#the Scholar and the Hornet

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVII | Fear and Resolve

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, discussion of self-harm, intrusive thoughts, abuse, discussion of suicide AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVI | Fear and Resolve First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel smooths things over. Hornet dreads the inevitable.

○

There was nothing Quirrel could do but wait.

Hornet had placed herself between him and her sibling, spreading out her cloak to block him from their sight, and he could not dispute the wisdom of this choice. The possibility that the sight of him would make anything better was so distant as to be absent altogether.

They were terrified. Terrified of him.

This was so far outside of what he had expected that he was momentarily paralyzed by the feeling welling up within him. It was not a pleasant one, shock and hurt and heart-twisting pity all melted into one, and it was a long, turbulent moment before it drained away. This would not help—not him, or Hollow, or anyone.

Terror might not be the whole of it, but it must be contributing. Their very first reaction to him had been fear, fear that had only grown stronger when Hornet introduced him as a scholar, and they’d objected vehemently to his approach while in a vulnerable position. There was a pattern there, and an ugly one.

In hindsight, perhaps observing their pulse being taken was a little intimate for a second meeting—although they had endured his scrutiny of their wounds from a much closer distance. Hornet seemed as stunned as he was by their reaction. By her account, she had handled them much more harshly before he arrived, with very little indication that they might wish otherwise.

They had seemed so willing, stretched out across her lap, tilting their horns back and baring their soft throat, but he’d barely had time to step closer before they snatched their head out of reach.

There might be hope in the fact that they had chosen to shrink back, rather than strike out. Hope that he would be safe enough around them to attempt to convey that he was no threat. That, given enough time, they might learn that he wished only to help.

Hornet had not asked him to leave, even when Hollow spiraled into panic—although, granted, she had good reason to be distracted—so he settled in to wait.

He had nothing to go by but the sound of their breath, harsh and irregular at first but smoothing out gradually now, and the tone of Hornet’s voice as she spoke to them, stringing together more words than he had heard from her yet. She assured them they had done no wrong, that they did not need to be afraid, that no one had cause to hurt them. And when she reached the end of this list of promises, she began again, repeating them over in the same tight, level voice, until her sibling started to finally, visibly relax, the awful rattle in their throat dwindling to a breezy hiss and then dying out altogether.

It took long enough that his shell began to ache, that he unfolded and rearranged his limbs more times than he cared to recall. The fire waned and went out. Hornet’s voice grew rough, cracked and ashen. But all the while Hollow’s shaking diminished, their desperate grip on her hand loosening inch by inch.

Until, finally, Hornet went quiet and reached forward, tentative. Then—having come to some decision with what she found—she leaned down and rested her head between their horns, the taut slope of her shoulders falling slack.

Quirrel looked away, overcome by an odd sort of embarrassment. He thought Hornet might regret, later, being so unguarded in front of him—doubly so if he interrupted her now, when she almost seemed to have forgotten that he was there.

What he wanted was not important, not in the least, but he wished that he could apologize. A vague nausea settled in his stomach at the thought of causing so much distress, unavoidable though it seemed. Perhaps if he had been more careful, not so caught up in his own curiosity, more attentive to their mood, perhaps—

Ah, but that was pointless, mere wishful thinking. He knew better than most that grief, guilt, and fear were unpredictable, that memory came in shattered shards more often than a colorful pane.

This same guilt was something he had recognized in Hornet. She would sheathe her claws for her sibling, but turn them upon her own shell at a moment’s notice, tearing into herself for failing to anticipate the impossible.

“I should have known,” she had said. “I should have seen it.”

He wondered if there was anything he could say that would help. Anything that she would not reject, for implying that she deserved forgiveness.

For now, he was quiet, watching as unobtrusively as he knew how, as Hornet stroked her sibling’s face, humming low and tuneless, occasionally whispering something he could not make out. From what he could see, Hollow was all but leaning into the contact, every line of their body achingly drawn toward the point at which Hornet’s forehead rested on their own.

It hurt to see, hurt to know even the little that he did. That this was possibly one of the first times in their life they had shown their need for this, desperate as it was.

It was perhaps five minutes before Hornet raised her head, still hunched close over her sibling, still holding their face between her hands. Stiffly, she turned to glance at him. “Would you bring me some water, please?”

“Of course.”

He was careful to move slowly, to make as little noise as possible. When he returned from the kitchen, he strayed close to the Hollow Knight for only as long as it took to hand Hornet the cup, without looking down at them or paying them any attention whatsoever. He remembered too well the wretched grating of their sobs, sounds of agony forced through a throat that had never been intended to make any sound whatsoever.

Task finished, he returned to the still-warm hearth, affording the pale siblings some semblance of privacy.

Hornet nursed the cup for a long time, staring into the empty shadows in the corners of the room. One hand still lay between Hollow’s horns, idly tracing the deep crack where their mask split unevenly in two. The rain filled the silence, a silence gone so long that it had ceased to be awkward and become merely unavoidable.

Quirrel stared down at his own handwriting. Those words and shapes really ought to make sense. Too many thoughts crowded in between, too much fog on the lens. He had plenty to pass the time, but instead he found himself picking up a sheet of smudged paper and writing out a single sentence across the top.

Is it always this bad?

He passed the paper and pencil to Hornet, who stared at him for longer than she really needed to, looking for something he could not fathom, before glancing down to read what he had written.

She stared at him again when she finished. He met her gaze levelly. She could refuse to reply, but he had a feeling that she would not. With the way she had poured out the entire story the night before, albeit not without prompting, he suspected that she needed to speak of this, however much she might wish otherwise.

Sure enough, she set down the empty cup and scratched out one short sentence before she slid the paper back to him.

Her handwriting was a scrawl. Perhaps it should surprise him that his own was still so neat, after having gone so long neglecting it. But those revelations were distant, out of focus behind the sharp, cutting lines of Hornet’s script.

Sometimes it’s worse.

Worse. Worse than cowering before their own sister, worse than near-silent sobbing that shook their whole body? Worse than mutely crying out in pain greater than they had ever been built to express?

He would be hard-pressed to imagine a terror more complete than what he had already witnessed. But he recalled the fraught conversation in lantern-light the night before, remembered Hornet’s claws clamping down on her own arms, her voice catching as she told him that Hollow was inclined to harm themselves if she was not quick enough to stop them.

Had anyone tried to stop them when they carved their own chest open?

Hornet did not look at him as he lowered the paper, but the hand on her sibling’s face fell still for a moment before she returned to petting them, shakily, her breathing gone harsh and tight in the meantime.

Quirrel unclenched his jaws, deliberately. Her insistent grip on their hand made a dreadful sort of sense, now.

As did her exhaustion, and her ragged appearance. If she had been fighting this battle for a week, alone, uncertain each night if her sibling would even be alive come morning, waiting for every action to be the one that sprung a hidden tripline… well. It was no wonder she had come to him looking like she’d been caught in one of her own traps.

 He knew reassurance would not likely be taken well, but he could not help offering.

You’re doing well with them, he wrote. They trust you.

As much as they could, he thought. For a sapient creature used as a tool, for a living being denied even the dignity of a name. Hollow, she still said, having nothing else to call them by.

Some missteps are inevitable, he began, and then stopped. The attempt seemed weak already, against the opposition he expected.

All he could do was try. As with Hollow, she deserved that much, at least.

Their mind is likely as scarred as their body. You cannot hope to heal either without causing further pain.

Hornet was already staring balefully at the paper before he even handed it over, which did not help his attempt at eloquence in the slightest. He tried not to fidget with his pencil while she read, or after she finished, when she laid the paper on the floor and did not move to reply. The silence was almost worse than the argument that he’d expected, especially when the back of her collar began to prickle.

Stymied, he went back to the assorted sheets in front of him, deciding to copy Hornet’s sketched signs rather than sort out his notes. His mind was full of further attempts to reach her, encouragement that she would not accept and one-sided debates that they would never have. He knew better than to try to think through all that noise.

It was the better part of an hour before—

“Would you pass me those vengeflies?”

He muffled a surprised grunt, dropping his pencil and then scrambling to snatch it up before it rolled into the hot ashes.

Her voice dragged him out of the reverie he had sunk into—which, when he stared at the page, came into focus as a list of vocabulary for further communication of intangible concepts, alongside a new set of hand-signs to match.

Hornet did not comment on his obvious lapse in attention, nor did she say anything besides a mumbled thanks as he handed her what she’d asked for, as well as a fresh cup of water.

She reached up to touch his wrist as he turned away, and, startled again, he couldn’t quite swallow the noise in his throat. It was perhaps forgivable to be on edge, given earlier events, but he still expected a biting comment, a stern glance—something.

Instead, she stiffly lowered her hand, as if she couldn’t quite believe she had reached out. Her fangs worked, chewing over a concept that evidently vexed her.

In the end, she said nothing, only grasped one of the vengeflies between her fists and wrenched it in two, then held out a cracked abdomen that sluggishly dripped hemolymph from its severed segments.

Quirrel blanked. He’d eaten that morning: stunted fruit from the greenhouse he’d found, belfly eggs scooped out of a nest he’d baited the parent from. Freshly dismembered vengefly would not be his first choice of meal, even if he was hungry. He had caught them for Hornet.

And that was what gave him pause, what stopped him from politely, but immediately, refusing. She must know he had foraged for himself earlier; it had been one of the principal reasons to send him out into the City. There was another reason behind this, and an important one.

Deepnest tradition? Reciprocating his gesture of goodwill in bringing her prey the day before? Offer dinner to the hunter, he had heard, but nothing in his piecemeal memory suggested what he should do if the hunter offered it back.

Or this could be something simpler. An invitation. An apology. An attempt at bridging the gap they both sensed between them. And—he realized, as he reached to accept it—a visible gesture of friendship. Not merely for his benefit, but for the vessel who lay, exhausted and silent, but watchful, ever watchful, beside them.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Hornet was already eating the other half of the vengefly, thin shell and all. She tapped the stone with one claw, sending a meaningful glance at the floor beneath his feet, so with a slow nod, he sat, keeping a decent distance from Hollow, but angling himself so that he faced both siblings.

Hollow did not move, eyes half-lidded, the restless void beneath their mask partly sheathed by an opaque scale of opalescent black.

Should he speak to them? Attempt to reassure them in his own words? He could hardly improve on what Hornet had accomplished, yet he felt it might be helpful if they heard it from him, too.

He met their gaze, flicking his antennae downward in a pacifying gesture that likely meant nothing to them. “I do apologize for having startled you, my friend. It was not my intent.”

Nothing in their aspect changed, not a single claw stirring, except that the scale across their eye slid back, retracting beneath the mask and widening their gaze to survey him fully.

Unsettling, but intriguing nonetheless. Eyelids of any sort were rare enough in Hallownest’s species; for both siblings to share them, the trait had likely been present in their sire. Practical knowledge of wyrms was so scant as to be useless, though legends of their might ran through the kingdom’s history like a gleaming vein of ore. Some were likely fabricated, as a tool to garner worship and obedience, but the common themes were easy enough to trace, if one had the experience to chip away the excess.

None of them, however, lingered on the details, the small discrepancies of form and habit that he might begin to piece together now. A thrill of discovery raced through him, interrupted only by Hornet coughing sharply.

His gaze snapped to her face. She shook her head, once, before she laid her hand atop her sibling’s mask and returned to her meal.

“These are well cleaned,” she said, and he was briefly baffled at the compliment before he realized it was an attempt to redirect not only his attention, but Hollow’s. “You must have… hunted many strange things in your travels.”

 Ah, she already knew him too well. “I have indeed,” he said, rocking back a little and staring upward in recollection, willing to let her lead him astray. “I remember one particular creature—a delicious one, mind you, or I would not have taken the trouble—that was in the habit of arranging canes of briars to defend its burrow…”

○

As Quirrel launched into a hunting tale, Hornet listened with half her attention, devoting the remainder to her meal—and to her sibling, who had not so much as stirred since she invited Quirrel to join them. She was not fool enough to assume this was disinterest. They were watching him, as intently as they had when he first arrived. Whether for signs that he would turn upon her, or clues as to his true motives, or merely out of self-preservation, she could not say.

She couldn’t deny that she wished she knew his motives, too, but staring would not wring them out of him. Unfortunately.

The guilt of having frightened them so badly gnawed at her. She knew it was pointless to regret it, that she was only tearing her own shell by struggling, but instincts were unforgiving things.

She could no more forgive herself than she could change her black shell to white or stifle her hunger at the taste of fresh meat. She was not built for it.

Hollow, at least, did not panic again at his presence. That had been a risk, and she knew it, but it was one she couldn’t afford not to take. She needed to know if they would refuse to let Quirrel help her, preferably before something bad happened.

Something in her had felt relief when Hollow finally panicked. Something in her had known this was too good to be true.

The thought of trusting in this coincidence, of coming to rely on someone she had nearly never met, sent a pang of fear through her gut. The world was not kind enough to send her blessings unlooked for. Life did not give without taking, and taking, and taking.

But hadn’t she had her share already? After everything, could she not steal a moment to breathe? Did she not deserve it?

Deserved or undeserved had never changed her circumstances before.

Perhaps that was why this moment, this uncanny peace after the storm, felt so much like a dream.

Quirrel’s hunting tale had devolved into an academic lecture by the time she returned to herself. She hadn’t stopped stroking Hollow’s mask, even far away as she’d been: skirting round the crack above their eye, brushing down over their brow and back up again, circling her fingertips in the shallow well between their horns. They were calm, or at least too tired to panic, and the motion in their gaze had taken on the slow, languid quality she associated with drowsiness. Despite that, their eyes refused to close, their wide stare fixed on the cricket as if he might suddenly disappear.

Something eased inside her, unexpectedly soft. The thought of her sibling staring blankly out at the room like a tired grub too stubborn to sleep roused an uncanny fondness, an aching warmth she had never thought to feel again.

And another thought, just as quickly, smothered it.

The heft of that scalpel in her hand. Gleaming point and silver edges, small and sharp and bright, too bright, set against black velvet, against her sibling’s skin, against the already-tattered ruin of their shell.

Tomorrow, she had said, and she had rarely wished so hard for a day to never dawn.

They were in so much pain, had endured more than she could imagine, and to be the one to perpetuate it, to make them suffer more, even for the sake of healing them—

Quirrel could not do it, though she knew that he would have volunteered. It seemed there was very little he would not do if she asked, but they would never let him; if they had objected to him merely being nearby while she took their pulse, she shuddered to think what they would do if he tried to take a knife to their shell. It had to be her, they trusted her, and the very notion made her sick.

It had to be her.

And it had to be done.

When had she ever shied away from her duty, ugly as it was? How could she be squeamish now, when she was only adding yet another entry to the list of things she could never atone for?

She needed a plan.

Fragile as it was, this tired, wary submission was likely the best that she would get from Hollow. So far, they did not object to Quirrel’s presence alone, only the particular action of approaching them with their throat bared.

This was just another way that she had failed them, another way she had stripped their agency away: assuming that their compliance was consent, that their willingness to go where she led was borne of anything but fear.

But—

They trust you, Quirrel had written.

They spoke when she asked them to. They were still when she ordered it. They crawled to her side to protect her from the rain. They pushed against her hands, begged for her touch like they would for nothing else, melted into her arms when she held them…

No. That was something more than trust. That was devotion, devotion she had done nothing to earn.

Their loyalty to the Pale King had been absolute. She had never seen them so much as hesitate when acting upon his orders. He had loved them, she thought. But that love had been a cold and barren thing, without a single kind touch or tender word, at least as far as she had seen.

Had they shifted that allegiance to her? Had she somehow earned the same pure, unquestioning fealty they’d given their father, simply by the act of saving their life?

She did not want it. She wanted nothing to do with it. That they would regard her with the same reverence that they regarded the god who’d bound their shade to their shell, who’d failed to see that they were anything but a well-forged tool—

She wanted to believe better of herself. She wanted to believe better of them.

How could they find it in themselves to trust her? To surrender to her so utterly, when she had been nothing more than the latest weapon used to hurt them?

She could not ask. She could only continue to use it, ruthless as it was to leverage something they seemed so desperate for.

Quirrel had fallen silent, somewhere in the space between her thoughts, and was now picking at the vengefly she’d offered him, neatly removing the shell bands from the exterior until he could tip his mask back and consume it in several neat, precise bites.

Hornet watched him blankly, shuffling possibilities like playing cards. The surgical tools would need to be tested, sharpened, heated in the hearth, and she had to brief Quirrel on what to do if Hollow began to panic—she might not always be in time to push him out of the way.

Having a mortal under her protection changed things. She could not expect Hollow not to react to the pain, and she had no way to diminish it, no numbing herbs or tinctures, and no assurances that they would even be effective on a vessel. Likewise, she could not count on Hollow to tell her if it became too much to bear—they had told her plainly that they did not know if they could.

She would have to tie them down.

Though she had not intended to visibly flinch at the thought, she was not entirely successful in stifling it. Quirrel shot her a questioning look.

“Nothing,” she muttered, ignoring the fact that she knew she could not fool him. Hopefully, he would take it as a warning not to pry.

Whether Hollow made use of it or not, she would offer them a way to signal to her, even after she had secured them. A way to communicate without compromising her safety, or Quirrel’s. If that was the only difference from the pain they had endured until now—the ability to ask for it to stop—then so be it. She would be as cruel as she needed to be, and not a bit more.

Whatever must be done to save them. Whatever she must do to earn them this chance at a life.

She owed it to all of the siblings who, thanks to her, would never have one.

○

Hornet sat in silence for long enough that Quirrel began to worry.

He took scant comfort in the restless motion of her hand, caressing Hollow’s mask with the same distant distraction that she might pick at her cloak seams or chew her own claws. Still, it had its intended effect, as Hollow drifted further and further from their tense vigil, like a leaf atop a lake, floating away so slowly that they never seemed to notice it at all.

It was one more indication of their poor condition, he guessed, that they nodded off so often and so easily. An attempt to conserve and rebuild energy when there was little to be had. He’d seen it most often in those recovering from serious illness, or those who would never recover at all.

And it gave him pause to contemplate how tense they must be, that they began to doze the very moment they relaxed. They likely needed more sleep than they were getting, but were wound too tightly to allow themselves to rest.

Both he and Hornet noticed the moment their eyelids dropped. Their head sagged slightly to the side to rest against her thigh, claws going lax where their hand lay upturned in her lap. Quirrel, wrestling down a sudden lump in his throat, had not been about to move, but Hornet shot him a dagger-edged glance anyway.

He nodded, still, to reassure her. Far be it from him to interrupt what little peace they’d managed to steal. Between Hornet’s questions, his poking and prodding, and the panic both had provoked, it was no wonder they were exhausted.

Privately, he acknowledged that they had cause to be far more than that. He had tried to be hopeful about their chances of recovery, though. Judging from the scars of what they had already survived, they were nearly impossible to kill.

He doubted they would be grateful for that.

When a quarter hour had passed with no sign of the vessel stirring, Hornet sighed silently and nodded back at him. He rose, intending to go back to the hearth and continue his work, when his gaze landed on the blanket at the end of the bed, where he had pulled it down to examine the injuries to Hollow’s legs.

He caught Hornet’s eye, leaned down, and touched it. When she did not object, he pulled it up over them, hiding the splits and notches in their chitin, the cracked claws and broken spurs and stamped imprints of soul-spells. They looked almost peaceful, with their face tucked against their sister’s side, all the tension and mistrust dissolved away into slumber. With some of their scars out of sight beneath the blanket, its forgiving lines smoothing out their edges.

If, the night before, he had been enthralled by the mystery of them, that was only the half of it now. Glimpsing the truth behind that imperfect mask, the depth of both their fear and resolve, their wariness of him and the blind devotion they placed in their sister, had only snared him further.

He wanted to help. He wanted to do whatever he could, for someone who’d been wronged so badly, someone who had no reason to expect anything from the world but pain.

Although the world, it seemed, still had more pain to give.

○

He hunched over his work for another hour or two before Hornet shifted. He turned his head to watch as she slowly, carefully extricated herself, lifting Hollow’s hand and laying it beside them on the mattress, supporting their head to be sure it did not fall when she edged aside. They looked nearly doll-like, offering no response or resistance whatsoever, not even stirring when Hornet gingerly removed her weight from the bed. Whether that was their natural state or a result of pure exhaustion, Quirrel could not deny that it worked in everyone’s favor.

Hornet didn’t speak, merely grabbed the lantern and jerked her head toward the kitchen. Stuffing down a gathering dread, he picked up his work and followed her.

He'd have to reveal, soon, what he suspected.

She dropped into the same chair she had taken the night before, leaving him to occupy the other end of the table. It was passing strange to even have this much of a routine, when he had so rarely stayed more than one night in a place for most of his memory.

“Tell me,” Hornet demanded. “You’re thinking something, I can hear it.”

“I wasn’t aware my thoughts were so loud,” he said, and winced. She was not in the mood for teasing, even less so than was usual, and he moved on quickly, hoping she would overlook it. “I would prefer to have more time to observe them, but…” He paused a moment, tapping his fingers on the counter, as he collected thoughts scattered by that afternoon’s upset. “I can be fairly sure that some of their physical symptoms—the dizziness, exhaustion, shortness of breath—are due in part to a severe lack of blood volume.”

Hornet half-laughed: a brittle, ugly sound. She still had not stopped moving, even now that she no longer had Hollow’s mask to touch; one knee was bouncing, and she kept flicking the end of her clawed thumb with her forefinger, an endless tick-tick-tick that seemed to bounce like hailstones off the windows. “That’s no surprise.”

“I suspected it would not be.” Quirrel halted again, unsure if he could convey this next revelation with anything like the delicacy it deserved. He waited long enough that she turned her head to glare at him, and he gave up on the effort, reasoning that if she had lived this long in what amounted to a kingdom-wide catastrophe, she could handle a little bluntness. “You said that, after leaving the temple, you found their nail and brought it back with you?”

A curt nod.

“Can you recall its shape?”

The look she was giving him sharpened into suspicion. “It was a one-handed longnail. Sloped guard, no pommel. Diamond grind. Why?”

There was no easy way to say this. He let out a hoarse sigh, halfway to a groan of frustration, of dread. “Hornet, I… suspect…” No, it was stronger than suspicion, he knew, somehow, in a way that defied reason, a way that could only be his own experience whispering in the back of his mind.

He knew what it was to outlive one’s purpose. He knew what it was to wish for a fitting end.

So he met her eyes, steady, and let her see his certainty. “At least some of their wounds are self-inflicted.”

The information took a moment to sink in, staining her expression with a slow-spreading horror like blood seeping into bandages.

She hadn’t known, then. He hadn’t been sure. He watched her wrestle with the knowledge, her hand clenching tight on the counter’s edge.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I… could not think of another way to tell you.”

Hornet’s eyes were open wide beneath her mask. Her whole body had gone frightfully still. Quirrel felt a chill on his shell, climbing higher, like a snowbank closing over his head.

It should not matter to him what she said next. Not as much as it did. She was adrift, overwhelmed, burdened with more grief and misery than he could imagine, and he would not blame her for refusing to shoulder more.

 But something in him hoped to hear—

“What do I do?” she whispered. “What am I—” One hand lifted, then fell back to the counter. She looked away, chelicerae clenched tight enough to tremble. “What should I say to them?”

His fingers were digging into his empty palms, he realized. He let go, tried to lean back, tried to relax. “I wish there was an easy answer to that,” he said, as softly as he could. “I wish that I could tell you.”

She scoffed, but it sounded small, broken. “The answers are never easy.”

“Perhaps not.” He hesitated, scraping his mandibles together, watching her. He risked causing her to withdraw if he continued. He risked losing what little ground he’d gained, but—

He thought of Hollow’s claws, the wicked-sharp scythes of them. He thought of the terror in their eyes.

They were capable of it. Whether they could truly die made little difference if they damaged themselves badly enough that magic could not heal them.

“Be mindful of what you say to them. And what you don’t say,” he said finally. “They rely on you. Your word matters to them, likely more than you know. You may need to prepare for this to be… more difficult than you thought.”

Hornet had started to fidget again while he spoke. Pulling away again, away from the shock, away from the numbing dread of it. And there was nothing he could do but watch her go. He could not give her the bravery to confront it, even had he had an excess of it himself.

She would need to face it, but it was not his place to dictate when. Hollow did not seem to actively be a danger to themselves; he had very little else to suggest besides what she was already trying to do.

“We should plan for tomorrow,” he offered.

She nodded, once, and he watched her pull herself together, grasping at what threads she could reach. It was almost amusing—darkly so—that the concept of planning for surgery was more bearable than what they’d just been discussing.

But only just. She seemed off-balance, her voice choked back, her hands tightening back into fists on the counter as she began to speak.

“I… I will need to tie them down.”

Quirrel’s stomach turned. It was the right decision, he knew at once. But—understandably—she did not seem pleased at having come to it.

“I should have them test their strength against my silk, though I believe I can spin it thick enough. I can also place anchors wherever they are needed.”

“Will they be able to take it?” he interrupted. “You said that they were bound in the temple—”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, hard. “I don’t see that we have a choice. I also intend to offer them a way to ask for respite, but after today I doubt they will take it.” One hand ran up her horn, too quickly, as if brushing something away. “Perhaps if I can work slower than before, or stop at regular intervals. Or perhaps they will tell me if I ask outright. I-I do not know.”

“Hornet—”

“And you should not touch them, if at all possible. They don’t—” A break in her voice, hastily smoothed over. “They might panic. I hope that they’ll allow you to be near enough to help me. But if they do not, you must step back. I do not need two injured bugs to care for.”

“I will. Of course.” He held both hands out, alarmed at her breakneck pace. “But Hornet—”

“Perhaps you should be watching for their signs, too.” She would not look him in the eye. “I may not—last time, I—it was difficult—”

Quirrel raised his voice. “I may have been mistaken.”

Hornet’s eyes snapped to him. Wide. Hunted. “Mistaken?”

He leaned forward again, holding her gaze. “You need not do this now.” Then, when she opened her mouth to protest, he reached out toward her, heading her off. “You… perhaps you should leave.”

The room fell silent.

Hornet gaped at him. Quite literally, in fact: he could see her fangs hanging open, crooked.

“Now.” Before she could decide what to say, he continued, calmly. “While your sibling sleeps.”

“I am not leaving,” she said. Flat. Blank.

“Just for a few hours.” He sat forward, laying his hands on the table. “Pardon my forwardness, but it might help if you could—”

“I will not leave,” she repeated, her fangs flashing—more out of displeasure than open threat, he thought, but his instincts still thrilled with unease. Her voice had risen enough that he glanced nervously at the doorway, though he detected no sign that Hollow had heard.

“Very well.” He sat back, putting more distance between them, for her comfort as well as his own. “Tell me you will sleep, then. You need it as much as they do.”

He knew she wouldn’t. Not when she was practically vibrating at the other end of the table, looking as if she needed to take something apart. Hopefully not him, though he was the nearest possibility.

“I apologize.” He ducked his head. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t.” The word was a cut stone, gritty and sharp, dragged up from deep within her. He remembered, too late, the open depths of guilt that she had plumbed the night before, the fresh scratches glaring chalk-white in the marble countertop.

“I suppose I cannot convince you to discuss this in the morning.” He did not look up as he said it.

“While they are awake? While they can hear me planning their own surgery?” Her voice was as rigid, as biting, as a nail’s edge. He could hear the dismissal in it. “Test the tools that you brought. Sharpen and oil them.” She finally broke off the disturbing stare in favor of directing it at the countertop, with roughly the same intensity. “You should go find more shellwood. We have little to spare.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know. Yes.” She grasped the key at her neck, then let her fist loosen. “Do not tarry. I’ll keep watch and leave the door unlocked.”

“You’ll—ah. So I won’t wake them with my knocking?”

A terse nod. She held a hand out, with a pointed look at the papers he had pushed aside. He slid them across the table, ignoring the part of him that wanted to bristle—if not as visibly as she could, at least in spirit. He had developed these notes for her; there was no sense in not handing them over.

She glanced them over hurriedly, then pulled out an empty sheet. The stare she directed at the blank page seemed fit to burn a hole in it. Better at it than at him, at least.

It was clear he was no longer welcome, but he lingered under the pretext of slowly emptying the rest of his satchel onto the counter. By the time he left, she had not written a single word, claws clenched gracelessly around the pencil, fangs working under her mask, a faint, scraping click, click that set his shell on edge.

He had not thought it would be a relief to step back out into the rain so soon.

○

When he returned, dripping wet, exhausted, dark had fallen in the caverns. The house was as cold and lightless as ever, and even the smoldering wick of his frustration had burned out in the deluge.

He stacked the shellwood in the entryway, quietly, building a wall of broken crates and table legs. It would need to be rearranged to dry properly, but that could wait until the morning.

After locking the door, he reentered the kitchen, steps dragging despite himself. The day had caught up with him; although he had walked further and worked harder, the turmoil had drained his energy like nothing else could.

“We should have enough fuel now to last several days,” he told Hornet, laying a few extra sticks beside the stove to start a pot of tea in the morning, if there was time. “I will sharpen tools tomorrow. That work is better done in brighter light.”

Hornet, still hunched over her paper, staring at a few scratchy sentences and even more crossed-out lines, hummed distantly in acknowledgement. Not so much upset, now, as defeated. Worn down, the same as he felt.

Quirrel resisted the urge to touch her, to lay a hand on her shoulder in attempted solace. Strange that that impulse remained after spending so much time alone.

He did pause nearby, though, and she looked up, eyes flashing dully. She knew what he wanted to ask her, he could see it—and she shook her head. “I need to think of what to tell them. I need—”

Her hand clenched. Breath hissed in her throat, strangled.

He understood. It was unthinkable to go into this unprepared, and yet there was never enough that one could possibly do to prepare for it. He understood.

Much as he wished he didn’t.

“I need to think,” she finished, lamely, in a stifled growl. Stifled for his benefit, he guessed, but he was too tired to appreciate it.

He bowed his head. “I will leave you to it, then.”

The halting scratch of lead on paper followed him out of the kitchen and up the long, dark staircase.

○

Hornet knew she was dreaming.

She knew she had left herself behind, slumped over the cold countertop, a pile of paper, and a handful of useless sentences. She knew her hand should be gripping a pencil, not empty at her side.

But more than that, she knew because this place only now existed in dreams.

If she had her choice, she would never return here, not even in her sleep. If she had a choice, she would never see her face reflected in these cold white walls again, would never battle the ache in her head from their stark, chilly glow. She would nevermore walk these halls or inhale the perfume of the Root’s flowers, trailing from the fragile, lustrous blooms that were somehow even more colorless than the marble.

 She had so many dreams about this place. More than she ever had about her home, or anywhere else in Hallownest. It was as though its disappearance from the physical world had rooted it more firmly in her mind, as though her very distaste for the place was what allowed it to plague her in her sleep.

Hornet clenched her fists and stared down the halls of the White Palace.

It was empty, this time. Not always. Often the corridors were crowded with retainers and nobles, all staring, all whispering, sometimes with a golden-white gleam in every pair of eyes, sometimes with the garbled hissing of throats scorched by welling light.

But now it was empty, truly empty of everything but her. And the only things that looked on were the walls themselves, their blank white faces turned towards her in an expanse of impossible angles, glowing so brightly that she almost expected her chitin to bleach pale under the force of it.

She took a step, her tarsals falling silent, muffled, on the stone, when she knew they should have made a sound. She did not know where to go, what she was meant to accomplish, and the familiar crawling claws of tension and shame touched the back of her neck. There must be some purpose for her here—something she had to do—

At first the sound seemed foreign. Stifled in the same way her claws had been, nearly too far away to hear, whispered back and forth by the tilted planes of the walls until it reached her. And even when she did hear it, she did not immediately know it for what it was.

It went on, and on, growing louder and more strident, until it cracked the haze around her mind and spilled over her like floodwaters.

Screaming.

Not a scream she had ever heard. Not a scream that existed in the normal reaches of the world. It should not exist. It was not a sound that could be made. It was impossible.

A horrible, rasping, aching shriek, tearing through the air like a serrated blade. There were echoes within it, voices upon voices, each one breaking and shredding apart with the violence of that cry, a cry that was destroying the thing that made it and could not be stopped all the same. It rebounded from the unforgiving walls, begging, seeking, searching for relief it would never find.

And she knew, with the same impossible logic that allowed that scream to exist, where it came from.

She began to run.

It was Hollow. It was Hollow screaming like that, like they were being torn apart body, soul, and shade, and she knew by the desperate pitch of their pain that she was already too late; whatever had been done to them was something she could never undo. It was a hopeless cry, a plea not for help, but for mercy—for a killing blow to end suffering so great that, even with reserves of strength and resolve that far surpassed her own, they could no longer bear it.

Her feet pounded on the stone, arms pumping, her cloak a garish flash of red in every compound facet of the walls. The palace was a fractured prism, a maze of mirrors, and every panting breath and skidding turn meant less than nothing, but she could not stop. Not with that scream ringing through the air; not with her sibling howling, wailing, with utter abandon, in agony so complete they had not stopped to breathe.

The sound hurt to hear—her head was throbbing, her fangs clenched together, jarring with each footfall—but it must hurt even more to make. Every instant that the cry went on, she could hear it tearing farther into them, a terrible, unnatural sound forced through a throat that had been built to hold only silence.

She nearly missed the door that had appeared, as featureless as the walls, between one turn and another. Far down the corridor, almost unreachable, but that must be where they were, it must be.

Hornet stumbled, righted herself, pelted toward it.

As she did, the scream broke. Cracked apart, into sobs, into whimpering cries so lost and so desolate that an answering sob rose in her own throat, hot and aching, pain calling to pain across the emptiness.

She was close now. Close enough for them to hear her, almost, and their name was in the shadow of every heaving exhale, stamped into every beat of her heart. She could not call out to them, could barely breathe, her limbs threatening to fold beneath her like a doll’s joints, but she was coming. She was almost—almost—

Hornet flung herself at the door. Scrabbled at the knob, with unfeeling hands and claws grown heavy, clumsy. There was silence behind it now, more dreadful even than the screaming had been, and she had to—she had to get in—

The door opened, spilling light into the room.

She turned to face it.

The knife in her hand dripped black, black, black.

“Hornet?”

Something touched her. A hand. Grabbing at her wrist. At the arm that held the knife. She squeezed, felt chitin creak.

“Hornet. It’s only—it’s me. Hornet!”

She woke up.

Quirrel’s face was inches from her own. She held his arm in one fist, her knuckles burning from the pressure of her grip, and his other hand was clamped over her own, fingers wedged into every gap he could find, in an attempt to pry her free.

And—oh, she was shaking all over, as if she really had been running, her heart pumping, her breath coming in long, quivering heaves, as effortful as dragging her whole weight higher, hand over hand.

The cricket was frozen in place, antennae pinned back, tugging at her hand with an increasingly desperate grasp.

With a shudder, she let go.

Quirrel fell back, clutching his wrist. She hunched over, in an attempt to spare her burning lungs, and stared at the space between his fingers, then at her own claws, half-expecting blood, half-expecting a void-drenched scalpel.

Neither.

“I’m sorry,” Quirrel said, catching his breath before she could. “Terribly sorry. I—you wouldn’t stir, and—”

He cut off.

She turned towards him, too rattled to even glare, but dreading, dreading, with all the clinging weight of the nightmare still pressing against her.

He swallowed, spoke again more quietly.

“Your sibling is awake.”

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeshade Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

[littlebittyhollowbugs]

hollow knight, New Hallownest adventures!

Post dream no more but it's also an au where everyone survives. The citizens of Hallownest rebuild the lost kingdom and adventures of all sorts ensue! These are the premises to the large collection of stories my sisters and I created-

Ghost and Grimmchild get lost in the old sire of Deepnest's royal maze. They meet an elderly weaver there who helps them to escape.

Hollow uses parts to an old Kingsmould to craft armour for a little shade who's shell is missing.

Kin becomes a void healer, utilizing soul and lifeblood magic and practicing within Joni's repose.

Quirrel, Ghost, Cloth and Tiso discover a strange mawlek-uma experiment in the deep chambers of the archives. (A running joke is Cloth and Tiso's shared disdain for mawleks)

Zemer finally leaves her home to visit her lovers grave, inspired by Ghost. She stops by the memorials for each of the lost great knights on her journey. (And visits Ogrim while in Isma's grove.)

the colluseum of fools is turned into the new knights training grounds, for the knights of the shade court. Ogrim and Oro train the new warriors there.

A garden is planted in Isma's grove, for the nearby beehive. Ogrim and Zemer host a gardening party in Isma's honor.

Flukes overrun the waterways and take over Isma's grove. Hive knight and his bees enlist help from Ogrim Zemer and Hornet, they battle in the grove

The snail shaman is secretly attempting to bring the void age giants back to life with his magic. Hollow discovers his plan and is captured in the ancestral mound.

Grimm and Brumm are determined to uncover the mystery of Elderbug's disappearance.

Quirrel works with Kin and Myla to extract soul from crystals, for the new medical facility in greenpath.

Kin meets a surviving scholar of the soul sanctum who claims he is redeeming himself.

Hollow is given a soul sensing spell and becomes extremely sensitive to large amounts of soul. This Ends in catastrophe when the pale king's spirit visits Hollow at the wishing fountain..

Kin uses a memory extracting spell on Hollow, trying to take away memories of the black egg to help Hollow sleep better, and instead erasing everything since before the sealing.

Grimm faces much opposition when he attempts to claim a seat on the new Hallownest council.

Quirrel and Hornet discover the old lakeside retreat that used to belong to the king and queen.

Continual storylines include-

Sheo's art therapy with Hollow, and siblings

Mato adopting all the rescued vessels

Oro becoming a mentor to the reformed fools

Hornet mentoring Ghost in how to be a leader for the restored kingdom

Grimm adjusting to his new mortal body, after the ritual is ended, and he and nightmare heart are separated.

Ghost and Ellina never meet each other. Each begins to suspect the other of being a made up figure/elaborate prank of sorts.

Kin always trying to imitate Hollow. (+ Hollow being a perfectionist.)

Quirrel collecting old nails and repairing them. (being a perfectionist, specifically about nails)

Hornet making little cloaks and outfits for her siblings for different occasions

Hollow learning to bake and growing a little garden and being a friend to all the animals (basically fairytale princess Hollow)

#hollow knight #hk hornet #hk ghost #hk quirrel #hk the knight #hk the pure vessel #hk little ghost #hk thk #the pale king #hk white lady #hk cloth #hk tiso #hk grimmchild #hk grimm #hk broken vessel #hk lost kin #hk Brumm #hk Mato #hk Oro #Hk Sheo #hk nailmaster #hk Ogrim #hk ze'mer #hk the great knights #hk the five great knights #hollow knight headcanon

[ruthlesslistener]

I just can't get over the fact it was PK who offered the hornet deal thing. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the guy with a baby death pit didn't think twice to toss a child at someone to get them on his side, but what did Herrah think? Again she wasn't in a position to refuse, needing a heir, but god that must have been a jarring proposal.

I mean, if you look at it from the political circumstances, it does make a whole lot more sense than from just a casual 'hey want me to be a sperm donor' offer. Deepnest and Hallownest had political tension between them, to the point where the Pale King signed a treaty with the Mantis Lords to guard the city's gates; Herrah is known as 'the Beast' to the citizens of Hallownest, and her den is spoken of as being 'beyond the kingdom'. So they were already in tense circumstances to begin with, and then PK comes over to her lands about a problem that primarily affects his kingdom and asks her to lay her life down for a problem that isn't fully hers to deal with. That's a lot to ask for, especially when you don't have an heir to make sure that your kingdom stays intact after you're gone. PK probably came over to Deepnest after hearing about the ferocity, strength, and loyalty of their queen, noticed that she had no heir to succeed her throne, and then offered to ensure she had one so that she could lay down her life knowing that her sacrifice would save her people in the future (yikes) and that the title of ruler was secure. That's excellent for Deepnest.

And that's not all the benefits of him siring her heir, either! That's just the most basic breakdown of the bunch. Him doing so would automatically place Hallownest and Deepnest in a position for a treaty, as the heir of Deepnest now has the blood of Hallownest running in her, essentially tying the fate of the two kingdoms together. It's a big show of peace, because he offered to create and then put his own rival on the throne, meaning that he technically couldn't become Deepnest's king after her death- because his daughter is already there. And on top of that, he is a god, meaning that none of the spiders of Deepnest could truly contest with her heir after her death, because her baby has divine blood running through her veins and a (presumably) alive father in the neighboring kingdom over. Having a halfblood heir means that her child is already LEAGUES above everyone else who might try to take the throne, both in power and vitality. So not only did PK offering to give her an heir essentially meant that he stepped forward and went 'hey, in exchange for your sacrifice, I will ensure your future and place my own rival on your throne', it also brought Deepnest and Hallownest from a place of animosity to one where trade was happening between the kingdoms (or, well, Hallownest was buying Deepnest's silk en masse) AS WELL as strengthening Herrah's lineage and basically ensuring that her baby would not only be strong and healthy, but also stay on the throne. All things considering, if everything worked out as it should have, then Herrah would have exchanged her life for a boon that might have very well set Deepnest into a golden age after her sacrifice.

(And it also points to how desperate PK was for the Dreamer plan. Not only did he sacrifice his top scholar and someone who looks to have been essential to managing the City of Tears, he also gave a whole hell of a lot without getting a whole hell of a lot in return. Trade and kingdom security is great, but it looks like it was mostly Deepnest selling to Hallownest, and Hornet being raised by the White Lady certainly didn't place Deepnest under Hallownest's rule. If anything, she ended up inheriting both kingdoms...though not through happy circumstances)

Personally what I think is funny is that PK's solution to everything seems to be 'make baby to fix problem'. I mean, it makes sense in both the highly specific contexts that required it, but it also places him as the anti-zeus of mythology (has a lot of kids but not bc hes a slut, just bc he can fuck his way out of it instead of fight) which is personally very funny to me

#hollow knight #herrah the beast #the pale king #hornet hk #anon #reply #i love the politics of the bargain sm dude #its soooo good

[snowmaze1969]

some bug backstory and age h/c

Some timeline things: before the infection is obvi before the infection, after sesling is once hk gets sealed along with the dreamers and pk dissappears, height infection is when the infection gets worse, after the first wave of the infection appearing, right before the game is when things kinda settle down and the infection is still there and very deadly but everyone who's still alive knows what there doing, quarrel arrives during this time. During the game is obvi during the game and post game is post game, 8ll specify after what endings. Also just one note, I have no fucking clue the lifespan, aging, and time if the timeline so any year time span will just be the human equvilant cause I don't have the bainpower to figure that shit out lmao.

Myla: she was born during the peak of the infection. He dad was a miner and knew the ups and down of the peaks he was pretty hardy and knew what he was doing. Her mother was actually pretty weak and just happened to stumble upon mylas dad. If she hadn't found him, she would be dead. They dell in love and had a child (Myla). Mylas mother died after a year or two and Mylas father, heartbroken, raised Myla on his own. Mylas father succumbed to the infection after Mayla was around 13. Before he died, he showed Myla around the peaks so she knows them inside and out. Myla made a living for herself and died during the game (obvi) at around age 21.

Quirrel (my fave 🥺🥲💖):he was born during the prime of hallownest, right before the first wave of infection hit and the dreamers were sealed. His parents were really nondescript and lived vanilla lives I liked the idea of Quirrel training to be a knight in the cot before becoming monomons apprentice so I'm adopting that into my own personal hc (yeah the is from sbabl) I like to think he started knight training really young to bring some extra money in and then first started working at the archives at age 20. Times kipper but after the dreamers were sealed, Quirrel stayed around the archives a bit before leaving. Monomons last wishes said the Quirrel would become the head Archavist so once she was gone, Quirrel helped all the other scholars clear out before he was lonely for a while and then left hallonest right before height infection. Quirrel returns right before the game and then dies during the game. I'm just gonna say that I have no idea how much time passed between the sealing and the game so uh. Time magic and also Quirrels old lol.

Lemm: He was born right before the sealing to also nondescript parents. They ran and combine relecs and tea shop the Lemm helped run. His parents died during the first wave so he ran the shop at age 24. He would sell stuff to travelers and buy there spoils to help them out. Lemm is a grumpy man by the game. (Sorry I don't have much for him)

Hornet: Hornet was born when Herah was like yeah, in exchange for being a dreamer we get to fuck around to pk. Because of some God shit, Hornet is born like 3 months later (hatched). Both Herrah and pk raise Hornet but they live separately. The White Lady honestly doesn't care that they fucked because God's have weird ideas about monogamy/polyamoury. Hornet grew up along with hk and then when the dreamers were sealed she was holed up in deepness but eventually everyone died/got infected Hornet taught herself how to fight and headed out right after peak infection. I like to think the Herrah had the needle commissioned before she was sealed and gave it to the midwife to give to Hornet when the time was right. The Midwife gave it to Hornet eight before she died,and asked Hornet to cut down her infected husk with that very blade. She does and then leaves. Hornet then kinda meanders around getting good until the game.

Cloth: I don't have much on her cause honestly I have no idea even what kinda bug she is but she definitely migrated to hallownest after the peak of the infection and thought he'll yeah. I get to fight things! And then just stuck around

Tiso:grew up in an ant clony but longed for something more. Growing up with stories of Hallownest and the Coloseum he set out not realizing what had become of the kingdom and its glory.

Anyway, those are the ones I have rn, I'm tired and my fingers hurt cause I typed this out on my phone so sorry if there's any spelling mistakes. Let me know if there's any others you wanna see and I'll probably add on with my vessel oc that still doesn't have a name.

#mars shouts into the void #hollow knight #hornet hk #hk pure vessel #hk quirrel #hk hornet #quirrel #hornet #hk spoilers #hk tiso #Hk #hollow knight headcanons #the hollow knight #Hollow knight #Long post

[ebookporn]

Unsung Native Collaborators in Anthropology

by Amrina Rosyada

GROWING UP A BROWN girl and aspiring anthropologist, my idea of success was represented by a gallery full of White scholars. It was in the stern face of U.S. anthropologist Margaret Mead, braving her way across the Pacific Ocean on route to Samoa. It was in cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz’s crazy hair, flailing as he ran away from the Balinese cops who raided an illegal cockfight he took part in.

Flipping through the browned pages of a history of anthropology book in college, I could not find any mention of a non-White ethnographer. The book focused only on the founding figures, making it sound like they built anthropology singlehandedly with just their own intellect, perseverance, pens, and notebooks.

"Madé Kalér might only be mentioned briefly in Mead’s work, but he wrote more than 500 Balinese texts to supplement Mead’s notes."

The careers of iconic anthropologists are well-documented. But for many anthropologists, research involves the meticulous labor of translators, cultural interpreters, and research assistants who help them understand the world better. And very little is known about these collaborators of color who helped make anthropologists’ research successful.

Not many recognize the name Ali bin Usmus, a Javanese collaborator who U.S. anthropologist Cora Du Bois called a protector, mentor, and friend. Few are familiar with Muchona “the Hornet,” a man with unparalleled knowledge of Ndembu medicine plants and rituals who served as Scottish anthropologist Victor Turner’s “interpreter of religion” in Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia).

Despite their significant contributions, people like bin Usmus and Muchona are still regarded as insignificant figures.

As an Indonesian anthropologist-in-training trying to find my place in history, I ask: Who stood behind the success of famous White anthropologists? And how did those people contribute to these researchers’ achievements?

The archival work I conducted for my research project in 2021 led me to investigate the lives and contributions of native research partners who worked for the United States’ most celebrated anthropologists: Franz Boas and Margaret Mead. Tucked between footnotes and piles of archives, the names George Hunt and I Madé Kalér might not be as star-studded as their employers’, but they contributed tremendously to the world’s anthropological knowledge.

This essay is a refusal of their forgetting.

READ MORE

#translators #translation #indigenous writer #anthropology #anthropologist #researchers #librarians

[dreamerwitches]

Blog masterpost

A new masterpost cause the old ones links were fucked, yaaaay!

My carrd - Commissions - Redbubble - Etsy - Patreon

Homophobes, transphobes, terfs, pedos, proshippers and racists are not welcome here.

Please find my Magical Witch AU Masterpost here

O - Witches - Familiars - Wraiths - Nightmares - Doppels - Uwasa/Rumours - Kimochi - Labyrinths - Grief Seeds - O

X - Anime - X

O - Original Series (Anime, Portable & Rebellion) - O

O - Gertrud - Anthony - Adelbert - O - Suleika - Ulla - O - Charlotte - Bebe - Pyotr - Polina - O - H.N. Elly/Kirsten - Daniyyel & Jennifer - O - Albertine - Anja - O - Gisela - Dora - O - Elsa Maria - Sebastian - O - Uhrmann - Bartels - O - Oktavia von Seckendorff - Holger - Klarissa - O - Izabel - Michaela - O - Patricia - Mathieu - O - Roberta - Gotz - O - Kriemhild Gretchen - O - Walpurgisnacht - Bluenose - Rednose - Shadow Magical Girls - O - Candeloro - Du Polignac - Dokama - Kasaya - Kokyo - Rahomu - Mitohi (fan names) - O - Ophelia - Zoe - O - Quitterie - Kyutee (fan name) - O - Itzli - O - Homulilly - Clara Dolls - Lotte - Luiselotte - Liese - Lilia - Lisa - O

O - Madoka - Homura - Mami - Sayaka - Kyoko - Nagisa - Hitomi - O 

O - Rebellion - Concept Movie (Madogatari) - Magia Record - O

X - Manga - X

O - Original Manga - Reprint Manga - Wraith Arc - Rebellion Manga - O

O - Homura’s Revenge - Homura Tamura - Welcome to Cafe Grief Seed - The Veranda of Madoka - Magia Report - O

O - The Different Story - O

O - TV witch - Minotaur witch - Postal witch - Moth witch - Queen witch - Hornet witch - Carnivorous plant witch - O (mostly fan names)

O - Kazumi Magica - O

O - Mantis Witch - Cosmetics Witch - O - Prologue - Nie Bluhe Herzen - Arzt Kochen - Weisse Konigin - Hungrige Pumpe - Ritterustung von Heulsuse - Plejaden von Asunaro - Zweikopfiger Boser Flugel - Hyades Daybreak - O - Doppels - Carola - Caterina - Antonio - O

O - Oriko Magica - O

O - Rosasharn - Cecil - Virginia - Stacy - Latria - O - Doppels - O - Sotria - Pistis - O

O - Extra Story - O

O - Sadness Prayer - O

O - Suzune Magica - O

O - Odette - Carmen - Puppet witch - O - Doppels - O - Clothette - Renard - Spica - Elise - O

O - Tart Magica - O

O - Scholar witch - Bell witch - Sun witch - Colossal witch - Crab witch - Flower witch - Hammerhead witch - Enfant Terrible - Isabeau/Crépuscule de La Reine - O - Doppels - O - La Pucelle de Blancheur - Obscurite - La Hire La Hire - Ein Roter Drache - Plaisir - Capricieux - Heremes Trismegistus - O

O - Magia Record Manga - O

X - Games - X

O - Portable - Plus - Online - The Battle Pentagram - SLOT - SLOT 2 - SLOT A - SLOT Rebellion - O

O - Mobage - O

O - Witch of sewing - Witch of springtime - Giraffe witch - Witch that wants to be a bird - Frog witch - Familiars - Witch of dreams - Familiars - Diva witch - Familiars - Cell witch - Familiars - O

O - Magia Record - O

O - Zenobia - Zabaii - Candy - Harold - Stacey - Ekaterina - Rebecca - Joseph - Teresa - Huygens - Winchester/Sarah Mirabilis W - Kiriko Keepers - 10^21 - Echo - Lucy - Coco - Matasaburo - Zakuro - Shin - Kotori - Durbar - Patan - Shitori Egumo - Oscar - Box Wood - Oshiti - Suzugamori - Raspberry - Razzie - Etteilla - Made in 168 - Mapycя - Slave of Anima - Ichizo - Neo Dorothy Motherfucker/Alina Eve - O

O - Doppels - O

O - Giovanna - Campanella - Yu Hong - Theresia - Beatrice - Hevelius - Pennen Nolde - Old Dorothy - Cendrillon - Elfriede - Zola - McDougal - Henrietta - Pennen Nenemu - Catacombe - Totentaz - Dum - Dee - O

X - Fan Content - X

O - Fan witch - Art by others - Art by me - Pixel art by me - Magical Witch AU - Magical Witch profiles - Witchtober - Honorary Witches - Icons - Wallpapers - Asks - Merchandise - Figures - Plushies - O

#masterpost

[silverjayy6]

The tragedy of Hollow Knight-

Hollow Knight is a vast game. And it has a huge story. But the more I've been thinking about it, the more I've been realising how much of a tragedy so much of the story is. How much the different aspects of the story are a tragedy. And I really, really wanna talk about it, sooooooooooo......... (Read under cut if ya want to)

1. Tragedy of the Radiance

The Radiance is the antagonist of the game. The one responsible for the events of the game. Well atleast half of them anyway. She is a Higher Being who resides in the Dream Realm. She is the creator of the Moth tribe. Before the events of the game, all was good. The Moths used to worship her and that was how she was alive. But then came the Pale King.

Upon the arrival of the Pale King, the Moths just immediately shifted their attention to him. They completely forgot about their god, the one who created them. Now, they worshipped the Pale King. Because she was now being forgotten, the Radiance was losing her strength and dying. If she were to be completely forgotten, she would perish, as if she didn't exist in the first place. But she was kept alive. By hushed whispers of faith, as Seer puts it. And eventually these whispers turned to writing, and now the Radiance was getting her power back. But she still wasn't back to her original power. And since the writing could perish anytime too, she wasn't completely safe either. So, to escape her death, and also because she was angry, Radiance created the Infection. She would enter the mind of a bug, fill it with false dreams and desires, get the bug to succumb to these false dreams and desires and then get the bug under her control. That was how the Infection worked and spread. And because it also had a physical form, it became easier for bugs to remember the Radiance, and thus it became easier for her to infect them.

But the Pale King wasn't going to just sit around. He devised a method to stop the Infection. Trapping the Radiance inside an empty bug. One who has no mind to think, or no will to break. And so he did. He trapped her in the mind of a bug whom he thought fit the criteria, who was hollow. And it seemed to work. She was trapped, the Infection was slowly gone. But then, it started again. As it turned out, the bug was not hollow. This allowed her to escape again. And this time, she didn't hold back. She infected all of Hallownest, even bugs which didn't seem to have good connections with the Pale King. And once that was done, a call was sent. Was it by the Radiance or the bug in which she was trapped, was not certain. But this call attracted another bug which of the same nature as the one who trapped the Radiance.

This new bug was the eventual downfall of the Radiance. This one, with the guidance of Hornet, attained the special means needed to combat the Radiance. And when it was finally time to enter the mind of the original and combat the Radiance, it didn't hold back against her. The Radiance lost. She was killed. That was the end of her story.

For me, Radiance's story is a tragedy because of how she was abandoned by her own creations. How she had to go to desperate means just to be alive. How those means caused her downfall, and then rise again, and eventually her death. Her story is a tragedy because it did not have to end this way.

2. Tragedy of the Pale King

The Pale King is the ruler of Hallownest. He dreamt to make it an eternal kingdom. When he first arrived, his light gave sapience to the bugs of Hallownest. They were not brute savages anymore, but learned scholars. He formed a truce with the Mantis tribe. He developed Hallownest as a whole, making travel easier. The kingdom became rich. Bugs from outsude came to visit Hallownest. Even the Moths now woshipped him and not the Radiance. And that is when the downfall started.

The Infection was a dangerous threat. It needed to be stopped right away. The Radiance had to be sealed away in a cage. That could only be inside a bug with no mind, no will and no emotion. The bug needed to be fully hollow. Pale King did research on the Void, a substance found at the bottom the Abyss. He realised that it would be needed to make such a bug. But that would require sacrifice. A lot of it. And so he did. He gave up a lot of eggs to the Abyss. Eggs which were his and the White Lady's. He hoped the Void would take over the unborn children's bodies. This would kill and reanimate them. He hoped this would make them hollow. He and the White Lady felt a lot of guilt and shame in sacrificing so many unborn children, but they felt it must be done. In the hopes that atleast one of them will make it to the top of the Abyss. And one did, one of the bugs managed to reach the top. This would be the Vessel which would contain the Radiance.

The Vessel was raised and trained within the King's palace. And because it took quite a bit of time, he had even formed a bond with the Vessel. A close one. But he was aware of the sacrifice that the Vessel would have to give. Eventually he'll have to let go of the one he loved, to save the kingdom. When the time came, the Vessel was locked away in a huge monument made of solid Void. The Radiance was sealed inside of them. But then, it didn't work. The Infection did not stop. The sacrifice, all of it was for nothing.

Now, the Pale King became scared, shameful, paranoid, and most of all, regretful. He was afraid that the Radiance might attack him now, using some infected bug under her control. So he shifted his Palace inside the mind of one of the guards. And he sat on his throne, all alone. Eventually the sadness, the grief and the regret took over him. And he withered away, his lifeless corpse still holding onto the White Fragment he had.

For me, the Pale King's story is a tragedy because of the sacrifices he had done and how in the end, the sacrifices led to nothing. He had to witness the downfall of his kingdom, the failing of the only hope he had and how it was inevitable that in the end, Radiance would be the one to prevail. This was the only outcome in the end. His story is a tragedy because it was always going to end this way.

3. Tragedy of Hallownest, the Eternal Kingdom

The kingdom of Hallownest, formed by the Pale King. Upon his first arrival, everything was perfect. The kingdom was alive. The bugs were educated. They would write about their chronicles. New pathways would be built, like the Pilgrim's Way, connecting multiple areas together. Stagways and trams were built to make travel easier. Many of the bugs worshipped the Pale King, including the Moths. And their previous god did not like that.

Hallownest was stuck as a sort of battleground between the two Higher Beings. First it was attacked on by the Radiance. She infected everyone in Hallownest, whether they were connected to the Pale King or not, sparing not a single soul. And so, he developed the Vessel project, to try and stop her. The bugs performed prayers for the chosen Vessel. But, it failed. The Infection came back. And as strong as ever. Now nothing could be done about it. All hope for Hallownest was lost. The kingdom had died, and in the end, all that was left was a corpse of the original Hallownest, the Eternal Kingdom.

In the battle between the two Higher Beings, it was Hallownest that got affected the most. The bugs were the ones who suffered the most. The kingdom had gone to ruin. Most of the bugs were infected and had thus returned to their base instincts. The few whcih were alive and uninfected were mostly scattered.

The story of Hallownest is a tragedy because of how it was stuck as a battleground. Originally it was just scattered tribes which the Pale King brought together. But, because The Radiance was being forgotten, it bound to not last long. The Vessel project had failed. There wasn't any hope for Hallownest. This story is a tragedy because it was always going to end this way.

#hollow knight #hk pale king #hk radiance #hallownest #higher beings #hollow knight theory #tragedy

[kinocomix]

untitled project devlog #5: Murder mystery and the art of 50 cent plushies from the sunday market 

A common thread among people who watch shows like NCIS or similar formulaic police shows -where the protagonist is a stoic wall of muscle surrounded by their coworkers who end up being more friends than coworkers- is to predict what’s happening. You frequently hear people go “I knew it was [blank] all along!” Which makes sense, that’s part of the appeal of these shows and how they’re written. You’re MEANT to be hooked in by the incomplete information, that’s the crux of ARGs like the mandela catalogue and marble hornets, lonelygirl15 before Austin Mcconel took over (his words not mine)

sidenote, Sarah from the mandela catalogue is an alternate I’M CALLING IT NOW, this bitch is sus as fuck.

Back to my point, mystery in fiction is a promise made by the author, that promise being that once it’s cemented itself in the logic of the world it inhabits (think how in the mandela catalogue the first few installments were introducing you to the idea of the demons that try to copy people) it’ll slowly unravel itself to the point where its cards are eventually there on the table, and it’s up to you to go back and see how you could have read them better. a good mystery makes the act of solving it equally as fascinating as the solution -that’s why agatha christie tends to be timeless whereas the appeal of shows like NCIS is eventually delegated to the character arcs and set pieces.

In the documentary free solo, Alex Honnold is on a mission to climb El Capitan, in Yosemite National Park with no safety equipment. The actual bit in the documentary where he does the climbing is around 5 to 10 minutes of the 100 minute long runtime of the film. the argument could be made that they could just upload the 5 minute montage of the climb to youtube, and for the extra vicarious thrillseekers low key on the autism spectrum like me, the unedited 3.5 hour long footage of him raw dogging the mountain. But that’s not what documentaries are the same way detective movies aren’t 20 minute podcasts of someone dryly reciting a police file. Documentaries aim to use the language and vocabulary of cinema to discuss everyday ideas. that’s why free solo spends 80 minutes teaching you about climbing as an art, showing you Alex the human, his friends, the shortcomings of other free soloists who died climbing and THEN shows you the 5 minute montage… because at that point the stakes are so high -appropriately so- that the shots of the camera man not being able to look in his viewfinder out of fear of filming someone’s death become intensely real. Alex becomes more than just the visualized idea of the climber, he’s THE climber Alex. The madman who wants to see something done. The friend, the human. It's about narrative delivery, the balance between tension and release. 

This is interesting to consider because the information here is essentially the same, but one feels much more interesting. This same idea is why some science communicators like Hank Green and Bill Nye do a much better job at making you interested in science than most articles on google scholar, it’s the same information but more approachable and digestible. what i”m getting at here is that most things can be very interesting if you put this twist on them, even removed from the context of media: you’re not just talking to your racist boomer uncle, you’re privy to a front row seat into what makes someone grow up to be a racist shithead, which is significantly more interesting. When you shift your thinking into wanting to understand what’s behind the information, life becomes as thrilling and mysterious as a murder novel.

Now let’s apply this paradigm to something like this plushie I bought for 50 cents from the sunday market, and as you’ll see it’s going to raise a very interesting question regarding naturalistic storytelling. 

I did not take a picture of it when I found it but it was very dirty, I had to wash it twice, and you can see how damaged it was, there were tears on the front as well and half the stitches connecting the head to the body were gone.

Here it is after it was fully sewed back up, I opted to highlight the patches because I think it shows the history behind the plush, and because I’ve been watching a lot of Baumgartner restoration videos lately and Julian would take away my fabric privileges if I covered up more than is needed.

also yes, it’s being propped up with an empty jar of tahini, it is delicious and I will not be taking feedback at this time. I want to direct your attention at this Logo here:

now if you search for “Herz’l plush” you get a bunch of disconcerting anatomically correct heart plushies that are sure to stab me in my sleep that are wildly unrelated to the brand. Unsurprising, it’s german for “my heart”

a bit of extra digging and you might come across this german reseller website with some plushies with the same tag, but nothing useful to our search is mentioned…

https://www.kleinanzeigen.de/s-anzeige/spiralplueschtier-schlange-herz-l-pluesch-kuscheltier/1850047318-23-4712

so… that’s a bust. What about the other side of the tag?

okay… not too sure of what to make of that. But that’s what search engines are for, let’s try “seneca”:

Oh it’s… a Stoic philosopher. Okay what about “seneca Hamburg?” 

https://www.ebay.de/itm/125112346754

more ebay listings. great. okay fine, let’s ask the internet for help

I see. surely someone knows SOMETHING.

ok wow this thing is… old.

of course! The german trademark register. I feel dumb. let’s see what’s in there:

oh god oh jesus what is all this why is there a giant block of text is THAT-

okay so they made the plushie but why is it so FUCKING obscure? At this point I remembered I have a German lawyer friend. Everyone needs to have a German lawyer friend.

okay! now we know what to actually search for.

https://www.northdata.com/Terrex+Handels-AG,+Oststeinbek/Amtsgericht+L%C3%BCbeck+HRB+1610+RE

liquidation? so… they never renewed the trademark cause there was no more company. seems like they weren’t doing too well either. looks like at some point they did a merger with another company. Then not too soon later liquidated it… thanks to my dear lawyer friend here, I can tell you this:

“Every company is owned by a larger company, which is the shell company of a different company. At the end, you figure out all companies are owned by like 3-5 companies”

To recap, here’s what we learned about the tag on our plushie:

The plushie is exactly 30 years old as of 2023. This is not to mention that I learned about how companies buy each other like stocks, how there’s something called forensic accounting because of that, that the “China export” thing is just a myth*, and more…

*https://www.europarl.europa.eu/doceo/document/P-6-2007-5938-ASW_EN.html?redirect

so this is where we ended up:

It’s possible I may have gotten carried away. Setting that aside for a moment, this is what I mean when I say mysteries are good because they make you learn and explore. Sometimes, connections and breakthroughs are made because of things like a plushie that you would have otherwise completely ignored. 

What this has to do with naturalistic storytelling is how it highlights the fact that life is messy. Despite the fact that I hyper fixated on this plush for hours, there’s a lot I still don’t know about it. I have a general overview of the situation for sure, I know it was made in Germany in 1993, and stuff about the company that made it but that’s about it. Good mysteries stay puzzling even after you solve them because LIFE is mysterious. The balance here is how much do you show the reader, and how much do you leave unanswered? The way I’ve personally found that deals with this has to do with format and layered storytelling.

There's one thing that comics do that will always be superior to other media and that is layered storytelling. Not to be confused with how films have a plots and b plots, or how books can choose to switch the focus of the scene onto something different: layered storytelling is when multiple pieces of information are being conveyed at once.

a very straight forward example oh what i mean is how in this section in my comic “Almost home” when Graham is having a conversation with a mysterious person who randomly shows up to see them:

In addition to the conversation being had, there’s this cypher in the background that you would have found the key to prior in the comic. The existence of a parallel piece of information that you can switch your attention to if you so desire is what makes this parallel storytelling. The reason I don’t think this could work in film is because in a comic, you dictate the speed at which the media is occurring. If you stop reading a speech bubble, that doesn’t mean the story is paused, it just means you’re focusing on the moment the panel is trying to show you; and different people do this differently.

In this panel, you’re free to choose whether or not the ciphered text is being narrated or not because focusing on it is optional and doesn't take away from your ability to understand what’s happening immediately in front of you. You’re free to read all of my comics without engaging with a single thing I put in the background and it will still provide a satisfying and emotional experience. Games also do this when done right, an excellent example is “Night in the woods” and how you’re free to ignore most of the town, or sidequests for example. 

Another example is an unreleased project of mine still in early development called “the ice cream men”. The story follows two aliens who get stuck on earth and set about trying to make ice cream, shenanigans and existentialism ensue. In the book there’s an entire second narrative told in the form of writings on walls and random journal entries that they find that they just can’t read because… they’re aliens. To them this is just a big abandoned planet with a single cat on it, but to the reader with the ability to see everything… HOO BOY.

This is something I love incorporating into fiction. I think it gives things more depth if done right, and can act like the mystery of a detective novel or an ARG. Obviously this doesn't always work, sometimes the beauty of a story is its simplicity, or by how in your face it is about being analyzed. Not every idea needs or can even handle the additional weight of parallel storytelling.  And that’s where dogs come in.

but I can’t talk about that now, we’ll have to leave it until next week.

Devlog updates on tuesdays.

#comic #webcomic #plushies #rescue #poetry #mystery #arg #the mandela catalogue #graphic novel #kinocomix #devlog #Youtube

[thehoneyknight]

Memoria, sketch pages 97-108

(Radiant Arc 10, 3.35)

(Pages 102-106 have a unique page format with two dialogues. For clarity of reading each separate dialogue will be done in turns and labelled as such)

Page 97

Radiance- Little Vessel, we convene once more. The Blessing that guards your dreams may not allow my light to shine within you but there remains a part inside that calls out to me- no matter your repressions. You are so resistant to embrace the light of dawn, to accept the rightful truth. Yet you reach out to claim it from the confines of your mind. Why keep up such pretences, Pawn of Wyrm?

There is only one outcome to these endeavours. The light shall be rekindled, reborn, remembered. One way or another.

Another within the Hive has accepted my guidance. The Hive will fall shortly, and to the cause of one who gave himself by choice. Perhaps when we next meet, little one, you will realise how right that decision truly was. You are too late.

-

Page 98

((Ch2.28))

I.Mato- You! You… are so much like him… Too much like him.

Oro was not one to make a hasty promise. And you- you were born to fulfil a promise. You… despite everything. You came back to finish the deed. Oro would have done the same. Oro would never have broken his promise. Never given up. Just like you…

There is only one reason Oro would break his promise… Oro is dead.

-

Page 99

((Ch2.29))

Mato- Why did you come back, little one?

((Ch2.30))

Mato- Why stir uncertainty within the purpose you were given? You could have freed yourself. … For yourself… ha. Perhaps I have mistaken you, Honey. You are not like Oro at all. You are like me.

And if so… where is that Vessel friend you once followed? Are you not trying to find the ones you care about too?

((Ch2.31))

-

Page 100

((Ch2.32))

((Ch2.33))

Paladin- I am.

((Ch2.34))

Mato- I am going to continue looking for Oro within the kingdom, despite what Vespa says. She is withholding something- I know it. I suppose we all suppress something…

…You’ve changed, Honey. When we first met at the Howling Cliffs that wasn't your name. I can guess that Vespa gave you your title- Honey Knight- but what became of Luma?

How far are you willing to change for her? What changes have you already undergone? I wonder, do you even know?

Luma. Make your own choices. You can change the future.

-

Page 101

((Ch2.35))

Hornet- I will let you carry your burdens, Vessel, but do not mistake that for my support. We all have our own futures to return to. Do not forget that.

((Ch2.36))

Comban- Be back soon.

((Ch2.37))

((Ch2.38))

-

Page 102 (Memoria)

((Ch2.39))

Luma- Remember me, Luma. You can’t deny the future. Luma.

((Ch2.40))

Hornet- I’ll not hold back. It is my duty to protect this kingdom’s future. The one to bear the Brand takes such a future for their own. This is my promise to the one you would call The Beast. This is my future.

((Ch3.1))

((Ch3.3))

Bardoon- A large choice you have made. Before you is another.

-

Page 103 (Memoria)

Bardoon- To seek the past and define a new future? To offer your heart to the inevitability? What would your likes pursue?

To see visage of collapse and try to change fate to one’s own anyway. There are dangers in such things. You were not chosen to bear the Brand, hrmm? Knowing this, would you try to claim your own path as Wyrm once did? Consider your truth. Is this future your motive, or something of one’s mind?

((Ch3.4))

Comban- Whah!

((Ch3.8))

God Tamer- You are not strong enough to protect your ‘friends’. You are not strong enough to protect everyone.

-

Page 104 (Memoria)

((Ch3.9))

God Tamer/Radiance- I will (Destroy/Take) my victory. By my own mind / Kill the empty one.

Comban- Everything will be okay.

Tamer’s Beast/Comban- Shell broken. Mind lost. Awoken by light? Forgotten and twisted. Instincts of combat as beared. Refusal of death / Denial of memory

((Ch3.11))

Scholar- You have two souls. We see neither soul belongs to you- no, we see the entirety of this soul does not belong to you. You are soulless. Yet you have soul.

Your spells, your souls. They do not complete you, odd bug. (twins of soul… lack one’s own at all…)

((Ch3.12))

Argent- Luma. Focus.

-

Page 105 (Memoria)

Argent- Sibling.

((Ch3.13))

((Ch3.15))

Quirrel- I ache for those places I could not have dreamt. Those places that call and I cannot remember.

((Ch3.17))

Paladin- I think a convergence of events has begun. It is only a matter of time until this old kingdom undergoes a change of fate. The Vessels returning, Quirrel seeking Monomon, the King’s Brand claimed. We will all play a part in Hallownest’s future, if we choose it.

The Dreamers gave their lives for the kingdom. To become a Seal. In a sense they are already dead. There is no way to wake up from that… There are no more loopholes left to use.

Comban- You just said the future was ours if we choose it. I choose that Herrah shouldn't have to die to stop the Infection.

-

Page 106 (Memoria)

((Ch3.20))

((Ch3.21))

Dailon- The Honey Knight will train their nail with me. It is clear even to me they are not strong enough to protect you all…

((Ch3.22))

Dailon- Now. Try again. Stronger! I won’t hold back!

((Ch3.24))

Paladin- You choose power and disregard the future for everyone else.

Dailon- What choice do you give Honey? What choice did you give the other Vessels caught under Vespa’s wings? Kilter? My daughter? Yourself?

You give Honey no choice in becoming the next Vessel for your Queen’s Blessing. You named them for how useful they are to you. Honey Knight. They are the ‘bridge between honey and void’, no? Are they all the same to a Queen? Those past Vessels failed. Died. Killed. Paladin. You cannot talk to me of choices.

Honey- I didn’t have a choice!

-

Page 102 (Honey)

Honey- Where would we be without the King’s Brand? What future would you have chosen without its light? We are almost at the end of your memories, Honey. And the future has only just begun.

-

Page 103 (Honey)

Honey- Together we can fight for the end of history. For new dreams of Hallownest. A new light.

For all the King’s Brand meant, it is not the honour of what has been done. He fought for a future unchanging. There must always be change. Change is what makes us alive.

-

Page 104 (Honey)

Honey- Stasis is binding. And for all in stasis, the King’s light was the seal. Sealing away the future. It is broken now. Changed.

You bear the light of choice, Honey. The light of a new future.

-

Page 105 (Honey)

Honey- It is your light, Honey! You are the light of Hallownest! And you have changed the future.

There is only one purpose left. The Black Egg can be opened. The Infection can be stopped.

-

Page 106 (Honey)

Honey- You know how to face The Radiance. You can reclaim light lost. You can be Radiant.

You can do this! And most importantly. You can be yourself. You can be Honey. You can be…

-

Page 107

Honey- You!

-

Page 108

Argent- We have always been a part of you, Honey. Even when we fought our selves. And you had no way to know. But we don’t define you. You are you. Honey is… Honey.

We will be united a little longer. Seek The Abyss for the power behind this unity.

Later, when this is all over. We can be together again. Apart. We hope to see you in the future. We entrust ourselves to you, Honey.

#hollow knight #hk comic #mod sketch #one comic left- 'daybreak'- will post it next week :)

[sy-on-boy]

You know, I know that Twilight's bosses want with Anya to get the Stella Stars within a certain amount of time, but the time frame struck as really unrealistic. Like, eight stars within five to six months from a six-year-old? They are frankly asking for a miracle and a half. Strix was obviously meant to be a long-term operation, like several years long. I know they want information on Donovan and they don't want to unintentionally kick over a hornet's nest, but frankly it'd be easier to just kill him.

Yup, exactly, I agree. That would be a hard enough feat for someone like Damian, let alone Anya. I don’t think Eden would allow a first grader to become a Scholar in like half a year, and Anya might arouse a lot of (unwanted) attention about her stars being fake. But if Twilight kills Donovan that’s gonna cause a lot of angst between Damian and Forgers 😔

#spy x family #ask box #answered

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVIII | A Forbidden Warmth

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, panic attacks AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVIII | A Forbidden Warmth First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hornet and Quirrel prepare Hollow for surgery.

○

Its sister was missing.

It knew this as soon as it became aware enough to feel the chill beside it. Her warmth was what it clung to as it drifted into slumber, her presence by its side an anchor against the turbulence of its own mind—

And now she was gone.

Gone from its side, where she had been when it fell asleep. And, it found when it opened its eyes, from the room entirely.

But it was not alone.

The scholar sat near the fireplace, bent over something in his own lap, in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable. How long he had been here, seemingly waiting for it to wake, it did not know.

Had he been watching it? Gathering information? Unease swept over it like a chill wave. What could he possibly learn from it as it slept?

At the moment, however, he was occupied. He held something small and bright in one hand, applying careful strokes of a whetstone to it with the other, while occasionally turning it to meet the light of the window with a pale spark in the dimness.

For an instant, it saw another blade, in another hand. Double-edged. Glowing.

No, that was not right. That was another piece of the memory it had uncovered, another thing that had no place here and now. It blinked, and the glow cleared, and it saw what Quirrel held.

A scalpel.

It knew such tools, knew their names and uses, from long hours on the worktable, when its father had been too tired to work alone and had brought assistants with him. From the scholars who had hovered nearby in twos and threes during its molts, who had chatted to one another as they cut and pried the sloughing shell from its body. Scalpels, shears, forceps, lancets—it remembered them all. Foggy as its early experiences could be, these shone clear and vivid in its memory.

Perhaps they should not. Perhaps they should be as blurred and unimportant as its many hours on duty, as the unceasing repetitions of its training. But its mind did not obey it, and the memories stayed sharp.

Its sister had promised that she would resume her work today. Purging the infection from it, by whatever means she must.

It could not help the way its breath hitched at that, its chest already tightening. Not in fear of the pain that would come, but for what it might do in response. For the danger that it posed, the lashing claws and snapping teeth that it knew it was capable of. For who it might hurt, when it lost control.

The cricket noticed.

He looked up, seeming startled, and lowered the implement out of its sight. “Ah. Um.” He craned his head around, a useless motion, looking around for someone who was not present—its sister, perhaps. After hesitating, he placed the scalpel into a small, dark case and tipped the lid shut. “Pardon me. Good morning.”

It could not respond. Did he expect a response? He certainly spoke to it as if he did.

“I believe your sister is asleep in the kitchen.” He rose, bowing slightly, another action that seemed useless to it. But then, it was not meant to judge. “Allow me to fetch her.”

He disappeared into the next room, leaving it truly alone—as it had been outside the temple, as it had been the day the fever crept up and smothered it. Its heart beat faster.

It was in those moments of solitude that its failure weighed on it the heaviest. It was in being alone that its impurity shone most clearly. The vessel could no longer deceive itself into thinking it had been worthy of containing the goddess, but that was what it had attempted to do regardless, ignoring the pain, ignoring the growing dread that she would one day break out and be free of it. It had held, as long as it could, and then it had broken, as it always feared. But the thought of being alone—

Alone meant that she had won. That she had been right. That it was abandoned, cast aside, its body too broken to serve any longer, its mind split open and emptied of all except the fear and shame and agony it should never have felt.

Alone meant that—

That there was another suffering in its place.

It felt more memories lapping slowly at it. More images of the temple, bright and warped and glistening, distorted by the light that had inhabited it. By the infection, like a flow of molten stone, melting and obliterating everything it touched.

No.

No, it would not break again, not now. The vessel was not truly alone, not as it had been then. It would not succumb, would not weaken and fail its wielder once again. It—it was stronger than that, still, it—

Quiet words, from within the kitchen. Then louder ones: its sister’s name, repeated.

Then there was a small series of noises it did not know how to interpret. A scrape and a grunt, the rasp of claws on stone or shell. Silence. Or near-silence—someone was breathing hard, winded.

Its heartbeat pulsed harder, pushing spikes of pain through its mask. A different sort of fear rose up to take hold of it.

Quirrel had said her name, but it had not heard her reply.

Was she injured? Was she sick, or unconscious? No one had entered the house, there was no enemy to guard against, and it did not know what it should do if something had happened—

What could have happened—

It lifted its head from the pillows, craning round just as the scholar had done, staring fixedly at the darkened doorway through the dizziness that assaulted it. It had not been asked to move, to attempt to help, but—perhaps it could—

Hornet appeared in the doorway, with Quirrel just behind her.

It laid its head down, quickly, as if its actions might escape notice. That was too much to hope, of course, but she didn’t attempt to punish it, did not even speak a word of reprimand.

Instead, she trudged across the room and sank down in front of it, reaching to take its face in her hands and resting her forehead against one of its horns.

It was still. Despite the shock that trembled through it, despite the tender pressure in its throat as she knelt there and rested her head against its own, supporting her weight against it.

Gradually, it realized that the trembling was Hornet. Shaking, almost too subtly to notice beneath the heavy drape of her cloak, except that her horn knocked faintly against its mask, and her hands were unsteady on its cheeks.

It braced itself, providing as stable a surface as it could for her to lean against. She was so light, so gentle, and it would remain here forever if she asked, bear her up as long as she wished, as long as she had need of it. Bewildering, that she would want this, that she would ever desire the assistance of something so broken. But this, faulty as it had proven to be, was something it could do.

Too soon, she sat back, running her hands down toward its muzzle, but not removing them entirely. She was not shaking nearly so much, now, and it swayed beneath a weight of crooked pride at the thought that it had helped her, in some way that it did not understand.

Hornet swallowed. “I’m sorry, I—” A crack in her throat. She swallowed and began again. “It was just a-another nightmare.”

It had never had a nightmare. Or a dream, in the usual sense. True, a dream had been imposed upon it, trapping it within a realm it had no place in, but it had no frame of reference for the sleep-phantoms that a truly living being might experience.

But if they were enough to unnerve its sister, courageous as she was, they must be terrible indeed.

Nightmares were the realm of a separate god, it knew. A god its father had been aware of, a god that the Radiance had known, once. It knew nothing about him, but if he was tormenting its sister—

What could it do? Nothing, and yet an unfamiliar heat welled up within it, a reckless fervor that made it act without thinking, without suppressing its own instincts, lifting its head again to push more firmly against her.

She sat, silent and still, long enough for shame to take hold, for the vessel to be sure it had done something wrong. It drew back, only for her hands to tighten, pulling it more closely to her chest. She tapped her mask against its own again, and the heat and shame both dissolved into fragile, aching wonder, a wonder that disbelief and doubt did nothing to diminish.

Whatever else she wanted, whatever fate awaited it, it had this. This was more, more, more than enough—this impossible chance to offer solace in return for the undeserved kindness she had given it.

It was a long time before she calmed completely, before the shivering stopped, and she began to relax. Its neck was aching by then, a fact that it deliberately ignored. But she must have guessed, for she took care to release it gently, lowering its head back to rest on the pillows it had partly risen from.

Only then did it remember the scholar, hovering at the edge of the room as if unwilling to intrude, rubbing his wrist like it pained him.

Its sister looked over her shoulder, head lowered in that way she had when she was tired. It seemed she was never not tired, now. Were these nightmares the cause of that?

If it could, it would free her from them. The touch of a dream-god was, in the vessel’s experience, an excruciating thing to endure. It was no longer strong enough to pose a challenge, but oh, if it could have been—

“I’m… sorry,” Hornet mumbled. “About your arm.”

“Oh?” Quirrel started, looked down at his wrist, and dropped his hand from it. “Oh. It’s nothing. My own fault. I-I should have guessed I would need to be more careful.”

“In the future, perhaps a stick would be advisable,” she replied, without a hint of irony.

Quirrel choked on something that sounded very much like a laugh. “Noted.”

It did not have enough context to infer the meaning of that. Since the conversation did not seem relevant to it, it refocused on its sister, as she sat back and rubbed her hands over her knees, claws turned under to avoid catching at her cloak.

She returned her own attention to the vessel a moment later, considering it, tracing its form with her gaze.

Quietly, almost tentatively, she said, “I’d like to try again with what we attempted yesterday.”

It tensed.

Was she speaking to it? What exactly was she referring to?

The only thing its suddenly frantic mind could settle on was the moment she had tried to take its pulse and it had rebelled against her, pulling free from her grasp. While it would willingly suffer that much and more before it did so again, it could not be sure that its instincts would agree.

Before its thoughts could follow those lines much farther, she held one hand out to it. “Taking your pulse will mean I need to touch your throat—gently. You may still pull away if it causes you pain, or if you begin to panic. Quirrel will stay over there,” with a nod at where he stood at the window, nearly out of its line of sight, “and he will only be counting the time.”

Oh. Oh, that was kind of her, so kind, but it should not need to be protected in this way. A knot woven of both pride and shame twisted tight under its shell. She was gracious, far more so than it deserved. To see what it needed, to feel out the things it could not do and the dangers it could not warn her of, and instead of taking advantage, to accommodate it—

It would be sucked beneath the weight of its fear if it lingered here much longer, and she would have to pull it out again.

The notion of its faults being seen, measured, recorded, still caused a swell of fear within it, but it lifted its head before she could withdraw her offer, placing its chin in her hand.

It seemed that she was trembling again, until the vessel realized that was it, causing her arm to shake with the force of its fear. It tried to tense, to lock down the impulses that were betraying it. This only caused a larger shudder, making its impurity even more visible, until Hornet brought her other hand to its neck and stroked her thumb along its shell.

“Relax, please,” she pleaded. “I wish—I wish we did not need to do this, if it scares you so. But it will not hurt, I promise.”

It was not afraid of pain. It had no way to explain this to her. It was afraid—

It was afraid of the watching eyes, the scratch of pens, the brush of fingers on its throat—

It was afraid of the memories.

They would take hold of it as soon as it dropped its guard. As soon as it turned its gaze elsewhere. It had no way to stop them, and its vigilance could not be maintained forever.

And it had no way to warn its sister of this. No way to tell her what was coming. No way to know if she—or her ally—would be in danger.

It must endure. That was all that was left to it—it must hold out as long as it was able, beat the insanity back as far as it could. It would obey. It had sworn to itself that it would conquer its fear, that it would master this fault, somehow, to keep its sister safe.

That oath did not help much against the way its guts seemed to turn soft and wobbly, like one of the bizarre quivering jellies it had seen served at Palace banquets.

Long ago. Very long ago, now. The past could not reach it, and the present was not so terrible. It would lie here, lie still, waiting, until its shivering died down into nothing.

Long minutes passed, with its neck gone limp and its mask’s weight resting on Hornet’s palm, with the soft pad of her thumb brushing its throat. Until she exhaled, whispered, “There, that’s it,” and moved her hand upward.

Pressure on its jaw, above the edge where its shell ended. The callused texture of Hornet’s fingers caught on the softness of its skin while she felt beneath its mask. It did not move, did not so much as twitch, when her questing touch brought her to the pulse point there.

She settled with a sigh—of relief, it thought—and pressed more firmly, though still gentle, until it could feel its heartbeat jumping out to meet her.

The drum of void beneath its shell was everywhere, suddenly, palpable in every joint and fingertip, all the way out to the edges of it. Knowing that she could feel it too, that every skip and falter would make its way to her, brought the limits of the vessel’s body into sharp focus. It swam blindly in that new awareness, feeling exposed, transparent, as though every plate of its armor had suddenly turned into glass.

It did not know how long it lay there, trying not to tremble, sensing every beat of its heart like a hammer-blow, before Quirrel’s voice broke the stillness. “Time.”

Hornet withdrew her right hand from its throat, tucking its head back down and resting it against the pillow before she removed the other. “Seventy-four.”

“Hm.”

She looked at him. When that alone did not provoke an answer, she repeated the sound he’d made. “Hm?”

The scratch of a pencil finished before he spoke up. “Granted, we have no reference for their normal heart rate. But that seems accelerated, for someone their size.”

“I could not tell you,” she said flatly. “I’ve never been any bigger than I am.”

“That’s certainly a relief.” This comment was made with a wry sort of amusement. “I’m not sure the world could handle much more of you.”

Its sister hissed at that, but she did not seem entirely serious, and Quirrel only grinned faintly back at her. “Regardless, recording your resting pulse rate—and my own—might help somewhat. And taking your sibling’s again later. Learning of any variation there will be useful.”

“We will do that, then.” Hornet leaned forward, placing her fingers on its face, speaking only to it, low, where the cricket could not hear. “Well done. Thank you.”

It breathed out, grazing her wrist with the chilly air in its throat. How could it have done well? It had only done what it was told—what it should have done the day before, when it had clearly disobeyed. She’d given it another chance, without condemnation, and what she had learned was unfavorable: its heart was not functioning properly. Beating too quickly, either as a result of its fear, or the thinning of the void in its veins, or the ravages of infection in places it could not feel or see.

She had no reason to thank it.

But had it not sworn not to judge her? Had it not concluded that it had no place to question what she did with it? If she saw fit to thank it—no matter what forbidden warmth surfaced in response to the praise—it must let her.

There seemed to be something else she wished to say; she held its stare, tilting her head and clicking her fangs haltingly, but in the end, she remained quiet. Hunched her shoulders, and swallowed, hard, and looked away.

“Quirrel,” she said instead, “have you finished with the tools?”

“Not quite yet. Give me half an hour, perhaps.”

Its sister nodded. She stood and left it there, moving a little unsteadily, as if her legs had gone weak. Almost as its father used to do, when standing from his desk after too long sunk in his work, though his legs had been much shorter than hers.

It would not do to think of him now. To remember how carefully he’d monitored its health, through all its growth and training, the meticulous records he’d kept, the ways he’d found to keep it sound, to make it stronger. He would know how to fix it—or how to dispose of it, so that it would not hurt anyone else. Its sister must not have access to that knowledge now, as timid and incomplete as her efforts were.

She would do nothing but her best, it knew. She would give nothing but her all, though that was far more than a disgraced vessel merited.

It had not been given any further orders, so it watched the preparations made. Shellwood stacked and lit beneath a kettle filled with water. Knives and shears honed keenly, held inside the sputtering flame until they glowed. Towels laid out near where the vessel lay, and tattered rags stacked alongside, and one basin, then two, filled and placed at the ready.

Hornet was quiet, ignoring its regard as she went about her tasks, responding in single syllables to Quirrel’s intermittent questions. When she had run out of things to carry, she paced, fists clenched in the sides of her cloak, as she waited for the scholar to be ready.

The vessel’s heart was doubtless beating faster now. If she were to take its pulse again, she might find cause for worry. It did not stir, holding its breathing to its regular rhythm, though the world began to gray again at the edges.

Finally, she turned, holding herself rigid, her voice as brittle as glass. “Quirrel, would you leave us for a moment?”

Quirrel looked up and set down the implement he’d been heating. “Of course. I should fetch something from upstairs, in any case.”

As soon as he was gone, Hornet hastened toward it, crouching at its side and staring into its eyes. “Listen to me,” she said, hushed but urgent. “I know—I know that you have told me you’re unsure if you can do it. But—”

She choked, turning her head aside, not looking at it as she continued on. “I must have your agreement in this. I must know that you will tell me if I need to stop.”

That was enough to break its control immediately, its heartbeat spiking higher, driving its vision toward darkness. It was breathing fast, and it sounded horrible, torn and strained and fraying, and the only thing that could begin to bring it back was the weight in its hand, as she clasped both of hers over it, curling its fingers under her own.

“I know. I know,” she whispered. “I am sorry, Hollow—I am.”

It could not answer while she held it, and yet it would be lost if she let go. It shuddered, sending a twitch through its fingers that she felt and returned, squeezing tighter, as if in answer.

“I would not ask, except”—she sighed, her throat trembling nearly as much as the vessel’s did—“except that I must protect myself, and Quirrel. I cannot be so careless now. It is not—it was not your fault, what you did. It was mine, and I never should have pushed you so, but I have no choice except to do it again.”

The last words shuddered, her voice trembling and bowing in her throat like a bent branch, and it nearly keened in response, aching with the knowledge that she blamed herself for its weakness. This was not her mistake to take responsibility for, not her burden to bear, but she had shouldered it anyway, and now she suffered for it.

Its father had often done the same.

“I swear, I… I will make it as easy as I can. I will use my silk to bind you, and I will not do more to you than you can bear if I can help it. But I need to know. I need you to tell me. Will you?”

Her plea spilled out in a tumble of words, almost more than it could follow, scattered as it was. The thought that she should need to beg it so, for anything, woke a flutter of unease in its breast.

She was its monarch now. She was its liege, its wielder, and she should never have to plead with it. It must obey.

And if she asked something that it could not do—

It would have to find a way.

The vessel’s fingers stirred in the cage of her hands. She let go, all at once, and it felt the lack of her as the cold rushed back to replace all of her warmth.

It gasped and quaked, struggling to stay afloat, to keep its head above the water, to—gods curse it, to think.

What she asked it to do was a horror to it. A violation of its purpose, of the reason it existed.

And yet it had fallen far, and would fall farther still, to please her.

Yes, it said, its hand shaking, shaking, with the pulse of fear deep in its veins, and there was so much more within that word, things it could not say, if I can and if I must and for you, I will try.

She made a sound, half a sob, half a laugh, and it could not begin to guess what that meant, what it said that she could not, what hid within her relief and her remorse.

Reluctant, almost timid, she reached out to it, as if it would ever not want what she offered, as if it would ever not feel that hunger stirring, that strange warmth in its core that melted its resolve away. When it did not pull back, when it let itself slip and pushed against her hand, wanting, needing, she yielded. She eased down next to it, pulling its head to lie against her leg, looping an arm around its neck to keep it steady as it shuddered and heaved and weathered the storm its own mind had created.

It seemed a long time before the haze cleared, before it could feel more than the pounding of the pulse in its head and the crawling of claws over its shell. Hornet kept it steady once again. She brushed her thumb over its throat every so often, reminding it to breathe—and though shame overtook it, shame that it must be assisted with something so simple, gratitude soon followed, that she should understand that it needed this at all.

When it was calm again at last, and only the aftershocks of its panic still quaked through it, she straightened a bit and called out quietly. “You can come down now.”

Halting footsteps descended the stairs, and Quirrel came into view. “I was not intending to intrude.”

“You did not,” Hornet said, sighing. Her hands went still, curling into fists against its throat and mask, then relaxing. “Is everything ready?”

“Nearly.” He crossed the room, opening a small cloth pouch and proffering it. “This is for you; I believe it might help.”

Its sister leaned forward to look in but did not reach out. “Help with what?” she said, a trifle sharply.

“Well. I get headaches on occasion. Less often, now that—well. In any case, in the last kingdom I visited, I discovered that chewing this herb relieved some of the associated symptoms.” Quirrel hesitated. “Mainly nausea.”

Nausea?

Was its sister ill? It breathed in, slowly, attempting to observe her scent, though the information gathered told it nothing new, nothing it had not already known. It had heard that some creatures could smell sickness, but evidently that was not an ability afforded to vessels. Not one it ever should have needed, most likely.

Hornet neither confirmed nor denied Quirrel’s assumption, though she did take the bag and stow it somewhere in her cloak. “Stand aside, if you please. I need to move them.”

He did so, and as its sister untangled herself and stood up, the vessel realized it had already tensed, anticipating the pain that was sure to come when it stirred. This would not do, when she had just spent so much effort calming it. An attempt at relaxing was only partially successful; its shoulders were still twisted tight and aching when Hornet bent back down to speak to it.

“I’d like you to lie on these blankets.” She gestured to the ones she had laid out on the scrubbed floor next to the bed, along with a stack of pillows that were positioned to prop up its horns. “Move as slowly as you need to and stop to rest if you must. I will be beside you so you do not fall.”

This was an attempt to keep the bed clean, it guessed. It had seen how she struggled to remove the void-stains from the sheets after her last attempt, the frayed fabric still cloudy in places despite her best efforts.

The vessel eyed the blankets she had indicated. Undoubtedly, it would muss her neat handiwork by trying to lie on top of it, but it saw no alternative. It regarded the distance from the mattress to the floor, weighing the methods it might use to traverse the space without falling or damaging itself.

In the end, it ought not to have bothered. As soon as it rolled forward and pushed up on its remaining arm, the pain and dizziness roared back with a vengeance, and it was left fumbling to prop its legs beneath it, one knee slipping off the mattress and cracking against the floor, causing a bright spark of pain that instantly vanished in the blaze.

It must have listed to the left, unaware of it in the swirling turmoil of the room. Its bad side fetched up against an obstacle, something warm and clinging, something that wobbled dangerously, and then its sister shouted, “Quirrel? Quirrel!”

“I’m here,” his voice said, and the weight against it doubled, a second pair of hands joining Hornet’s frantic, sliding grip. “I’m here. We have you.”

After a hurried, whispered dispute, both pairs of hands shifted, guiding it down, turning it carefully before lowering it onto the floor. The flagstones were cool and hard, solid, something it could cling to while the room was spinning.

Panting, only half-aware of anything beyond the pain and the frenzied motion, it closed its eyes and latched its silk-lined claws into the first thing it felt, tearing threads in the blanket beneath it. Its back was pulled taut, shoulders pressing into the floor, horns scraping the stone until warm hands moved it once more, tilting its head to the side and slipping a cushion under its neck.

Another touch, across its legs, as its sister began to weave silk lines to bind it; suddenly it heard that the voice murmuring encouragement was not Hornet’s, and the hands adjusting the pillows had no claws.

It... did not quite feel anything about that now. Not when Quirrel tucked another cushion under its shoulder, relieving the pressure of its spine against the floor, and whispered that he was sorry, that it should breathe deeply and relax, that the pain would ease sooner if it did. It tried to follow his advice, tried to clutch the reassurance tight, tried to let the calm in his voice relieve the pressure in its chest.

He continued speaking as it lay there, his voice coming from just to its left and above, where his hand rested on one horn. Something about dizziness, and how unpleasant it could be, and the headaches he had mentioned, although he was sure what he himself had gone through was no comparison. As he was not a void creature who had been infected by dreams, it could not help but agree.

No more than a weak sense of disquiet arose at the touch, with every other sensation demanding so much of its attention. The contact on two points of its body tethered it to earth, as much as the slowly growing web of silk did, though the bands of silk were infinitely more forgiving than the bonds it had known before, just as smooth and soft as the last time she had bound it.

The pressure was… comforting, almost, though shame writhed to the surface again at the thought that comfort might be something that it needed.

Its sister worked her way up its body, stringing wide, soft skeins of silk that lay cool across its shell, pulling them snug and anchoring them to the floor on either side. She broke the silence to tell it that, although it should stop if the bindings grew tight enough to damage it, she wanted it to try to move its legs.

It could not. Not much more than a few inches.

She did not say whether that was good, or what she had expected, merely continued weaving while it slowly found the ability to relax into its new position.

If this meant that it would not have the ability to hurt her, it would be glad. If it was too weak to break her silk, if the slow failure of its body would protect her from harm, it would be nothing but grateful.

She was thorough, placing anchors every few feet, stretching silk across its hips, its waist, avoiding the large stretch of its chest where she would need space clear to work, but circling its good shoulder with a thick loop and tying it down. Two more pulled its arm to the floor and fastened it, but when she reached its hand, she stopped.

It felt the silk around its claw slip off. Just the one—its first finger.

Strange.

She spun a pad into its palm, taking precaution against its own talons stabbing in. On all its other claws, she renewed the wrappings, but she did not bind its fingers shut, leaving them open and spread upon the stone, before she laced a last band around its wrist and secured it to the floor.

“Hollow?”

Her voice was warbling. It inched its head to the side to look at her, fearful to start the room whirling again, and locked her mask into its vision.

She laid one hand over its bound one, touching its loose claw with one of her own. “This is how you will signal to me if you have need. Tap three times to attract my attention.” She demonstrated, a light pattern on the flagstones. “Two times for yes, once for no. Three taps, then two, for something else.” After each signal, she showed it what she wanted, then asked it to repeat. Still winded from the pain, it could almost do so without fear, concentrating solely on the motion and overlooking the meaning, the gravity, of what she asked.

Finished, she sat back, those ivory fangs working, twitching, in search of what to say.

“I-I will not be angry, if you ask to stop.” Her inhale broke in two, a hiccup, nearly, but when she breathed out, it was steady. “I wish for you to—to tell the truth, about how much you can bear. Do you hear me?”

The vessel trembled, the motion caught within the silk, muffling it. It did hear her. She knew that. And what was more, when the silence stretched, it became clear that she wanted the vessel to answer.

It would do as she asked, it must, but—perhaps this would not be needed. Perhaps it could be strong enough to fight off the panic, the memories of pain that stirred and snarled and seized it tightly, sinking claws into its mind. That was a desperate hope, but the vessel knew no other kind—all its hopes had always been desperate, grasping, the perversity of the action ensuring that every one it dared to cling to was all but strangled by the force of its grip.

It was plain, now, that any fleeting impression it had ever had of its own purity was false. What folly, to hide behind that shattered veneer, when every being present knew of its weakness, knew the pitiful frailty of the resolve it had once thought unbreakable. It would break, again and again. It would shudder and flinch and cry out in pain, though none would ever hear or answer.

If it really was to tell the truth, it could bear very little. Especially in comparison to how strong it once was. It had taken years for the Radiance to break it, but once it finally cracked, the illusion was undone. Now a mere mortal’s touch could ruin it, reduce it to shaking and sobbing like something beaten, abandoned, left to wither and die where no one would see or take pity on it.

Any time spent observing it would put the lie to the notion of its purity. No one could look at it now and not know that it was a pitiable thing, lingering on past any semblance of usefulness, left in the world to suffer for its mistakes in a penance it would never pay.

To admit that it was failing—to expose its falsehoods for all to see—that was the least of what it deserved.

It was trembling in earnest now, breath shuddering, shell gone nearly numb as terror took hold and swept it away. But it must answer.

Two taps. Shaky, halting. Yes.

It could barely feel Hornet’s hand close over its own, barely hear Quirrel’s soft words resume as they both attempted to quiet it. If it had a way to tell them to let it be, let it suffer—it should not accept comfort, when this pain was something it had more than earned—

It could not quite make itself say no.

The faint, fragile warmth seeping through it was so, so hard to ignore.

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeshade Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#elletalks #lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

[usafphantom2]

After the warning given by the MiG-25, when the inferiority, in many respects, of the F-4E Phantom II was proven, Japanese technicians headed to the U.S. with the aim of carrying out a comparative study between the F-14 Tomcat, F-15 Eagle, F-16 Falcon and YF-17 Cobra fighters (later redesigned as F-18 Hornet)

All these facts that occurred almost simultaneously, leaving many military chiefs suffocated, were (routinely) part of a game that happened (with great intensity) during the so-called First Cold War (1947-91), but which, ultimately, will always occur, leaning sometimes to one side and sometimes to the other. Today, the US has the best cards, but we must not forget that, in the past, the USSR has possessed, for many scholars (at least in the field of hypotheses), a supposed "golden Ace".

[waterbrand101]

My list for playing through all the switch zeldas in timeline order so I don't forget it.

Disclaimer: I am not a critic and am not a scholar of Zelda lore. I am just easily entertained and will immediately love a game if it looks pretty. Nothing I say should be taken seriously.

-Skyward sword⭐ 7/10

I enjoyed the story very much. The imprisoned fights got a little tiring after the 2nd attempt though. And while I understand they wanted to make the game longer the last run through the worlds felt a little too much for me. I did have a lot of fun throwing Mia off cliffs and collecting the bugs especially all my pocket hornets. I'm planning on going back to it in awhile to max out all the upgradable items and finding all the gratitude crystals.

-Minish cap⭐ 6.5/10

This game was so precious. Just everything in it is adorable even the villains. Tbh though I did have to use a guide a lot. Not really for the dungeons but mainly just to figure out how to get to them. To be fair though that's mainly on be for being stupid than it is any fault of the game. It was interesting to see what the games were like before Nintendo had connected them all and kinda fleshed out the timeline and history of hyrule. I doubt I'll be 100% this anytime soon since I still have a lot of kinstones to find but I can see myself going back to it later on it's too cute of a game to not revisit.

-Ocarina of time

-Majoras mask

-A Link to the past

-Links awakening

-Oracle of seasons

-Oracle of ages

-Legend of Zelda

-The adventure of Link

-Breath of the Wild

-Tears of the kingdom

**************

Both of these I consider non canon zelda games but I might play through them both when I'm finished with the others

-Hyrule Warriors

-Age of Calamity

#the legend of zelda #skyward sword #minish cap

[dirtybarn]

Between Lines is a Poetic Thoughtful Animated Short by Sarah Beth Morgan

Between Lines is an animated short film created entirely by an all-women team, directed by the talented Sarah Beth Morgan. The story is about the scars created by bullying in high school and lifelong recovery of these memories. Puberty, growing up, and the discovery of self are traumatic enough to process. However when school dynamics and bullies added to the equation, teenage years might become a burden. Maybe because we saw many coming of age stories in feature films focusing on the troubles of growing up, adjusting to problems, dealing with uncertainties. There is no denying that bullying creates deep scar on people and they spend so much time on themselves to recover past traumas. The narrative in Between Lines follows a young woman's journey as she navigates isolation, exclusion and anxiety. Out of the trauma, blooms a sense of healing and connection. There is no single definitive way to make your peace with your past but either way the happiness and relief comes within.

Sarah Beth Morgan, a director and illustrator currently based in Cleveland, OH, United States, grew up in Saudi Arabia. She attended the Savannah College of Art and Design and had early career experiences at Scholar and Oddfellows in LA and Portland. Currently, Morgan works from her own studio in Cleveland. And as a personal impression, Morgan's work feels sincere, down-to-earth and approachable to manies. Her animations and illustrations are neat, humble and taking you to a polished, clean environment that could trigger a positive emotions instantly.

Between Lines: "I wanna subway map of my invisible scars."

Between lines successfully completed its festival stint by getting recognition and awards from many organizations; including Brooklyn Film Festival – Audience Award for Animation, Pictoplasma Berlin – Official Selection, SCAD Savannah Film Festival – Official Selection for Global Shorts Forum. Sarah Beth Morgan's moving short animation made its online premiere on January 24, 2023. Though I discovered it late, I've come to realize that great works are timeless on the internet. Today is my day to meet 'Between Lines.' The poetic narrative, moving animation and eye-catching visuals; Between Lines artistically could be your best two minutes today. Check out Sarah Beth Morgan’s website, Vimeo and Instagram and Between Lines' website. And discover over 30 talented women who make Between Lines happen from here. https://vimeo.com/792244354  

CREDITS

Director: Sarah Beth Morgan Animation Director: Taylor Yontz Producer: Rebekah Hamilton VO / Sound / Music: Jennifer Pague Art Direction: Sarah Beth Morgan Design: Nuria Boj, Caroline Choi, Sarah Beth Morgan, Sara Ariel Wong Animation: Margaret Bialis, Erin Bradley, Amy Charlick, Esther Cheung, Rocio Cogno, Julie Craft, Antoinie Eugene, Thea Glad, Amanda Godreau, Michelle Grepo, Sami Healy, Yahira Hernandez, Jasper Hilgers, Yino Huan, HyoBin Kang, Collin Leix, Katherine Pryor, Rachel Reid, Issey Roquet, Anna Taberko, Aly Tain, Camille Vincent, Pip Williamson, Khylin Woodrow, Rachel Yonda, Taylor Yontz Story: Sarah Beth Morgan Poem: Nirrimi Firebrace Mix by: Hope Brush Strings Producer: Sophie Coran Violin: Shelby Yamin Cello: Nicole Boguslaw Strings Recorded by: Michael Cumming at Treacle Mine Recording Special Thanks: Hornet, Dez Stavracos, Tyler Morgan, Molly Bowman Images: betweenlines.com, Vimeo Read the full article

#animatedshort #animation #betweenlines #sarahbethmorgan #short

[walaw717]

Morning Prayers: All Creatures

President Drew Faust’s Morning Prayers address in Appleton Chapel on September 16

THIS CHAPEL, this church represent places where we stop for a moment or an hour outside our usual work and lives to consider the larger meaning of what we do. It is also a place where we think beyond our own individual ambitions and achievements to reflect upon our obligations to one another and to a wider world.

Today I want to speak about one such obligation, one I am asking our community to take on with new focus and new force. It is an obligation to our children and to their children, and it is in one sense a quite simple matter of human self-interest and survival. But it is also a question with deeply spiritual implications concerning what we owe not just to one another and our descendants but to whatever god or transcendent being or divine force we might believe in. What I want to talk about today is the preservation of the world—its glaciers, its forests, its waterways, its species—in the face of the crisis of global warming and environmental change.

Among the most powerful memories of my childhood experiences in church and Sunday School are hymns that still echo in my mind. And a great many of those hymns are songs of praise and thanksgiving for creation’s wonders. “Fair are the meadows; fairer still the woodlands.” Or perhaps for me and so many others, most memorably:

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,

Each little bird that sings,

He made their glowing colors,

He made their tiny wings.

Written in 1848, the words to this hymn are steeped in Victorian romanticism, extolling the glowing colors of each little flower, the tiny wings of each little bird. Its rather treacly sentimentality and continuing popularity in a far more cynical age moved Monty Python to parody:

All things dull and ugly

All creatures short and squat

All things rude and nasty

The Lord God made the lot.

Each nasty little hornet,

Each beastly little squid

Who made the spiky urchin?

Who made the sharks? He did!

But Monty Python’s mockery actually reinforces, rather than rejects, my fundamental point: Urchins, squid, hornets, sharks matter too. They play an essential part in what we might call the wonders of biodiversity.

Yet we humans of the twenty-first century seem to be doing our best to destroy that wondrous creation. Pollution and climate change, habitat destruction and species extinction are growing threats to the world we have inherited and the world we will bequeath to our descendants—the creation we steward for purposes far larger than ourselves.

In July, I announced a new initiative for Harvard indicating that Harvard would be making an ambitious commitment to reducing its emission of greenhouse gases in an effort to lessen our carbon footprint and our contributions to global warming.* The goals we have set will not be easy to attain; they will require all of us to change assumptions and behavior, to live with enhanced consciousness and responsibility about our stewardship of the earth. And we will at the same time commit our intellectual resources as an institution devoted to learning and discovery, to explore policies and technologies that can make a significant difference in the crisis of sustainability that we face. In our work as students and scholars, in our lives as members of this community we must commit ourselves to preserving this wondrous creation all around us. However we may differ in our religious explanations and understandings, our lives are deeply intertwined and interdependent—with one another and with this world which we cannot permit to perish. To borrow words from the old hymn: We must be wise to preserve what is wonderful.

[rkausdmldudhkd1-2]

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A 링크<<

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널A

Besides, he has a very strong chin. It's a spider's web, it's funny, and ordinary nets or vinyls are made in a matter of minutes. When it bites human skin, it lightly rips off calluses, and blood can be seen as easily as if cut by a knife.

Also, even if you attach your legs and wings to the flytrap, it escapes within 5 minutes. However, the sticky stick made exclusively for the longevity wasp can't use it and gets hit. It is an item that beekeepers use to exterminate long-lived hornets, and it uses the characteristic of long-lived wasps to communicate with fellow long-lived wasps through their a가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Antennae before attacking other hives. The corpse serves as bait and calls for other individuals, and the wasp's aggressive escape attempt makes it more tangled in the sticky. It's not exclusive to longevity hornets, but it also uses rat trapping glue.#[40]

An electric fly swatter cannot catch the long-lived wasp, which boasts terrible defense. Because it is made only enough to catch flies, it endures tenaciously even if it is dropped on the ground and pressed. If you have a tennis clu가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Ab, badminton club, or racquetball club, you can hold it even more safely. Unlike tennis or badminton sticks, since the net starts right above the handle, the coverage range is very wide and it can cope with close distances.

Since the electric fly swatter can withstand that much blow, it is no problem to use the electric fly swatter like a tennis swatter to knock down wasps. If you're lucky enough to fall from the electric shock alone, it's best to stop supporting yourself and just stomp on it to finish it off.

The leatherback wasp reacts aggressively to the color black. Scholars speculate that it is an instinct to counteract natural enemies, such as badgers and bears, who use beehive or anthill larvae as an important protein source with dark, dark or black fur. Therefore, it is dangerous to go to mountainous areas while wearing black clothes. You can refra가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Ain from wearing black clothes, but Asians with black hair are more likely to be attacked by longevity wasps, so it is better to wear a white hat. In the case of blacks, we have to be even more careful.[41]

Since the amount of activity is no joke, there are many requests for removal, and patients who are stung by it are also concentrated at this time. In particular, before Chuseok, there are many accidents involving beehives because of beehives, so from mid-September to early October, it is necessary to go 가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Aout once a day. There was no specific answer for firefighters, but they have recently developed a new weapon and are waiting for deployment.

Recently, wasp control weapons have adopted a method of stunning wasps by freezing them. Compressed cryogenic carbon dioxide is sprayed in gas form to t가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Aemporarily freeze wasps, which avoids damage to structures and firefighters' firefighters' suits compared to flamethrowing methods using existing gas, and above all, is a life-friendly (?) that does not kill wasps. It is popular as a weapon system. However, since budget is always an issue, most government offices still pass the summer with fire protection suits + flamethrowers (?) + nets.

The Japanese Fire Agency's special protective clothing for wasp control has a white, double structure that does not stimulate wasp aggression, and there is a space between the fabric and the fabric, so even if stinger pierces it, it is not easily hit because of the empty space.[42]

Accidents of death from wasp stings often occur during weeding. In addition to protective gear when weeding, thick protective clothing and a hood that covers the entire he가면의 여왕 다시보기 1화~2화 (16부작) 채널Aad are recommended, but in reality we cannot afford to buy such things. I don't know if there is a punishment or not, but there are not one or two people who would be bothered if I told them to bring protective gear first.