snape-dumbledore-franchise/

#5:https://www.denofgeek.com/us/tv/netflix/277257/give-the-dragon-prince-a-chance

#6:https://www.forbes.com/sites/lindamaleh/2019/04/23/she-ra-and-the-princesses-of-power-season-2-review/#ec7022c42953

#7:https://www.commonsensemedia.org/tv-reviews/avatar-the-last-airbender

#8:https://www.newsweek.com/buffy-vampire-slayer-turns-20-charisma-carpenter-shows-enduring-legacy-and-566123

#9:http://theinspirationroom.com/daily/2009/alice-in-wonderland-the-movie/

#10:https://www.hindustantimes.com/tv/game-of-thrones-this-edited-out-scene-between-bran-and-sansa-reveals-so-much-about-finale/story-qFDHflH2dO6Kcki1wgsEyM.html

#11:https://www.cinemablend.com/new/Why-Ender-Game-Best-Possible-Adaptation-Book-40110.html

#12:https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/live-feed/supernatural-end-season-15-cw-1196579

#13:https://www.slashfilm.com/it-chapter-two-scene/

#14:https://www.vox.com/culture/2017/9/12/16286316/it-cleaning-up-blood-scene-feminism

#15:http://www.allocine.fr/film/fichefilm-208633/photos/detail/?cmediafile=21647122

#16:https://stanleyyuris.tumblr.com/post/188300897715/chaotic-losers

#17:https://whatculture.com/film/it-chapter-2-every-character-ranked-worst-to-best?page=3

#18:https://www.reddit.com/r/harrypotter/comments/7uhrkz/the_most_hated_character/

#19:https://9gag.com/gag/am2X2Z4?ref=pn.mw

#20:https://screenrant.com/harry-potter-hated-characters-unpopular-worst-ranked/quickview/17

GIFs1-5:https://the-pretty-poisons.tumblr.com/post/188344826978/why-is-everyone-looking-at-me-\like-this

#It #It Chapter 2 #It Chapter Two #It Chapter Two Spoilers #reddie #mymetas

[lamiahypnosia]

Hype Train Keep A’Rollin, or, The Obligatory The Outer Worlds Deep Dive Rant

Okay so…

There’s like. Maybe three things in the game world I’m looking forward to.

Baldur’s Gate 3, Final Fantasy 7 Remake and Peril on Gorgon. My interest in FF7R has waned, admittedly but my love of The Outer Worlds is still pretty strong.

I did preorder Shadowlands for World of Warcraft and there’s not much on my radar. I am debating checking out Mass Effect since as a person of taste I enjoy BioWare games.

Baldur’s Gate 3 is still contentious to me as I truthfully don’t care much for the tabletop RPG hit rolls and all that math shit. I enjoyed the first two Baldur’s Gate games because of the story, true. That’s my main draw, I love a good story. A good story and characters I’ll actually give a shit about. Is that so hard? Apparently it’s really fucking hard to do. But back to the Outer Worlds for a second. It wasn’t really hyped that much unless you count the obvious wink nudges to the New Vegas stans who were holding out hope that The Outer Worlds is New Vegas IN SPACE.

No, it’s not. It’s really not. As I mentioned in my review TOW is a new IP that can stand on its own two legs and sure it has a developer behind it that put out a really good game in eighteen months.

Yeah, the reason New Vegas is so sparse looking is because Obsidian could only snare the rights for Fallout from Bethesda for a little over a year so they reused assets from Fallout 3 hence why it has a DLC feel but not really, that sounds harsh. Was that too harsh?

For what it’s worth I give credit where credit is due. Obsidian busted their asses on New Vegas and it shows- the places are oozing atmosphere and the characters are outstandingly written. Too bad Fallout 4 only got that second one for the companions and don’t @ me, the companions are good and you know it. Even if Fallout 4’s story is a dumpster fire.

Fallout 76 is a dumpster fire too, not just because of the bugs and subscription platform it just…it was so full of potential, the atmosphere is perfect. Just not for an MMO. Wavy Willard’s Water Park is creepy as fuck to me, something about the decayed place of innocent fun. Though wouldn’t a water park be closed in October, because the bombs fell in October. I can’t recall if the old terminal entries were written in summer or what twenty five years before the bombs fell. This game is confusing.

Wastelanders feels unfinished and half-assed. That’s all there is to say about it. I don’t have the energy to talk about it. I was set up for disappointment. I still really enjoy exploring and crafting but I don’t enjoy inventory management (I’m a serial hoarder, ask my husband) and I really don’t enjoy getting pasted by a gaggle of level 14 cryptids while I’m level 42 because the hit detection in this game is pretty much non existent. I just wildly swing my super sledge and pray I can glitch my way through it.

Anyway.

I fell down the Reddit rabbit hole and boy, r/theoutworlds is chock full of New Vegas stans foaming at the mouth. People compare The Outer Worlds to New Vegas so much (same developer) that talking about one or the other on their respective subreddits is against the rules. I saw a review of some salty stan whining about how few choices there are in The Outer Worlds. What I hear is ‘Why is this literally not the exact same as Fallout New Vegas?! I want to be a capricious god with unlimited agency.’ The reviews are full of ‘I want, I wish, I miss.’ I made a shitpost a few weeks ago on Facebook about wanting to fight people regarding my opinion on New Vegas which is in a nutshell ‘It’s a good game, but I can’t get invested.’ The Outer Worlds on the other hand for all that it’s full of satire and black comedy had me invested.

So after my stellar review of The Outer Worlds you’re probably thinking ‘okay so where is your full disclosure essay, you love Fallout 4 and what you love you chasten’. Well now that you mention it…

From here on out there be spoilers, major spoilers for both endings of The Outer Worlds.

The Outer Worlds was NEVER stated to be an open world. I made a few minor griping points in my review about there rarely being new dialogue when you talk one on one with a character. I also think the combat is fairly standard but I don’t really care about that all that much plus the science weapons are fun. Trailers also showcased Ellie as a companion though you don’t meet her in Emerald Vale you meet her on the Groundbreaker. Also Ellie is boring.

She’s a doctor, a surgeon from Byzantium who got tired of the bureaucracy and her uptight parents so she became a pirate and…that’s it. Until you drop in to visit her parents and find out they faked her death and are living off the insurance payouts. They’re not even happy to see her because they’re keeping up appearances. All you can do is help Ellie commit insurance fraud to screw them over and Ellie is slightly less aloof from now on.  That’s the character you wanna hype? Dr. Do Nothing?

Moving on. People latch on to Parvati Holcomb, the dorky precious engineer and her quest is to get things for a nice date with somebody who is already obviously into her.

She’s the cinnamon bun of the gang, full of sugar and no substance. Don’t get me wrong I love and must protect Parvati but she’s nowhere as interesting as Vicar Max or even Felix. She comes out of her shell because she gets a girlfriend.  Whoop de doo.

Felix Millstone is an orphan kid from Groundbreaker who has a rebellious streak and that’s it. His personal quest is learning his old mentor is a Board bootlicker. The end. His whole arc is basically don’t meet your heroes which can include you if you’re a jerk. A filthy Board bootlicking jerk. He’s at least got a few more aspects to him, he treats Parvati, Ellie and Nyoka like big sisters and depending on actions made, treats Vicar Max like a big brother. Who were his parents? Why was he abandoned? DLC material please?

Speaking of Max.

Oof. Max is a fan favorite because priest kink. I don’t have a priest kink and we don’t kink shame here but Max is kind of an awful person. He’s mister holier than thou, only interested in his religion as a topic of debate. He’s not interested in guiding people and while you could say he spouts corporate approved platitudes he’s clearly not dumb. Far from it, he even immediately pegs the Stranger (the player character) as an outsider because they don’t look dead inside and you can call him out on how bad of a shepherd he is. Max never really gets better if you do his quest successfully. He does become less of a prick but I hold that he’s still a bad person. Maybe he’s open to not being a dick, and his banter with the other characters changes accordingly. His best ending indicates he does become a true missionary and even uses his combat skills to defend the town. It’s debatable.

Max’s character develops. He is a character who grows and changes. Sort of. Most of his character is based off how salty he is. So he learns to use the salt sparingly. Direct anger where it should go, ask questions in the right circumstances, stop acting like you know everything, embrace chaos.

It’s not like dodging the lesson is just to fit the irreverent tone. Nyoka is sad because her friends all died and that’s why she drinks. She’s still competent, trains Parvati with firearms and helps Felix with his drink recipe experiments. it feels good to help with her quest and her saying she lost a family but got a new one will give you the warm fuzzies.

SAM is a robot. I guess he’s funny in theory but I never use him. The ship ain’t gonna clean itself.

So now that I’ve thoroughly trashed all the beloved companions you might wonder what character do I actually like?

Okay. If my constant posts weren’t evidence my favorite character is Phineas Welles, the guy who wakes you up from cryosleep. Forget Parvati a second, Phineas is the best and most endearing character and I will fight you over this.

From his defiance of the Board to having the foulest mouth of the cast, his cartoony movements and love of puns, how could you betray Phineas to the Board for wealth and power? Also he builds a gun and names it Phin’s Phorce. I don’t care who you are, that’s adorable.

Still Phineas is interesting, he’s definitely a deceitful little bugger. Space grandpa, my left butt cheek. If you decide to side with the Board for whatever reason- money, you think Phineas is a liar- and skip the Hope to Tartarus for its inhabitants to be yeeted out so the elite of Byzantium can live in luxury while the filthy peasants are frozen Phineas gets pissed off and flies to Tartarus to start a prison riot taking Adjutant Akande hostage. You can try to talk him down and even if you succeed and try to talk him into surrendering to the Board he refuses, stating that he will not crawl back and beg them for forgiveness. Then he pulls a gun and shoots himself in the fucking head.

If you’re an immersion addict like me you might get on a lawful stupid ‘kill what I see as evil’ streak and you plugged Chairman Rockwell and Adjutant Akande because they’re bad evil guys you’re missing the point.

I’m not saying this is some kind of character deficit in you in real life but to get a better picture of how good the writing in The Outer Worlds is, hear me out.

I had a discussion with a friend asking what alignment Phineas and the Board would fit in. He said Phineas is chaotic neutral, bordering chaotic good whereas the Board is lawful neutral.

The Board is just greedy and  they’ve lost their sense of identity which makes them a blank corporate face instead of individuals. They’re built up as this faceless omniscient entity but when you pull aside the curtain you find they’re just people stumbling about screaming ‘oh shit now what do we do?’ as becomes abundantly clear when you meet Minister Clarke. There’s a coverup happening because of course there is.

Phineas has kept his identity, his truth. If you think about it Phineas is only doing what he does to prove the Board wrong and that just happens to save the colony- an altruistic middle finger if you will. He’s standing off to one side pointing and screaming ‘see I was right!’

He had no qualms about sending you to your probable death- you were lucky but you still only had a twenty eight percent chance of not becoming a puddle. Phineas also had some rather jarring dialogue about shooting the members of the Board in the back of the head. His actions, his beliefs are absolute. And that, dear readers, is what keeps him from being chaotic good.

You can talk both Chairman Rockwell and Adjutant Akande into helping you and Phineas isn’t thrilled but he trusts you to handle it. It’s easier to shoot everyone and sweep our problems under the proverbial rug, isn’t it? Are Rockwell and Akande bad people? Maybe? A little, but mostly they’re ignorant and shit has to hit the fan before they’ll listen. But they do listen.

The pro Board ending puts me in mind of an old George RR Martin short story called  In The House Of The Worm. It takes place in an old crumbling ruin deep underground where there two races, the grouns and the yagalla’hai, are constantly at war with one another. They fight, kill and eat each other. The yagalla’hai are nihilists who worship decay and don’t really give a fuck about that they’re probably all going to die unless they mate with the grouns and the sun is dying but sure let’s feast, dance, fuck and party all the time.

You can yeet everyone on the Hope into space and live a life of extravagant wealth til the end of your days while Halcyon crumbles apart around you. Meanwhile all your cuddly companions are miserable beyond human comprehension, their dreams crushed and that nice old man who saved you dies, betrayed and alone.

Do you feel good about yourself? Are you happy with how that turned out?

Nyoka makes an interesting point that Halcyon needs order. You can still talk to her like an edgy teenager who favors absolute anarchy. Yes, the colony needs order, they just need BETTER order. I think I had a point to make? Oh yeah, The Outer Worlds is fucking amazing and deserves every drop of hype and I cannot fucking wait for the DLC. That’s the post.

#the outer worlds #spoilers #major spoilers #i am not kidding there are spoilers #phineas welles #i love him so much oh my law

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 2

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo has just turned six. He’s been at the castle for most of a year.

Aeleus is icing the simple white cake when Even goes to get his morning coffee. “You’re spoiling the boy,” he says in lieu of greeting. “Ansem gives him more than enough sugar with all the ice cream.”

Aeleus shrugs. “It’s not a birthday without cake.”

“Indeed, when presented with such things when I was younger, I nearly went feral,” Dilan says. “Though sugar does not seem to affect his countenance.”

“Not much does.”

“It’s worth celebrating, that he’s speaking,” Aeleus says. He puts the frosting knife in the sink. “Maybe we can encourage him to talk more.”

He still does not speak much, even now. His sentences are short, plain, often monosyllabic. At least they no longer need to rely on the whiteboard.

But now that he speaks, his nightmares have heft, sound. Even can hear him cry for them. It never hurts any less.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Dilan says. Ienzo appears, still in pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Happy birthday.”

He blinks. “That’s today?”

Even chuckles. “I figure today we can do something you like. Play, or perhaps go outside?”

Ienzo opens the fridge door and takes out a juice box. “No thank you,” he says politely. “I want to finish my book.”

“Anything for the prince, eh,” Dilan says. He’s taken to calling Ienzo that; despite the fact that he and Ansem have no blood ties and that “king” is an elected title. “If you go outside you can get more books, you know. Not just this dusty old tosh.”

This grabs his attention.

“I’ll even buy you one as a present.”

Ienzo turns pink. “Thank you.”

Dilan smiles. “Why it is my pleasure. Go get dressed. We can leave after breakfast.”

He retreats to his room quickly. Even puts up oatmeal. “That’s kind of you,” he says.

“He needs exercise. It’s not normal to be cooped up all day.”

“Dilan spoils the boy, but I can’t?” Aeleus asks dryly. “The double standards.”

Even laughs a little. “Such is the way of life.”

He returns to his lab. He had success with another fertilization; this one actually divided twice before dying. What was the difference? He doesn’t think he did anything differently. During all of his medical school studies, he did not recall IVF to be so finicky.

This isn’t the same thing. It’s a vehicle.

He studies the corpses of the cells under blacklight, trying to find anything that might illuminate the truth.

---

Ansem approaches him now, not the other way around. Even would be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy the power. “Sorry to intrude,” he says.

Even looks up from the chaise and decides to be nice. “Nothing to intrude. I was mending Ienzo’s coat. He’s growing so quickly, I had to let down the hem.” They can buy clothes at the shops, but not many vendors sell lab coats in children’s sizes. They’re teaching Ienzo general chemistry; he needs to have protection.

“You’re sure? He’s awfully small.”

He hums idly. “He’s on the bottom end of average,” he admits. “I have a feeling Ienzo will always be relatively petite. But he eats plenty, and Dilan introduced him to the library in town, which is an incentive to walk.”

“...He goes on his own now?” Ansem asks. He sits without being invited.

Even pauses slightly in his stitching. “How old were you when you ran your first errand?” he asks instead. “He has to be back in half an hour, otherwise we take away the books. Funny. For most children reading is punishment.” He holds up the jacket, checking for evenness. “Can I help you with something?”

He picks up the book he’s carried in. It’s an odd size, old, the cut of the paper uneven. “I… admit I still do not know anything about which you’re working. But I know you have a body problem. I wonder if this might help.”

He eyes it derisively. “Not exactly cutting edge science, is it?”

Ansem chuckles. “No, but… I’ve spoken with a new… friend, and I wonder if this is food for thought.”

Even takes the book from him. The font is ancient, hard to read. “ Mysticism of the Heart? Sounds a bit… Romantic.”

Ansem shakes his head. “It’s nothing to do with feelings. Well, not quite. The author was a sorcerer… oh, many years ago. She studied the heart.”

“...As have I. As have we all.”

“The metaphysical heart, Even.” He seems exasperated. “I find myself… intrigued, as well. I was up all night reading it.”

“...That so?” He strokes the cover, the soft, crumbling leather.

“If you… want to make something living, you have to understand the forces behind it. At least, that’s how I see it.”

“None of this is proven,” Even says, but despite himself he can feel his mind stirring, the block loosening.

“Maybe not with science. Maybe not with black and white.”

“Consider my interest… piqued.”

---

Like Ansem, he finds himself engrossed in every page; he takes copious notes. The text is hard to read, from the font to the fact that it is an older dialect of their language. But the ideas behind it are fascinating, and not just from a scientific standpoint.

Everyone knows a person is made of a body, heart, and will; but nobody understands the latter two, how they function. Nobody can test something so abstract. But if he can figure it out… or at least start to get there… maybe it will mean something for the dying cells smeared on his slides.

He can feel an excitement rising in him, an eagerness, a passion, that he hasn’t experienced in some time. He’s finally getting somewhere. He photocopies the book to have as reference, and without a word, gives it to Aeleus.

Within two weeks none of them can shut up about it. Ienzo watches them discuss it, warily, another fantasy story in his hands. Even finds himself digging through the libraries all throughout the castle for more--there has to be more. But everything else he finds about the heart is vague, at best. Limited. A single line in a dictionary. He bites the bullet and begins looking towards texts of religion and philosophy as well, but unlike Mysticism of the Heart , it is all waffling.

The sorcerer who crafted the book spent her whole life studying the heart. After apprenticing under a master magician, she spent years crafting spells to look within--to feel the heart, what it might mean. She asked as many people as she dared (it was a time and place where magic was viewed as heresy, so Even can’t help but admire her nerve) if she, too, could look within their hearts. She wrote out each as a case study, but her major conclusions were as follows:

Hearts are not mere physical matter. They are made of two forms of metamatter, heretoafter deemed “light” and “darkness.” Like yin and yang, they were not necessarily good and evil, but rather seemed to have certain qualities: light was associated with feeling, healing, and nurturing, while darkness was associated with power, knowledge, and a desire to better oneself rather than the collective.

Hearts are about “feeling”, about aqueous aspects of identity.

The presence of bonds seem to make a heart stronger or weaker, depending on their health.

Stronger individuals could always produce more and fulfill themselves more.

Even had, of course, studied darkness and light; but they had been viewed mostly as pejoratives, things that were intangible. If this is right--this dusty old tome from who knows how long ago--it’s so much more literal than they ever could have guessed.

---

He is trying to draft ways to explore this more clearly when Ienzo finds him. Without a single word, he places a book on Even’s lap. “...What’s this?” Even asks him.

“It talks about hearts.”

Even examines it. It’s a fairy story; one from Ansem’s study. He feels a swell of something like pride when he realizes that Ienzo likely took it without permission. “A fantasy story?” he asks.

Ienzo shrugs. “They talk about dark and light.”

There’s no point on waiting for him to elaborate. “I will… examine it in more detail,” he says, shunting it to the bottom of his list.

Ienzo begins to leave, but then turns. “And magic,” he says.

Even furrows his brows. Acting on impulse, he opens the storybook Ienzo left behind.

Well, hell.

---

It all causes a massive dissonance; how much lore, nebulous and malleable, actually has more truth in it than they all think?

As a man of science, and yes, he thinks, reason, how can he possibly believe it, when this whole time he only believed what could be proven with numbers?

Even’s mind slivers into pieces: the part of him invested in his experiment; the part of him beginning to play into this heart nonsense; and the part of him that looks after Ienzo. Because the boy really does need looking after.

He’s still not well--with the absence of proper treatment, he can never be well. No longer trusting only Ansem’s word, Even takes a look at his predecessor’s reports--Ansem’s office is so disorganized, he will never notice if these things go missing for a few hours--and discovers to his horror that Ansem wasn’t embellishing at all.

The shift in Radiant Garden’s economy from manufacturing to STEM brought unprecedented progress. It increased their food yields, meaning nobody went hungry; it gave them technology and medicine to save lives, to make life in general easier. But with that shift meant a loss in other ways of other studies; they became neglected. Namely, the humanities. And under these older referendums, psychology was not deemed a hard science.

The people are feeling the strain. This, on top of the cultural stigma that comes with seeking help. Not so many students are studying the subject--none that will pursue the accreditation, anyway. Meaning with a dying and retiring population of therapists, there’s increasingly nowhere to turn to.

It isn’t just psychology, either. Even doesn’t have the time to crunch the numbers, but with the arts and humanities slowly being neglected, Radiant Garden is going through a slow cultural death. It upsets him more than he thought possible.

Perhaps this is why, after one of Ienzo’s nightmares, he does more than leave him be.

It’s almost a routine at this point. It’s clear that Ienzo has no control of himself during these spells; as soon as he wakes up, he tries his utmost to quiet the cries, so as not to disturb the rest of them. More upsetting yet.

Even brings him a cup of weak tea with honey, a cool cloth for his face. “...Are you alright?” he asks the boy. He has no idea where to begin. “How do you… feel?”

Ienzo looks at him as though he couldn’t have asked a stranger question.

He tries again, feeling rapidly out of his depth. “Are you afraid?”

He sniffles. “No. I… see them.”

“In your dreams?”

“All the time.” His small hands tremble when he takes the teacup. “I know they’re… dead.”

“Yes,” Even says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t… remember. Except for…” He touches his shoulder. “Did I make it up? Those monsters.”

“...No.”

He considers this. “They ate them?”

Even flinches without meaning to.

Ienzo interprets this as a confirmation. “They ate them.”

“It is never… easy, to lose someone.” The ever-present ache around his heart tightens. “We’ve… tried measures, to get rid of them.” It doesn’t help that the Unversed population is almost impossible to track; but this isn’t Even’s purview. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I know,” he says.

“It’s okay to miss them,” Even says. “You know this, yes?”

Slowly, Ienzo nods. “Where are they?”

“We… had them cremated shortly afterwards. While you were recovering.”

He shakes his head, and repeats the question.

“Oh… well… there’s no clear answer.” He clears his throat. “Some people believe that they go to a heaven, or an afterworld. Others believe that their souls are reincarnated into other people, or animals. Some think that they… merely go to sleep.”

He thinks about this. “Is it peaceful?”

Even’s heart about breaks. “Yes,” he says softly. “It’s very peaceful.”

“...Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “As long as they’re okay.”

“If you would like, I can… make a space for you to mourn. With the… mortuary tablets.”

“No thank you,” he says. “I’m tired now. Good night.”

---

Even does not know how else to broach the subject, but the conversation reveals him to be something of a hypocrite. How can he possibly teach Ienzo how to grieve when he refuses to grieve his own losses?

But he can’t begin the process and not end it; it would be continual, it would take work. It would distract him for his research and possibly incapacitate him for some time. He couldn’t give in to that urge now, not when he is so close to a solution. This is what’s been missing, he’s sure. Something… that can’t be created literally. But to move forward first he needs to understand more about hearts, and how they relate to their people.

“Master? Forgive me for intruding.”

Ansem looks up at him wearily. “Oh… hello.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, without meaning to.

“I’m merely tired. I’ve got… more arguments on my hands. It’s hard to find the budget to jumpstart a mental health program without taking away other things--and none of my colleagues can stand any of my suggestions.”

“I’ve no idea why you decided to go into politics.”

“Consider me a fool for trying to enact change.” Ansem sighs. “What is it you need?”

Even folds his hands together. “I don’t need more resources, but I was hoping to… reallocate some things,” he says. “We--Aeleus and Dilan too--would like to investigate the matters of the heart more scientifically. It would mean certain projects would have to wait, but… we all feel a passion for it, and I can’t pretend that’s meaningless.”

“...Yes,” Ansem says. “I… feel the same way about it. Finding truths about life itself… would make my work feel a lot less frivolous.”

“I can draw up a budget--”

“No need.” Ansem smiles. “Do what you must.”

---

So that’s it, then.

They need a workspace, one where they could all gather. There’s space in one of the lower levels, near the castle’s CPU; the maintenance techs will not be happy to deal with their comings and goings, but Even could care less. It is a bit isolated, but that also means it will be quiet.

It has been a long time since the four of them worked together on something, since shortly after graduate placement. And truly they had never done it like this.

Dilan surveys their office space with distaste. “...Quite sterile, isn’t it? No natural light.” Aside from two offices, the space is completely open; Ienzo spends quite some time running to and fro, and as he scarcely does this, they indulge him.

“...Is it? I could rather care less about decor.” Even opens one of the boxes and gently begins unpacking his gear into a cabinet.

“I’ll bring some plants,” Aeleus says.

“Well, we have what we need; where do we begin?” Dilan asks.

“Ansem started this. Maybe he has some clue.” There’s a loud crash; Ienzo ran clean into the sharp end of one of the metal tables and clutches his knee. He does not cry, but grits his teeth in silence. “Oh, goodness. What have you done to yourself?” At least he had the good sense to place his first aid kit towards the top of the pile. He tends to the small cut. “Be careful, alright? There are more dangerous things in this room than just a table.”

He shrugs, and drops his eyes. “I got excited,” he says.

---

It is all terribly exciting. It shouldn’t feel this strange to have Ansem back in the room with them. They sit clustered around the worktables, brainstorming or trying to; Ienzo studies, supposedly working out some math problems Dilan set him.

“There must be a way to unify these two methods,” Ansem says. “The science, the magic. Why shouldn’t it be some combination of both of them?”

Dilan all but rolls his eyes. “That’s all fine and dandy, if it were not for the fact that none of us have any training.”

“Couldn’t we learn?” Aeleus asks. “The… manuscript details how these things were done.”

Dilan twists the ends of one of his braids. “...Teach a machine how to do magic,” he says slowly. “It’s so insane that it might actually work.”

“A machine?” Ansem asks.

“Well, the manuscript also mentions how exhausting such spellwork is--not to mention, how advanced. We can’t afford to wear ourselves down. Nor do we have the time to study such things for so long.”

Even thinks about it. “You may be onto something.”

---

It takes time, and it takes all of them; fall wears into winter. The castle has always been drafty and damp, but here in the basement it’s basically unbearable. They huddle around space heaters, wander around in too  many layers. Dilan spends hours--weeks--poring over page after page of blueprints, trying to figure out how to make it work.

It isn’t as if Even can sneak away to try to work on his own projects, so he focuses on Ienzo. The boy isn’t perfect; he does trip up and make mistakes and occasionally can’t wrap his head around things. He has more aptitude for some subjects than others, favoring biology over chemistry and psychology over math. Even can’t help it; maybe he can’t give Ienzo the help he needs, but maybe he can give the boy the tools to eventually help himself.

Intellectually, he’s more advanced than many. But he’s still a child, with all the trappings of one. When he sees the snow on the ground, he’s tempted. So Aeleus takes him out to play. He returns delighted, pink-faced and soaked, and for the first time Even can recall he doesn’t have a nightmare.

Then he gets sick.

The castle’s something of a germ vacuum. Of course the moment Ienzo’s vulnerable something sneaks in. At first it seems merely like a cold; he sneezes over his studies, needs to be reminded to cover his mouth. Even gives him cold medicine, keeps an eye on him; all he knows is that he can feel this is something more, and his reliance on that instinct embarrasses him. When the boy begins audibly shivering Even takes him upstairs to bed. Ienzo’s fever rises dramatically--he’d forgotten how bad, how terrifying it can be in small children. Even plies him with fluids, with an antiviral. He just has to wait, to mop the poor child’s sweaty brow and hope it gets no worse.

“...How’s our patient?” Dilan asks. He carries a tray with soup for the both of them. “Don’t protest. This is for you. You’ve been up all night.”

“It’s the flu, I’m afraid.” He’s just dipped this cloth in cool water, it’s warm already. “Thank goodness he’s sleeping. He’d be miserable otherwise.”

Dilan stares down at the lump that was Ienzo, barely visible below all the blankets. “...How bad is it?”

Even checks his log; he’s been taking his temperature every two hours, in the vain hope that it’ll break sooner rather than later. “Hovering around 40.5.”

“...Goodness, that’s…”

“If it gets higher we can chance an ice bath. But I’d rather not do that if I can avoid it. He’s already so sensitive--odds are his mind would interpret the cold as pain.”

“Couldn’t you simply… put the boy to sleep?”

“As if the ice water wouldn’t wake him up?”

Dilan puts a hand to his forehead. “Forgive me… my head is rather foggy.”

“You must be exhausted.” Even rewets the rag and places it back on Ienzo’s warm little face. “Get some rest. The last thing we need is for you to get it as well.”

He nods. “Should I… call someone?”

“Like who? Dilan.” He chuckles. “I’ve seen many sick children in my day. I promise I’m qualified.”

“I know you’re close to the boy. That can cloud things.”

“...We’ll be just fine. Your concern touches me.”

He stays with Ienzo that night; Ansem comes in and out, bringing them food, blankets, tea. He makes Even go sleep for a few hours. Even hopes his own exhaustion is just that. The last thing he needs…

Ienzo’s fever drops from 40.5 to 39. An improvement, but not much of one; now instead of being asleep, he’s conscious and miserable and the cold medicine only makes him irritated. He still can barely keep anything down. Even tries not to worry--it takes much longer than two days for the flu to pass--but inside a web of anxiety is spinning, gently, what if he doesn’t get better, what if the fever suddenly worsens in the night and he seizes, isn’t there something else I can do? He almost has to force the boy to drink, considers starting an IV line. After a few hours Ienzo sleeps, fitfully, shivering hard. Despite himself, Even drifts too, jolting back into consciousness every time his head nods. He knows he should ask for someone to relieve him, at least temporarily. But who?

During one of these sleepy waves, he hears it. “Daddy?”

Even blinks hard. “It’s Even, little one. Go back to sleep.”

He takes a shaky breath, one full of phlegm. “Where is he?”

He cracks a little. “I’m sorry. He’ll be back soon.”

“He’s supposed to--” Ienzo’s reeling a little, his eyes rolling.

“What, love?”

“The song to make it go away--” He shudders, propping himself up.

“Lay back down. It’s alright.” His family must have had rituals, Even realizes, just like any other. “I can read to you, would that help?”

“Why did they leave?” His voice breaks.

“Oh, love. They didn’t want to.”

Ienzo bursts into tears. It’s not the same as the nightmare-induced panic attacks; there’s a cold sentience to this. Almost instinctively, and against his better judgement, Even draws him into his arms. He’s unsure of how Ienzo will react to the touch, but to his surprise he feels the boy clinging to him.  It feels so familiar. The weight of him is almost exactly like--

Anything but that.

He tries to focus on comforting the boy, but all he can say are some variations of “it’s alright.” It seems to take a very long time for Ienzo to calm down, settling down against Even’s chest in an exhausted heap. He dares not move, lest he disturb him more.

The next thing he knows he’s waking up, the boy still asleep in his arms. As gently as Even can, he lays him back down and tucks the blanket more securely around his shoulders. He checks the boy’s fever. 38, only a touch higher than normal. They’re out of the woods. Or, he notes with a groan as he feels a sudden ache in his back, Ienzo is. He makes his way slowly out of the room and sees Dilan. “Don’t come any closer,” he warns. “I believe I’ve caught it too.”

Dilan sighs. “I’ll bring you some soup. Best get to bed.”

“...Right. Never a dull day around here, is there?”

“If only.”

He is beginning to feel the brunt of it in earnest; he shivers as he bathes no matter how warm the water, and the blankets do not seem to be enough. Dilan, in a mask, brings him medicine. Even tries to read for a while, but nothing has straight lines anymore, so he succumbs to a restless sleep.

Of course he’s aware delirium can twist the mind, can weaken it, can lower one’s defenses. That doesn’t make him prepared for the onslaught that follows. He can see their faces clear as day as desperately as he tried to forget them--he can hear their voices--

Dad, look! Look, I got it! The boy, hanging determinedly from a set of monkey bars.

Please be careful--oh, love--

Even, kids get hurt. Let him have his fun.

He ran out of time. He should’ve been with him. If he’d’ve been there maybe none of this would’ve happened. They’d still be--

Officers in deep blue uniforms--

An electrical failure--

Transformer blew--the place likely went up in minutes.

They probably didn’t feel much of anything.

He wasn’t there, making his imagination work all the harder--did they cry? Were they together when it happened, holding one another? Did they think of him? It has to have been awful--to feel oneself be torn apart--no matter how quickly it happens--

Something cool pats his face, bringing him almost, but not quite, to consciousness. He feels horrifically nauseous. “Go back to sleep,” says the voice.

“I have to… check on him,” he mumbles.

“Ienzo’s doing much better. His fever broke. You, on the other hand--” A wry chuckle. A sound like woodsmoke.

Smoke? “I should’ve--”

“Nonsense. You took excellent care of him. Now you must look after yourself.”

“He could’ve fallen.”

“Ienzo’s going nowhere.”

Even’s feeling increasingly woozy. “He feels like him. Why did you do this to me?” And then it’s happening, he’s crying again, a sensation that physically hurts. He feels a hand on his back above the blankets.

“Why do you feel you must suffer alone?”

Darkness, for a long time. When he wakes he still feels horrid, but at least things are beginning to sharpen again. His head’s pounding, and his muscles feel like lead. He groans a little when he tries to prop himself up.

“Even?”

His head snaps up; the sudden movement worsens the pain. “You should go, you needn’t see this.”

Ansem looks exhausted. His hair is unkempt, his beard needs trimming, and the circles under his eyes are nearly comical. “You’re too unwell to take care of yourself. I was near Ienzo, so if I’m already infected, no point exposing the others.” He pours Even a glass of water and hands him a few pills. “Your fever’s not so terrifyingly high, but you were quite delirious for a while.”

“I am… aware.” He scowls. He’s so thirsty. The moment he sets down his empty glass, Ansem gets more. He’s dragged a chair to Even’s bedside; it’s here Ansem sits.

“I wish to have… a word,” he says, with difficulty.

“While I’m essentially a captive audience? Not very sportsmanlike, is it?”

“Well quite bluntly otherwise you’d flee. Because you’ve been avoiding it like the plague.”

Even lays back down with a huff.

Ansem scratches his beard. “Kick and scream, I don’t care. We’ll chalk it up to your illness. You’re clearly suffering. Pushing it away isn’t going to  make it any easier. You’re living in a state of quasi-denial where everything’s fine. Everything needn’t be fine, Even.”

“You think this is denial?”

Ansem looks him in the eye. “Yes. I do. The longer you put it off, the more you don’t have to face the fact that your life is forever changed, that your residence in the castle is no longer a temporary one. You have to grieve them, Even. It’s been almost two years.”

He looks up at the ceiling. The dome light, a moth flickering around it agitatedly. “...Has it been that long already?” he asks. “I… hadn’t realized.” He’s again exhausted but can’t find the energy to be angry.

Mostly  because Ansem’s right.

He feels Ansem’s warm, dry hand slide over his. “I do not expect you to be the same. But I would like you to let me help you.”

“What could you possibly do for me?”

“Listen.”

“With all your free time?”

“Even.”

He exhales shakily.

“Bonds can make a heart stronger,” Ansem says. “That’s what you need right now.”

How very like him, to frame it in context with Even’s work. “Where would I even begin?”

“You mentioned that Ienzo feels the same.”

It’s hard to breathe. “...Yes,” he says. “They’re about the same size. He was, rather. My son.” Saying it feels like getting stabbed. It’s easier not to look at Ansem, so he doesn’t.

“I… remember. But he never had an aptitude for the sciences. A gentle soul, that one.”

“Incredibly. Dare I say it, too fragile to last very long. Almost like we were tempting…” He trails off.

“...Fate? Even, I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

“Ansem, I’m not certain of anything anymore.”

“...That’s quite alright.”

“I had wanted to make things better.”

“It’s not too late.”

“It always will be, for them.” He closes his eyes. “As for me…” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Other than my work, truly…”

“What is there to live for?”

“...I’m frightfully pathetic.”

“No. You’re in pain.” He adjusts his grip on Even’s hand. “Closing yourself off to the world won’t heal your heart.”

“I suppose it won’t.” It’s an emotion he’s unsure of, fragile and pale. “Why is it you care?”

“Even, I’ve known you since university. I’ve seen your brightness, your hope. I know you can find it again.”

“I’m afraid your certainty must be enough for the both of us.”

“I will try my best.”

---

He feels a bit different after the sickness, like he’s shifted a bit to the left. It takes a while to regather his strength, physically and otherwise. He spends this intellectually useless time with Ienzo, in the large library; the boy can’t seem to believe there are so many books. The excitement of it soothes Even. He wishes he could feel the same, that he could go back to the point where he, too, saw so much wonder.

Truthfully, other than his size, Ienzo bears no resemblance to his son. That child was an artful soul, constantly drawing; Ienzo never picks up a marker unless it is to write. That child loved to play; Ienzo would much rather read and seek stimulation more quietly. Were he older, Even thinks, Ienzo might have been a peer to himself. He surely must eventually go to university, to meet more people his age like him. Scientists are poor excuses for friends.

“So that’s him? Cute kid.”

The voice startles him; his heart jolts unpleasantly. He turns and sees a man he can only vaguely recognize, in the castle’s deep blue guard uniform; his short dark hair is slicked back, and a red kerchief covers his collar, breaking protocol for sure. “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

The man puts a hand on his hip. “Heard you guys are cooking up a project, and could use the extra help around here.” He sticks out his white-gloved hand. “Name’s Braig. We’ve met.”

Even glances briefly back at Ienzo, who has barely moved. Braig’s glove is a little dirty, and after he shakes his hand he makes a note to wash his own as soon as possible. “Then surely I needn’t introduce myself. That boy over there’s Master Ansem’s ward, Ienzo.”

“Figured. Everyone’s been talking about him.” Braig observes him for a moment. “You’re Ansem’s right hand man, aren’t you?”

“Master Ansem,” Even corrects. “And I’m one of his science officers, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

The man shrugs. “So then why are you on babysitting duty?”

Even takes a breath to compose himself. Braig’s manner is most unbecoming to a supposedly-stoic castle guard. “I assist with the boy’s education,” he says instead.

Braig chuckles. “If you want to call it that.”

He tries to bite down on his temper. “Don’t you need to return to your rounds?” he asks, politely.

He shrugs. “I’m off the clock. Just taking a look at my new digs. Only saw it briefly during orientation, which was a lot longer ago that I want to admit.”

So he doesn’t even have newness as an excuse for this behavior. “I see,” he says distastefully.

“Can I introduce myself to the kid? Don’t want to freak him out if I’m going to be around.”

Even blanches. He hates to admit Braig has a point; Ienzo needs to be familiar with those around him. “...He is rather shy. Don’t be surprised if he simply ignores you.”

Braig shrugs. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” He approaches him slowly. There’s something lazy, almost cat-like, about the way he moves. Even watches him warily. “Hey, kiddo. Whatcha reading? Doesn’t look like a whole lot of fun.”

Ienzo looks up at his assailant with an expression of dull disappointment.

“Name’s Braig. One of the castle guards. ‘Fraid you’re going to be seeing this ugly mug a lot.”

“Okay,” is all Ienzo says. He goes  back to his reading. Braig crosses back over to the door.

“Not a people person, I guess,” he says. “Be seeing you, Even.”

Even bristles when Braig doesn’t use his title. “With all due politeness, if we’re to work together you must be respectful.”

Braig smirks a little. “Sure thing, Doctor. ” When he leaves, his tread is nearly soundless. Even sighs a little out of frustration.

“Ienzo? We must go get some lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” he says, turning the page.

“You lost weight when you were ill. The last thing we need is for you to get sick again.”

---

“...I admit he’s… a character,” Dilan says, his lip curling.

“Is there no one else?” Even asks. “If this is to be the constant,  I wish for it to be someone who’s… more in line with decorum.”

“Ansem does not seem to mind,” Dilan remarks. He looks pale, the skin under his eyes the color of a bruise. Even’s not sure which cup of coffee he’s on, but he’s also sure he doesn’t want to know.

“I understand the… trepidation,” Aeleus says slowly. He searches through the tome he’s holding slowly. “I worked in tandem with him for some time. Braig is very experienced, and the people like him. That’s not for nothing. Have you truly never met?”

Even feels his face reddening. “Not that I can recall.”

Dilan chuckles. “Perhaps he’ll respect you if you respect him.”

“Of course his labor is valuable.”

“...Not what I said.”

“How are things going?” Even asks instead.

He takes off his reading glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Feels I’m running a fool’s errand,” Dilan admits. “I consulted with the wizard Merlin, as Master advised, yet…” He digs something out of his pocket and sets it on the table between the three of them; it’s a blistered, patinated bit of scrap metal, its edges splintered. “This is all that’s left of my prototype.”

Ienzo hops down from his chair to investigate. He reaches up to the table to take the piece of metal, his arm too short to reach the center of the table.

“No, child, that’s quite sharp,” Dilan says.

“I just want to look at it,” Ienzo says, with a hint of a whine. Aeleus hefts the boy onto his knee. He peers through the curtain of hair at the metal. “Not aluminum.” He pronounces it like “lumininum.” Even corrects him gently.

“No. It’s… it was an alloy,” Dilan says.

He shakes his head. “Needs to be something flexible.”

They are all silent for several moments; Ienzo cocks his head slightly.

Dilan scoffs a little to himself. “The boy’s right. Good on you, Ienzo.”

Ienzo beams at the praise, revealing his missing front teeth--the milk teeth fell out some two weeks prior.

Dilan drums his fingers on the table. “But if not metal, then what?”

Ienzo shrugs. “Master says gummy.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “What, rubber?”

“Gummy,” he repeats, slowly, as if that makes it any clearer.

“Ienzo, we’ve no idea what you’re talking abou--”

He turns red. “That’s what his friend says!” He’s almost yelling. Ienzo’s temper is a new development.

Aeleus rubs his shoulders gently. “Calm down and think about what you need to say,” he suggests.

He’s tearing up, sniffling in frustration. It’s clear Ienzo occasionally has difficulty stringing together his thoughts, especially as he becomes more verbal. “His friend, his friend speaked about it--”

“Spoke,” Dilan corrects.

Aeleus tucks a strand of gray hair behind the boy’s ear. “What about this friend?”

Even’s almost sure the conversation’s meaningless until Ienzo says, “His friend has a star. He’s little, not like me. And he has a…” He shapes something with his hands, something long and thin.

Aeleus offers him a pencil and some graphing paper. “Why don’t you try drawing it?”

The boy begins sketching dutifully, the lines messy. It looks almost like a sword, or a bat, but he adds something to the tip of it, something like--

Even’s heart all but stops, and from the looks on Aeleus’s and Dilan’s faces, theirs do too. “Are you… quite sure of what you saw?” Even asks gently. Ienzo is not a particularly imaginative child, but this seems more plausible than the truth on the paper in front of them.

He nods. “I see… I saw it.”

There, in the horrible fluorescent lighting, is a drawing of a Keyblade.

---

There are so many thoughts going through Even’s mind, he doesn’t know how to keep track of them. He honestly isn’t sure if he feels sick or exhilarated.

They always thought that Keyblades were legend. But considering Ansem’s fascination with other worlds… Has he, privately, tried to contact them?

Is Ienzo merely lying?

The boy is not a liar, but it makes so much more sense if Even believes he is. Well, there’s one simple solution to all this. He may make a fool of himself, but he has to pursue this feeling.

During a break in Ansem’s schedule, he goes to see him. He considers bringing Ienzo too, as a sort of collateral, but Aeleus is in the middle of a biology quiz, and Even knows how busy Ansem gets.

He feels breathless, and sweaty. “I must have a word.”

Ansem’s head snaps up. “My friend! Are you alright? Please, sit.”

He does, sinking first down onto a pile of files before he remembers to remove them. Ansem pours some water from a decanter and hands it to him. Even watches the light refract off of the crystal glass, trying to gather his nerve. “You had Ienzo in on a meeting,” Even says.

Ansem looks more confused than anything. “I never involve him in city work.”

“A visitor, then? Some friend of yours?” He sounds a bit wheezy. “The boy is either… telling tales, or you’ve been up to something.”

Ansem hesitates, and this hesitation tells Even everything he needs to know. “I did not intend for Ienzo to be there, but he just so happened to arrive when--”

 “Who?”

Ansem sighs heavily. It’s a sound of getting caught.

---

Forty-five minutes later, Even has a splitting headache. He may, he reckons, be going completely insane.

Apparently out of the blue one day a mouse king arrived from another world, teleported willy-nilly via something he called a “star shard.” Even does not know how to begin unpacking this. Mouse? Child-sized, sentient, speaking their language? And of course Ansem immediately started asking him about this--the two spent some hours talking about their worlds, the commonalities, the differences. Which of course Ansem kept to himself. Only then the mouse (mouse!) king returned, during one of Ansem’s tutoring sessions with Ienzo. This time he brought books, books from this other world, and some aqueous cubes of material he calls “gummi blocks.” And he was very pleased to tell Ansem he’d become a Keyblade master.

What in the world is going on? Nobody has ever believed Keyblades were real , and here the proof is in the pudding, so to speak. It’s all true, which makes Even feel even more mad; it seems like everything he’s learned is a lie.

In it all, a glint of hope.

Ansem lends him the books. Here there’s more information about light and darkness--well-reasoned studies proving, more than anything, that it’s a whole lot more literal than any of them have ever thought, and provides them with building blocks on how to seek it out in the environment.

The gummi material is exactly as alien as Even thought; immensely mutable, easily replicable. He spends hours subjecting the stuff to tests--extreme heat, liquid nitrogen, stress, impact, gravity. It can hold shape with ease, hardening to become like glass, its texture scrambling to become whatever they urge it to conform to. And it seems to be extremely durable.

“Something flexible,” Dilan says with awe. “This must be what Ienzo meant.”

It seems to be exactly what they need to move forward with their research. Now that he knows he’s not suffering a mental breakdown, the possibilities excite Even, actually make it difficult to sleep at night.

They create something like a pod, with the hope of being able to isolate the light from the darkness. They need something living, to study; they examine mice, reptiles, insects. While these things do seem to carry light and darkness in their own way, they also lack hearts--the real, intangible, metaphysical hearts. The proper thing to do would be to study people. The machine seems to do no harm to the lesser animals, but the moment humanity comes into it, it gets intensely more complicated.

“It will take… quite some doing,” Ansem admits. “You have to create a risk impact statement, and that statement has to pass the board of ethics. And I need it to. I will not have anyone getting hurt. We know so little about these forces.”

“Of course we will obtain informed consent,” Even says. “We merely wish to examine them, and to ask them questions about the more… mythical things. Like bonds, or memories. How do we measure these things? We can only figure it out by gathering data.”

“I warn you, this may take some time,” Ansem says. He crosses his legs, looking towards the machines--Dilan has made two more. “The typical amount of time it takes things to pass the board is six months--something like this? Perhaps longer.”

Even curses his own lack of foresight. He should have drafted something earlier, before they got swept in this nonsense, to avoid these roadblocks. But who, says a small voice inside of him, would really stop them? Who would inspect them? After all, this would all be so harmless. “...Of course.”

“I will try my best to force it past them--but they must carry out their own studies, and observations. The people have a right to know what happens at this castle. Especially if it may-- however nebulously--impact them.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sure you have other things to pursue in the meantime.”

“I suppose I could… spend some more time on Ienzo’s education. I fear in all this excitement it’s been rather neglected.”

He smiles, but it’s tired. “I’m sure the boy learns much more than you think merely being around you.”

“It was his idea to use the gummi blocks,” Even admits. “I think he intuited their use before we even experimented on them.”

Ansem stares at him. “Is that true?”

“Children often have fresh, blunt perspectives,” he says. He goes to adjust the band in his hair, but again, the elastic breaks against his fingers. “...Blast.”

Ansem chuckles. “If it bothers you so much, cut it.”

“It is rapidly getting to that point.” He takes the band and tries to tie it around the mass. It holds, barely. “As I was saying. Ienzo’s intellect here pairs well with that freshness. He can see things we’re too stubborn to see, in a way far less complex.”

Ansem twirls a pen. “Would it do him good to continue to observe your work? Does he enjoy it?”

Even thinks. “I believe so. It started this way out of necessity--if he’s not with you, he’s with one of us, and this is where we’ve all been.”

“If it’s as harmless as you say… I see no reason why it shouldn’t continue. So long as he still gets sunlight, and the like.”

---

For a while they all slip into a sort of lull. Even takes Ienzo to town with him, hoping to enroll him into some sort of activity that would encourage him to make friends; but the stimuli of the city actually reduces Ienzo to tears, and Even ends up carrying the boy home. It’s strange; Ienzo’s always been able to make it to the library, but the library isn’t in the dead center of town. He puts him to bed, lays a cool cloth over his eyes. “We can try again when you’re ready,” he says softly.

Soon, though, Ienzo disappears again, for more than his usual trip to the town library. Even tries to be more rational about it this time--the boy probably lost track of the hours--and he finds he doesn’t have to go very far. He’s merely in the square, near a blonde teenage boy wearing odd clothing (the fashions these days). He must’ve been bringing Ienzo home. “Ah, there you are. Didn’t I warn you not to wander off, child?” Ienzo gives a small shrug. He turns to the blond boy. “I see we owe you our thanks. We have done our best to raise the boy, since his poor parents are not here to do it.”

The teenager stares down at Ienzo. “Oh, you’re on your own, huh?” Then, to Even--”Sir, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s a tall guy dressed kinda like me. Have you seen him?”

Even would not have expected such politeness from someone dressed so. But he knows a gaggle of teenagers gathers on the outskirts of town. “Perhaps I did see him in the outer gardens. Just follow this road.”

“Thank you.” Something about this boy’s face is familiar. Who knows--such kindness and eagerness to protect might make a good guard out of him.

Even smiles a little. “No, thank you, for keeping Ienzo out of harm’s way.” He pauses. “And… well, let’s just say I have a feeling we are destined to cross paths again.”

The boy seems unsure of how to respond. They part on that note. Even notices a sudden vacantness in Ienzo’s eyes.

“How kind of that young man to bring you home,” he says. “Then again, I suppose everyone knows who you are.”

“No,” Ienzo says.

“No, what?”

He looks up. He squeezes his shoulder once. “Nothing. It was by chance. Do you think you’ll meet him again?”

He blinks. “I think anything’s possible. Don’t you?”

---

He’s finally fallen deeply, blessedly asleep one night several weeks later when he’s being woken. Aeleus, urgent and flushed. “We need you,” he says.

“What? This late? Why?”

“It’s Ienzo.”

He doesn’t bother putting on his formal clothes and follows Aeleus in his dressing gown. The air’s cool, dry; it smells like ozone. Even notes that outside it’s storming. They go down to the new lab. Even can taste his heartbeat, knowing all too well that nothing good has happened here. Braig, of all people, is cradling the boy; he’s in an odd state of quasi-consciousness. Even notices for the first time that the man’s wearing an eye patch, one he most certainly did not have several weeks ago. What did that miscreant do? Well, it’s not important now.

“I was doing my rounds down here when I saw him,” Braig begins. “I asked the kid what he was doing but he just stared at me. He was standing over there--” Braig points to one of the machines. Aeleus darts over to investigate. “I dunno. He started breathing all funny and then dropped like a sack of potatoes.” He lays Ienzo down so Even can examine him. His pulse is elevated, and he’s nearly hyperventilating. A finger of panic threatens to overtake Even, but he swallows it down.

“What is it, Aeleus?” Even hedges.

“Come here,” Aeleus says in an odd voice.

“I’m tending to Ienzo, Aeleus, he needs--”

“You really have to see this.”

Braig shakes his head. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid,” he says.

Shakily, Even joins Aeleus. Instantly he can tell what overtook Ienzo; the strong scent of chlorine gas makes his eyes water before he can turn away. The ventilation is good enough that it shouldn’t affect the rest of them now; but for a small child, one good lungful is enough. A hole has been burned clean through the ersatz gummi glass; something’s a molten lump inside, pinkish and still smoldering. More alarming than this, though, are the thin purplish tendrils rising from it.

“Chemical smoke?” Aeleus asks.

Even knows this is not the case. He isn’t sure how he knows--it’s just a certainty deep inside.

The gummi block drips darkness.

---

He tells Aeleus to put on protective gear and seal the block somewhere safe so they can observe it. Meanwhile, he has more important things to deal with. He brings Ienzo to the med bay, decontaminates him in case the chlorine got on any other parts of his body, and starts him on oxygen. He does not need to be intubated, thank the stars, but it takes much too long for his breathing to sound less labored. In all this, the poor boy falls asleep.

He sees Ansem’s face peeking in through the glass panel on the door, but he doesn’t dare intrude until Even gives his approval. He rushes over to Ienzo, pulls him close; Even’s shocked to see a tear run down his face. Once he seems to assure himself the boy’s stable, he turns to Even, danger in his rust-colored eyes.

“A word,” is all he says. A command, not a question.

Even stands and glances over towards the bed.

“Aeleus will keep an eye on him. Come.”

Even follows several paces behind, his heart pounding dread. Once they’re well out of earshot, in the breezeway, Ansem speaks, his back turned to Even, his hands held behind. None of the affable friendliness of their normal interactions--no longer just Ansem, but Ansem the Wise, King of Radiant Garden.

Very well.

“This must not continue,” Ansem says. His voice is soft, and low, barely audible above the rain pattering loudly on the crystal ceiling.

“Do not blame this on me. The boy went down there on his own.”

“Of course he did! He’s a child, a curious one. We’ve done nothing but enable him, and now we’ve put him in danger.” Ansem looks over his shoulder. “I forbid him from observing this research any longer, at least until he’s old enough to understand consequence. I figured that you of all people would know better.”

It feels like a barb, rendering Even’s retort useless. He doesn’t catch his breath for a full moment. His heart is full of ice. “What are we to do, then? Have him under lock and key? Am I to keep twenty-four hour surveillance on him?”

“I mean you need to be careful.”

“I am nothing but careful.” He should feel enraged, but all he feels is a strange, cool distance. “We are all careful with him. Moreover…” A breath. “He’s your son. We did not collectively agree to raise him. If you’re so concerned about his wellbeing, perhaps you should have a more active role in his life. I can’t do everything, Ansem.”

He turns. Even holds firm.

“You prattle on about my recovery, and yet, you’ve no idea of the weight of the responsibility you’ve placed on me.”

“You think I do not know responsibility? ” There’s a sharpness to his tone Even’s never heard before.

“Abstractly, yes, of course. But when faced with it in the flesh, you--”

There’s a splitting crack outside, a crack of thunder; a shockwave cracks the crystal window closest to Ansem, and they both jump. “What on earth?” Ansem spits. “Even--dear god, look out the window.”

The sky is swarming with darkness--luminous pink and violet and black tendrils. “We must get inside.”

“Get Ienzo. Go somewhere safe, all of you. Go. ”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to go out in this?”

“Even, I must see what’s to be done. The people may be in danger.”

He takes a breath. Be careful, he nearly says. “...Alright.”

Ienzo’s conscious when he gets back to the room.

“What’s happening?” Aeleus asks.

“I’ve no idea. The three of us are going down to my lab. There’s--” He feels Ienzo’s eyes on him. “Something’s going on outside. A bad storm. Best keep away from windows. No need to worry.”

Aeleus knows he’s lying for Ienzo’s benefit. “Can you walk?” he asks the boy. “You know what? Here.” He hefts him into his arms. “You’ll soon be too old to be carried around, yes? Might as well enjoy this small luxury.”

They go together, Even carrying the oxygen tank. Ienzo still seems limp, tired, though his eyes betray something else happened down there. What on earth had the boy done? Melted down a gummi block? But how? Nothing Even did to them had that reaction. Something that resulted in a production of chlorine… unless the gas the melting block emitted simply seemed like chlorine? They do not truly know what the blocks are made of, just that they can make themselves into any substance.

And how did it produce darkness in its rawest form?

Ienzo’s staring at him, so he tries to smile. “You, little one, are in a lot of trouble,” he says jovially. “What were you doing in the lab on your own? You know it’s not safe! It’s a good thing Braig found you. You could’ve gotten sick.”

Ienzo says nothing. Again, he’s limp against Aeleus, but his breathing’s not audible and his pulse feels more or less normal, all things considering.

“We will talk about this,” Even says to him sternly. “Once you’ve rested.”

In the lab, they rest the boy on Even’s cot, the one he uses when he’s simply too exhausted to walk all the way back. He tucks the blanket around the boy’s shoulders. “Try to get some sleep.” He sits with Ienzo until the boy’s drifted off. The thunder’s much quieter here, but still, to the listening ear, audible--even through all the stone.

Aeleus wordlessly hands him a cup of coffee and nods his head towards the supply pantry. Even follows him inside and shuts the door most of the way. "Have you any idea what this is?" Aeleus whispers.

"I… almost feel as if I imagined it," Even says in an equally soft voice. "The sky was full of color--of darkness. But I don't know--where would it have come from? We've no idea what so much of it can do--the myths all point to destruction. I was told to come here with you and protect the boy." He feels his lips curl into a sneer. "And of course I must follow orders."

Aeleus sighs. "He blames you?"

"Of course he does. I'm afraid I lost my temper."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"We have to figure out whatever Ienzo was doing," Even says. He fusses with the dry ends of his hair. "Not just for his safety… for our research. And why he decided to do this on his own."

"He likes independence," Aeleus says simply.

"Well. There's plenty of time for him to be independent when he's older--"

"Even?" They hear him call from the other room.

He crosses over to Ienzo; he's fiddling with the oxygen mask, unable to get it off of his face.

"Little one, you should leave that on. You breathed in some nasty business."

He blushes, then admits, embarrassed, "I need the washroom."

"Oh--of course." Even takes it off, points to the door where it could be found. "But it goes on the moment you're through."

They wait for him. Aeleus pulls a puzzle charm out of his pocket and begins working on it. "Can't solve this one. I've been on it for weeks."

"You and your games."

"It keeps the mind limber. You should keep neuroplasticity in mind. We're at the age where we begin to lose such things."

Even looks into his half-drained coffee cup. "I'll ignore what you're implying," he says.

Aeleus chuckles.

It seems like Ienzo's been gone a long time; is his stomach upset? Even debates for a moment or so on checking in. Or--more insidiously--was he overtaken again by faintness? He can't help himself; he knocks on the closed door. "Ienzo? Are you alright?" He hears what sounds like muffled breaths. "You sound like you can't breathe, child." It's the silence that worries him. "I'm sorry, I'm coming in."

He finds Ienzo curled opposite the toilet, rocking a little. If Even hasn't seen this before, he'd figure it does have to do with his breathing. He kneels down next to him. "That was scary, yes?" He says gently. "You're safe now." He flinches away from Even's touch for the first time in a long while. "Ienzo?"

He's sobbing a little, a sound that hurts to hear.

"It's safe here," he reasserts, only to immediately be contradicted by the loudest peal of thunder yet; they both jump, and Ienzo continues to shudder. "It's merely a storm."

It takes a long time for the boy to calm. He's shivering; Even drapes his robe over him, but it doesn't seem to do much good. He wants to go get a blanket, or better, get the boy back to the cot, but he's also unsure of leaving him alone. He's on the verge of asking for Aeleus to get it for him when he hears a small "I'm sorry."

"Oh, child, it's alright."

He shakes his head. He uncurls a little, revealing that he's wet himself.

"No matter. Happens to the best of us. I'll get something clean for you to change into, yes?" Privately, he's concerned; how deeply shaken was Ienzo, in order for this to happen? He goes to prop himself up, only to feel a small hand grab at his. "I promise I'll be right back. Aeleus is nearby. You're safe."

Aeleus does give him an odd look; all Even does is shake his head and press a finger to his lips to tell him not to speak of it.

“I need to go get a few things,” he says instead. “Wouldn’t hurt to check on the situation, either. Perhaps we can go back upstairs, to bed. I’m exhausted. I’m sure you are too.”

Aeleus shrugs. “We’ll be here.”

It seems like a very long walk back upstairs to their residences, but it isn’t. Even’s endlessly troubled; first and foremost to what is obviously a trauma response in the boy, and also to the unearthly cataclysm going on outside. Never, as long as he’s been alive, can he recall ever experiencing something like this. Radiant Garden is prone to violent outbreaks of wind, but only in the winter. Climate change is the only thing he can think of, but they moved away from harsh fuels long ago--before he was even born. And truly carbon dioxide cannot cause this.

And why is this happening only after they’ve had contact with an outside world?

Even gathers some dry pajamas and a blanket from Ienzo’s bedroom, and one for himself and Aeleus while he’s at it. He hopes that, wherever Dilan is, he’s safe. Dilan may be occasionally foolhardy, but at least he’s practical. He chances a glance out the windows in his quarters. To his immense relief, the sky is no longer dark in that abnormal way--the rain now seems normal. But is it only temporary?

Where is Ansem in all this?

He returns back to the others. “Things seemed to have calmed,” he says to Aeleus. Ienzo still appears to be hiding in the bathroom, door cracked slightly. “I’m sure you’d rather be in your own bed,” he adds, for Ienzo. He hands him the dry clothes through the crack and gives him privacy. Aeleus bobs his head towards this, and Even just shakes his head. After a moment Ienzo emerges, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Shall we go?” he asks the child. He nods.

Even is finally able to put the child to bed, and insists he wears the oxygen, at least until morning.

“I know it’s not very comfortable, but humor me,” he says. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Ienzo clings tightly to his small stuffed cat, a relic from his parents’ home. “It hurts,” he says, his voice muffled through the mask.

“What does?”

“The… the noise,” he says. “I can--” He glances towards the window.

“The thunder?” It becomes a little clearer; he’s sensitive enough as it is, all of the noise must have been internalized as pain. “It’s rain now, little one. Hear how it’s letting up?”

“I… I heard …”

“What did you hear?”

“Someone was angry. Screaming.”

“In the lab?”

He shakes his head. “In the sky?”

The darkness? Has the boy sensed it? Is it possible? More likely, this is part of that same trauma.“Is it still happening?” Even asks.

“No,” the boy admits.

“Perhaps you had a nightmare. You know how those bleed into reality sometimes.”

“It wasn’t ,” he insists, with more anger. Then, “Darkness.”

Even exhales. “Let me look into this for you. It’s possible you’re sensitive to it. In the meantime, you have to rest. Things will be clearer in the morning.”

“Believe me?” Ienzo asks.

“Of course I do, little one.” He squeezes his hand. “And should you need to get out of bed, you can take the mask off by pulling this tab.” He stands.

“Can you leave the lamp on?” he asks.

He tries to smile. “...Certainly.”

He knows he needs to sleep as well. It’s getting light out at this point, and the covers of his bed feel heavy, nearly alien. Even drifts for a while, fighting the worry that’s swelling in his chest, only to be fully roused by the soft creak of the door opening. He huffs. “Can’t a man have an hour’s worth of peace?” he asks.

Ansem is standing there, soaked to the skin, his red stole hanging limply against his jacket. “I apologize,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask for your assistance if it weren’t warranted.”

Even could do without his tone. “What is it now?”

“Dilan and Braig found a boy--a young man--in the square. Seems to be injured and reeling.”

“And? Can’t he go to the hospital like everyone else?”

Ansem frowns. “We believe he arrived with the storm.”

Despite himself, it all makes sense--he read however nebulous about darkness’s ability to transmute, to transport. “I will dress and be there shortly.”

The young man’s about eighteen, and unconscious. They found him facedown in a pool of rainwater in the square. One of them has changed him into dry clothing. Braig and Dilan hover nearby; Dilan exhausted, Braig vaguely pained. Even examines him and notes that aside from some a few nasty scratches that require stitches, he seems to be alright. His hair isn’t gray like Ienzo’s, but a much more violent shade of silver; his eyes, when Even opens them, are a glistening gold. But the young man won’t wake. “Well he has no brain injury,” Even says. “No fever. I’m not sure why he won’t rouse. Was he conscious at all?”

Ansem sighs. “But for a moment.”

“Did he say anything? Did he give a name?”

He looks towards the young man. “Xehanort.”

#beyond this existence: atonement #even (kingdom hearts) #ienzo #ansem the wise #aeleus #dilan #beyond this existence

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

She-who-fights-and-writes Top 5 Book Recs 2019!!

Here are my top five books/book series that I think EVERYONE should read or at least try to read in their lifetime!! No matter their standing on this list, I love every single one of these books with my whole heart!!!!!

5. Pet Sematary by Stephen King (Genre: Horror)

Back cover:

When Dr. Louis Creed takes a new job and moves his family to the idyllic rural town of Ludlow, Maine, this new beginning seems too good to be true. Despite Ludlow’s tranquility, an undercurrent of danger exists here. Those trucks on the road outside the Creed’s beautiful old home travel by just a little too quickly, for one thing…as is evidenced by the makeshift graveyard in the nearby woods where generations of children have buried their beloved pets. Then there are the warnings to Louis both real and from the depths of his nightmares that he should not venture beyond the borders of this little graveyard where another burial ground lures with seductive promises and ungodly temptations. A blood-chilling truth is hidden there—one more terrifying than death itself, and hideously more powerful. As Louis is about to discover for himself sometimes, dead is better…

I didn’t sleep for two days after finishing this book. I had to read it in the morning, never at night, and couldn’t put it down whenever I picked it up. However, this book is really a testament to Stephen King’s reputation as the dominator of the horror/suspense genre of fiction.

Beautifully descriptive and creepy, it gives a shocking new perspective of the consequences of playing God. With a very much flawed and very much human main character, along with a gripping story that raises the hairs on the back of your neck, Pet Semetary is the perfect book to read when you’re feeling a flare for the supernatural. 

4. The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer (Genre: Sci-Fi)

Back cover of Cinder:

CINDER, a gifted mechanic in New Beijing, is also a cyborg. She's reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's sudden illness. But when her life becomes entwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she finds herself at the centre of a violent struggle between the desires of an evil queen - and a dangerous temptation. Cinder is caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal. Now she must uncover secrets about her mysterious past in order to protect Earth's future. This is not the fairytale you remember. But it's one you won't forget.

These books broke me out of a serious book hangover (caused by the #1 series on this list) and made me realize “Wait, there are other books in this world that can be enjoyed besides this series.”

Funny and captivating, this book puts an interesting twist on classic fairytales. Instead of being the kind of twist where everything is unnecessarily gory and dark, this puts a futuristic spin on the classic stories that we all know and love.

The characters are amazing and very diverse, and although the stories are similar to the Grimm’s fairy tales, they’re a whole new ballpark plot-wise that keeps you on the edge of your seat!

3. In Order to Live by Yeonmi Park (Genre: Memoir)

Back cover:

“I am most grateful for two things: that I was born in North Korea, and that I escaped from North Korea.”

Still in her early twenties, Yeonmi Park has lived through experiences that few people of any age will ever know--and from which most would never recover. At age thirteen, together with her mother, she made a harrowing escape from brutal conditions in North Korea. Two years later, they reached South Korea and freedom. But the devestating journey in between cost Park her childhood and nearly her life. As she writes, “I convinced myself that a lot of what I had experienced never happened. I taught myself to forget the rest.”

In In Order to Live, Park sines light not just into the darkest corners of life in North Korea, describing the deprivation and deception she endured and that millions of North Korean people continue to endure to this day, but also onto her own most painful and difficult memories. She tells with bravery and dignity for the first time the story of how she and her mother were betrayed and sold into sexual slavery in China and forced to suffer terrible psychological and physical hardship.

Park confronts her past with a startling resilience. In spite of everything, she has never stopped being proud of where she is from, and never stopped striving for a better life. Today she is a human rights activist working determinedly to bring attention to the oppression taking place in her home country. Park’s testimony is rare, edifying, and terribly important, and the story she tells in In Order to Live is heartbreaking and unimaginable but never without hope.

This book changed my life. 

Riveting, beautiful, and at heartbreaking, it really made me appreciate what I have in life and made me more aware of things that are currently happening in the world as we speak.

I think that no one should be able to talk about North Korea and about how it’s not a big deal that we help the people there until they read this book.

Truly an amazing and unbelievable story.

2. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (Genre: Fantasy)

Back cover:

Achilles, "the best of all the Greeks," son of the cruel sea goddess Thetis and the legendary king Peleus, is strong, swift, and beautiful— irresistible to all who meet him. Patroclus is an awkward young prince, exiled from his homeland after an act of shocking violence. Brought together by chance, they forge an inseparable bond, despite risking the gods' wrath.

They are trained by the centaur Chiron in the arts of war and medicine, but when word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, all the heroes of Greece are called upon to lay siege to Troy in her name. Seduced by the promise of a glorious destiny, Achilles joins their cause, and torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus follows. Little do they know that the cruel Fates will test them both as never before and demand a terrible sacrifice.

A phenomenally written and emotional re-telling of the classic Greek epic the Iliad that delves into the romantic relationship between Achilles and Patroclus.

Madeline Miller truly has an undeniable god-given talent for writing; her descriptions and storytelling makes for a book that you CANNOT put down once you’ve picked it up.

I read this book in a day and had a serious, serious book hangover afterward; I literally could NOT stop thinking about it for days. It just sticks with you, you know?

Me and my mom both wept over this book; it is truly a triumph and a masterpiece.

1. The Grishaverse by Leigh Bardugo (Genre: Fantasy)

Back cover of Shadow and Bone, first book in The Grisha Trilogy:

Soldier. Summoner. Saint. Orphaned and expendable, Alina Starkov is a soldier who knows she may not survive her first trek across the Shadow Fold―a swath of unnatural darkness crawling with monsters. But when her regiment is attacked, Alina unleashes dormant magic not even she knew she possessed.

Now Alina will enter a lavish world of royalty and intrigue as she trains with the Grisha, her country’s magical military elite―and falls under the spell of their notorious leader, the Darkling. He believes Alina can summon a force capable of destroying the Shadow Fold and reuniting their war-ravaged country, but only if she can master her untamed gift.

As the threat to the kingdom mounts and Alina unlocks the secrets of her past, she will make a dangerous discovery that could threaten all she loves and the very future of a nation.

Welcome to Ravka . . . a world of science and superstition where nothing is what it seems.

Back cover of Six of Crows, first book in the Six of Crows Duology:

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price―and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can't pull it off alone. . . .

A convict with a thirst for revenge. A sharpshooter who can't walk away from a wager. A runaway with a privileged past. A spy known as the Wraith. A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums. A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes.

Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz's crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction―if they don't kill each other first.

The Grishaverse is a group of series that are all set within the same universe where magic runs wild and the world-building-- from the culture of each country to the unique landscapes--is so phenomenal that you almost wish you could jump right into the book like Blue’s Clues and live there forever.

Leigh Bardugo is my favorite author of all time.

Her writing is beyond any other tier that I have every had the pleasure to read, to the point where I couldn’t read any other books for a good year after finishing the Six of Crows Duology because it set my standards so high for YA fantasy.

There are many books within the Grishaverse-- including the Grisha Trilogy, the Six of Crows Duology, the King of Scars series, and the Language of Thorns storybook--but you don’t have to have read one series to understand the other.

Personally, I like the Six of Crows Duology better than the Grisha Trilogy; it was written afterward and the writing and storytelling is far more evolved and sophisticated.

But even so, Leigh Bardugo really is an incredible storyteller, so if you can get your hands on any of these books, please do!

#writing #book #books #book recs #book recommendations #book recommendation #book rec #fantasy #horror #YA

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 1 Review, Part I: Welcome to Maljardin

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Synopses: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

What to write about the pilot? How should I begin the introduction to the first real post on this blog? I don’t wish to write a detailed synopsis, because other people have already done so, and I feel neither the need nor the desire to comment on everything in this episode (or, indeed, in any episode). Also, funnier writers than I have already written detailed reviews of it, and I don’t feel I can compete with them, especially if I focus too hard on trying to be funny. So this will be a different kind of review series, focusing on analysis of what I think is important/interesting instead of recapping everything. And I promise that my other posts won’t be as long as this one. There’s just a lot to cover in this first post.

One of the main questions that I intend to explore in this post series is what makes a TV show “bad.” Obviously, this is purely subjective, and most of what I write will be my silly personal opinion, but we are dealing with a show that many people consider “bad” and that, arguably, is “bad” by most mainstream TV watchers’ standards nowadays. Today, we live in an era where TV dramas have increasingly higher budgets and production values, where viewers expect realistic acting and special effects, where streaming and binge-watching are increasingly the norm, and where making a single continuity error or retcon will inspire scorn from your entire fanbase (and God forbid one of the actors forgets to throw out their Starbucks cup). TV today is almost the polar opposite of TV in 1969, when shows were much lower budget, special effect failures were far more acceptable, and streaming on demand probably sounded more absurd than using science to bring a frozen woman’s body back to life. As such, people today expect different things from television from the soap opera viewers of fifty years ago, and are quick to dismiss a show as bad.

I agree that continuity errors and retcons are signs of mediocre writing, but do high production values and good special effects really matter? Is realistic acting necessary for drama, or can drama be just as effective with artificial, stylized, hammy or campy acting? How do we separate a genuinely bad show from one that is merely dated, or that has a few minor problems? If you ask me, the answer lies in the writing and the effectiveness of the acting--and it is the writing that will be the primary focus of this blog.

The pilot, like the 43 episodes that follow, was written by Ian Martin, an actor-turned-writer for soap operas and later Gothic romance and horror. He is most famous for writing over two hundred episodes of CBS Radio Mystery Theater in the 1970s. (While I only recently discovered CBSRMT and therefore haven’t listened to most of the episodes yet, I can say that those of his that I’ve listened to are very good. I particularly recommend “And Death Makes Even Steven” and “Time and Again.”) For the plot of Strange Paradise, Martin seems to have drawn on his own life experiences: namely, the tragic early death of his first wife, the actress Inge Adams. According to Curt Ladnier, “Though no one can claim to know what was going through Ian Martin’s mind as he wrote the scripts laying the groundwork for Strange Paradise‘s basic plot, it’s not hard to conceive he may have felt some familiarity with the story of a man who lost the love of his life to an untimely death.” His grief shines through every speech that he has Jean Paul give to Erica. Indeed, his episodes have far more heart in them than later Maljardin episodes or Desmond Hall, and most of my favorite episodes were his work. They also have a lot of snarky humor and better dialogue than most of the later episodes, so, if you imagine a sliding scale going from “good” to “slightly so-bad-it’s-good” to “David Wells,” most would be on the “good” side. (Most of Desmond Hall, in contrast, is decidedly on the other--which is a given, considering that David Wells plays a prominent role in that arc, and most of the time he’s hilariously bad.)

This is not to say that Martin’s writing is perfect. Some of his episodes drag and he is not exactly subtle about many things. He has characters (especially Raxl) repeat themselves perhaps more than is necessary. Also, many of his episodes contain a certain subplot that I find boring and pointless and that the show could have done without. (More on all these things when we get to them.) The early Maljardin episodes are not masterpieces, but they’re a hell of a lot better than most of what came after. And it’s clear that Martin was trying to do its own thing, rather than copy off Dark Shadows.

So, anyway, enough about Ian Martin and onto my thoughts about Episode 1, which is what you presumably came here for:

The obligatory first-episode title card screencap

The show opens on the fictional Caribbean island of Maljardin, which roughly translates to “garden of evil.” Jardin is French for “garden” and mal for “evil (noun).” Mal can also be used as an adverb to mean “badly,” but it is not an adjective. “Evil (adjective) garden” would be Mauvaisjardin, which doesn’t sound half as cool. The exterior shots are of Casa Loma, a mansion in Toronto surrounded by trees that look nothing like anything in the Caribbean, but I can forgive them because the Château de Maljardin is awesome both inside and out. I would say I want to live on Maljardin, but I don’t like the heat and I’m sure the air conditioning costs for the château are extravagant--and, although they never mention it on the show, you know that filthy rich and frequently overdressed Jean Paul Desmond would have had air conditioning installed.

Jean Paul Desmond (Colin Fox) is the master of Maljardin and he is grieving the death of his wife Erica (Lara Cochrane), whose body he is preparing to freeze in order to bring her back to life at some point in the future. Erica has apparently only just died, and he is already having his servant Quito (Kurt Schiegl) carry huge blocks of dry ice--with his bare hands (WTF?)--to line her coffin. Jean Paul must have spent a while preparing for this, and one wonders how far in advance he had to decide to do this, especially since he has already arranged for the Cryonics Society to professionally freeze her and they state in the first episode that he does not have a phone on his island. I’ve watched this episode three times and, each time I watch it, the whole situation seems a little more suspicious. But maybe he and/or Dr. Menkin (Joe Austin) predicted her death far in advance and planned accordingly? Surely a man as besotted with his wife as Jean Paul couldn’t have murdered her, right?

I love the scene where he makes his grand entrance carrying Erica. It's so extra. He's so extra.

I’m not speculating about all this because I don’t like Jean Paul, but rather because of certain clues in the narrative that might reflect a once-planned plot twist that writers after Martin ignored. (The keyword is might; I have no evidence that Martin was planning one, but one can always speculate.) In fact, I adore Jean Paul. His actor, Colin Fox, is the main reason why I’m obsessed with this show and can’t stop watching it. I have a huge crush on him thanks to this show, even bigger than my previous #1 crush, which was on King Henri III of France. Jean Paul is exactly my type: super-tall (he looks about 6′6″/2 meters), dark, handsome (more so when he’s not brooding), graceful, elegant, and very, very extra. He also has a beautiful voice, and I love listening to him talk. Yes, I know I’m attracted to him for mostly superficial reasons, but Jean Paul’s a fictional character, so does it matter? There are only a few problems with him, most notably some megalomaniacal tendencies:

I suppose, though, that it’s inevitable to become somewhat of a megalomaniac when you own not just an isolated private island, but “a brokerage house, a department store, three newspapers, a football franchise, motion picture and television interests, and real estate holdings,” to quote another character. Jean Paul thinks that he can bring Erica back to life by spending millions of dollars on cryonics, which other characters--most notably his housekeeper Raxl (Cosette Lee)--insist is playing God. Only one other character approves, and he even applauds him for it:

This is Jacques Eloi des Mondes, Jean Paul’s identical ancestor from the 17th century and my favorite character on this show. His surname literally means “of the worlds,” which I think is an awesome name for a character in an urban fantasy/horror series. According to Raxl, who is highly knowledgeable about both the des Mondes family history and the supernatural, Jacques Eloi des Mondes was THE DEVIL. (It is never clear whether she means this literally or figuratively.) He is also, in my not-so-humble opinion, the single hottest male character in the history of television. No exceptions. If you gave me the choice between Jacques and the entire cast of every other show in existence, I would choose him. He is charming, charismatic, seductive, and hilarious, at least in Ian Martin’s episodes. Most of the writers after Martin, however, ignore his superficial charm and focus instead on his evil, which Martin mostly only hints at. Anyway, Jacques talks through this portrait--a surprisingly good one compared to other “period” portraits from other shows and movies--which glows when his spirit talks to Jean Paul in this episode and which disappears when he (mild spoiler alert)

possesses him.

Jean Paul realizes that he and Jacques have a lot in common, including both having lost their wives at a young age. It is implied that he may even be a reincarnation of Jacques, who calls him “the man you are, the man you might have been,” before making him have a flashback to Jacques’ wedding reception three hundred years earlier. I will cover the flashback in another post, because, despite being only a minute and a half long, there is a lot to unpack and I want to critique the costumes in addition to analyzing the content. But I will say this now: Martin has Jacques mention “the cliff heights at sunset” in a rather ominous way, followed by a glance at the camera that suggests a much darker intent than just showing them to his bride:

This is the face of a very handsome man who is contemplating murder.

After this flashback, Jean Paul finds a glass of brandy in his hand that wasn’t there before: something which only Debby Graham’s synopsis mentions, but which is the first of many instances of Jacques literally making him drink. Jacques offers to resurrect Erica in return for Jean Paul setting him free, which involves finding his effigy in the crypt in the basement and removing a silver pin from its head. Jean Paul does this in a scene interspersed with clips of a singer performing a bad cover of “That Old Black Magic” (somewhere between slightly so-bad-it’s-good and David Wells on the sliding scale), and, as soon as he removes the pin from the doll’s head, Raxl freaks out because she senses what has just happened:

Jacques: *bows* “Bonjour!” *smirks as show cuts to brief shot of blank portrait* “The voodoo spell is broken.” *taps on doll’s head with pin* “I no longer have any need for you. Now...”

Raxl: "YOU DEVIL OUT OF HELL! OH! YOU FOOL! HOW DID YOU EVER BREAK THE SPELL THAT BOUND YOU TO-" *stops in archway and gasps*

Jacques: *in both Jean Paul’’s body and clothes now* "Why, what's the matter with you, Raxl?"

Jacques Eloi des Mondes, THE DEVIL, has possessed Jean Paul and is loose on Maljardin! And the episode ends shortly after.

While not one of the best episodes, the pilot is definitely interesting. The acting is somewhat campy and cheesy, especially in the flashback and in all of Raxl’s scenes, so this episode is definitely so bad it’s good. If you have read any of the synopses I linked to earlier in this article, it will be obvious that I didn’t write about everyone and everything in this episode (notably, I didn’t cover Alison and Dan’s scenes), but that is out of a desire to focus on Jean Paul and Jacques rather than a lack of interest. I do wonder, though: is this the first time that Jacques has spoken to Jean Paul? And just what is the true, original story behind Erica’s death?

{ <-- Previous: Introduction   ||   Next: Episode 1, Part II --> }

#strange paradise #gothic soap opera #week 1 #episode 1 #maljardin arc #review #analysis #ian martin #cbs radio mystery theater #cbsrmt #conjure doll and silver pin #jacques making jean paul drink #magical costume change #on this island i am god #sliding scale of episode quality #speculation on ian martin's original story

[scifigeneration]

Yes, there is a war between science and religion

by Jerry Coyne

Doubting Thomas needed the proof, just like a scientist, and now is a cautionary Biblical example. Caravaggio/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY

As the West becomes more and more secular, and the discoveries of evolutionary biology and cosmology shrink the boundaries of faith, the claims that science and religion are compatible grow louder. If you’re a believer who doesn’t want to seem anti-science, what can you do? You must argue that your faith – or any faith – is perfectly compatible with science.

And so one sees claim after claim from believers, religious scientists, prestigious science organizations and even atheists asserting not only that science and religion are compatible, but also that they can actually help each other. This claim is called “accommodationism.”

But I argue that this is misguided: that science and religion are not only in conflict – even at “war” – but also represent incompatible ways of viewing the world.

Opposing methods for discerning truth

The scientific method relies on observing, testing and replication to learn about the world. Jaron Nix/Unsplash, CC BY

My argument runs like this. I’ll construe “science” as the set of tools we use to find truth about the universe, with the understanding that these truths are provisional rather than absolute. These tools include observing nature, framing and testing hypotheses, trying your hardest to prove that your hypothesis is wrong to test your confidence that it’s right, doing experiments and above all replicating your and others’ results to increase confidence in your inference.

And I’ll define religion as does philosopher Daniel Dennett: “Social systems whose participants avow belief in a supernatural agent or agents whose approval is to be sought.” Of course many religions don’t fit that definition, but the ones whose compatibility with science is touted most often – the Abrahamic faiths of Judaism, Christianity and Islam – fill the bill.

Next, realize that both religion and science rest on “truth statements” about the universe – claims about reality. The edifice of religion differs from science by additionally dealing with morality, purpose and meaning, but even those areas rest on a foundation of empirical claims. You can hardly call yourself a Christian if you don’t believe in the Resurrection of Christ, a Muslim if you don’t believe the angel Gabriel dictated the Qur’an to Muhammad, or a Mormon if you don’t believe that the angel Moroni showed Joseph Smith the golden plates that became the Book of Mormon. After all, why accept a faith’s authoritative teachings if you reject its truth claims?

Indeed, even the Bible notes this: “But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen: And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain.”

Many theologians emphasize religion’s empirical foundations, agreeing with the physicist and Anglican priest John Polkinghorne:

“The question of truth is as central to [religion’s] concern as it is in science. Religious belief can guide one in life or strengthen one at the approach of death, but unless it is actually true it can do neither of these things and so would amount to no more than an illusory exercise in comforting fantasy.”

The conflict between science and faith, then, rests on the methods they use to decide what is true, and what truths result: These are conflicts of both methodology and outcome.

In contrast to the methods of science, religion adjudicates truth not empirically, but via dogma, scripture and authority – in other words, through faith, defined in Hebrews 11 as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” In science, faith without evidence is a vice, while in religion it’s a virtue. Recall what Jesus said to “doubting Thomas,” who insisted in poking his fingers into the resurrected Savior’s wounds: “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”

Two ways to look at the same thing, never the twain shall meet. Gabriel Lamza/Unsplash, CC BY

And yet, without supporting evidence, Americans believe a number of religious claims: 74 percent of us believe in God, 68 percent in the divinity of Jesus, 68 percent in Heaven, 57 percent in the virgin birth, and 58 percent in the Devil and Hell. Why do they think these are true? Faith.

But different religions make different – and often conflicting – claims, and there’s no way to judge which claims are right. There are over 4,000 religions on this planet, and their “truths” are quite different. (Muslims and Jews, for instance, absolutely reject the Christian belief that Jesus was the son of God.) Indeed, new sects often arise when some believers reject what others see as true. Lutherans split over the truth of evolution, while Unitarians rejected other Protestants’ belief that Jesus was part of God.

And while science has had success after success in understanding the universe, the “method” of using faith has led to no proof of the divine. How many gods are there? What are their natures and moral creeds? Is there an afterlife? Why is there moral and physical evil? There is no one answer to any of these questions. All is mystery, for all rests on faith.

The “war” between science and religion, then, is a conflict about whether you have good reasons for believing what you do: whether you see faith as a vice or a virtue.

Compartmentalizing realms is irrational

So how do the faithful reconcile science and religion? Often they point to the existence of religious scientists, like NIH Director Francis Collins, or to the many religious people who accept science. But I’d argue that this is compartmentalization, not compatibility, for how can you reject the divine in your laboratory but accept that the wine you sip on Sunday is the blood of Jesus?

Can divinity be at play in one setting but not another? Jametlene Reskp/Unsplash, CC BY

Others argue that in the past religion promoted science and inspired questions about the universe. But in the past every Westerner was religious, and it’s debatable whether, in the long run, the progress of science has been promoted by religion. Certainly evolutionary biology, my own field, has been held back strongly by creationism, which arises solely from religion.

What is not disputable is that today science is practiced as an atheistic discipline – and largely by atheists. There’s a huge disparity in religiosity between American scientists and Americans as a whole: 64 percent of our elite scientists are atheists or agnostics, compared to only 6 percent of the general population – more than a tenfold difference. Whether this reflects differential attraction of nonbelievers to science or science eroding belief – I suspect both factors operate – the figures are prima facie evidence for a science-religion conflict.

The most common accommodationist argument is Stephen Jay Gould’s thesis of “non-overlapping magisteria.” Religion and science, he argued, don’t conflict because: “Science tries to document the factual character of the natural world, and to develop theories that coordinate and explain these facts. Religion, on the other hand, operates in the equally important, but utterly different, realm of human purposes, meanings and values – subjects that the factual domain of science might illuminate, but can never resolve.”

This fails on both ends. First, religion certainly makes claims about “the factual character of the universe.” In fact, the biggest opponents of non-overlapping magisteria are believers and theologians, many of whom reject the idea that Abrahamic religions are “empty of any claims to historical or scientific facts.”

Nor is religion the sole bailiwick of “purposes, meanings and values,” which of course differ among faiths. There’s a long and distinguished history of philosophy and ethics – extending from Plato, Hume and Kant up to Peter Singer, Derek Parfit and John Rawls in our day – that relies on reason rather than faith as a fount of morality. All serious ethical philosophy is secular ethical philosophy.

In the end, it’s irrational to decide what’s true in your daily life using empirical evidence, but then rely on wishful-thinking and ancient superstitions to judge the “truths” undergirding your faith. This leads to a mind (no matter how scientifically renowned) at war with itself, producing the cognitive dissonance that prompts accommodationism. If you decide to have good reasons for holding any beliefs, then you must choose between faith and reason. And as facts become increasingly important for the welfare of our species and our planet, people should see faith for what it is: not a virtue but a defect.

About The Author:

Jerry Coyne is Professor Emeritus of Ecology and Evolution at the University of Chicago.

This article is republished from our content partners at The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. 

#science #science and religion #Religion #Science in society #Islam #Scientific Method #Atheism #Christianity #Judaism

[ninja-muse]

Urban Fantasy Recommendation Masterpost

This is a list of the urban fantasies I’ve enjoyed most over the years, split down a few lines and to be updated as I discover new series. I’m also including contemporary fantasies because the lines often blur. Hope you find something you like on it!

$ for LGBT characters £ for characters of colour € for characters with disabilities * for potentially problematic depictions of the above ! for #ownvoices (all based on my slightly spotty memory, so feel free to correct if I’ve missed something)

World-Focused

or stories that spend most of their time steeping you in the magical world

American Gods - Neil Gaiman £

Shadow Moon gets out of jail and is hired by the cagey Mr. Wednesday to … he’s not really clear, honestly, but it puts him in the path of people who may or may not be gods. Multiple mythologies.

Among Others - Jo Walton €!

A 1980s teen flees her troubled home in Wales to get to know her birth father and attend an English boarding school. Is her mother’s family able to work magic or is it just wishful thinking? Reading science fiction might give her the answers. British folklore and faeries, and a very interesting take on magic.

The Boggart - Susan Cooper

A Canadian family inherits a Scottish castle inhabited by a mischievous boggart—who then stows away and finds himself in Toronto. Scottish folklore.

The Bone Clocks - David Mitchell £

The life of a woman from teen-hood to old age as she lives her life and occasionally intersects with an ancient war between good and evil, fought with telepathy and other things that look a lot like magic.

The Changeling - Victor Lavalle £ !

After his infant son is violently attacked, Apollo Kagwa, used bookseller, descends into the hidden world of New York in search of his vanished wife.

The City We Became - N.K. Jemisin - $ £ ! for race

New York City, newly alive, is being attacked, and six humans, no longer quite human, must do everything in their power to save their city.

the Dark is Rising series - Susan Cooper €*

A group of English kids—four siblings, a seventh son, and a boy who might be a reincarnated Arthur—versus the forces of darkness. Five books, only the last of which includes all the kids. Cornish and English folklores, Arthuriana.

Gods Behaving Badly - Marie Phillips

The Greek pantheon now lives in North London and is as dysfunctional as ever. Artemis walks dogs. Aphrodite does phone sex. Apollo is a washed-out TV psychic who’s just fallen, via Eros, for the cleaning lady—who’s trying to date someone else, thank you very much. Greek mythology.

The Golem and the Jinni - Helene Wecker £

A golem and a jinni both find themselves in turn-of-the-century New York, both literally and figuratively. A beautiful exploration of the immigrant experience, friendship, and identity. Jewish and Arabic folklore.

Good Omens - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

A mostly-good angel and mostly-wicked demon discover they’ve been training the wrong Antichrist days before the scheduled apocalypse. The real Antichrist wants a dog and to save the whales. Also features a legacy witch, a rookie witch-finder, the Four Horsemen, the Four Other Horsemen, Satanic nuns, and a Queen soundtrack. Christian mythology.

The Hunter’s Moon - O.R. Melling

A Canadian teen visiting her Irish cousin ends up mounting a cross-country road trip to retrieve her cousin who’s run off with the faeries. Irish mythology.

The Left-Handed Booksellers of London - Garth Nix $£

In the summer of 1983, Susan Arkshaw travels to London to find her birth father. What she discovers is a family of magical booksellers, and an Old World that’s very much alive.

Middlegame - Seanan McGuire

Roger and Dodger are exceptionally gifted, telepathically linked, and a little more than natural. James Reed will stop at nothing to use them, or people like them, to get ultimate power. Alchemy, time travel, and portal fantasies are involved.

Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman £

Richard Mayhew has it all: a good job, a hot fiancée, a nice flat. Then he helps an apparently homeless girl with the power to create doors and is pulled into the magical community below London. Nothing will ever be the same.

Of Blood and Honey and And Blue Skies From Pain - Stina Leicht

It’s tough, living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, and Liam finds it harder than most. No one trusts him, he can’t find work, everyone wants him to choose a side, and to cap it off, he feels like a monster is inside him and knows something inhuman is stalking him and his. The war between the Fey and the Fallen is heating up, and the only people keeping peace are an order of priests—who also, surprise, want Liam’s help. Irish and Christian mythology.

The Sixth World series - Rebecca Roanhorse $£€ ! 

Maggie Hoskie is a Monsterslayer of Dinétah, but she’d rather not be. Even rescuing a kidnapped girl is supposed to be a one-shot deal. But the monster’s a new one, an apprentice medicine man’s attached himself to her, and Coyote’s around, so of course it’s not that simple. Navajo mythology.

Son of a Trickster - Eden Robinson £€ !

Jared’s life sucks. He’s sixteen, living in a crap house in a crap town with crap prospects. He’s paying his dad’s rent with weed money. His mom’s more interested in parties than holding down a job. His only friend’s a pit bull. And just when he thinks that’s as low as it gets, a raven shows up and say he’s Jared’s real dad. Heiltsuk (and other First Nations) mythology and folklore.

Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire

Rose Marshall, the Phantom Prom Date, the Ghost of Sparrow Hill Road, hitches her way from coast to coast while dealing with paranormal problems and route witches—and avoiding Bobby Cross, the immortal who killed her.

Sunshine - Robin McKinley

Rae is a baker. Tough and practical and smart, but a baker. Who’s just rescued herself and a vampire from captivity using magic she’d half-forgotten she had. Unfortunately, the master vampire’s still after them, the magical police know something’s up, and she just wants to keep being normal. Includes mild, realistic PTSD and a whole lot of delicious desserts.

An Unkindness of Magicians - Kat Howard

The Turning has started in New York and every magician in the city has their own reason for entering the tournament—power, status, acknowledgement, revenge, revolution. The high stakes would be enough for anyone, but it’s starting to look like there’s something suddenly wrong with magic, too.

Witches of Ash and Ruin - E. Latimer - $ £ € *

Dayna wants to be a witch, live her life, and block her OCD thoughts so she doesn’t have to deal with them. Then scary but gorgeous Meiner and her coven roll into town prophesying Bad Things, and a serial killer reappears who seems to target witches and shit. Meet. Fan. Themes of family and abuse.

Ysabel - Guy Gavriel Kay

Ned Marriner’s tagging along with his photographer dad to Provence when he begins to notice magic awakening around him. There’s an ancient love triangle that‘s repeated throughout history, using contemporary locals as proxies—and it’s very interested in Ned, his new friend Kate, and his father’s entourage.

Mystery-Focused

or stories that spend most of their time solving a magical crime

The Arcadia Project series - Mishell Baker $£€ !

Millie’s nearly broke, scarred, a double amputee, mentally ill, and Done with all the BS around that. She’s also despairing of ever resuming her directing career, so when a mysterious woman offers her a job with her temp agency, she’s intrigued. What wasn’t mentioned? She’ll actually be an immigration agent working with the Fae of Hollywood, and one of them’s just gone missing.

the Blood series - Tanya Huff $£€

Vicky Nelson is the pinnacle of the tough, no-nonsense PI—which poses a bit of a problem when she’s hired to catch a “vampire” on the streets of Toronto and then actually meets one. (He writes romance novels.)

the Felix Castor series - Mike Carey $*

Felix Castor is an exorcist. A hard-drinking, down-at-the-heels exorcist in a London brimming with ghosts and demons. Unfortunately, he never seems to get the easy cases where he can just waltz in and play a tune—and his past mistakes might be coming back to haunt him.

Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency and The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul - Douglas Adams

Dirk Gently solves mysteries by wandering around, getting into strange situations, and then connecting dots no one believes even exist. Like time traveling robots and Romantic poets, or rampaging eagles and mold-ridden refrigerators.

The Grendel Affair - Lisa Shearin £

Makenna Fraser is a seer working for Supernatural Protection and Investigations in New York. “Seer” meaning she can spot the ghoulies and ghosties few people can, including her coworkers. When an off-the-books gnome removal turns into a blood-soaked crime scene, she and her partner are handed the case—but will her eagerness to prove herself just land her in hotter water?

the Greta Helsing series - Vivian Shaw $£

Dr. Greta Helsing serves the undead of London. Her best friends are vampires and demons. The boundaries between worlds are thinning, causing all manner of metaphysical trouble. Plays with 1800s horror classics; equal parts sensible, disturbing, and funny.

the Greywalker series - Kat Richardson $£

Harper Blaine prides herself on rationality and unflappability, but after briefly dying on a case, she’s suddenly wrong-footed and seeing ghosts everywhere. In the middle of all that, she’s hired by a mysterious voice to track down an organ that’s more than it seems, and suddenly haunted street corners are the least of her problems.

the Incryptid series - Seanan McGuire $£

Meet the Price family, a close-knit group of cryptozoologists whose mission is to protect and preserve endangered cryptids like dragons, gorgons, and the religious Aeslin mice from humans. They’re also hiding from the Covenant of St. George, a.k.a. why the cryptids are endangered in the first place. Technically paranormal romance.

the Iron Druid series - Kevin Hearne £

Atticus O’Sullivan is a herbalist and seller of New Age paraphernalia by day, two-thousand-year-old druid by night. He thought moving to Arizona would keep him safe from gods bent on revenge. He thought wrong. Multiple mythologies.

Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge - Paul Krueger $£€ !

Bailey Chen is fresh out of business school, broke, and living with her parents. When a childhood friend offers her a job as a barback, she takes it as a stopgap—but then she discovers the secret cabal of bartenders who fight demons using magical cocktails and after that, there’s no looking back.

Moonshine - Alaya Johnson £

Zephyr Hollis, a charity worker and ESL teacher in 1920s New York, and therefore flat broke, takes a side job from a student, Amir, without asking questions. But will the vampire mob, the drug-crazed vamps, Amir’s literal smoking hotness, or her family history do her in first?

Night Owls - Lauren M. Roy $

Valerie is a vampire with a successful campus bookstore. Elly grew up fighting monsters and fearing for her life. When their paths collide via a book in Elly’s keeping, they must unite to prevent said monsters from unleashing hell and then some.

the October Daye series - Seanan McGuire $£€

Toby Daye wants sleep, coffee, and for everyone to leave her alone already—not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, as a changeling Knight and PI with a knack of finding people and solving problems with maximum chaos, none of those things will ever be easy to come by. Multiple folklores.

the Olympus Bound series - Jordanna Max Brodsky $£

Selene di Silva’s been keeping her head down for a long time, shutting herself off not just from New York, but from the world. (Being a former goddess will do that.) But then she stumbles on the body of a woman who’s been ritually sacrificed and her past as Artemis comes rising up again. Greek and Roman mythology

the Rivers of London series - Ben Aaronovitch $£€

When Constable Peter Grant meets a ghost at a crime scene, it’s only logical for him to take a witness statement. When DCI Thomas Nightingale learns of this, he offers him a job as an auror the sorcerer’s apprentice a valued member of a magically-focused police unit. London, its river goddesses, various magic workers, assorted Fae, and the Metropolitan Police will never be the same.

the Shadow Police series - Paul Cornell $£

Following the mysterious death of a suspect, four Metropolitan Police officers are drawn into London’s sinister magical underworld in their hunt for a killer.

the Smoke series - Tanya Huff $*£

Tony Foster’s found his footing as a PA on a Vancouver-shot vampire show. Unfortunately, the paranormal weirdness that is his life continues and it’s somehow up to him to save the day.

Unholy Ghosts (and following) - Stacia Kane £*

Chess Putnam works as a Church exorcist, partly out of obligation and partly for the pay, which goes to fuel her drug addiction. Unfortunately, no ghosts are nice ghosts and her private life keeps intruding on her cases.

the Watch novels - Terry Pratchett

Ankh-Morpork is the citiest of fantasy cities. Its City Watch is a bunch of misfits. Sam Vimes isn’t putting up with any nonsense. Somehow, they fight crime.

Zoo City - Lauren Beukes £

Zinzi December is a con artist and occasional finder of lost things who lives in the Johannesburg slums with her sloth familiar. Her latest case? Find a pair of missing teen pop stars—before the apparent assassins do.

#book recommendations #masterposts #urban fantasy