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rosafione · 3 years

Text

"Come Closer."

title; How Far Will I Fall, 'Till You Catch Me In your Arms

pairing; xiao x reader

desc; you never really lacked the guts for these kinds of things, but before everything else, you valued his feelings, and most of all, his consent. in the end, it still takes two to tango.

a/n; xiao drabble xiao drabble xiao drabbleee now, he might be ooc, im not sure, but this is mostly just an hc if you guys are close— to an extent muahahahahaha

Time was at a standstill for a certain young adeptus.

For someone who's lived a millennia, you'd think two months would only feel like a second. Before, Xiao would not deny the frequency of those moments— of loneliness, and melancholy; Of time spent watching the Guyun Stone Forest and awaiting his time to strike.

Every day that passed was one spent with his guard high, back then.

And yet now, those moments seemed as if they existed in a far different time. A time before the Traveler plunged Osial into the ocean, stripping them of their adeptal duties and eliminating a cause for Liyue to seek their guidance.

Though possibly the greatest disparity from that time could be that.. It was a time before you— before he had you by his side.

You were a mortal, one he considers to be above average, yet a mortal, nonetheless. You still had times where your humanity catches up to you, and you are left vulnerable in the hands of the evil that lurks among the lands of Tevyat.

Xiao met you at your weakest; But he watched you grow into your shell.

It wasn't as if he regarded you with any special fondness. At first. You were no different from any other mortal that walked Liyue— a fragile creature he was tasked to protect, and a being he needed to steer clear off, lest he harm you with his adeptal energy. (Death from the sheer force of it was no stranger to him. He does not want to carry another human's death on his shoulders.)

Xiao had a complicated relationship with the mortal realm. It was not disdain he harbored for humans, only vigilance and curiosity.

Their realm and the adepti's were two worlds apart.

What differed you from the mortals is that you crossed that distance. And somehow, you stood before him, right in the in between.

He wonders how you do it; You've always been unyielding in his presence. He knows you are aware of his prowess, but every time he looks at you, there is nothing but fondness and adoration he sees in your ancient gaze.

You offered him Almond Tofu almost every day. It makes him anticipate your troubles, yet you do no else other than indulge him in small chats, and silly escort commissions into the mountains or the forest. At times, you'd just watch him feed on your offerings.

He knew it was a bribe, the Almond Tofu. You did it almost everyday— Until you didn't have to.

At some point, Xiao stopped denying your presence. He's warned you enough— He respected you enough to know that you were an adult, and you could think for yourself. And though the moments you'd offer him were memories worthy to look back on, he dares not seek you out.

But he didn't have to. You always came to him first.

His relationship with you only grew from there. It was no earth-shattering occurrence, that's for sure. It was a parasite that he didn't know had been rooting itself into his being so deeply that he cannot bring himself to part with it.

Though if not a shocking event, it was still a crushing revelation.

"Good day, Xiao."

The lady-in-charge, Verr, seemed to be searching for something before her gaze flitted back to his. "No Y/N today?"

"Y/N is off to the harbour for a few days," he'd answered instinctively as he walked to the usual table prepared for him near the kitchen.

"And you didn't come with?"

His slit brows raise in confusion. "Why would I?"

"Oh dear, my apologies. I just figured—" a bashful chuckle leaves her— "Since I see you guys together all the time."

He frowns at the memory. It was a realization that started his resolve to put some distance, yet it was also the beginning of your.. lengthy travels.

When your few days became a few weeks, his resolve easily yielded to his eagerness in meeting you once more.

Time used to pass by swiftly, but nowadays, a year spent with you feels as if he had already spent half of his life.

He sighs, shaking his head at himself. "Reduced to just standing around. How absurd."

"If you think standing around was such an absurd concept then why do you still reject the idea of travelling with me?"

The familiar voice wills him to rip his gaze away from the scenery.

He knows it is yours— your steps, your scent, your weight, your presence. Xiao feels you the moment you stepped into the inn. Yet he does not move, run, nor show any sign of the buzz that vibrates from inside his chest.

Yet when he sees you, you are beautiful, safe. Ephemeral.

He forgets every aching minute he's spent in the eight weeks you were not in his vicinity.

Time runs again.

Still, everything about you is slow; The way you walk carefully to his side, the way you drag your fond gaze from his, to the scenery before you.. The way your hair flows and dances with the evening breeze.

He knows. The wind has always favored you.

"Ever since meeting the Traveler, all you've talked about is travelling," he chose to say.

"With you."

"What?" he frowns.

"I mean that yes, all I've talked about is travelling—" you chuckle bashfully, averting your eyes away from his— "That is, travelling.. But with you."

His eyes widen, then hardening with a purse of his lips, before he turns to glare into the distance. "My answer will not change. I cannot leave Liyue."

"And my reply is the same," you sigh. "The place does not matter. As long as we'd be together."

It is a sensitive topic, and an inevitable taboo.

There was a line neither of you should ever cross— a line he's put there himself, and one he disdains all the same.

Silence ensues. It is a frequent occurrence, ever since you first brought up the prospect of adventuring. Stubborn and troublesome. Xiao finds himself needing to track back in conversations just to figure you out.

Mortals were such complex creatures.

And yet it was so easy for you to read him like an open book. Or so he assumes. You always knew how you'd deal with him. Even Xiao knows that it is no easy feat.

"You're always like this," he grumbles.

You do not answer, and he settles for the tranquility, all the tension leaving his body; And for once, after two months, he felt as if he could actually breathe.

He wonders how much longer he'd be stuck in this area of torment and bliss. Wonders how much longer he'll continue to drag you into it.

Wonders when you'll snap and just leave him all together.

He frowns grumpily at the thought.

"Can I?" you ask.

Xiao looks into your eyes— swirling hues that didn't return his gaze, far focused on a lower part of his face. His lips, he realizes. Your gaze had been focused on his lips.

The epiphany wills a streak of crimson to rise to the tips of his ears, and his own focus is stolen away by the pink appendage that wets your lips.

"Your question is incomplete," he says instead, feigning ignorance.

Shaking his head, Xiao crosses his arms and forces himself to concentrate on your eyes. Only on your eyes.

Maybe then, he wouldn't get so distracted.

"Regardless of how your question would go, I don't understand why you need my opinion," he huffs, grumbling. "It's your body. You would know it best."

You press your lips together. A gentle, bashful smile spreading on your face as a fond look emerges in your eyes. "My apologies," you chuckle. "It was the wrong question to ask."

He faces you to narrow his eyes at your suspicious behavior, but he's far too distracted by the way your hand lifts, trailing from the side of his neck to gently cup his cheek, and his breath hitches, eyes widening.

Warmth radiated from your touch. Xiao knows better than to reject such touches any longer when with you. So he leans into it, presses his head closer to your palm, closing his eyes and exhaling in surrender.

"What i meant to ask was," he opens his eyes to look at you.

Your gazes clash. They meld and melt into each other as you slowly raise yourself closer and closer — or perhaps it was him who'd been leaning down.

The hand that traces the tattoo on his right arm, as well as the other that caresses his face with an aching gentleness, reels him in. enthralls him. It lures him into succumbing to your presence, and his body goes through that familiar feeling of softening under your touch.

"May I?" you whisper.

Suddenly, you are leaning in more eagerly— more determined, as if with a clear intent in mind. He thinks he understands your words enough now, swirling in his mind, goes through consideration, and the one practical response he could muster with his focus in a jumble is to deny you permission.

He gulps soundly; He can't bring himself to.

Xiao thinks this is it, watching you move in as he struggles to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. He thinks it would be this moment— this moment in which he dooms the unspoken rule between mortals and adepti. Dooms the contract he's worked so hard to fulfill in service of Lord Morax, now Zhong Li. He'd doom your friendship, or whatever it is you've offered him up to this point.

Yet even then.. Even then, he doesn't say no.

He stays quiet; Waiting. Wanting.

It's funny— the mortal language, how one could switch out a letter, and a word would seem that much different.

It was true, nonetheless.

Xiao waits. Xiao wants.

He wants the closeness, the intimacy— the affection you provide. He wants your lips to meet his just to know if it is as soft as the rest of you is. He wants to see if a kiss— curious, like a child— truly lives up to the countless tales told by the experienced. He wants to know.. If you will give him those answers.

His amber eyes meet yours. He does not breathe, as if doing so would scare you away. As if doing anything would give you a response he does not want to give.

It is enough. Your noses bump for a second, his eyes fluttering closed; Your scent wafts from beneath his nose, crisp burning incense, molded into the fresh smell of the forest that is brought about by the wind.

He curves into you, a single thought shaking him to the core, making him tremble - so utterly pathetic.

'Please..'

Your lips do not meet.

And suddenly, there is too much air between you and him.

Xiao opens his eyes to see you trailing back, fidgety— you looked like a walking contradiction, twitching fingers trying to cross the distance, gaze darting between looking away or staring regretfully at his lips.

There was a crimson hue staining your cheeks, he noticed.

"Why.." he whispers, then catches himself.

The inside of his chest strains from all the emotions he has to keep hidden— all the emotions he has to keep denying.

Disappointment. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Desperation.

Xiao wants.

You couldn't believe you almost kissed him.

It was a heavy violation of contract— not that you two had ever agreed to one, but it was an unspoken compromise. It was a truth you both knew, yet continued to ignore.

So that this— whatever this was, could survive.

Archons, you almost laid it all to waste!

(Either way, any decision would still leave you with regrets, had you continued or pulled away.)

"Ah, would you look at that!" you laughed out loud in a panic, perhaps to cover up the tense atmosphere. "I did it again! I asked a question without completing it, yeah? Guess it's a really bad habit on mine!"

Xiao does not answer. You spare him a look. And you wish you hadn't.

He looks dejected, disappointment and frustration showing through his slit eyebrows and wide eyes.

As if your choice was a surprise to him.

As if he wanted you to continue.

As if.

You couldn't deny you wanted it, too. Whatever he could give you. And, more.

You mentally scold yourself, knowing you're already stretching Xiao's patience with your friendship as it is.

You have to remind yourself that Xiao is immortal, and no matter how humane he may seem, you cannot trouble him with matters such as the turmoil in your heart.

It's really hard to say anything, when all the thoughts that circle in your head is how wonderful he is. How amazing he makes you feel. How he is all you've ever wanted for the whole year since you've realized you'd developed a certain affection for him.

"Sorry, Xiao," you say, throat tightening with bubbles of emotions threatening to spill. "I should.. Go away, for some time."

( And the first thing Xiao thinks is to dejectedly reply 'Again.?' )

"No," he says all too quickly, detaching from the banister.

"No?" you echo, confused. "N-no what?"

"Stay," he says, but it is not a command. Not from the adeptus. It is a soft request; A wavering plea that reaches to you soul.

"Where?" you ask. 'How far?'

"Here," he whispers now. "With me."

You push your luck, craving just a bit more patience from Xiao.

"Close?"

You could see Xiao consider. His eyes showing his heart, but his silence showing his mind.

He gives in.

"Close."

That day was the nearest you've peered, held and embraced Xiao's soul, moving closer, and softly leaning your forehead on his, clenching onto the white fabric of his shirt as he loosely wraps an arm around your waist— under the watchful eyes of the night sky.

There is still a distance that Xiao dares not cross.

And for now, maybe it's enough.

#genshin ff #genshin drabbles #xiao x reader #genshin xiao x reader #genshin xiao #genshin angst #genshin fluff #yes im tormenting both reader and xiao #yes im also crying #WE NEED THESE ONCE IN A WHILE #pining #mutual pining #MAYBE IT'S ENOUGH TMT

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lockhartism · 3 years

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Aerith and Tifa as Sephiroth’s Foils

There are a lot of moving pieces to Final Fantasy 7--something that has historically contributed to its infamous reputation of being confusing. But one consistent thematic pattern that FF7 utilizes is duality. Life and death. Meetings and partings. Loneliness and togetherness. Many of the main themes presented in FF7 fall into this same format. Even the characters can be considered dualities in and of themselves. One of the most obvious dualities in the game is that of Aerith and Sephiroth. However, in varying degrees, all of the main characters are in some way antithetical to Sephiroth.

Like in many other classic hero vs. villain tales, you’d think that Cloud is the perfect foil to Sephiroth--after all, they’re at odds, so it would make sense that they’d be opposites. However, what makes Cloud and Sephiroth’s conflict so fascinating is that they actually have a good amount in common. Both Cloud and Sephiroth struggle with their identities. They also experienced trauma and loneliness in the past, and tended to isolate themselves from others. It’s this commonality that actually makes them compelling rivals, as Cloud not only has to battle Sephiroth, but also the aspects of Sephiroth that Cloud himself struggles with.

The real foils of Sephiroth are Aerith and Tifa. While there is some debate as to whether Aerith or Tifa is the real heroine of FF7 (mostly spear-headed by weird LTD-pushers), the big-brained answer is that they’re both the heroines. This is evident in concept art from an older FF7 Ultimania, pictured below:

As you can see, the concept for the story’s heroine started out as a hybrid of Tifa and Aerith. The character’s design resembles Tifa, and the name below the sketch reads “ティファ”, or Tifa. However, the character’s role was very different. She was intended to be both the childhood friend of Cloud Strife and a Cetra, the sister of Sephiroth (who originally looked more like Vincent). Eventually, the idea to kill off one of the main characters was introduced, and the role of the heroine was split in two: the Cetra, Aerith, and the childhood friend, Tifa. There is some evidence of the original concept still present in the series; Tifa’s iconic red eyes match Vincent’s, because originally, the two characters were designed to be siblings before eventually going to separate roles.

Based on this evidence, it would seem logical that both Aerith and Tifa retained their dualities with Sephiroth. And, indeed, even in the final product, both characters provide a foil for Sephiroth to balance the scales.

To exemplify the dynamic that Cloud, Tifa, Aerith, and Sephiroth have with one another, I’ve drawn a (crude) spectrum:

Obviously, Aerith and Tifa play different roles and have different importance to the story. Aerith’s role is more “big picture”, so to speak. She is responsible for the Planet and for protecting it from Sephiroth after discovering his plans to destroy it. Tifa’s role is more fine-tuned and detailed. She is the rock and the only stable element of the Nibelheim story, a key part of Cloud, Zack, and Sephiroth’s backstories. To understand how each of them foils Sephiroth, we have to look at them individually and analyze how they interact with both Sephiroth and Cloud.

Part I: Aerith as Sephiroth’s Foil

As stated above, Aerith’s role as foil is a little more obvious. Sephiroth and Aerith are both “Cetra”--or, at the very least, they both claim to be. For Sephiroth, his identity as a Cetra is tied to his belief that Jenova, his “mother”, was a Cetra who was betrayed by humanity when humans left the traditional Cetra nomadic lifestyle in order to colonize the land and the Planet.

However, Jenova was not a Cetra at all--she was actually a “calamity from the skies” that crashed down and created the Northern Crater two thousand years before the events of FF7. After encountering the Cetra, the creature known as Jenova began infecting and killing the Cetra one by one. These killings only stopped when the Cetra banded together to seal Jenova in the Northern Crater; but, by the time it was done, the Cetra were dying off.

So how did Jenova become known as a Cetra? That seems like more than a clerical error to me. It was actually Aerith’s father, Professor Gast, who uncovered Jenova from the Northern Crater and mistakenly identified her as a Cetra. The Shinra Corporation, desperate to find the Cetra’s “Promised Land” thinking that it would be rich in Mako energy, enlisted the professor to find a way to create a Cetra from a human specimen. Using the cells extracted from Jenova, Sephiroth was created, and after reading Shinra’s archives, he discovered his relationship to Jenova and embraced his identity as “Cetra”.

Aerith, on the other hand, really is a Cetra. Her mother, Ifalna, was the last Cetra--making Aerith, by relation, half-Cetra. Her connection to the Cetra race is real, unlike Sephiroth’s.

This give her declaration in the final chapter of FF7 Remake all the more important:

There’s a duality between Aerith and Sephiroth in truth versus lies. Aerith’s heritage as a Cetra is founded in truth. She is connected to the Planet in a way that is real. She is a Cetra, in covenant with the Planet to protect it that was passed down to her by her mother. In contrast, Sephiroth’s claims to be a Cetra are lies--whether he’s aware of it or not. Jenova, Sephiroth’s “mother”, is not a Cetra. She is not even from the Planet, but rather from somewhere beyond it. Jenova acted as a parasite of the Planet and is actually responsible for sending it into chaos and draining it of its life. He has no real obligation to protect the Planet, and he is not truly connected to it the way that Aerith is.

Aerith and Sephiroth also represent the original duality between the Cetra and Jenova, with both parties continuing to be at odds with one another even two thousand years later.

Tying in a more overarching FF7 theme, Aerith and Sephiroth also personify the duality of life and death, respectively. With Aerith, her “domain” of sorts, the Sector 5 church, is bursting with life. It is the only place in Midgar where flowers will grow. Even gameplay-wise, she is a healer, and is constantly giving life to other characters in the party. Sephiroth, on the other hand, only destroys. He set fire to Nibelheim and killed the townspeople, including Cloud’s mother and Tifa’s father. Cloud even notes his strength while recounting his version of the events in Nibelheim.

Cloud: “Sephiroth's strength is unreal. He is far stronger in reality than any story you might have heard about him.”

Therefore, Aerith and Sephiroth represent two different dualities: life versus death, and truth versus lies.

Part II: Tifa as Sephiroth’s Foil

Tifa’s role as foil to Sephiroth is more understated but nevertheless important, especially in the latter half of the story. Tifa, Cloud, and Sephiroth are the only survivors of the Nibelheim incident, wherein Sephiroth burned the town of Nibelheim to the ground and killed the townspeople after discovering his “Cetra” heritage. However, Cloud’s memories are clouded due to his trauma and the Mako poisoning he endured during the five-year gap between the Nibelheim incident and the start of FF7; and Sephiroth purposefully twists the truth in order to weaken Cloud’s already-fragile mental state. Therefore, the only one who can decipher what’s true and what’s not is Tifa.

Like Aerith, Tifa also represents the truth, while Sephiroth represents lies and deceit. This is very evident in this scene that takes place in the Northern Crater, and again in a scene during Tifa’s journey into Cloud’s mind. In the Northern Crater, Sephiroth tries to convince Cloud that he was never real, and that all of his childhood memories, even the ones he shared with Tifa, were fabricated.

Sephiroth: “You are just a puppet... You have no heart... and cannot feel any pain... How can there be any meaning in the memory of such a being? What I have shown you is reality. What you remember, that is the illusion. [...] Five years ago you were... constructed by Hojo, piece by piece, right after Nibelheim was burnt. A puppet made up of vibrant Jenova cells, her knowledge, and the power of Mako. An incomplete Sephiroth-clone. Not even given a number. ...That is your reality.”

Sephiroth, at first, succeeds in convincing Cloud that he is not the “real” Cloud but rather someone who never existed, who never grew up in Nibelheim, and who clung on to fake memories as a means to cope with that fact. However, later in the Lifestream, Tifa expresses a different sentiment:

Tifa: “Sephiroth once said... Cloud made up his memories by listening to my stories... Did you imagine this sky? No, you remembered it. That night the stars were gorgeous. It was just Cloud and I. We talked at the well... That's why I continued to believe that you were the real Cloud. I still believe you're the Cloud from Nibelheim...”

By reminding Cloud of a memory they both share--a true memory--she is able to provide a solid ground, wherein Cloud can begin to rebuild his true self after falling for Sephiroth’s deception.

Obviously, Tifa’s relationship with the truth is complicated, and she herself suffers from her own self doubt throughout the story. But in this defining moment, Tifa finally realizes without a doubt what the truth is, and together both Cloud and Tifa are able to reconstruct what really happened in Nibelheim and solve the mystery once and for all.

But this duality isn’t simply about truth versus lies. It’s also about hope versus despair. In deceiving Cloud, Sephiroth strips him of all his hope. Cloud is filled with such fundamental despair that he can’t see the truth and believe that he is indeed an experiment created by Hojo. Tifa, in contrast, provides him with hope when she affirms his memories with her own. Separately, Tifa’s resolve to continue the team’s journey without Cloud is another example of her hope in the face of Sephiroth’s despair.

The idea of hope versus despair in Sephiroth and Tifa is exemplified in Kingdom Hearts (although KH is not canonically related to FF7, I think it’s a neat little call back):

Tifa: “Cloud, you can have my light.”

In Kingdom Hearts II, Sephiroth represents Cloud’s darkness, while Tifa represents Cloud’s light. This is a similar dichotomy to truth versus lies, metaphorically, where Sephiroth is “casting shadows” on the truth, and Tifa is “shedding light” on what really happened. (Okay, sorry for the puns!)

Another duality that Tifa and Sephiroth represent is the dual meaning of reunion in the context of FF7. It’s common knowledge among FFVII fans at this point, but to everyone who’s playing for the first time or who has recently picked up the franchise and not gotten all caught up yet, Sephiroth talks a lot about “the Reunion”. Like, a lot. Sephiroth’s “reunion” is a reference to the Reunion Theory, a scientific theory posited by Professor Hojo that states that Jenova’s cells--once separated from their host, i.e. Jenova--will seek out the main body. This makes everyone who has ever been injected with Jenova’s cells essentially part of a massive Jenova hive mind, with the primary goal to eventually reunite with Jenova.

Obviously, this is a bad thing for Cloud, who was exposed to Jenova cells and is thus connected to Sephiroth.

However, Cloud and Tifa also have a reunion at the beginning of the story--a reunion between friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time. Unlike Sephiroth’s reunion, this is a positive thing. Cloud and Tifa, on multiple occasions, discuss “meeting again” and “finding each other” after so many years apart. Even after they reconstruct Cloud’s memories, he says:

Cloud: “Yeah...... Tifa...... We finally...... meet again......”

Sephiroth’s reunion with Cloud leads him astray from the path; Tifa’s reunion with Cloud sets thing right again. One reunion destroys Cloud’s perception of what’s real, and the other helps him to find the truth once again. Reunion changes meaning with Sephiroth and Tifa, and these opposing definitions of what “reunion” is make Tifa and Sephiroth perfect foils.

Part III: Final Thoughts

Part of what makes Sephiroth such a compelling villain are the striking similarities he shares with the protagonist Cloud Strife. In the original storyboard for FF7, Tifa and Aerith shared a role as the main heroine and the perfect foil for Sephiroth. But even after the role was separated into two distinct characters, the characteristics that made each one of them a foil to Sephiroth remained. For unique reasons, they balance the scales, providing an anchor of “good” to counteract the badness of the story’s main antagonist.

That’s all I have to say about it! I’ve been thinking a lot about Tifa and Aerith’s unique roles in the story as deuteragonists, or dual heroines, and how they both represent antitheses to Sephiroth. I figured I share my thoughts!

#final fantasy #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy vii #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy vii remake #ff7 remake #ffvii remake #remake #tifa #aerith #sephiroth #cloud #tifa lockhart #cloud strife #aerith gainsborough #theories #mine

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warsofasoiaf · 4 years

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What is your opinion of KOTOR 2? Favorite things about it, least favorite things about it, characters, etc.

Alright, it’s time for another video game review, so an early reminder, spoilers abound for both KOTOR1 and KOTOR2. There’s a cut of course. Overall, I thought it was a phenomenally well-written game and one of the greatest pieces of media to exist in the Stars Wars universe (although I haven’t read any of the Expanded Universe books so keep that in mind), and as is the usual case for Obsidian particularly in this era, developer constraints created a beautiful mess.

Before we can talk about KOTOR we need to talk a little bit about Star Wars and what it meant as a film. The original Star Wars isn’t a very creative story, it’s largely a conventional Hero’s Journey. It’s a pastiche of early adventure stories in a science fiction setting, but with the added benefit of video and sound effects to really make it come to life in a way that was only possible in the imagination of readers. This gave the series a wide deal of appeal. Folks who grew up on the 1950′s Flash Gordon serials or WW2 dogfight films could see a film with those things they loved from their childhood with a high budget to bring those things to life. Science fiction fans could visually see elements of their favorite books brought to life on the silver screen. Fans of movies can appreciate the cutting-edge (for the time, although I love me some practical effects in film) effects and the unfamiliar elements of science fiction with the familiar trappings of an adventure tale.

KOTOR was something similar for the video game industry, particularly for the fans of Baldur’s Gate. The ability to create a Jedi character and go on a journey like the Bhaalspawn did in Baldur’s Gate was something that appealed to a significant number of RPG fans, and the critical success of the Baldur’s Gate series brought a lot of money and prestige to Bioware. Fans of RPGs and Star Wars got to see their medium and interact with it in a whole new light. Much like A New Hope, KOTOR1 was largely a traditional story where Darth Malak is an evil guy without much in the way of redemptive qualities. The two major wrinkles were that you could play as a Sith and have some moments of true player cruelty like ordering Zaalbar to kill Mission, but this makes sense for an RPG, having no player choice in a game really makes you lose the lightside/darkside dynamic. Of course, the bigger and more interesting drift from a traditional Star Wars story was the Revan twist. This took advantage of both the slower pace of games to spend time with your PC and form a connection, and the nature of Western RPG’s where the player envisions themselves partially as their avatar onscreen to make the reveal hit home. Ultimately though, the Star Wars morality was upheld. The Jedi were the unequivocal good guys, the Sith were the unequivocal bad guys.

KOTOR2 decided to put the Force under the microscope. It had started in 2003, so Episode II had already come out, and this idea of the prophecy of Anakin bringing balance to the Force, and what we knew of the Jedi in the original Star Wars trilogy who were reduced to hermits hiding on the fringes of society, really gave the impetus to examine this idea of the balance of the Force as not necessarily benevolent. It’s not evil, per say, it’s just indifferent to the people that die to make it happen. So the game became a self-critical examination of the core structures of the Star Wars universe. The Sith are usually thought of as the bad guys, and a lot of that holds true, domination, subjugation, power, betrayal, all that nasty stuff aren’t really conducive to most conceptions of goodness, but are the Jedi good? Does their passivity lead to injustice and terror being wrought on others because the Jedi failed to act. That was the question behind the Jedi involvement in the Mandalorian Wars, was the Exile correct in going off to fight them or were the Jedi Council who forbade them correct? As befits the folks who wrote Planescape: Torment, the game has two journeys, one through the game world and the plot that unfolds and another more deeply introspective.

I’ll put the things I don’t like about KOTOR2 first because the list is small but it is worth noting. The game is very clearly a rushed product and it shows. The cut content shows a great deal of lost potential, and the bugs could make the game at times completely unplayable. The game suffered from the accelerated development, having barely half the development time, and you can see where the seams show. The UI is clunky and gets cluttered when you have to manage items. Level design is similarly a nuisance, as they are big sprawling expanses without a lot of content in them. Part of that is a necessity to the mechanics, smaller levels would have other encounter designs being agro’d into it, but the levels are still expansive, empty, and a slog to get through. The Peragus mining facility is too large by half, and there’s a lot of backtracking in these levels. Since side quests encourage finding a doodad or killing a few key figures scattered around a map, that means a lot of trekking through these big levels to find one particular item or enemy locked in a corner somewhere. That can be very tedious, particularly on repeat playthroughs. At times, it feels like legging your way through a swamp to get to the next piece of delicious content.

Which is a good segue into talking what I like about the game, because its writing and characters are superb. The character companions are twists of classic Star Wars archetypes. Atton is the scoundrel Han Solo non-Force user type, but ends up having a disturbingly dark backstory where he was a Sith interrogator and feared his own Force-sensitive nature. Bao-Dur is a man haunted by the weapon of mass destruction he created, a tech-head who ends up hating his most momentous creation but feels the need to use it yet again. Canderous has become the new Mandalore and is desperately trying to revitalize his dying culture because he’s been so broken by Revan’s departure. The Wookie life-debt is so toxic that it breaks Hanharr and Mira in their own ways. Visas is a Sith whose will is shattered. Each of these characters are fundamentally broken (save for the droids, unless you count the physical need to reassemble HK-47 as broken), and the Exile draws them to him or her. Through discovering more about them and resolving it, the Exile awakens the characters’ connection to the Force, oddly ironic since the Exile is cut off from the Force and is only rediscovering it. Like most Bioware RPG’s, you the player through your character guide the growth of these characters and form a relationship with them, or use them for your own ends.

Kreia, of course, deserves her own paragraph. Kreia is the Star Wars Ravel Puzzlewell, an embittered woman who wants to destroy the cosmic chains of the universe and loves the player character in a deeply obsessive way, one that’s played completely straight in how it makes the player uncomfortable. She is deeply resentful of the Force and wants to destroy it, and through the Exile, who managed to cut themselves off so utterly completely in a unique way, she sees the path. Of course, the reason why the Exile cut themselves off was the mass death at Malachor V was so overwhelming that he or she would have otherwise died. Of course, her obsession and overriding mission cares little for the Exile’s own pain, and so the manipulations begin, using you to lure out and destroy the Jedi and the Sith, and in the end, you disappoint her, either because you don’t learn her lessons or she discovers that the only reason you were the way you were was because you were afraid. She still is obsessed over you, though, and so when you finally confront her, she obliges that affection to explain everything, unusually honest for a woman whose Sith name is evocative of the word betrayal. And fortunately, she allows something that most monologue villains don’t allow, a means by which to tell her she’s full of shit. Certainly, it’s a little weaker coming from her as an option to you rather than the player character saying it themselves, but I think it’s stronger, since so much of the ending had to be cut anyway it reinforces the ambiguity of it, that the ending is what you believe. Personal belief has always been important for the Exile and Kreia/Traya, and letting that transfer to the player is, while perhaps not the most ideal, completely valid given how rushed the development was.

The other Sith Lords are fascinating concepts of evil and personal belief as well as well, and really show the Dark Side of the force in a parasitic, corrupt sense and the horrible ends of taking belief to its extreme. Darth Sion is the Lord of Pain. He cannot die but he feels pain constantly, making eternal life not a blessing but a torture, though in it he found a twisted source of enlightenment. His pain fuels his anger and hatred (key ingredients of the Dark Side) and so he persists solely through the Dark Side. Darth Nihilus, on the other hand, had his body obliterated by the Mass Shadow Generator, and so persisted as a wound in the Force, consuming Force energy to feed his relentless hunger. He is not a human anymore but a force of endless consumption that cannot be satiated, this hunger pain pushes him past his own mortal existence but which can only consume, not live. This perfectly illustrates the Dark Side concept of pursuit of power even past the point of sustainability, for Nihilus will continue consuming until all existence has been eaten.

The game is dark and moody, as you explore a shattered galaxy. In the original game, the search led to the Star Forge and the revelation that you the player was Revan. The sequel shows that there was no grand conspiracy; the act of Malachor built Nihilus and Sion and the player themselves was something that you did. It was not a conspiracy of Jedi but rather the after-effects of a particular action, much the way Lonesome Road had the Courier’s delivery of the package to Hopeville to be something that destroyed Ulysses even though you never met him. The Mass Shadow Generator was meant to save the galaxy from the Mandalorians but birthed a new, more powerful tragedy. Bao-Dur even wonders if the subjugation of the people under the Mandalorians was better than the power of the Mass Shadow Generator, a powerful moment ordered by just a mere single Jedi, built by a mere tech specialist. In true Planescape fashion, a personal apocalypse is a galactic apocalypse and vice-versa. Torment lingers over this game, in the broken characters, in a parallel journey both outward and inward. In many ways KOTOR2 was Planescape: Torment in the Star Wars universe, albeit with its own personal flair.

Alright, that’s a good review. I can do character analyses of some of the major characters if you want.

Thanks for the question, Messanger.

#star wars #knights of the old republic 2 #video game reviews

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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, EMMA! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF MAMMON.

Admin Rosey: There is something about Mammon that draws people in - but I know that they can be a very fickle character down simply because they are so utterly unique unto themselves. I really enjoyed the application because of the way they were outlined so meticulously, providing the exact understanding of Mammon that I very much longed to see. There was a certain disdain that was interwoven into everything, from the plots to the prose to the dialogue. The apathy that seemed to be teeming on the surface of things was absolutely delicious to eat up.This application was a fun read and I simply cannot wait to see how you develop Mammon along the way! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Emma

Age | 23

Personal Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | Decently active, at least once a week if I can get my shit together!!! Always making the effort to stick and get replies whenever available! ( At the moment I’m pretty available but things might change in a couple of months depending on work and etc )

Timezone | EST

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the group? | Rosey is a Queen and was like hey look I did something sexy and I clicked and I gasped and I agreed, she did do something sexy. And then I said wow and the rest of the team also did like magic and I was shook. And here I am now applying for the sexy.

IN CHARACTER

Character | MAMMON

What drew you to this character? |

There is something so raw about a demon birthed from nothing - they are the epitome of emptiness, their existence almost synonymous to a black hole which I find extremely fascinating. They are greed, they are consumption, they devour all, eating away at others in physical tangible methods. Perhaps it is their cruelty that is ultimately a big part of what fascinates me - untangling the web of what makes them tick is yet another facet. I’d love to explore their mind and uncover the inner workings of their feral being. Their gluttonous ways and conquest to swallow those around them whole is chaos at it’s finest. The danger that glints in their eyes and the attitude that exudes from them is everything I could ever desire in a character. They’re also really hot. I mean Noma Han though.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character? |

& I EAT UNTIL ALL IS CONSUMED | Mammon is a fickle creature who thrives in pandemonium. They tread a questionable line of self indulgent anarchy. Their arms are extended like the angels in mockery, writing their own fanatical laws that no one else could truly understand. Their madness thrives in their mind - their motivation always geared toward their own personal satisfaction. But what if the scale was to tip? Perhaps someone or something will catch the gleam in their darkened eyes. What if they too could live for more than the tool that was once wielded by others. Long accustomed to opulent luxury and gluttonous sin, never had they batted an eye at the politics swirling within courts. Yet for someone as hungry as they, was such mundaneness enough? What if they were to crawl past the line of humdrum satisfaction. What if they dove deeper into their instability - their appetite always growling for more. In a dog eat dog world, they had always been the one to voraciously guzzle first. Enjoying what existed was mediocrity and they were far more than that. With sharpened razor teeth, they know they can bite off more. Nothing would be too much to chew, for eating and taking was what they did best. Take and take until there was nothing left, ambition spirals to the damned heavens itself.

HOPE? WHAT A PECULIAR CURIOSITY | Accustomed to eons past of old tales whispered in their name, there is something tedious of Mammon’s life. While they have long been accompanied by their gourmandizing, they too seek out a spark of new excitement. Their bones creak, their jaw snaps at the thought of a new conquest - a new game. Perhaps a pursuit that is unexpected by all others - especially of demon kind. They have seen much and heard much and curiosity is like temptation itself. They too wonder of things like hope - entertaining the concept. They do not understand it as they have long been an inhabitant of the same old Hell. Yet even they tilt their head in interest. What is this so-called thing of wonder that has kept civilizations afloat? And it is this same twisted intrigue that has left their lips parted in bemusement. Will they succumb to it’s enigmatic mystery? What shall become of the creature who begins to understand?

MONARCH OF PILFERED GOLD | A thief with a stolen crown, it is hardly an understatement to say that Mammon’s a selfish bastard. Anything that caught their eye was plucked by their greedy fingers by the right of their own claim. The excitement that coursed through their being elicits an ecstasy like no other. They will never forget the seal of death against Morningstar himself, oh how delightful it had all been. The sweet taste of bloodied victory is ever so ripe and thus this addiction to capture the same sensation thrusts them forward to chase it all over again. It was never enough for a being like Mammon who was carved from hunger itself. The pupils of their eyes dilate, looking toward shinier prizes - bigger ones that would make tidal wave changes. In their proud arrogant veneer, they mark their target in the back of their mind. Names and faces never forgotten as they seek to take one treasure after another. And perhaps the thrill of the game is only ever more exciting when the opponent viewed them as an enemy. It fuels the maniacal cackles that rip through their throat because what is theirs will be theirs. It would only take a matter of time before they conquered again and again. After all they took down the King of Hell, at this point - what else couldn’t they take? More is more.

CHARACTER CONNECTIONS & PLOTTING EXPLORATIONS

GABRIEL ; HOW SWEET IT TASTES TO INCITE YOUR WRATH | I really love the potential between Gabriel and Mammon as there’s undeniable heated tension. With him, Mammon feels the very sensation they have long been addicted to. The palpable hatred that lurks beneath Gabriel’s eyes lures Mammon closer - curious to see what would happen if they pushed further and incited an infernal fire. Undoubtedly I can see this dynamic burgeon into something both intimate and unspoken. For Mammon it is their newest game, their newest thrill ride to feel something and be seen. They will not deny themselves of the attention and want to bear witness to Gabriel’s promise of their destruction. ( I’m also here to see the angst )

“Destroy me if you can, desire me if you can’t” - Mammon

ROMILDA ; FOR THIS ONE’S DEMISE SHALL BE DELICIOUS | Mammon and Romilda appear to be playing some game of cat and mouse which offers for some spicy ideas. For Mammon, they remain closeby like a voyeur peering into the windows of another’s life - perhaps others would perceive it as a God complex. But it is not stemmed out of arrogance or superiority, rather just another form of amusement for a creature as bored as them. They follow at her feet to watch what will happen because she is interesting and they’re nosy and want to know more. Perhaps Romilda will get sick of it? Who knows! ( I could see them being lowkey kind of obnoxious to Romilda. )

“Tell me a story and I’ll give you a show.” - Mammon

REVNA ; COME CLOSER INTO THE DARKNESS O FRAGILE ONE | To Mammon, Revna is like the perfect three course meal - so deliciously melancholic and on the verge of hopelessness. They keep her around close to keep her entrenched in her misery. It is also like the finale of a play, they await to see what will snap and send her spiraling - an event that will certainly incite their wicked glee. But Mammon believes themself to be merciful, kind even - giving her a choice to do as she pleases. They just merely amplify what she already believes. And I can’t wait to play that out - this is pretty much a parasitic relationship except Revna gets nothing out of it really. ( They’re the world's shittiest therapist tbh )

“The closer to the edge you are, the grander and greater the fall.” - Mammon

GADRIEL ; KNEEL BEFORE MY FEET AND BEG FOR MERCY | Mammon has never forgotten the events that had unfolded, a sickly sensation that sticks to the guts of their stomach. It is both a disgrace and a dishonor to have ever allowed such a thing to have occurred. They are not one to bury the hatchet - rather they hold onto it with a grip. I would like to see Mammon and Gadriel perhaps duel once again, mayhaps to the death? If anything this too can make for some good drama. Maybe Mammon will make a friend - or just die, anythings possible! ( They’re in denial that they’re kinda pressed and acting like it’s no big deal but you know deep down it's a big deal )

“An outcome must be decided; to the victor go the spoils.” - Mammon

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes! But I would also think it’s funny if people keep trying to kill them and they just come back like, bitch you thought. Just imagine the meme potential.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation |

AND IT BEGINS ( THE ORIGINS OF IDENTITY )

Largely much of Mammon’s natural instincts seems to center around the concept of “hollowness” or “emptiness” and in turn, it would be likely that they would like to share this void sensation of others, a cruel goal but for them - it is merely how they live. Perhaps another reason to pull others into their sphere of vacancy is the twisted amusement of watching others suffer. They are wicked and have never denied it so, and to share in such pain only feeds into their own warped sense of pleasure and indulgence. However even so, their identity remains a translucent nonlinear jumble of messes, one that they do not wholly understand and seek to untangle. Simply put, they are beyond unusual, strange even and given their long years of existence, have become bored of routine.

THE CHANGE ( A NEW GAME )

And upon a frivolous whim, maybe they shall change it - or not, for they are as volatile as a child. But should change come, perhaps this will force them to act differently from the habits they have long been accustomed to. However, perhaps there is potential within their sinful avaricious vice to fall even deeper into the pitfall of hell. They have always been greedy in their collection of treasures. And surely objects have immense value but what if Mammon were to take it a step further? Breaking past the limits of inanimate items, their eyes may be set on an ever steeper goal. Their nurtured sadism bears fruit to cruel intentions; maybe it's time to take from the essence of humanity itself. It is people they wish to take from now; their hearts, their minds and even their souls.

DANCING TO THE FINALE ( BOPPING TO NIGHTMARES )

They want to carve out the creature that breathes their sweet drink of life. Through veiled grins and snide chuckles, they seek to pull the strings of those they deem of inconsequential value. Upon invisible puppet strings, Mammon will play until they tire once more. For it is all just a game to someone who’s never truly ever had a reason to care. ( Born in the void, they become just as senseless the place they call home - it is a cold cavity that is all they have known. ) They live in their own world of selfishness and conceit, the world just a playground for devils to play. So they shall dance in the dark, picking one human target to another, rejoicing in the cries of anguish. And when the song shall end and the old rickety monster becomes exhausted, they will crack their wrists. It is then they will break the fools until there is nothing left. Again and again the routine shall be repeated. Because Mammon hardly understood life in itself; only ever the depths of shadows and death.

Every word of hope and moral goodness consumed until by the black tar tongued of hell’s devil; and that is when the being is slaughtered, becoming just a husk of what they once were.

ABRIDGED : Ok so like to sum up, Mammon’s just a big asshole and just wants to screw up other people because they’re mainly 1. Bored and 2. Why the hell not it’ll be funny. 3. Collecting trash is their hobby. They’re so self absorbed in themselves that I feel like in order for Mammon to be pushed toward some outside motivation would require them to either 1. Get friends or 2. To give a fuck about someone else ( to care - WOW ) But as of the moment any sort of motivation or goal just stems from their own wants or needs which rules above all else. They don’t want much in life at the moment besides hoarding, stealing, taking new shit and playing fake God if they can. Or just be that third person ominous narrator that’s super unhelpful but is there to give unnecessary input. Demons gotta do something to pass the time, right?

Character Traits |

Positive Traits

Observant ; They have long had sharp pointed eyes - ones that watched the slightest ticks upon a visage, the subtlest movements of one’s gestures, the rhythm of footsteps of others. Mammon is a particular being who has long been watchful with a gaze that is both frightening as it is dangerous. But it is through their observations that fan the flames of mania. They play their games regardless of their opponent, their whims self serving first.

Strategic ; A good player must learn the ins and outs of any game and it is one of the first things that Mammon has long gravitated towards. They pick their wars keenly, sometimes even merely satisfied with the knowledge that things shall work as they had planned. Execution is what they have done best and it takes more than sheer luck and power to finesses such precision.

Clever ; Far from a moron, Mammon has always prided themselves in their intellect. However, exercising such wit often was a choice rather than a given. For the gluttonous demon celebrated their flaws far more than any of their redemptions. Only in dire circumstances would they ever apply themselves with the extra effort of thinking. Perhaps when a worthy enough challenge came along its merry way, they would finally exert their mind once more.

Negative Traits

Rapacity ; Mammon has always had a large appetite for intemperance. Both physical and metaphorical, they celebrate in the excess. The more they devour, the more satisfied they become. To them, boundaries are just suggestions. Their overwhelming need to take everything from everyone fuels them to function. Nothing could ever be enough. More was always better, and they live by these words on a daily basis.

Sadistic ; They enjoy the thrill of crawling under the skin of both friends and foes. It is amusing to watch souls tortured and in pain, the sound of shrieks and cries are like trumpets to their ears. They rejoice in the reactions, cackle in the face of desperate pleas - they have long been accustomed to cruelty. Perhaps it is the infliction of pain that they themselves can understand human emotions; something so strange and foreign. For they themselves have long lived null and empty.

Manipulative ; Silver tongued and clawed finger tips, Mammon is shrewd in their approach and sly in their tactics. They enjoy digging beneath the surface of what is seen and plucking out the weakest part of a flawed creation. Behind a face that may mask friendliness lies a sinister creature full of mischief and mayhem. They speak with lies, wearing deceit as their second nature. The craze they exude glints beneath the murky tar colored eyes.

In-Character Para Sample |

EXCERPT 01: LUCIFERS FINALE.

WHEN SINNERS FALL, DEMONS SHALL RISE

T R I G G E R - W A R N I N G : Implications of Violence, Death / Murder

Morningstar, the king of Hell, how arrogantly he sits upon the throne of bones and emptied carcasses. His face is marred with arrogance; of kingly conceit that is forged from his own inflamed hubris. How pompous Lucifer appears - but perhaps it is the lens that Mammon perceives that weaves the tale which whispers of their questionable truth.

But rewind -- it begins from the beginning. The one object that sat like an artificial halo atop Lucifer’s head; oh glory to the shiniest trophy of them all. It was all they ever wanted, clenched fists with fingers dug deep into their palms. Such a beautiful crown wasted on the being they thought most undeserving.

Mammon had arrived late, birthed in the pits only then. They were nothing but a speck in the universe. Thus they knew, to be worthy of such a precious coronet, they needed to become something. Someone. Their worth must be equal to the item they wished to pursue - or so they once believed.

And so the fateful day came and Mammon strolled within the gates. Head held high, arms swung side to side as their eyes followed the audience. From one head to another - oh the looks of dissatisfaction restrained at the edges of the crowd’s ugly visages. Mammon sensed it, felt the dissent looming through the room - like fog itself, murmurs could be heard throughout. But all of them were cowards, their heads still bowed lowly before the demon king himself.

They greet the false King, a cockiness in their stride as they stand with informality, a grin crawling up their knife like features. There is a nonchalance in their posture, an indifference that seemed to agitate his royal hellness.

“I have returned,” the voice thickened and dark.

Mammon sees the rage, understands the ticking bomb that lies behind the devil’s veneer. But they did what they did best - they poked and prodded.

“The world is a pleasurable place beyond the frigid walls of this palace. It seems that you have been forgotten, your name abandoned, forsaken,” Mammon sighs - their pupils never moving an inch away from the Morningstar’s head.

“I suppose your ‘greatness’ is nothing compared to the man residing upstairs,” they mocked.

Lucifer is silent but his cool rage could be felt. The stillness that fell could stop time itself. It was then he stood, fingers gripped at the arms of his wretched throne. His voice is a hiss, fueled with laughable jealousy. Words that only Satan himself could ever conjure slithered between the flaps of whatever made his mouth.

But Mammon remained themself. Unflinching as they awaited - beckoned the fury to light brighter and brighter. They took a step, accepting a dare with the fates. And it was then that they had crossed the line, the servants of Morningstar thrusting them upon their knees.

They had trekked into uncharted territory - detonating the wrath of the top Devil. A small smile appeared on their face. It was all a joke. But the glee that curdled through their rickety bones brought forth the satisfaction they had gambled for. How sweet was the taste of Lucifer’s anger and jealousy - they could eat up more -for it was aromatically delicious.

The pits of Tartarus were nothing for a creature like them. They would claw their way out as they had done once before. How amusing it all was, they had stepped on the toes of a ‘supposed king’ who’s envy entrapped him. It was confirmed in that moment that Mammon who had wandered the planes with a trail ablazing, they had become something more. They left once but they’d swore they’d come back for more.

A KING NO MORE

And so they returned. Indifference worn upon the husk humans called a face. Their decision never came from a place of justice or hatred. No, it was the one fixation that they had long desired. And the only way for them to ever get such a prized possession was to chop it from the head of the wearer.

It was a merry day for a remorseless killer.

They spun to the tune that played in their head - the haunting whistle that made their feet tap to a jig. It was the mighty king of hell’s turn to have a taste of damnation. Perhaps somewhere the Angels would have sung for Mammon's praise. But whether the pasty holier than thou freaks did or didn’t, they didn’t give a fuck.

Mammon wanted what they wanted. Blade in the grasp tightly, exposing the whites of their knuckles. Today was the day to claim their very first love. ( Love? Obsesion? No, it was just another whim, another aimless desire. )

Swiftly they cut, quickly they shredded. It wasn’t long before the Morningstar was beheaded.

In the bloody mess of whatever made the black hearted creature, Mamon ripped the crown from his head. Their fingertips stained with the colors of death, they place the object upon their own head. In the reflection of the glassy floor - they bear a smile, teeth exposed to show their mephistophelian smile.

And yet the feeling is fleeting - as it always was. They had come and conquered but it was never really enough. The agenda was completed and their excitement gone. They looked at themselves once more, the grin fading. Their fingers gripped the item and threw it on the dirtied ground.

A sigh of exasperation exited their lips, their back turned as they walked away. Onlookers bowed before them but they did not care. They had their fun and as routine, it was time for Mammon to find a new toy to play with. But before they vanished from sight as they were long accustomed to, they glanced back once more. An itch to feel the euphoric sensations that rattled their ribcage and howled beneath their flesh.

Alas.

It was just another fucking crown.

____________________________________________________________________________________

EXCERPT 02: THE UNKNOWN.

IN MY PRESENCE, ANGELS SCREAM

It was him that they found a fascination like no other, an unsettling sensation that felt akin to perhaps what the humans may call alive. Mammon lurks within the shadows - not to close, just enough to see them. Enough to feel something within that jostled, reminiscent of a beastly heart.

“I know you’re there.” He blinds like the sun.

Mammon says nothing.

It is then that Gabriel makes his approach. Oh glory to a walking God. Each step ringing like the bells of divine retribution. But Mammon does not waver, nor do they run. They welcome it, their lips curling at the corners.

“I am here oh sweet fair haired angel,” their words spiteful. “Vanquish me if you truly dare.” It is then that they too walk into the light. They should have burned. But darkness consumes all, absorbs all and takes all.

Gabriel does not speak. But his gaze does not fall.

LOVE AND HATRED ARE SAME SIDES OF PASSION

It is Mammon's turn to take the stage and so they do. They walk closer, enough to taunt the other. They delighted in the seething temper that boiled beneath. His hatred was like no other; he bears witness to Mammon’s full depravity. It is Gabriel who seems to understand the monstrosity of what they are. And it is in this fragile perverted supposed understanding that pulls Mammon closer.

“You have cultivated your sainthood, your goodness,” Mammon remarks. “But isn’t that your purpose? The will of accursed God all too shitty. But you see Gabriel - I am like you too. It is just merely a difference in … design,” words hissed with pitch black mirth.

Their finger is pointed at them.

“For you, they strove for righteousness.”

“They gave you light. Nurtured you with warmth.”

“Your existence was a predestined fortune.”

There is ridicule dripping from their words. No bitterness, no care - just vacant rambles and little thought - a pretend of emotion conducted for theatrics. They raise their arms to the sky, their middle fingers pointed.

“But I was made as an omen, an example of all things terrible.”

Their arms dropped as their focus returned to one of God’s original favorites.

“They made me hungry.”

“They made me wretched.”

“For all the love and praise you fucking angels sing, how imperious for your kind to judge.”

Mammon closes the distance, their mouth upturned like a risen half moon.

“Doesn’t it pain you to know that our fallen creator had us all cut from the same cloth? Despise me should you wish but do not deny that even you, pure and good, harbor something as foul as hatred.” They laugh - cacophonic delirious cackles of a madman facing death.

Mammon stops - in the quietness their head tilts, a sneer pulling at their lip.

“Kill me if you choose but it’ll make you no better than the Devil.”

____________________________________________________________________________________

Extras |

HEAD CANNONS

WINGS : I’ve always imagined that Mammon would have wiry or metal looking wings? Like it would be sharp and mimic spare parts or just trash, almost as if they had made their wings by hand. I’m specifically picturing the creepy hand from the “Other Mother” in Coraline but imagine the material as wings ( reference here )

FOODIE : I think it would be funny that they’re somewhat of a fancy connoisseur of food. Well food and perhaps anything else that they can put in their mouth. I feel like their standards of what can be eaten really is at a low bar. They would be down to just chew on some dirt and be like “wow the flavor in this silt soil can not be compared to clay.” Seems like the type of thing Mammon would be into. Probably would overshare and even attempt to encourage others to try whatever the hell they’ve decided to swallow that day.

TRENDSETTER : Given that Mammon likes to take a lot of shit and probably has the attention span of a child, I don’t think they’d be wearing the same outfit on repeat ever. I also feel like they’d be the type to put on a plastic bag and then call it high fashion and maybe people would believe them? Or not - I mean the choice is simple, nod or choose death I suppose. I also see them being a big fan of sunglasses just to be dramatic when they toss it off to really emphasize how crazy and fucking wild they truly are. Also I could see them just being dramatic for no good reason with a little bit of a flair for theatrics.

WEAPON: Perhaps Mammon’s weapon of choice would be akin to something that looks like a Scythe? Or maybe they’re the type that would keep a handful of sharp blades on them, I could definitely imagine them playing with a butterfly knife and doing tricks with it since they’ve had hours upon hours to learn and fuck around. I could also see them picking up other people’s weapons and going like “well that's nice, going to add it to my collection. This one would be great for some good old stabbing.”

MUSIC : Despite being kind of a silent type, Mammon secretly is the type to be into a lot of music??? Especially when they’re doing some dirty business or like kicking someone for being a buckethead, I could imagine them jamming to some sweet tunes while doing the ass kicking. Maybe they’ll whistle too. Here’s a scene from American Psycho whis is the inspiration I got behind this ( reference here // trigger warning: murder + violence + blood )

OTHERS

PINTEREST | MOCKBLOG

ENDNOTE: Thank you for reading through my application! Just wanted to say that you guys did such a great job with the roleplay. Whether I’m accepted or not, I had a lot of fun writing this & exploring the character so thank you! ♥

#accepted #accepted: mammon

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carbonatedjem · 4 years

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“Symbols of Survival This is a commission for GokuvsSuperman117 on Deviantart! He’s a friend of mine and he’s commed me in the past. And for all of his comms so far he’s always had a speech prepared relating to the image.

--- "Survival. Perhaps the most basic and universal instinct known to nature. Every creature adheres to the concept at one time or another, whether they realize it or not. Though some are unable to execute it, those who do showcase resilience, determination, and an unstoppable willpower to push through what seems impossible. Through this continued strive to live, strength, purpose, and even victory can be attained. All throughout the realms of fiction, the three I find to embody the concept of survival with purity and accuracy fittingly hail from the genre of survival horror. Whether they face reaninations of the deceased, the mutations of our very mitochondria, or the return of formerly extinct feral beasts, they have learns the ins and outs of evading death, pressing on to fight another day, no matter what horror impedes their progress. Jill Valentine of Resident Evil, Aya Brea of Parasite Eve, Regina of Dino Crisis. These three enduring women of action have out outfought and outfoxed the odds on several occasions. Whether it was through the raging fire of hours or the precious few seconds that decided the difference of life and death, they preserved their hardships and overcame their challenges. Through their astonishing tales of survival, they completed their missions, lived to fight for the future, and continued their battles to ensure the well-being of others and themselves." Lovely job my man, and also as per usual he's asked me to give my thoughts on the characters along with the process of drawing them. --- Jill Valentine - Aight so I ain't never played Resident Evil in my life. The most exposure I've had to it are like, a few lets plays of the 7th Game and that's all, and even with RE3 I know mostly about Nemesis rather than Jill. And even what I know about Jill is limited to the Marvel vs Capcom version where she looks like an Anime! So I can only give opinions on drawing her . . . So like the hell that was drawing her hands and that gun are like the most notable thing I can mention about her drawing process specifically. Drawing that burning building behind her was cool though!~ Aya Brea - So like, y'know how I said I ain't never played Resident Evil and what I did know about it was limited??? Yeah I literally forgot Parasite Eve existed until this commission was first described to me. However the comm did make me somewhat interested in getting into the games, whether that be by playing them or watching lets plays on youtube I have yet to decided. As for Aya, honestly she's my favorite part about this comm, drawing her from sketch to shading was really fun for a reason I can't explain without a college major in astronomy. Maybe it's the shoulders. Regina - And now we're in the middle of how much I know about Dino Crisis and Regina. I didn't forget she existed, but I also don't know what her favorite kind of bread is, a true conundrum. She was second most fun to draw, her design was nice and unique from the others and her hair is perty. And drawing the dinosaurs behind her was pretty cool, I like how I drew the T-Rex's eye. Jazz. --- https://carbonatedjames.tumblr.com/post/188530447089/httpsdocsgooglecomdocumentd1tmqgzy2sj2z3ofm Commissions are currently open

#Commission #Commissions Open #Fanart #Dino Crisis #Parasite Eve #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 3 #Regina #Aya Brea #Jill Valentine #T-Rex #Velociraptor #Nemesis

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fourteendoors · 4 years

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The Floating Library

If you are a prominent resident of the city of Shaltakoom, you may at one point be approached by a member of the Floating Library. They’ll be perfectly polite, compliment your house, offer you gifts, and, once they have gained your trust, enquire into possibly purchasing your brain.

Of course, they won’t take it while you’re alive- and they won’t even need all of it. They’ll give you an astonishing sum now, and after your death their agents will come to collect your corpse and take it back to the Library, where accomplished surgeons will slice out a bit of your brain, mages will weave preserving spells over it, and dedicated custodians will watch over it as it sits in a brass jar high on a shelf.

It’s not the easiest sell, but for the vast amount of money the Library offers it’s easy to simply stop thinking about it. Everyone knows the soul is contained in the heart, after all.

The Floating Library has a use for these brains, however. With the right treatment (and the right operations), a person can be converted into a living reader, capable of accessing the memories stored within these chunks of brain as if they were their own. The Library contains the dead of centuries past, all accessible within a moment as long as there’s a reader available. They win a lot of their public support that way- dead orators give speeches to crowds, dead composers write new concertos to perform in front of local nobles, dead kings regale the masses with tales of great conquests gone long past. Of course, if one wants a personal audience with one of these figures, the prices can be steep. The readers must be taken care of, after all.

The librarians employ a small retinue of readers. You can usually pick one out of a crowd by a few factors- simple white clothing, a look of calm bemusement, and a head half made of brass. (Of course, they don’t go outside much. Overheating is a serious concern.) They come from a few camps- unwanted children sold to the Library, those looking to experience everything life has to offer, and those with something to forget. Over the course of a few weeks, drugs, hypnosis, and sorcery will wipe their minds clean. Once they’re properly prepared, surgeons will slave over them for hours, replacing the top of their head and preparing them to receive new segments of brains. (The Library claims this process is successful 98% of the time.) These readers live thereafter in a state of pleasant fogginess, capable of carrying on a normal day-to-day existence, but not much more. They are cared for by the Library, and want for nothing so long as their readings are still effective.

There is a level of the Library of which only its most trusted patrons are aware. Above are the mundane experts- historical figures of renown, acclaimed academics, warriors of immense skill, et cetera- but below, in the vault, are the brains of wizards. The Library’s favored can call up assistance from powerful mages of old, something that has been instrumental in allowing the organization to accumulate as much political power as it has. However, this vast storage of power brings with it a few problems. Firstly, while an artist or a politician may be easily constrained, a wizard is much different. Their memories are dark and slippery things, and a reader who isn’t properly prepared may find themselves overtaken by a surge of foreign thoughts. There have been more than a few attempts at escape, and many have been successful. Secondly, the vast reserve of magical power serves as an appetizing target for extradimensional predators, who pose an ever-present threat to the sanctity of the Library. (The Library was driven from its last home after a host of parasitic aether squids wrecked most of the local Merchant’s Quarter.)

How To Use The Floating Library In Your Game

Graverobbing doesn’t get nearly enough attention in fantasy fiction, which is a shame, because it’s easily one of the most weird and gameable concepts in history. If someone breaks their contract with the Library, they’ll need someone to hunt the disloyal bastard’s corpse down- perhaps the PCs. It’d be easy to introduce a ticking clock element into the adventure- perhaps the Prince’s body will be immolated at midnight, and with it, his brain. Alternatively, the PCs could instead be contracted to steal from the Library itself, on behalf of a grieving lover or bitter enemy. A party that doesn’t mind making powerful enemies could use this as a jury-rigged version of the reincarnate spell, grabbing the brain of a dead friend and kidnapping a reader both.

d10 Brains in the Library

A princess of a faraway kingdom, killed in her bed by her own sister.

A charismatic and well-spoken serial killer.

A cynical philosopher with a drug habit.

A poet, ripped apart by wolves.

A master thief, beloved by the common folk.

A woman who claimed to be the living incarnation of a god.

A honor-bound knight who murdered his master.

A traitor, kept in the library to be tortured past his death.

One of the Library’s founders.

Someone the PCs knew personally.

#osr #fantasy #roleplaying #worldbuilding #i always had a soft spot for the mi-go

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hermetictardigrade · 5 years

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HISTORY OF THE EARLY UNMAN

Where did man come from? This question has occupied the human sidethought for thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands of lazy deeryear. It is a question responsible for many of the world’s myths & religions. Yet those old answers, they are merely one primitive dog attempt after another for a conquest—just some old pelican’s idea of showing off his explanatory prowess. A mating game and a mushroom. Cast it all away, dancer! Today we spread out a veil. Today we will sacrifice a limb-cut Mt. Everest on the altar of the smiling science. So grab a woodchuck & squeeze!

A disclaimer—As with all prehistory histories, most of what follows is complete conjecture. But I assure you that I have studied all the bones. Each and every one. And through my hydromancy practice I have gained a secondary authentication. These dry words can be trusted, my friend, for I am no wet salamander. And I shall never flee at the approach of an uncomfortable truth. Yes, in the realm of Idea I am a sneering viking warrior, and irony is my excaliber. O foolish, foolish throats!

Our first Apetwin had an insect eye. An insect heart. Our first Apetwin had almost no concepts of his own. He was born without a cabalistic grocery cart, and his cavehome was completely bare. Except for his one friend, the red weasel, no one ever came to visit him. He tried taking walks around the plains, tried to do the old meet-and-greet, but all this caused was a raising of severe eyebrows. And those cruel, cruel Elephantkind! They would always frown at him, they would cover their offspring’s bulging red eyes whenever he passed. He seemed to cause severe allergic reactions. The termite kingdom even labelled him “a very dangerous individual”, and said he had no hamstrings. He’d only been alive for about a week, this little Unman, and yet the pinky aggregations of gossip had so quickly become established… He just couldn’t counter it all, he just couldn’t “put up”. Life on the savannah became disagreeable to him. His new word for life became “dead duck”. And so, on the second Tuesday of his life he crawled inside his dirty hidey hole and turned himself into a grey statue, never to dethaw. A sad ending for a sad meatball. But let’s not dwell! And hey—about 157,535 years later his grim statue-self was found by a traveling hippie death cult, and worshiped as their god. Yes, for a few sweet summers (Between ’70 and ’73) he got to play as King of all the Archons, and had the front row seat to endless sex magick shenanigans, often involving a tribe of lost circus gorilla. And not everybody can say that, eh?!

Our second Apetwin was a variant on the first. But this time around he was all horn, baby. All point & all angle. Yes, this time around nobody gave him any slippery shitstuff, because they were all far too afraid of him. They ditched the conspiratorial, and didn’t so much as pass a slither in his direction. In all their little booties, they quaked. At birth his apeface had been covered over with a strange metallic star. Yes, even while babyfresh, he shined. Vaguely organic was this facestar of his, and possibly sentient too. Somekindof parasitic somethingorother, a devious sucker of his fur. This star cursed like a non-aquatic sailor. (Not at all, in other words. This star was completely mute.) It also made it very difficult (impossible) for him to ever eat a tasty lunch. The most heroic action of this Ape’s life involved a fight with a deranged porcupine. This was on the third, maybe fourth day of his life, I think? Somekindof mating argument, if I am remembering correctly, something about access to a voluptuous porcupine female. He triumphed over the tricksy death quills, but died of starvation soon after. This is because he had no mouth with which to eat, as I mentioned previously. This is also why we of the english language call it STARvation. A tribute of sorts to this legendary apeboy hunk.

The third Apetwin (aka Charlie Ape), was a true ghostboy. He clouded himself regularly, because he was completely addicted to Phantom. Whenever his head spectrals reached a level low enough for a pupil return he sprayed again with the ReFog(™) . It was in this way that he avoided the nastiness of the sunlight, and the sad pretensions of the floral. His cosmic familiars? They often sprayed with ReFog(™) too. That sassy Sally Ape, that old old Momma Ape…A bunch of risky impatients they all were. Baby did not partake in any of this, however. Baby had a round plaster belly filled with flies. Baby was deafdumbblind. Baby knew not what he was, nor where he was. But as for that Charlie, Sally, & Momma, they all wanted a bigger, cloudier drift to exist inside themselves. They wanted something with a true extraterrestrial kick. And so (with a little misused Freudian analysis) they combined their three headselves, becoming one great winged headself. This newly-formed divine headself suctioned itself up, flying straight under moon’s surprised eyelid. It accidentally struck a hidden shadow vein there, and boom! All three apes were immediately transferred into a permanent apparitional state. A cautionary tale, folks.

Onward, then to the fourth Apetwin! This fellow started out small. No distinguishing personality features. No real fetishes or quirks to speak of. One thing that this fourth line of ape did enjoy was a good long swim. These apes loved the feeling of wet fur on warm grass. They loved to open their mouths underwater, to feel a cool aquatic massage along their weary gums. They would often smile very broadly after a dip, to show the tribe a set of sparking white river-cleaned teeth. And before any fuck, a quick dip was always expected. Just good form, you know? Hygienic. Unfortunately, in those prehistoric times there was just one large river, spiraling out from the core. The One had not yet diverged into the Many. This ancient river was 73 miles wide, and it teemed with sexually transmitted disease. Eventually this fourth ape line became consumed by the microscopic, their peaceful utopian society torn apart by a cornucopia of infection. One disease caused their ape genitalia to balloon with an effusion of strange red flesh bubbles, which when popped caused them very great pain. Another caused their blood veins to expand and spiral upwards, devouring their heads & disjoining their thoughts. And it all ended with a discharge which was musical. The less said about all that, the better.

Here I will end my account of the prehistoric Unmen. There are many more dead ends to cover, and I yet have forgotten them all. Loosey goosey, Loosey goosey. Depart my friends, and let not the mammalian tragedies of our past weary your present steps.

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alchemisland · 5 years

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Moors Mutt IV - Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'

#Folk horror #Folklore #Myths and legends #Horror #Horror writers #Horror writers of Tumblr #Writeblr #My words #WIP #Writing goals #Plot #Dialogue #Prose #Amwriting #Spilled ink #Writers of Tumblr #Irish writers #Writers of ireland

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Best Horror Anime To Watch on Crunchyroll

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One of the best things about October is how every content provider gets infected with Halloween madness and succumbs to horror-centric programming. Some networks even curate a full 31 days of scary content to prove just how gung ho they are about this spooky holiday. At this point you’ve likely already made a checklist for all of the big horror films that are on the horizon and all of the older classics that you need to catch up on. However, if you’re still starved for even more horror-based content, then look no further than Crunchyroll and their catalogue of frightening anime.

Whether you’re a committed member of the anime streaming service or you’ve never checked out the site before, it’s likely that the service will have something that catches your eye. It can sometimes be rather overwhelming to sift through a whole collection of anime, especially when you have no idea what’s supposed to be good or not, let alone a series that’s actually scary. In order to make your Halloween a little less frightening, we’ve streamlined a list of some of Crunchyroll’s most notable anime series—both in terms of horror shows that go straight for the jugular as well as lighter fare that centers around a supernatural premise—to make the experience as easy as possible for you.

Yamishibai: Japanese Ghost Stories

How Many Episodes: 72

Sub Only

Yamishibai has steadily been trucking along for over six seasons and it’s turned into one of the more traditional horror anime staples in Japan. The series gets its inspiration from classic urban legends and ghost stories from Asian culture and distills them into brief four-minute bursts of horror. A lot of Yamishibai’s charm comes from its creepy atmosphere and short stories, but the anime’s quality wildly fluctuates over the show’s six seasons. Some episodes are more uncomfortable or strange than terrifying, and the show’s low production values may deter some viewers, but it’s a great source to learn about all kinds of creepy new stories.

Kagewani

How Many Episodes: 13

Sub Only

Kagewani looks at a desperate video blogger who attempts to find success by faking the appearance of cryptids and monsters in his videos. Before he knows it, there are real monsters that are loose on the city and a growing epidemic begins to sweep the community. This hapless blogger, Sousuke, attempts to eliminate these creatures, but the mystery he’s put himself in continues to deepen. Kagewani is easy viewing with its short seven-minute episodes and even though the art style leaves plenty to be desired, it features creative monsters designs and a mystery that holds up until the end. Dedicated fans can also check out the show’s sequel series, Kagewani: Shou.

Angels of Death

How Many Episodes: 12

Sub and Dub

Angels of Deathis a boiled down psychological horror title that throws its characters and audience into a high concept premise. A young girl named Rachel wakes up in the basement of an abandoned building and has no idea how she got there. It’s not long until she encounters Zack, a man who’s completely covered in bandages and has a penchant for waving a sickle around. Angels of Death explores the unconventional friendship between these two as they try to figure out where they are and how to get out. The prison that Rachel and Zack find themselves trapped in is full of unusual horror-friendly characters and the series understands how to make this action-packed mystery engrossing rather than draw out the adventure and withhold answers.

GeGeGe no Kitaro (Kitaro of the Graveyard) (2018)

How Many Episodes: 97 (and still running)

Sub Only

GeGeGe no Kitaro is an anime series that’s actually been around since the 1960s, but every decade has featured some fresh attempt at remaking the series. 2018’s rendition of GeGeGe no Kitaro seems to have learned much from its predecessors and feels like the most polished execution of the anime yet. The series focuses on a number of yokai that are determined to keep the world safe from the more dangerous spirits that are out there. Each episode features a “yokai of the week” that must be handled, but a larger serialized story also courses in the background. GeGeGe no Kitaro has a wide cast of weird, enjoyable characters and even though it skews younger, it still manages to surprise. The basic premise behind the series may sound played out, but incredible art design and addictive storytelling help keep this anime on top.

Another

How Many Episodes: 12

Sub Only

Anothertells an unnerving mystery that sees class 3-3 in a middle school turn into a hotbed for supernatural activity after a popular girl passes away in the ’70s. Now in the present, a new transfer student enters class 3-3 and he’s the only one that’s able to see Misaki, the girl who passed away over 20 years ago. Mysteries continue to grow and this transfer student forms an unexpected alliance with the mysterious Misaki to figure out what evil forces have ahold of their school. Another plays up the mystery and suspense angle over pure horror, but it still knows when to turn up the blood and guts when it’s appropriate. Another benefits from a concise 12-episode story and even though the series’ central mystery changes in some major ways in the second half of the season, it’s always engrossing. You truly want to see Kouichi, the transfer student, find some peace and hopefully be able to give Masaki’s soul some rest, too.

Parasyte: The Maxim

How Many Episodes: 24

Sub and Dub

Parasyte: The Maxim hits the ground running and is bonkers from its very first frame. The series revolves around a number of alien parasites that have landed on Earth and start possessing hosts. Shinichi Izumi is a mild-mannered high school student whose life drastically changes when one of these parasites possesses his right hand. This sets Shinichi on a dangerous journey to wipe out the other parasites that have landed on Earth, as well as figure out how to work alongside his new alien host, and if there’s a way to rid himself of this threat. Parasyte: The Maximoperates like a superhero series at times as Shinichi acclimates to the new strength and powers that his parasite gives him. The series also navigates tricky moral territory as Shinichi, who’s now a human-alien hybrid, must fight against the aliens that are now part of his biology (think Tokyo Ghoul, but with aliens instead of vampire demons).

The path that Shinichi finds himself on gives the anime a strong narrative drive, but honestly, this is just a beautiful show to watch in motion. The fluid, bewildering effects that Shinichi’s parasitic hand puts to use are ridiculous and it’s just crazy to watch a boy partner up with an alien version of his hand for an entire series. H.P. Lovecraft would give this madness his full stamp of approval.

Junji Ito Collection

How Many Episodes: 12

Sub and Dub

If Yamishibai is the tame horror anthology that you can watch before going to bed, then Junji Ito Collection is pure nightmare fuel. This is not a series that should be watched with the lights turned off or even with a large amount of shade in the room. The series adapts some of the most disturbing stories from renowned horror manga artist, Junji Ito. Junji Ito Collection packs two sordid stories into each episode and the subject matter ranges from supernatural curses, to deranged killers, to some of the most extreme body horror you’ll ever see in an anime (can David Cronenberg please take on a live-action adaptation of “Honored Ancestors”?). Ito conjures up unbelievable ideas that are truly a rarity for horror and stories like “Greased,” “Long Dreams,” “Slug Girl,” and “Blood-Bubble Bushes” are all behemoths of horror.

Unfortunately, not all of the Ito stories that the anime chooses to adapt are winners, but the series’ unsettling art design still helps the weaker tales carry a strong punch. With any justice a second season of this will soon be announced to terrify anime fans well into 2019.

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Erased

How Many Episodes: 12

Sub Only

Erased is a tight psychological thriller that feels like what would happen if David Fincher had written and directed Back to the Future. The anime centers around the pursuit of a child killer who’s been on the loose for decades while someone else has wrongfully taken the blame. This compelling serial killer mystery also throws in supernatural elements with how the central character experiences a phenomenon known as “Revival” that sends him back in time a few minutes to prevent incidents. The 29 year-old suddenly finds himself sent back 19 years and in his 10 year-old self with the opportunity to stop and catch the child murderer before his initial crimes take place. It’s an incredible mix of genres with a villain that’s genuinely scary and phenomenal characters that you want to see survive. Erased is only 12 episodes and not a single one is wasted as this mystery plays out and goes to dark places.

The Promised Neverland

How Many Episodes: 12

Sub Only

The Promised Neverland is the kind of anime that M. Night Shyamalan would absolutely fall in love with. It’s a masterstroke of storytelling and it builds tension in amazing ways as it keeps the characters and the audience in the dark about so much. It makes all of the series’ payoffs become absolutely incredible. The anime is set in a dystopic vision of 2045 within an orphanage where an 11 year-old named Emma and dozens of other young children are given a cushy existence at the cost of never leaving the grounds and venturing to the outside world. Emma and company soon learn of the horrific truth of the world and the real reason that they’re being kept at this orphanage. It’s truly chilling and The Promised Neverland tells a gripping story where these children have no one to trust and are in way over their heads. A second season of The Promised Neverland is set to hit in 2021, so it’s the perfect time to jump into this series.

Death Note

How Many Episodes: 37

Sub and Dub

Death Note is a series that’s turned into a colossal hit and even though various live-action versions of it exist, there are none that compare to what the anime accomplishes. Death Note succeeds in taking something as outlandish as a magical killing notebook and an apple loving devil shinigami and tie it with a hard-boiled cat and mouse crime saga. Light Yagami’s plummet into darkness and L’s pursuit to apprehend him and keep the blast radius from increasing is really great stuff. It digs into the inherently scary nature of what misdirected rage can make people do. It’s such a different take on a serial killer and the anime remains unpredictable until the end, even though it takes a major turn after the halfway point that isn’t for everyone.

Other horror-centric or monster-based anime titles to check out on Crunchyroll when you’ve scared yourself stiff off of everything else: Jin Roh, The Laughing Salesman NEW, The Garden of Sinners, Interviews With Monster Girls, and Attack on Titan

The post Best Horror Anime To Watch on Crunchyroll appeared first on Den of Geek.

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mothership-org · 4 years

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Who We Are

We are artists, researchers, and cultural practitioners living across Europe. Our practice engages with a politics of care, re/production, and identity, exploring a new relationship to “mother” and “other(s)” in the resistance of the new forms of essentialist identitarianism, heterosexist male dominance, racial violence, and misogyny. With different cultural, geographical, racial, and ethnic backgrounds, we have so far experimented with various methods of care and solidarity in the forms of a study group, collaborative researches, and roaming assemblies in the past few years under the framework of Dutch Art Institute, Roaming Assembly, e.g. islandthinking, Eurasia Underground Library, Parasite Library, The Entangled Readers, We Eat Circles and Drink Squares, The Cage Bed of Dreams among others. With the art initiative “(M)othership,” we aim to create new modes of solidarity and multiplicities in the form of a digital assembly and online publication where the boundaries of a discipline collapse, a collective study is revalued, and the ethics of cultural work is discussed in ecological terms.

Lucie Draai

Lucie Draai (Bogotá/Rotterdam) is an artist based in Rotterdam and currently finishing a Master of Fine Art Praxis at the Dutch Art Institute. Her practice proposes to rethink and rupture the social and political terms of order that surround us. Working within the perception of our living world as viscous and porous than solid and universal, she takes a more-than-human understanding of the present as a necessary practice to shift the existing conception of being, temporality, and life/death.

Exhibitions, performances, readings, and workshops have been hosted by and in collaboration with Zoe Scoglio; Tim Mastik; Hordaland Kunstsenter; Shimmer; Volteface; Hot Wheels Projects; Billytown; PA-AP; A Tale of a Tub; Cafe Bel; GROOS. Artist-in-Residencies at Artist Proof Studio and AGALAB. Her works can be found at Billytown Bookshop and Walter Bookstore.

https://www.luciedraai.nl

Irati Irulegi

Irati Irulegi (San Sebastián/Barcelona) works as a curator and cultural practitioner in Barcelona. Her curatorial work and practice evolves around different collaborative works. She is currently part of Idensitat, a Barcelona based art project focusing on the public sphere and socially engaged projects by collaborating with the inhabitants of the areas. Lrulegi holds a degree in Art History from the University of Barcelona (BA), a postgraduate degree in Exterior Design, and Dutch Art Institute, Roaming Academy (MA). She has established her career in the field of curatorship and artistic mediation. Since 2012, she has participated in various projects such as Sala d’Art Jove (2017), Komisario Berriak (2016), and “Out of the loop,” the curatorial proposal with Iker Fidalgo and Laura Diez for Montehermoso.

https://iratiirulegi.wordpress.com

Ellen Nunes

Ellen Nunes (São Paulo/London) is a Brazilian artist, researcher and educator based in London. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Fine Art at Chelsea College of Art in London. She is interested in the intersection of scholarly research with artistic practices which explore participatory and dialogical approaches, assessing artistic practice as a methodological research tool. She has currently researched Brazilian artist Helio Oiticica. Experimenting with the possibilities of a methodological and pedagogical tool with his concepts and theories, her work and practice is composed of long-term collaborations, study groups, and workshops, based upon which she coordinates and organises exhibitions. Most recent experiences took place in Chelsea, Camberwell and Wimbledon Colleges of Art.

Her works have been hosted by: Chelsea Triangle Space Gallery; State of Concept; A-Dash Space; Laboratorio Arte Alameda; Sesc Sorocaba; Paço das Artes; Praca Victor Civita; Mediterraneo Centro Artistico; Palazzo Barone; Lisbon Arquiteturas Film Festival; Tokonoma Kassel; Instituto Itau Cultural; Museu da Imagem e do Som; Museu Murillo La Greca; Casa M.

http://cargocollective.com/ellennunes

Yen Noh

Yen Noh (Seoul/Utrecht) is an artist and researcher, currently living in Utrecht. Noh engages with a politics of the unspeakable by way of anti-colonial “paralanguage” that performs the language’s materiality to precede and exceed representation and meaning. She uses performance, speech, and writing act to exercise paralinguistic elements, i.e. sound, tone, rhythm, gesture, non-sensical expression, that are always parts of language yet fall away from linguistic analyses. Her performance is an attempt to escape the linguistic violence of signification and instead affirm the new intensity of paralanguage as possibility of language by reenacting and recreating radical practices by those whose history is ignored and unthought by the official history but deserve to be told. Her research so far has been the Korean-American performance writer, filmmaker, and artist Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, the 1920s Japanese art group MAVO, the Korean poet and architect Yi Sang and his partner Geumhong who was a sex worker, through whom she seeks to rethink signification as its bodily practice.

Her work and practice has been shown in various exhibition and performance venues, e.g. Bulegoa z/b; Künstlerhaus Wien; Silent Green; Bauhaus Dessau; BRUX/Freies Theatre Innsbruck; A-Dash; Seoul Art Space Mullae; das weisse haus; Salon für Kunstbuch, 21er Haus; IG Bildende Kunst.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/19ykfQNKmaCIBbdWok5TLezLUQIK7abGy/view?usp=sharing

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theheadbangers · 4 years

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CARACH ANGREN - 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'

CARACH ANGREN release new track of 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus' The Dutch masters of horror CARACH ANGREN are back with their 6(66)th full length 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus', which will see the light on June 26, 2020. In celebration, the horror outfit is now releasing the second new track from the album; 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg'. The new offering can be seen, in the form of a lyric video, CARACH ANGREN comment: "We proudly present you 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg', taken from our upcoming album. The song is a sub-story connected to the overarching horrifying concept on the album. Welcome to the world of a gruesome killer and vampiric necrophiliac dabbling in the wickedness of the occult!" CARACH ANGREN have previously released the cover artwork, which is created by Stefan Heilemann, and track-list of 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'.

Track list: 1. Here in German Woodland (01:35) 2. Scourged Ghoul Undead (05:38) 3. Franckensteina Strataemontanus (03:03) 4. The Necromancer (04:08) 5. Sewn for Solitude (03:52) 6. Operation Compass (06:00) 7. Monster (03:33) 8. Der Vampir von Nürnberg (06:00) 9. Skull with a Forked Tongue (05:56) 10. Like a Conscious Parasite I Roam (08:16) Bonus 11. Frederick’s Experiments (02:40) The Dutch masters of horror are back with their most flamboyant album so far. On 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus', CARACH ANGREN resurrect the gruesome story of troubled soul ‘Conrad Dippel’; the inspiration of Mary Shelly’s novel 'Frankenstein'. CARACH ANGREN have extended all the sonic colours on their established palette to dazzling effect. Their trademark whipping guitars are weaving harsh melodies and sinister soundscapes, which are beautifully contrasted by opulent keyboards and majestic orchestrations. That Till Lindemann (RAMMSTEIN) and Peter Tägtgren (PAIN) have called upon the composition talent of Clemens "Ardek" Wijers is a telling sign of his outstanding mastery of the craft. Another signatory counterpoint is provided by Seregor's fierce rasping and shrieking vocals. Adding to the impact, Namtar has become a relentless driving force with his hart hitting yet intricate drumming. Each track on this album is a highlight on its own, while combined 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus ' simply shines. CARACH ANGREN set out to tell ghost-stories with a set of paranormal cases recorded on the demo 'The Chase Vault Tragedy' (2004). This was soon followed by the official release of the 'Ethereal Veiled Existence' EP (2005) as a prelude to the haunting 'Lammendam' (2008). The Dutch had a clear vision of combining a dark baroque style of metal with horror based lyrical concepts. Their sophomore full-length 'Death Came through a Phantom Ship' (2010) witnessed the band setting sail to bring their eccentric and capturing live performances to audiences and festivals all over Europe. In the wake of third album 'Where the Corpses Sink Forever' (2012), the haunting had reached the Americas and started to spread rapidly. This record added a serious side to the lyrics of CARACH ANGREN. While firmly remaining in the horror genre, their tales revolve around the evils of war. This mature streak was taken a step further with the fourth full-length 'This Is No Fairytale', which is on the surface a darker variation of the "Hansel and Gretel" story from the Brothers Grimm collection, but also deals with the too real topic of child abuse in a dysfunctional family. With ‘Dance And Laugh Amongst The Rotten’ (2017), the band returned to pure story telling with episodes that are centred on a girl playing a little too long with her Ouija board. Now, CARACH ANGREN return with the monster ‘Franckensteina Strataemontanus’, where the Dutch have pushed their unashamedly theatrical style to a new intense height. You do not believe us yet? Press play and have your soul transferred with this new elixir of life!

Recording line-up Seregor: Vocals , guitar Ardek: Keyboard, orchestra, guitar, bass, backing vocals Namtar: Drums Guest musician: Nikos Mavridis: Solo violin on tracks 5 & 10 www.facebook.com/carachangren ww.instagram.com/carachangrenofficial www.carach-angren.nl Read the full article

#CARACHANGREN #HEADBANGERS #headbangers.gr #horrormetal #newrelease

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daeri-art · 4 years

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Cloth Cat Animation - Development

Character Backstory :

The Armarillia is a folk story created to scare children away from the forests because of a disease that is killing the forests and plant life.The story tells that this creature aimlessly travels the forests spreading death ,but, does not have a goal in mind. Some wonder if this creature was once normal ,or if it is paranormal ,or if it’s the result of a curse ,but, in the end no one is sure if this creature exists nor do they know what it wants.

After my initial research I was heavily inspired by the creatures with no faces and a strong silhouette as seen in the first moodboard. I liked the idea of the creature having no eyes and after discussing this with some artist friends they agreed that the idea of no eyes appeared unsettling which I thought would fit the theme. Since I wanted this creature to be a folk tale I thought that I could get away with this creature being unsettling and looking outlandish since no one has seen it and returned,so, the creature could look horrifying since it is left to the imagination.

Initial Designs :

After gaining some idea of what I wanted the bust to look like, I took my favourite design feature ,which was the horns and started to refine my designs by making the horns a key feature in the designs.

As noted by the tally marks , after asking some artist friends which busts they thought were the creepiest to look at , I took these busts forward and started to combine them to experiment and see how creepy I could make them.

Bust final development :

Final bust :

Body Design :

Further Development :

After developing the silhouettes slightly more,I felt as if the tree routes took over the design to much and looked very boxy as if she was being consumed compared to the routes growing out of her. I also enjoyed the simple silhouette of the dead leaves wilting around her and the simple torso ,which I might include some dead roots growing out of her just to add correlation between the body and the head,but, as a silhouette I think it works. After these development pieces I decided to go with the middle two silhouettes to take forward and refine slightly more since I want to make the torso look more interesting instead of being completely plain. As stated I want to include tree roots to link together the head and the body ,but, there is no definitive plan yet.

Final Development :

After experimenting further, I confirmed that I liked the wilting leaves the most after experimenting with torn up leaves instead,since, I initially felt as if the leaves looked to smooth. Despite this, I was proved wrong after experimenting and like the smoothness of the leaves now. As for the torso, I was torn between the two of the first page ,but, decided to go with the one on the right since the one on the left I felt looked too human and while I like the look of a tree branch rib cage I felt as if the spiked branches coming out of her looked more threatening and resembled a villains upturned collar.

Final Design :

Insect Design :

My initial thoughts when designing this creature was that I wanted to design an insect that looked alien-esque and acted as a tool of vision for the creature since the eyes of the creature are technically missing. I wanted the creature to also act as a warning ,so, if a person saw these creatures they would know the Armarillia is close by. Since I was unsure where to begin with this, I asked a friend of mine whose brother knows a lot about insects what insects are closely associated with death and he sent me back this list :

-Orb Weaver Spider

-Ogre Faced Spider

-Parasitic Wasp

-Spider Wasp

-Ghost Mantis

-Vinegaroon

-Whip Scorpion

I then researched into creature design artists for tips since I had no idea how to approach creature design ,and, they suggested combining different creatures and see where it leads you ,to which I had no idea how to do since I was struggling to envision how the anatomy of these insects fit together and what elements to combine from each of them since they all looked relatively similar. Deciding to go back to my research I then looked at more parasitic alien creatures instead to see if that gave me any ideas,and, this was easier to take apart and try to merge together due to the varying shapes and sizes of my research material.

After experimenting with the parasitic alien design, I felt much more comfortable design wise than before despite my worries when it came to anatomy of the creature. Even still, anatomy wasn’t worrying me to much as I liked the look of the eyeball tentacle design since the concept of this creature was to act like eyes for my creature and the design resembled an eyeball and a vein which I thought fit well. By this point I also had the idea where the front portion of the eyeball resembled branches to give some resemblance to the character and also give off a threatening design through the use of the spikes,which I am aware is common symbol when creating designs for villains.

Insect further development :

Creature final development :

Final creature design :

Key Image :

Animation :

For my animation I wanted to convey what the Armarillia’s powers were and how the people of this world view it . I wanted to convey how everything around this creature dies when it approaches and sucks the life out of everything whether it means to or not,thus why it always has a neutral expression. In the future I would like to extend this animation and take time on portraying the corruption running through the creature.Despite this though if I had more time I would put more research into the animation first to give me ideas on how to convey it and how I would animate it instead of portraying it through veining which I don’t think conveys corruption as well as I would like.

Comic :

Comic protagonist development :

Text placement compositions :

Final comic :

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scionofchaos · 3 years

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A Series On Witches - Part 8

This is the eighth in a series of posts on the nature of witches and magic practitioners as I have witnessed, as well as some notes on common spiritual practice, and the nature of humanity. Lots of broad material to cover, so I'm going to go ahead and get started. If you get to the end of this post, and you find you have things to say, I welcome you to please comment, reblog, however you feel appropriate, or private message me if you'd prefer, and let's get the discussions started!

Last time, I gave a brief look into my thoughts on the framework where Gods of Life and Death occupy separate worlds, separate existences, from the lesser beings. In short, I'm not a fan. Today, I would like to finish up this round of analysis with the "Four+ Worlds" framework. I am not a Ceremonial Mage, not by nature, so this framework is naturally the most alien to me. But all the same, I want to render my opinion of it based on my experience and my studies. In it, the implication is that there are many types of Gods, and most or all of them have their own separate homeworlds. Very popular in movies and comics. There would also be one or more worlds where different kinds of Spirits live. I find that concept compelling, but I don't know how separate I would say these "worlds" are. The Spirits are all around us, barred more by our perception than any real barrier. A spirit could nestle down inside you and sip from your wellspring of life, and unless you had the sufficient means to detect and understand this, you might not even realize it happened. I would say it happens with the frequency of being fed upon by other biological life forms -- ranging from mosquitoes to tigers. Do you remember every time you've been bitten by an insect? Probably some, but not all. Do you remember every time you've been bitten by a tiger? I think if it's happened at all, and you're alive to tell the tale, that you'd remember something like that. But just as surely as the Tiger would leave a mark (to say the least), you have marks on you from major Spirit attacks. You may not realize they are there.

When a Spirit feeds on your Physical essence, you get sick. You feel weak. You get short of breath. It does not appear to happen "for no reason." Rather, that vulnerability in your essence makes it easier for bacteria, viruses, fungi, all manner of such things to take hold. It makes the lactic acid leave your muscles slower. Hardens the mucus in your lungs. Every one of these signs has a physical explanation, because it's supposed to. Because it has to. So if you try to prove by physical means that your essence has been fed on, you will fail. This physical world is built on such rules. But to non-physical senses, the damage is obvious.

When a Spirit feeds on your Conscious essence, you miss things. You listen selectively. You let your body odor go unchecked. You sleep a lot. You have strange dreams. And because Consciousness is Awareness, it can be difficult to know this about yourself. But others will see it about you. They will know.

When a Spirit feeds on your Psychic essence, you lose memories. You fail to retain information when trying to learn. Your emotions go wild, or drain out completely. And because Mentality is your Sapient Mind, this may be impossible for you to notice, especially if it goes on too long without proper healing. But those who examine your mind will know.

When a Spirit having its own Vital essence connects more closely to your own, the two branches of the Vital totality become shorter, closer, harder to distinguish from each other. Should this joining be parted soon, you may never spot a clue it has happened. But the longer it goes on, the more your Physicality, Consciousness, and Mentality become like theirs. Lesser, if they were lacking. Greater, where they were strong. And if they tear away from you after all that time, they will likely hold on to a larger chunk of who you were, than the portion you will retain.

When a Dead Spirit, one that has no Vital essence and cannot be called "Alive," connects itself to you and siphons your Vital essence, that essence is cast into the void. You do not gain from their strengths, but your weaknesses become numerous and pronounced. They are stealing from the Vital totality, in order to take control of their powers. To make Physical changes. To direct their Consciousness. To stoke the flames of their Mind. But most importantly, as it is their native realm, to create Causal repercussions. If they can generate a powerful enough Consciousness and Mind, and work with the byproducts, they might insert themselves into the Vital totality, and parasitize it from within.

Another interesting concept to take away from "Four+ Worlds" is that there may be "Realms of Man" in addition to this one. Places in remote existence where humans and animals reside, other than the one we call home. I cannot speak with authority on that, but there are other realms. Whether or not humans live there, I cannot say.

And so we come to the Realm (or Realms) of Death. And the limits of my knowledge. My original birth from Chaos did not die, but was made to live in a physical, biological sense. I have no memory of what happened to that first Beast. I have no memory of when Fire "died," only that Fire continues to exist, and my memories as Fire darkened considerably. I still hold a strong innate tie to the nature and the actions of Fire, but I am not conscious through all of it. I do not physically control it. It is as though you ceased to be a human being, continuing life as a dust mite under a flake of the skin you once called your own. Your body lives on, acting in the human world, but you can barely comprehend what those actions are. My life as Miach absolutely came to an end, but not when the stories say. My people were not so easily killed, and me less than most. I did not die of natural causes, or by any mere blade. I was murdered, executed, by a most powerful Enemy whose identity I barely understand. I'm not sure Miach ever did. There were many entities awake in that time, acting on levels I hardly grasped. I spent so much time ducking shadows and studying Dragons that, I must profess, I never really made time for the others. I remember almost nothing of my Raven life, as of yet. And my Human life has yet to die, despite many opportunities. Very little of my next life has been foreseen, and not by me, so I have nothing to tell you there.

Is there a world where the Living go when they Die? I don't know if that question even makes sense. From all I can say.

We just keep living.

#spiritwork #spirituality #energywork #magick #mysticism #religion #philosophy #witchcraft

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finsterhund · 6 years

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Zachary update (more art theft, talking about stuff relating to art theft, venting, salt)

Remember Zachary Marquez (@zombiepowderfan) and how he steals art, harasses Heart of Darkness fans, and is constantly saying nasty things about Eric Chahi?

Well, his art theft has been continuing, and he's aware that HoD fans are having none of it, and he's trying everything in his power to hide from us because I've actually been getting after him for it. He thinks we won't notice if he calls HoD "Heart of Diarrhea" (wow real mature. Was "Fart of Darkness" too big-brained for you?) rather than outright name-drop the game, and pretty much blocks anybody he thinks will report his rule-breaking tweets. But the damage has already been done. We already know he's stealing art and breaking rules, no amount of not actually saying "Heart of Darkness" will let him escape from the consequences. He's also become somewhat of a sideshow attraction, with people keeping a close watch on him to witness the trainwreck of absurdity. If he's just a troll pretending to be this violent hateful brat, he's succeeding. But if not then he's just playing into the hands of the people who want to see him go ham. Zachary has been getting away with both the harassment and the art theft up until he started going after Eric Chahi fans(and got me involved as a result), but I actually managed to get his account suspended for a month after he repeatedly sent death threats to a youtuber, which is why this is happening. He's finally experiencing consequences for his actions and he's pretty butthurt about it. So he is trying to slip it under the rug and be sneaky about it.

This doesn't help though, as we are already aware of his behavior and the more you hide, the more people become invested. He also keeps attacking a YouTuber called Crimson Mayhem, because Crimson dared to disagree with him about another YouTuber. This is an awful lot of stupid pointless drama that you're probably rolling your eyes at and are probably saying "the guy's an idiot, just let him roll around in his own... diarrhea *drumset* and forget about him", as it's just going to show that Zachary is some sort of parasitic worm that just wiggles around latching on for free rides and making people's stomachs upset. Which would be avoidable if he wasn't stalking people who talk about Eric Chahi on Twitter (you post about him and Zach shows up like Beetlejuice) and stealing people's fan art so he can pretend he's working on a script for Toonami in order to trick people into supporting his non-existent project. So you can add pathological liar and scam artist to the list.

He tells a lot of tall tales about how he's writing scripts and working with big name screenwriters and producers, then he takes art from his folder of stolen anime fan art and shows it off, claiming they're the concept pieces for his project.

The age he lists on his profile also changes. Ever since he's been getting critisism he changed his age to 17, but even if he is a teenager, things like art theft and harassment are still unacceptable.

Anyways, the point I'm trying to make, is that because of this big thorn I've noticed just how counterintuitive the Twitter process against art theft is. In order to report it at all you have to be the artist, and you have to give Twitter your full name and address. This is probably why art theft is so common on the platform. (I'm dealing with a completely unrelated person stealing my commission lmao) and I'm just blown away that Twitter has no system in place to report art theft as a bystander even if it's obvious that the art has been stolen. Zachary has swiped people's drawings off of DeviantART that have massive paragraphs in the description practically begging people not to post them elsewhere. A random person just swiped a whole bunch of doberman pictures and is using them as pictures of THEIR CHARACTER for roleplay.

I had never assumed art theft to be as big of an issue until I saw just how frequently it happens on Twitter. The only other time I've been really aware of it is how much of Shynox's Heart of Darkness art gets used without permission as YouTube thumbnails. Professional YouTubers don't just ask if they can use art for their thumbnails, they commission the art specifically for their thumbnails so this is especially aggravating.

I've also noticed how much Twitter is willing to let someone stay on their platform despite repeatedly breaking the rules. Do you know how many times I've gotten a notification that they've reviewed my report, "found the account in violation of the rules" but only give them a slap on the wrist? They'll delete the person's post, maybe make them change their password, but you'll rarely have somebody get banned. Then there's the one guy who didn't get banned off of Twitter despite mocking the families of dead children who only got banned after he personally insulted the Twitter founder. I guess that made it personal huh?

All this makes me want to just stick to posting on DeviantART and give up on the other social media sites. Despite being know for drama, I've never had to deal with it personally on deviantART as a simple Heart of Darkness fan. Every other site the fact that I'm openly a fan of Heart of Darkness has come back to drag me into some sort of petty drama, but other than a single piece of hate art by a YouTuber fangirl a year ago, DeviantART has been the nicest of all the sites. No game journalists plagerizing my posts, no art theft, no rabid haters searching for fans of the game just to antagonize them, etc. I've also met a ton of great incredible people who've made me feel loved and welcomed in the fandom. DeviantART also has some of the best image uploading services, a functioning search and tag system, and a competently designed interface. I've been told that Instagram is the hip new place to upload and share art, but the Instagram image upload quality looks like your precious PNG was snatched from your hands, forcibly turned into a JPEG, basted with gorilla glue, and then rolled around in jpeg artifacts until lightly breaded. No thank you. In other news the Tumblr tag system and search system appear to be broken now. Apparently for some people image posts don't work. Uploading images sometimes fails. Nobody quite knows why. That's just how Tumblr works, I've been here for years I don't know why I haven't just accepted this by now.

Anyways, I'm sorry to rant at 2AM. I just wanted to let you all know that Zachy is still around, still being an awful person, but that he's starting to face the music, so you guys might have to anticipate him lashing out because of it. He's definitely spoiled and doesn't like to be told "no" for any reason and I'm anticipating a firestorm when he finally loses his Twitter account.

Take care of yourselves. I'm still sick but here's hoping I get better in time for Halloween.

#text post #negative #long post #master of none

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