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thelampisaflashlight · 4 months

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Headcanons surrounding the abbey, the siblings, and the ghouls. Let's go.

-The abbey is a mix of new and old architecture, with an emphasis on cohesively blending the newer wings with the older parts of the building, at least from an aesthetic standpoint.

However, there are some parts of the abbey that have been intentionally cut off by modern additions, in other words; There are parts of the abbey that are visible form the outside, but completely inaccessible from within.

These parts of the abbey are either structurally unsound, thus dangerous for anyone to venture into, or have been sealed for reasons unknown.

As a result of this decision to conceal rather than demolish these areas, the abbey has a very mazelike layout akin to the Winchester Mansion, and new and old siblings of sin are often seen consulting maps to find their way around.

-The basement where the ghouls reside/where their dorms are housed is NOT the abbey's "real" basement; The abbey's actual basement, where the electrical panels and pipes feed down to, is only accessible through two points on the property.

The first entrance is located through a door labeled, "Custodial Services Only", and is pretty obvious, given that the door itself is painted bright red and has a keypad beside it, whereas the other one is located... somewhere.

Yeah, no one actually knows where the second entrance is, but it's somewhere outside.

The ghouls also have another way of getting into the actual basement, but that's because ghouls really love to dig.

-Speaking of weird shit underground, if it wasn't bad enough that the abbey is a maze, there's plenty of places where one could accidentally wind up in the catacombs, because, yeah, not only do they have two basements, they have a tunnel of bones, too!

Mountain says it used to be used for burials back in the olden days, but that it eventually took on a more sinister history that he prefers not to delve into.

Dew sometimes hangs out down there with "the nuns", and he won't elaborate more on what he means by that, and everyone is lowkey a little concerned.

-On the topic of the nuns though... Yeah, there's a bunch of dead nuns floating around the place, which may or may not be the reason why the library is so fucking haunting, but we digress.

Many of the siblings report seeing apparitions of nuns -not sisters of sin in their habits, straight up nuns- traveling through some of the more secluded hallways, and on occasion one of the old chapels seems to be filled with the sounds of prayers spoken in Latin despite the room itself being condemned and empty.

This is another place where Dew can be found from time to time, seemingly having conversations with the air.

-The infirmary is one of the newer additions to the abbey, as the older wing dedicated to medical services was bricked shut during renovations decades ago and has been left to rot ever since.

There's a challenge among the medical staff, ghouls included, in which they have to travel from the infirmary to the old wing, touch the wall where the door used to be, and come back, and there are marks from where they've placed their hands there.

Aether undertook this mission solo after his retirement, needing to feel some kind of connection to the abbey and leave his mark, and truth be told he's never quite been the same since.

According to him, once you see the wall, it's impossible not to feel different.

"You'll always know someone is looking out for you... whether you like it or not."

And lastly;

-There's a rumor among the siblings that there's a secret cemetery in the woods surrounding the abbey, but no one has been able to find it... at least no one who's lived to tell the tale.

Many more scientifically minded folks think these individuals may have fell victim to sinkholes or one of the edgeless, cavernous wells -such as Ol' Dens' Pond- that have cropped up over the years, but no one can say for certain.

In a way, perhaps, it is a self made graveyard, born of aimless wandering and a lack of caution.

Though the worn crosses turned to naught moss covered stones beg to differ.

#lamp rambles #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #mountain ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band headcanons #nameless ghoul headcanons #sibling of sin #sister of sin #sibling of sin headcanons #sister of sin headcanons

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silverskye13 · 1 year

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Mortals are insane. That goes without saying, but Cub likes to remind himself every once in a while, just in case he’d somehow forgotten. Mortals are insane. Granted, most mortals think he’s insane, but that’s just the baffling way mortals perceive the vex. In fairness, vex are insane. He knows this about himself. It's just that he’s insane in a very different way to mortals. The word “crazy” is a lot more fluid than people think it is.

For instance, crazy mortals will see a massive crack in time and space growing beneath Grian’s base, and they’ll walk right in. A crazy vex will follow, just to see what happens. Mortals are crazy because they’re daring and curious. Vex are crazy because they want to see what chaos ensues. See? Very different. It’s not that Cub isn’t excited to see what’s on the other side, it’s that he’s more excited to see how what’s on the other side is about to break, irreparably, because his pack of mortals sauntered in. It puts a smile on his face, like watching an artist make a new painting. It’s exciting. It's unpredictable. It’s insane.

The world on the other side is beautiful. It’s a world of empires. It's full of glorious, wondrous things, and people, and places, and all of them Cub comfortably calls insane. There are not-mortals living here. None of them are vex, but some of them are incredibly not-mortal. Granted, some of the friends he follows are not-mortal, but they’re not-mortal in a familiar way. He's defined their edges. This is an edgeless world he's walked into, off the side of the familiar into whatever's beyond it.

Katherine is mortal, he thinks. The colorful ruler of Chromia, Scott, is barely-mortal. Pearl is not-mortal in a fundamentally different way to how she normally is back home, and Cub thinks that’s fantastic. That’s the kind of chaos he’s here for: irreparable changes, the fabric of the world reweaving itself.

Katherine's kingdom, Glimmer Grove, is beautiful. Cub immediately takes in the clash of black and gray against pink and white, some curse, he thinks, spreading through her lands. If he really tapped into the magic of it, he might be able to tell what it is, but there's no fun in that. Secrets are at their best when they're unspooled slowly in their own time, sowing their little seeds of chaos. So Cub instead walks with the others and feigns ignorance when Scott points out the oddities in the architecture. He can't tell if Pearl and Impulse are playing along too, or if they really can't see it, but that just adds to the fun. How long can they dance around what each other knows?

Insane.

Katherine gives a flourish of her pink dress as she stops them before a building. She's bouncing on her toes with excitement. Cub thinks she's terrible at keeping secrets, and those are the best kind of people. She leans in toward them, grinning, "Can you keep a secret?"

She is the best kind of people.

Cub plays with a humble smirk, "I can keep a secret, yeah."

Impulse gives him a sidelong glance that Cub pointedly ignores. He's too busy looking trustworthy. The rest of them agree, yes, we love secrets. Katherine, in that lovely way the best kinds of people do, believes them only because she has a secret she desperately wants to tell. She laughs and beckons them after her, leading them to a false door in her keep. It's a secret base, she tells them in an exuberant sing-song, a secret she's never told anyone, that she's giving to these complete strangers. Mortals are insane.

Impulse shoots Cub another look, this time disapproving. Cub shrugs. He can't explain to Impulse that, vex or not, he hadn't coerced this with magic - though Impulse is right in thinking that's something he'd do. Explaining this would mean telling Katherine and Scott (and maybe Pearl, if more than just her not-mortal-ness has changed without her knowing) that he's vex, and he doesn't want to do that. Not yet anyway. You can never really tell what people think about vex. Besides, Katherine isn't done sharing secrets, and it would be bad form to reveal his own secret while listening to another. It makes him look less trustworthy, and it takes away from the impact of a well-placed reveal. He’d never steal another secret-sharer’s thunder.

"So the real secret," Katherine grins as she closes the door behind them, "is I'm a monster slayer."

She takes a wicked looking battle ax down from its mount on the wall. The blade is sharp as shattered glass, and carries the dangerous aura of a weapon lovingly and frequently used. Cub thinks, maybe, it could kill him. He tries to hide his grin.

There is a noticeable silence after Katherine reveals the ax, a pause that breathes just a moment too long. Scott looks bemused, like he'd somehow expected this. His magic eye glitters, trying to decide if it's monstrous. Pearl looks excitedly curious, like this is the most interesting thing she's learned all day. Impulse looks at Cub again. This time instead of being suspicious, he looks nervous. Cub squints his eyes and smirks.

"That's amazing," he says, and he means it. Mortals are full of wonders. She also reveals to them a deadly looking bow, and tells them about a magical transformations she does to “murder the bad guys”. The room is peppered with applause and praise, and Cub is grinning wide and excited, and he hopes it doesn’t look too terribly vex of him. He loves heroes. He loves seeing what they’ll do. Chaos. When he was an evoker-tied vex, he loved watching them suffer too, but he’s shaken that part of his vex-ness at least. He does think Katherine is the most interesting person he’s met today. Katherine swears them into secrecy and they leave, and Impulse watches the spring in Cub’s step dubiously.

“You should stay away from her, buddy,” Impulse cautions. “You’re a monster. She's a monster slayer.”

“Oh definitely, definitely,” Cub chimes a little too enthusiastically, and Impulse frowns at him. “But Impulse, she kills bad guys, and I’m on my best behavior.”

“Cub we just got here,” Impulse groans. “You need to stay out of trouble until we feel these people out. Some of them are scary, and they have their own agendas they’re pushing.”

“When have I ever started trouble?”

Impulse pauses to think about this. The answer is “often”, but people are rarely around to watch Cub start trouble. They’re generally only in the know when he escalates and finishes it. Impulse shakes his head, “You should still be careful.”

“I’ll be careful.” This, at least, is truthful. It’d do no good to go and get himself killed by a monster slayer two days into this new wonderful world, especially when it’s very possible vex magic will be needed to fix the portal. Vex have unpredictable magic; there’s no telling if it’ll help or harm a situation. In truth, Cub isn’t completely unconvinced his magic broke the portal in the first place, just by merit of him stepping through. What he does know is that he doesn’t want to leave. Not now. Not when there’s so much going on here. This world, he decides with the utmost fondness, is insane.

They take a tour. They meet gods and goblins, a witch in the woods. None of these, Cub notes to himself, are considered monsters by the monster slayer. Katherine speaks of them fondly, with no signs of magical transformations or smiting. Of course, it is daytime. Who's to know what will happen when the moon rises?

He's to know, as it turns out, because Katherine calls him, Impulse and Pearl back to her place. She's a little more nervous this time. Cub can't smell mortal fear -- that's not really a vex trait -- but he's known mortal fear enough times to know there's a little bit of it here in Katherine. She wants them to prove their loyalty, and then once they prove it, to give them an ax and a uniform. It’s insurance, Cub thinks. It’s a lot harder to share a secret once it’s yours. Not that he was planning on sharing it anyway. He wants to see how this plays out. Impulse keeps throwing him sideways glances, getting increasingly nervous as the evening goes on. Cub remains unflappable, smiling, because why wouldn’t he find this fun? A vex that’s a monster slayer.

The moon rises.

As it’s rising, Katherine gives them a challenge. Prove you’re a monster hunter. Bring back the head of a monster. The vex in Cub goes to war with itself briefly, while it ignores another of Impulse’s furtive glances. He thinks it would be incredibly fun, incredibly chaotic, if he gave his own head to Katherine. But then again, that goes back to the problem of Cub wanting to know how all this plays out, wanting to chase the chaos of a new world, and needing to be alive to see how the Rift gets fixed. So he does something better.

The moon rises, and Katherine turns her back on them and raises her ax to begin her transformation. Pearl and Impulse start to scurry into corners to change into their uniforms. Cub waits until the Monster Slayer is mid-transformation, too caught up in her glitter and moonlight to watch. Then he snaps his fingers.

He, Impulse and Pearl are showered in glittering moonlight. Music only they can hear strikes up to the sound of rock guitar and drums. Who doesn’t love a good anime magical girl transformation? Cub finds himself laughing through his.

They land back on their feet, decked out in Monster Slayer regalia. Pearl is beaming. So is Cub. Impulse looks even more unsettled than he did before.

“Alright Monster Slayers!” Katherine calls, before Impulse can chastise Cub for the reckless use of vex magic in front of someone who probably kills vex in her spare time. “Bring me some monster heads!”

"Cub," Impulse whispers to him just before the all scatter in different directions. "You're insane."

Cub thinks that's funny, coming from a mortal. He grins. "I know."

#the barking writer #hermitcraft x empires #katherine elizabeth #esmp katherine #cubfan135 #impulsesv #empires s2 #hermitcraft #hermitcraft spoilers #empires smp spoilers #vex!cub #i just love that cub is working with katherine okau #i feel like its pleasantly ironic

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bodhrancomedy · 23 hours

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The Heart of the Garden is a Single, Silver Rose by Bodhrán M.

We must start our story at the end because that is where we must start it.

We end in a garden.

It is a garden without a sky.

It is a perfect circle, the grass rippling out into edgeless mist, not unlike the halo of a candle in the centre of a dark room. The grass is blue, but it is the blue of pale water-silk rather than sapphires, and it is soft and short. There are hedges, immaculately trimmed and arranged into pieces of a jigsaw. They are the colour of clouds moments after the rain has fallen - a shade somewhere between grey and white - and they are tall enough to hide the heart of the garden from prying eyes.

We must walk towards the heart.

I take your hand in mine. You clutch me tightly enough that your knuckles fade into white. Your hand is so very warm.

A doorway of lavender and bluebells is directly in front of us. There is a path made of pale, pale bricks, inset with jet. It glows under our feet as we walk, just a little, and we leave brief shadows of our passage.

I lead you through. It smells of every kind of flower which you can imagine but is so faint that you cannot decide if it is real or merely a memory.

It is not your memory.

Beyond the door, there is a lake encircled by a gate formed from white thorns. A copper dais, large enough to stand on, is set in the very centre, seemingly untethered by any chain or rope or bridge and yet it does not move as we approach.

And, upon this dais, is a single, silver rose.

You look to me, mouth forming the beginnings of a question, and so you do not see the man who arrives. He does not appear in the pop of a soap bubble, nor does he form from the ceaseless mist which holds this garden like an oyster does a pearl. He simply arrives and from that, he has always been there.

As I coax you closer, he lifts the hood of his pristine white robe. I can feel your surprise. It is a kind enough face, moon-round and weather-beaten, but his eyes are closed. He does not open them. His hair is short, and grey save a circlet of silver about his temples, forehead, and nape of his neck.

Smiling, he beckons you onto the floating platform.

You do not loosen your grip immediately, gaze darting back for guidance. I extract my hand and point you on your way.

Your feet slide as you step onto the copper. You throw out your hands pre-emptively, believing that it will rock and throw you to the ground as ripples expand across the pond.

It does not. It is as steady as the ground which you left.

His smile grows brighter, but he still does not look at you. As his sleeves slide back, I hear you gasp. The little finger on his right hand is missing, down to the last joint, and the skin is raw and angry like it happened mere hours ago.

You do not seem to see the dripping silver bracelets which wind down his arms and disappear inside his robe.

I watch as you breathe and then plant yourself before the rose and the man. You are the only spot of real colour in this world. You clasp your hands behind your back, like you are about to recite a poem in assembly, and then speak in a loud, clear voice.

"I have come to claim the reward."

Your words roll across the still garden, bouncing back from leaf, and flower, and stem.

"The reward?"

His voice is velvet laced with stars. As deep and slow as a wave before it crests.

You nod. "I have come for the reward."

He bows his head. The next words are quiet. "And how did you earn it?"

And now - we come to the beginning.

#writing #fantasy #horror #writeblr

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smitingthewicked · 2 months

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(little excerpt about hellfire's lyricism from the essay on religion in media I wrote for class)

‎

But there are times when the secular world of modern music and the powerful tradition of religious music intertwine and create something, both removed from, and nonexistent without, the sacred.

Committed to their image as a clean, family-friendly media conglomerate, Disney has long put to rest its raunchier subject material. No more drinking, no more smoking, no more violence. Every movie is smoothed into an edgeless ball of mediocrity, devoid of anything deemed even mildly offensive, all in an attempt to appeal to every demographic possible. Every song is designed to be an earworm, and most don’t mean to convey anything but a desire to sell dolls and CDs.

Then, there was that one time where they adapted one of the most infamous pieces of gothic literature into a movie for children.

Walt Disney Studios’ take on The Hunchback of Notre Dame remains one of my favorites. For as much as people dislike its darkness and lack of child-friendly themes, for as many stories I’ve heard of parents pulling their children out of the theater during its initial release, I will never stop believing that it’s the best in Disney’s repertoire.

And, of course, what would The Hunchback of Notre Dame be without Hellfire?

Including its prelude and thematic opposite (Heaven’s Light, which I will not include in this essay as I fear the length already), Hellfire, at just five minutes and twenty two seconds, stands of one of the most memorable moments in musical history. It is, in my own opinion, the crowning jewel of the film and encapsulates every aspect of what makes Hunchback so controversially masterful.

There is no doubt that Hellfire- and the film as a whole- are indirect forms of religious expression. Devoid of the usual pandering and ingratiating aspects of Christian animated media, it not only succeeds in displaying the benevolent, hopeful side of religion, but excels in its evils as well.

As the dreamy, soft-edged melody of Heaven’s Light fades into the sound of church bells, the song is taken from a gentle allegory of love as paradise to the echoes of Latin chants against stone walls. Here, the hopefulness of Quasimodo’s ballad is sent through a hazy mist of prayers and resurfaces in a rising anxiety.

Claude Frollo (originally an archdeacon, but a judge in this particular version) begins his own song by beseeching Mary. To confront the holy virgin, the sinless mother of God herself, with his temptations, to turn to an immortal woman as an escape from one of flesh and blood. He denies, and then he bargains, and then he denies again. Frollo’s cognitive dissonance from the image of superiority he projects onto others versus his struggles with the moral inferiority he feels within himself, which have been building since the very first minutes of the film, reach their narrative peak here as he ultimately refuses himself capable of sin.

His obsession with his own damnation and his deflection of personal responsibility chase him throughout the song as he faces an imaginary court of hooded monks. The echoes of Latin- the language of Catholicism, as if the church itself is judging him- counteract every desperate claim he makes: “It’s not my fault // (mea culpa)”, which directly translates to “my fault”.

Even the symbolism of fire itself is a double-edged sword. In the context of Christianity, fire both represents pain, suffering in Hell- and cleansing, purification. Frollo’s own struggle with sin, as represented by fire, is complimented by a desire to purify himself of his lust by burning its source. In a literal and figurative sense, he weaponizes his own fear against others- he both resents AND wields the very thing that destroys him. After all, whether fire is hellish or purifying, it still burns.

The song closes with Frollo’s leitmotif, a chorus of “Kyrie Eleison”, an older Greek prayer that roughly translates to “Lord Have Mercy”, and he collapses.

Hellfire, fraught with heavy symbolism, intertwined with such a controversial character, not only represents Catholicism, but some of its darkest consequences as well. A pure revelation of the sacred through creation.

#the hunchback of notre dame #frollo #this is obviously also a very basic and short analysis BUT we like these here and this is the first cohesive thought I've had in weeks #(excuse my cynicism at points)

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sabbsnation · 8 months

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has anyone ever asked my opinion? obviously not, but here it is anyway💋🥰😘❗

*.•¬ batjokes fanfics that need full recognition °•.*

Rising Earth

a continuation of Theet in the Grass by messageredacted only written by another author and HELP this story should get more recognition than it has. it encompasses a sub/dom relationship where joker is the dom (tdk joker is totally dom we all know that), post apocalyptic world and something about ghosts. super worth it, fantastic writing and even better development. unfortunately unfinished.

Beneath the Surface

joker wears a disguise and stays with bruce in a relationship for some time (and bruce didn't know he was the joker). and this damn thing needs a goddamn Oscar because he disguises it so well that as I read it, I really didn't know if it was his acting or not certain things. UNFORTUNATELY UNFINISHED (since 2014, read now knowing it will never be updated again, but totally worth the risk)

Why We Fall

if you know anything about batjokes in ao3, you definitely know messageredacted and you definitely know that this author doesn't play around. and this story is just another proof of that AND WHAT MAKES ME SAD IS THAT THIS FIC DOES NOT GET ENOUGH RECOGNITION!!! so please read this. alternate worlds coming together is simply the best storyline possible. the jokester comes to bruce's world and owlman comes to wreak havoc. it is well crafted and developed and you will love their relationship. (everyone is afraid of owlman, including me)

Ghosts of a Future Lost

messageredacted one more time. this is madness, just madness, ghosts and insanity. you will love it (what if bruce and joker had sex possessed by ghosts and woke up out of nowhere looking at each other like WTF) lol that's exactly what happens

To be edgeless again

what if bruce has multiple personalities where part of him is batman justice incarnate and the other part of him is a serialkiller??? hmm??

Burn it down till the embers

I found this very psychologically heavy precisely because of the air of veracity that passes. strongly recommended. it's quite interesting to see the joker go through a psychiatric appointment and see how he does (the story isn't just about that)

#batjokes #ao3 #fanfic #masterpiece i swear #batman x joker #you guys need to read this #bruce x joker #tdk

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someweirdoreblogger · 10 months

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You have an "admirer," apparently. One that has no sense oncesoever.

Odin, the All-father, iron fist of the Norse.

You use everything in your willpower, hidden deep, to not flip your shit each time he graces your weaker presence.

Odin comeths baring no warning. Does a King need formal reason to wander inside his own castle?

Suddenly, day after day, night after night-this intimidating figure finds you worthy of not just a simple glance.

Not a word spoken, without distraction nor misdirection. He is elegant down to how he walks, with purpose and unwavering resilience.

The All-father is supreme and tyrannical in godly definition, of the legendary Bifrost's chosen few. A rapid tide in constant pursuit, edgeless flood overcoming building after building in its merciless path of endless devastation, devouring those who dare oppose the roaring waves.

Odin is... just there.

Next to little ol' you, a lowly servant, the great All-father. Without a care in the world. The sheer audacity to treat this like it's not extremely unusual for an all-powerful god such as himself to take interest in another out of the blue, let alone someone so painstakingly simple. Someone never pinned on the radar of another god, definitely not one of their strongest ancients.

Either you found him, or likewise, the latter; waiting ever patiently by the bay of your active sector, stuck in the ground like a tree stump. Is he even breathing? Feet rooted, immoveable as stone.

It's hard to not miss him in this lightful realm, a towering candle of stern darkness-permeant arrogance written on his face. Wrinkles forming indifferent strokes, old indeed, but nevertheless immortal. Long scars, they decorate him in tight and unnerving brushes. A bleak void carries the stinging yellow jackets in his eyes, stoic, unrelenting. A force to be reckoned with, even then, any blind fool can tell this highly dangerous god homes a deep attractiveness mortals are blessed to witness. The devil is hideous on one hand, yet beautiful on another. People become frantic in trying to appease their quite unexpected guest, you can't blame them, if you didn't know what Odin was here for-vaguely at the very least-you would've tripped on yourself to ensure no bloodshed as well, no one wants to wipe up intestines and tethered remains off the walls. Frightened assistants question one another, curious bombarding. A sea of peeking servants and turning heads, eager but not too eager to learn the answer to the question lingering in everyone's mind- -Why Odin of all damn people is in private servant quarters? Endless blunt remarks of his loyal crows fill the air, interesting how they obviously contrast, scolding unlucky others getting far too close for their liking (Getting used to that nonstop bickering and annoying flaps of their feathery wings deserves a round of applause admittedly). Shouting in a voice you swear can be heard all across Heaven that the All-father needs not justify himself to weaker masses. And soon, the crowd disperses till Odin is all that remains, looking upon reality like it matters little to him in that current moment. Continues to stand moving not an inch, dead to the knowing world. Maybe he was ready to stay there for years, just for you. Ridiculous, but the determination itself is admirable, terrifying as the person it belonged too. Holding, distant, stubborn on holy soil older than your great grandfather until you're unfortunately noticed; The only servant Odin made eye-contact within the past few hours, a small part of you immediately died in that current moment. Caught. Well, better to accept fate then delay the inevitable.

Furthermore, Odin never fucking leaves. Unless swayed by the heavy burden of his responsibilities to Valhalla, he is practically glued to you. Hip to hip, never behind.

Where you least expect him, somehow, he has unadmitted reason for popping up into your vision like a mole, driven by curiosity.

Coincidentally, in your most favored places. Including personal ones.

(There next to your bed watching you sleep, there behind you during your break, there standing next to you as you dust the priceless artifacts of the great halls. Wherever you go Odin is almost certain to trail after, turning this into a childish game of follow the leader.

Odin goes where you go, regardless of actually where 'where' is. At this point, you can only expect but never predict. Quick as lightening, an invisible thundering sound in the distance, appearing where most convenient. Your face sinks the moment his face enters your sights, you won't shake him off matterless of whether or not you really tried, both stuck together till night falls from Olympus.

(Yeah right, you shaking off Odin. No fool can ever dream hard enough to achieve such a feat.)

It's an unlucky series of unwanted occurrences that all servants know better then to suggest otherwise.

You swear, this is on purpose. But for what?

Pleasure?

Curiosity?

This torture of constantly hanging on the end of the cliff, not knowing if someone behind you is waiting the perfect moment to push. To see you fall down into the bottomless abyss. Thor and Loki had to get their tendencies somewhere.

You are fairly confident in yourself, even when it comes to dealing with the gods. You have worked for Olympus long enough that little to nothing surprises you anymore. You've witnessed aplenty things, from disasters to miracles, you have never seen-

-this.)

And Odin just...stares at you the entire time, much to your intense confusion and unbridled fear.

Odin grants no hints and admits nothing, an intimidating statue of a great towering godfather who can erase your mortal existence off Heaven in under a millisecond. Completely and utterly unpredictable, reeking of boundless bloodlust and pure fighting prowess. Won't take the unrivaled intellect of Tesla to recognize Odin can't be a bearer of good news.

He irritates the sensitive hairs on your neck, pricked up, suffocating in fright. His aura scorches you, a transparent brand of godly fire. Daring you to move out of line, defiance is forever intolerable in the biased eyes of the Heavens. You can't imagine doing anything to potentially earn his ire.

You have no intention of betraying Valhalla, unfond as you are about the gods, not that you'd foolishly announce that to fucking Odin.

Your conclusions are empty stales of bread, no meat and cheese, sauce, mayonnaise or mustard. No excuse for this argumentatively, obsessive behavior about following you like a shitty puppy. You can't guess why Odin is even here to begin with, why he bothers you with never-ending oversight.

Thankfully, Odin only looks. Just watching.

Seems merely seeing you just living is a newfound hobby for Valhalla's ruling god, whatever that means for you.

As deeply unnerving as his constant observation is, you suppose it could be worse, as you and your beloved nymph friends speculate. All you can do is wait for something to happen. You take it as a sign to perform your duties more perfectly, though it was more out of crawling desperation to live than inspiration.

(You read and carefully organize the ancient books in a quiet, knowing patience.

Counting the lively torches upon the grand Olympian walls, which ones are lit, which aren't.

Writing down assigned addresses, preparing for the awaiting visitation of the next Pantheon for Hermes.)

Non-blinking, holes burning at the back of your head. Analyzing the most basic specks and wrinkles of your face and neckline, fair hair whistling silently against Winter winds. Eyes of an eagle locked onto their target, dreadfully focused. By far the most scared you have ever been in your entire life, and that's saying a lot from a mortal servant of the gods. Luckily, it gets easier and easier to ignore. Silence seems to be Odin's consistent trait.

Odin is a walking blank slate blessed with legs. He does nothing, says nothing, and acknowledges nothing. Nothing but you, in the slightest form of a distant bat of thick eyelashes thrown in your direction.

You can't be certain if that's better or worse.

Apart from constant observation spilling not a single question, Odin hasn't raised a hand or tried to bring upon you any sort of harm. Made not even the tiniest peep across your numerous encounters. Done anything other than made you incredibly creeped out.

Odin is a constant, looming shadow. A curse, razor-sharp, an unpredictable element of nature. A sinking feeling of never being left alone in peace, sticking on the very edge of every corner of your unrest. That dark gaze is something no one ever forgets.

Certainly not you, a victim of that judgmental pair of golden ores, staring into your soul. Every truth of you naked to his eyes, like glass.

You still have no clue why Odin decided that you must be the center of his undeterred attention.

(Oh, you poor unfortunate soul,

If only you knew the storm coming your way.)

#mypost #anime #manga #record of ragnarok #odin is his own wanring #odin #record of ragnarok odin #ror odin #odin ror #record of ragnarok x reader #odin x reader #tw implied stalking #tw yandere-ish #kinda?#this can be taken as that

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damp-gravelove · 6 months

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I’m home early from work and got a warm soup in my belly, so I’ve got a more fluffy HC writing for tonight! But tonight’s writing is about road trips! How they’d react, what they enjoy doing, and where they’d go!

After all, I think we can all say they deserve to have a good trip that isn’t about them fleeing from the government 🩶

Of course, the first step to a road trip is planning and packing. Andrew has this on lock, he’s typically quite a careful and calculating person, so he gets down to planning out even most of the smaller tourist spots. Of course, Ashley still has a say in most things, and spontaneous stops at weird places is inevitable.

When Andy gets to choose the main location, I’d imagine he prefers natural parks or general sight seeing. Ashley isn’t always hyped about the deep nature because of biting bugs, but with Her Andy’s prep with plenty of bug spray, by the time they arrive she has a good time.

When Leyley gets to make the choice of Point B for their travel, her concern is less the actual point (though she still chooses things she actually wants to see), and more of the drive itself. She chooses a far-off tourist city, a monument, whatever, she just wants some enjoyable time on the road. As Andrew is the only driver, he tends to dread her choices. After she teases him for being a baby, they compromise and Andy gets to choose some more of the stops on the way in turn, though he still huffs about it.

When it comes to the drive itself, the start of the drive is generally agreed upon to be the most… lackluster part. Empty air is mostly filled with usual banter; Ashley pokes some fun at Andrew, he retorts, some flirty words are exchanged. But they let the words die down, enjoying some music as they ride from the familiar to the new.

Ashley isn’t immune to car naps, and tends to take them especially frequently the beginning of road trips. Andrew finds it cute, though wishes he could nap on the drive too. But rest stops are that release for him, a bathroom break is a good time to take ten or so minutes to smoke or rest your eyes. Especially when driving late into the night.

Nighttime stops are much softer moments for them. The back seat of the car is a nice place to chill after all, and if you don’t want to pay for a hotel, you can sleep back there too. (Things can get heated of course, but that’s for another post 🩶)

The two lay on top of each other, Andy the designated mattress and LeyLey the blanket (though if they sleep in the car, they do have bedding packed and used). They talk quietly about the trip so far. That tacky gift shop based around a tiny urban legend for a local town they’ll never see again, a nice local diner, a funny monument, a good view. All lit by the soft stars and a shy moon floating lazily over them, their light catching in each other’s eyes.

Laughs quiet but earnest, jokes personal and private, banter surprisingly edgeless but just as fun…

Kisses soft and loving, an embrace just tight enough to feel freeing, hands interlacing fingers like water flowing together… 🌙

The morning is slow and groggy to wake up from. Andrew tends to complain about his back, but Ashley is rejuvenated, as if she needed more rest than the driver. Oh well, he can stretch as he gets ready to drive, and they’ll grab breakfast from somewhere cheap.

Ashley loves all the stops usually, being with Andrew makes everything fun. Andrew can have varying opinions, but even bad stops turn to funny reminiscence. Ashley doesn’t mind if not every stop is a diamond in the rough, Andy’s there with her. That’s all she needs.

Andrew is always most excited about the destination, especially when it’s the one he’s chosen. Ancient forests, strange natural formations, warm beaches if he’s feeling the summer vibes. After all that driving, he makes the most of whatever locale they’re in. Ashley can sometimes feign indifference, but very few are immune to Cool Tree or Fun Rock. Andrew likes seeing when she particularly enjoys a spot, be it an overlook or a scenic patch of woods or a small waterfall. It’s just nice seeing her enjoy it.

The way back is always a fun experience too. Recognizing places you saw a few days ago on the drive back makes a drive feel faster. The two enjoy poking fun at the weird places they saw this time, but keep eyes peeled for anything they may have missed on the way back, which Ashley loves. Andrew likes it too, but he won’t deny he misses his bed.

Getting home is a sigh of relief, no more packed trunk and no more driving. Ashley’s ready to get a home cooked meal and some TV in. Andrew’s ready to get things put back away and rest from all the driving. But it’s all a good memory.

It’s nice to start building up a collection of those. 🩵

#apologies if it’s a bit haphazard I did drink a bit x3 #I initially expected this one to be half spicy but ya know? I like the direction I took this in #hopefully you all enjoy the music I put into this as well!#the weed post will come soon I promise #grub speaks #the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #gravecest #coffincest #ashley graves #andrew graves #andrew x ashley #ashley x andrew #shipcest #Bandcamp

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glorious-mysteries · 20 days

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You're in his DMs but I never slept a quiet hour with him and am now filling his sleep with perturbations. Tomorrow in the battle he will think on me and fall his edgeless sword and also despair and die. Yeah.

#shakespeare scene of all time tbh #richard iii

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dirty-bosmer · 10 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter. You are a such a gem srsly 💎 I've been so busy these days that it feels I only getting writing done when I'm tagged and (not) pressured to. But it works! These are very motivating 🥰

Tagging: @atypicalacademic @snowberry-crostata @kookaburra1701 @sylvienerevarine @gilgamish @dumpsterhipster @expended-sleeper @thana-topsy @skyrim-forever @nuwanders @zomboidatomic @nine-blessed-hero and whoever else feels so inclined to share :)

From The Illusionist Part II Chapter 78 — Penance (lol it's almost over I swear):

Nim didn’t know how long she waited at the shrine after all her disciples had disappeared. The gate remained open in a scream, a yawn, a sigh, the warm breath of the Isles brushing at her back. She waited there as the winter thawed. She waited as the spring ripened. All around the shrine, the air grew rich with the smell of peat, more sour than the Blackwoods’ musk, and as tendrils of her realm sprawled out from the luminous haze of the portal's maw, she waited for it to swallow her whole.

But it didn’t, couldn’t, not even when she threw herself into its arms. There was something still tethering her to Nirn, and she knew only when she severed it could she set herself free. Already so much of the memories she clung to were fading. The faces, voices, the touch of another’s skin on her own, and surely one day soon this land would retract its spurs. She’d shake its grip, so she sat there as the seasons bled together in one miry stretch of timelessness, waiting on nothing and no one but the ghosts of her old life to disappear.

Nim drank water from the river and ate the alien fruits her own vines gave her, and she spent a few days thinking of Raminus while willing herself not to think of Raminus, because ever since Elianna and the others had passed through, she’d become less of a person, less of a god. More of a mouth. The teeth inside gnawed inexorably, and though she gorged herself on alocasia, she couldn’t stave off this hunger forever. The longer she remained in this world, the thinner her will became, and soon its gnashing would be so far beyond control. What would happen then? Who would she consume? Was she meant to feed it or temper it? Was that why she was still here, to become so empty of herself, so desperate she’d chew off her last limb to leave? What if she didn’t want to, and suddenly Nim dreaded the shape of her absence, forgetting who she once was, what she’d done, all the lives she could have led.

And then... and then he was there. Nirn hadn’t fallen away from her, and the winter was still winter. She could see it on his chapped lips and the pallor of his sunless skin. He smelled briny, of the shallows, his eyes sunken and crusted in salt.

Lucien had appeared before her after a moment or perhaps many. Nim hadn’t been counting. They didn’t move the same way for her anyway, why bother. He approached from the forest edge trepidly, the fear in his eyes still unfamiliar, and he looked as if he’d traveled a week straight without sleep— edgeless, tumbled and smoothed, something vomited out from the darkest pit of the wilderness. Nim straightened against her tree trunk, didn’t move.

Lucien's hand hovered beside his sheathed knife. He didn't grip it. “Again?” Nim said, a brow raised.

“Again.”

“Come back with more weapons this time?”

He shook his head. “Only me, my hands.”

“Is that what you see yourself as, a weapon?”

“It's what I am. What I always have been. My Mother made me sharp. Sithis has—”

“Sithis has done nothing for you. It was me. Don’t you see it? It was me this whole damn time.”

#tag games #sorry for everyone tagged a million times in things; I have no idea how popular some of you are heh #the illusionist #oblivion fic #sheogorath #seyda writes #lucien lachance #oc: nimileth

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gay-milton-quotes · 10 months

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The worst feminist defense of the barbie movie is that one post asking, "did you criticize marvel for being commercial? Did you criticize transformers?"

Because, YES. Not only am I personally a natural born hater of both those franchises, but entire careers have been formed and fed by criticizing those exact films for those exact reasons. "Marvel movies are just soulless, capitalist propaganda for toy companies, the Disney corporation, and the military industrial complex" is a cold and passé take at this point, at least in the circles criticizing the Barbie movie.

Secondly, though, why would you compare Barbie to these films? Why sell her short like this? What hurts about Marvel and Transformers films is that they are dedicated to a boring formula - one that priotitizes its marketability and a capitalist agenda before it prioritizes its worth as art. Based on the enthusiasm, weirdness, and excitement coming from Barbie's cast and crew, that probably is not the case here.

A much better comparison would be The Lego Movie: a toy commercial, a cash grab, but underneath that, an original idea and a great time. If you wouldn't criticize The Lego Movie for its commercialism, but you would criticize Barbie, that's more of a red flag to me. Unless Barbie turns out to be a shitty movie on it's own merits.

Finally, though, does anyone really want an "anticapitalist" Barbie movie? Do you really, genuinely want Mattel to try to make Barbie edgy and a comrade? Honestly, can you imagine how bad that would be? Barbie throws a doll in the garbage and looks directly into the camera as she says, "Life should be about experiences, not things." and the grumpy but kindly boss of a toy company agrees to pay his workers a million dollars a day. "I see now that our workers aren't playthings. I suppose we can compromise," he says, and they shake hands, and we also it's christmas time, and the real Mattel continues to do whatever evil shit Mattel does.

It would be awful. It would be every edgeless "edgy" girlbossified disney princess of the past decade that we all hate. Shut up about discourse, shut up about commercialism, shut up about feminism, you are wishing on a monkey's paw here.

#barbie #anti barbie #i swore i wouldnt do discourse on here but this is frivolous enough that ill allow it #discourse #barbie movie

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coldshrugs · 9 months

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12 for the fluff prompts 🥺💗

thank you fren!! this is SO late but i missed them so. here we go.

closer to you

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau word count: 815 note: this prompt was "pushing a strand of hair behind their ear" and uh... we got there in the end :')

Muddy darkness thaws to warm pink-gold scattering behind the thin skin of eyelids. She is still in the edgeless realm of half-sleep, unburdened by body or name. Unaware of the exact space she occupies, only that it is too warm.

It would be a simple thing to drift off again, but even now she recognizes the fracture in his routine.

Somewhere outside the boundary, he breathes, and she hears it here, a deep, comforting rumble her mind cannot help but latch onto.

Inhale (Estinien).

She stretches, languorously rolling towards the sound. She breathes with him.

Exhale...

(Estinien)

And now there is a sense of place. They’re in their suite. In their bed, and he’s still here. Her heart (she must have one, the part that recognizes him before remembering herself) is swollen at the thought.

Inhale.

Balsam. Charred vanilla. Uncomplicated and earth-grown, distilled into a sweet amber scent that clings to him like smoke. This is the tether that drags her toward reality.

Estinien.

Exhale.

Estinien. And her name chases his until both settle into something solid. Estinien and...

Io opens her eyes to a flood of soft golden light. The details are unfocused. Here, the bed and her pillow. There, the thin cotton quilt shoved down to her waist. The humidity, thick and oppressive, creeps through the window at her head, relieved only by the feeble breeze that ripples the gauzy curtain.

Her eyes adjust, and Estinien is golden, too, painted by dappled patches of the morning sun. The steady rise and fall of his chest shifts the light. It dances over and into the valleys of long-healed scars, warping into mesmerizing patterns.

It is rare to wake before him. His days have early starts and late endings, a routine worn deep by years of disciplined training, and still more years of dread at what he might find in his dreams. So he rises with the sun, leaving Io to sleep while he readies himself for the day. He wakes her eventually, when only a sliver of morning remains, with the promise of breakfast from a favorite restaurant, or a cup of coffee, or a bath already drawn.

Anything to keep busy.

Then there are mornings like this one when the exhaustion catches up to him. Mornings when his familiar weight and warmth in their bed surprise her. Io savors these opportunities to watch him sleep in.

She props herself on an elbow.

He lies on his back, one hand on his bare chest, the other resting between them. Asleep and utterly untroubled, Estinien's face is softer than the version she holds in her mind. Free of the lines that sit between his brows, free of the tension in his jaw. Dark circles still ring his eyes, evidence of his usual sleeping habits, though they're less stark in this light.

As much as she loathes to disturb his hard-earned peace, Io cannot resist sweeping a stray silver lock away from his cheek, tucking it behind the blade of his ear. Her hand falls to his chest. She settles into the pillow again.

Estinien pries open an eye. "What are you doing?"

"Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

It's too late. He rolls onto his side to face her, and the strand of hair she tucked falls loose again, as obstinate as the man in front of her.

"I overslept." He grins, squinting against the light. "And you let me."

"And I'll do the same tomorrow. You need the rest." Io's hand returns to his cheek. "Besides, I like waking up with you like this."

"Mm, perhaps it's more likely you want a partner in midmorning indolence." His tone is teasing, his voice syrupy, and he yawns loudly, demonstrating the point.

Io laughs, preparing a quip to celebrate her victory, but she doesn't get the chance to answer–Estinien's arms snake around her waist, and he pulls her across the short distance that separates them. The heat is sticky and stifling, so they kick off the quilt. Io curls into him, forehead to forehead, smiling softly at the patterns his fingers trace across her back.

He kisses her slowly, content to linger in each deliberate movement. His lips part, and the kiss deepens, but there is no heat, no request for more than this quiet intimacy. For the second time this morning, her heart feels too big for her body, tenderly beating against her ribcage as if it's trying to find its way into his.

Estinien pulls away and peace returns to his face for a moment.

“Fine,” he sighs, looking at her with an adoring sort of resignation. If Io melts, it will have nothing to do with Thavnair’s heat. “If you would have me waste half my day here, I expect to be plied with coffee. ‘Tis only fair.”

She has never been happier to leave her bed.

#azia writes #io laithe #io/estinien #i am always impatient to post so if you see me editing this for the next three days no you don't #idk i was trying something here and some Trusted Pals said i should leave it so :> and we all know i'm flowery as hell #anyway if i'm not thinking about them i'm dead or bodysnatched

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yellowfingcr · 1 month

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"You, radiance and light of the sun itself given form, do not know what I see in you? Beloved shadow mine..." A calloused hand takes her own while the other holds her cheek, thumb caressing her knuckles even as he smiles softly. "As if I am not likewise caught fast in the sheerness of you and your love, immaterial and phantasmal though you seek so often to be. You who, for all that your sharpness and cruelty in a likewise cruel world is known, would bind the world by your will into something kinder than ever a god or man could conceive... as if I could have ever hoped to resist. As if I would ever have considered resisting you." His lips brush her forehead, then his gently bumps into her own. "If I be mountain-cut and fire-strong, let it be known that by the river of you have I been shaped and that by the love of you my flames be fed. Let it be known that the sum of you, assassin and sorceress and scholar each without peer, are each in their turn deserving of more than I could hope to give... yet I will strive all my days to do so, deserving of it and much more that you are."

Leviathan help her, but he wasn’t supposed to know like this! He wasn’t supposed to learn that sentence so frictionlessly, nothing at all lost in the path to his ears! Heysel thinks he knew already but regardless he should have discovered the swallowed fish hook in her heart by sussing out the protrusion, feeling it press hard against his fingertip and there intuit the secret wound, understood and unspoken. Certainly he wasn’t meant to scalpel her chambers open, nor present the bloody thing, sharp and gleaming and awful, between both their hands.

“Brom, I- gods. You take what I say too seriously,” she chuckles, too quick for honest mirth, “It’s not.. well, I just-”

Her eyes, so wide under his touch, as his fingers find hers, his brow her brow; and against the honesty of him she thinks she could melt like wax. What can she even say? What are the words for it? You are so impossibly warm it makes me candle-skinned, my every border soft for you, just for you. I trust you so wholly I want you to make this of me. Liquid and luminous and edgeless, a star held in the cup of your arms.

She inhales. Exhales.

“...No. No, no excuses from me.” Her gloved palm sets, gently, over the hand cradling her cheek. “I could try to say oh no, but ‘twas a mere jest!, but we both know it was only to a degree. My disbelief is real. I did mean that. But I believe you more, because you are the single most important thing in my life, and- that’s what matters, I think. You would not say what… all of what you’ve just told me if you didn’t mean it. Which was, by the way. Just. Ah.”

Heysel, who was Goldfinch, who is sharp and cruel, garrote woman of beartrap mercy, by all means bashfully looks away, for a moment. Under the dark skin of her face, rising heat, then a clearing of her throat.

“I am trying. I mean, what I’m attempting, the whole- ridiculous, overcomplicated math I’m doing- it’s. My gods I am terrible at this."

"If I have kindness it has been whetted into the polished thing it is because of you. You are tender. You’ve offered me tenderness. Me. I think I’m still dealing with the notion. I’ve spent my whole life making myself less than a shadow, and I don’t regret it, but, still, to deserve someone of your magnitude of beauty, to be someone who exists, truly and entirely, with someone this splendid, who wants me in his life, who feels for me, I’ve- no. I’m again wandering off in strange directions, and I’m rambling. When there is really only a few things that I need to say.”

A beat. She looks at him and there is no mirror and no smoke and there is only Heysel, who leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, a private little thing, unhurried and light. When she draws back, a secret of a smile.

“Thank you. I love you.”

#er au #// hi. I've been crying over this ask for one million hours. AS USUAL #oh god oh man. oh god #of-forossa

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dustedmagazine · 1 month

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Michael A. Muller — Mirror Music (Deutsche Grammophon)

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Ten independent artists — largely from the improvised, jazz-adjacent ambient side of things — venture into Michael A. Muller’s glowing, swirling soundscapes, each finding and bringing different textures there. Muller, a founder of the Texas minimalist music collective Balmorhea, sticks to long-toned, keyboard-based instruments: a Mellotron, an Oberheim Two-Voice Synthesizer and a Rhodes organ, creating luminous auras of tone. His collaborators play a variety of instruments — guitar, percussion, voice and cello — populating these edgeless, serene sonic spaces with melody and rhythm.

Muller himself plays the guitar, and he seems to have a particular affinity for its devotees. Bay Area finger-picker Danny Paul Grody scatters sparkly chords and meditative runs across synthesizer washes that surge and swell and ebb. Without the guitar, these tones might be too unreal, too grand, too beautiful to catch, but with these slow-blooming, organic figures, the music makes sense on a human scale. Chuck Johnson is a different case. His silvery sustained pedal steel music contains its own uncanny valleys, and so he slides like a ghost between shimmering, vibrating curtains, carving aching arcs of longing into a chilled, cerebral landscape. Douglas McCombs, of Tortoise, Brokeback and Black Duck, picks a clean, reverberating, almost surf-toned melody across an oscillating, shifting, reverential backdrop; he cuts right through it, emphatic and sure.

Women artists make a mark, though mostly with their voices. Vestals float eerie, altered sighs and caresses over the clear tones of Rhodes, a piercing descant one of this disc’s most gorgeous sounds. The Polish composer and pianist Hania Rani also sings, in a whisper amid shivering ambiences, in a way that reminds me a little of Mia Doi Todd. But Clarice Jensen, who sometimes plays with Balmorhea, brings her instrument along, threading rich throbs of cello through a landscape of widely spaced piano chords.

In the mirror game, budding actors stand face to face, copying each other’s expressions and gestures in real time, in a sort of synchronized dance. Here, the interaction is more oblique, with each artist staring into a foggy reflection and finding some element of themselves there. The music that arises is hardly synchronized, but the players find a way to react and build on what the other is doing. Oh, and it’s lovely. That’s important, too.

Jennifer Kelly

#michael a. muller #mirror music #deutsche grammophon #jennifer kelly #albumreview #dusted magazine #balmorhea #danny paul grody #chuck johnson #vestals #doug mccombs

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