Dawn Walkers
"So you've saved me, saved the world-."
"Worlds, my love. You mean worlds."
He chuckles, "My apologies, Princess. In my defense I was distanced from the going ons, easy to miss some details. So what's the plan now? More solo adventuring for you?"
She shakes her head, "I think I much prefer having company around, yours above all. So where you go, I go." She brings their lips together, pulling him closer, leaving the two breathless when they pull apart. "So make sure its something fun."
"I think it's time I kept the promise I made on the Ragnarok. What do you say to us starting with lands containing lost civilisations?"
"Sounds perfect."
For the second ffxiv swap I was gifted with these lovely shots of my girl Sib and Thancred from @bnuuywol and I am in love to say the least! Like the vibes are just so! !!!! So on point and I am just! !!! Thank you so so much! I am gonna be crying over them the rest of the day now thank you! Just look at them!!!
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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shout-out to the makers of NBC Hannibal for (clearly) reading all four books about Hannibal Lecter by Thomas Harris and going "hmm. actually we will make the gayest possible version of this" going on to COMPLETELY disregard the other main character and (canon) ?love interest? of the series and never even MENTION Clarice Starling. Like it's so funny to me that she never even appears on the show when book!Will Graham literally fucks off after The Red Dragon and wants nothing to do with any of this anymore and book!Hannibal is obsessed with Clarice in the same way that tv!Hannibal is obsessed with tv!Will. like they really took a whole book franchise, picked out the cherries, and made it their own personal little gay AU. that's so refreshing and should be a leading example in television adaptations. in this essay i will
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So. Fatebreaker, right? Ryne's biggest fears made manifest, daddy issues personified, yes?
He's an amalgamation of Thancred and Ran'jit, his face, his voice and his weapon is Thancred's, but his body, his fighting style and his words are Ran'jit's.
Throughout the fight Fatebreaker constantly makes comments about how only he can protect Ryne, only he can provide for her, only he has even the right to so much as stand beside her, to be in her general presence. He's possessive and obsessive, repeatedly asserting that she is HIS and his only. Which is exactly what Ran'jit says basically every time we encounter him.
But this time it's in Thancred's voice. This time it's with the voice and face of a man she actually cares about.
Ryne isn't scared of Thancred, she never has been. Even when she first met him she was barely even nervous (as clearly shown in Thancred's short story). There's a lot of different feelings happening between those two, but fear has never been one of them.
But now, after things have gotten so much better, she is scared of Thancred becoming like Ran'jit. Because if Thancred was just a little further gone, if he was just a little less compassionate, he would've. It wouldn't be hard for him to go down the same path as Ran'jit did, to be incapable of letting go of the ghost of that girl he loved so so much to the point he'd stubbornly grip anything close to her he could. He didn't, but the fact he could've is terrifying.
It makes his final words, words that are Thancred's, so very important. This is her deepest fears made manifest, but he still says he wants her to be happy. Her happiness not only matters, but is important to him.
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harley quinn (2000) #35
[ID: a sequence of three panels focusing on an abandoned cup of tea as drops of blood drip down into it. Harley Quinn's internal narration boxes reads, ‘I was a tomboy growing up. Tackle football with the local boys? You bet. Under a car hood changing a filter? Sure. Dances? No. Pedicures? Pass. Sewing? You have to be kidding.’ The panels expand, revealing Harley hunched over. She's shown in a profile view and from afar, her face hidden by shadow as her blonde hair is in a slightly overgrown pixie cut.
The blood continues to drip as her narration resumes, ‘I remember watching my mother. Sewing. Sitting in this old chair with a pile of clothes my dad or brother needed fixing. A rip, a tear, a patch. Just kept a smile on her face as that pile got higher and higher. I resented her so much. Sewing. I vowed I'd never learn.’ Her hand comes onto panel, revealing she's holding a needle as she yelps, ‘Ow!’ We finally see her bloodied face when she looks up at the suddenly ringing phone, it being revealed that she had to give herself sutures to close a large gash on her forehead. END ID]
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