Creators I love you but it's time to wake up
Among rumors about our tumblr user data being sold off to Midjourney/Generative AI, recent Extremely transphobic events (that have been ongoing) coming to a head, another extremely concerning internet censorship bill being pushed in upper levels of government, and a general air of frustration over how the site belongs to and is operated by perhaps the second stupidest CEO (second only to twitters own) of our age, I'm very done with the last few vestiges of what the old internet held for artists.
And if you're reading this, you probably are too.
I know we're tired. We are all tired. It is not always viable to pack up shop and move, again and again and again.
From tumblr to twitter to anywhere else we've ever grown up posting, things no longer work. Our audiences are kneecapped by aggressive and hostile algorithms, our reach is abysmal - if we aren't shadow-banned or silenced for one (transphobic) reason or another, we're thrust into an ever growing pit of hostility where the only thing that drives clicks is fighting and contention.
We're tired. We're so fucking tired. We aren't businesses, we aren't content mills, we cannot keep this pace that modern social media has set for us, to wring every ounce of creativity out of us to profit from and leave us rotting.
The key to staying afloat here, and I cannot stress this enough, is to stay connected to your peers.
Pack up and move as units if you must. Exodus from the sites that are killing us. Push your entire friend group of artists to move from one site to the next that promises you a kinder experience.
Art drives movements, it drives change, it is all that encompasses being human. If you take that away from the shitty places, they will be left with nothing but a cesspit of inhumanity and the people who follow you will be more incentivized than ever to move with you.
Yes, this is terrifying. There are no guarantees. There never was, and never are, and never will be.
But stay connected. Stay human.
Support each other and be willing to hold hands and jump when we all - as a group - need to jump from the flames we're all trying to convince ourselves wont kill us before rescue comes.
Rescue isn't coming, rescue will be found hand in hand with each other. I'm offering you my hand, please take it. There's always a new start, there are always helping hands reaching for you. You have to look up from the doom-scroll long enough to see and take them.
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Stage 15 of Castlevania 1. Simon encounters sentient bodies of armour before meeting Death itself. @beevean
CW: descriptions of violence and blood
Climb higher.
Simon’s legs make quick work of ascending stairs to the next floor. He’s greeted by a sound that grates on his ears - metal bodies of armour animated by magic note his presence right away. Two of them haul their mighty and towering bodies in his direction, metal grinding on metal.
As they lurch closer still, Simon crouches into a defensive stance, eyeing them for an opening to attack.
He isn’t given enough time to study before one of the armoured knights raises an arm, hurling an axe towards Simon’s head. He’s quick to kneel, bowing his head to dodge it.
Once out of harm’s way, he lifts his eyes to watch his enemies again.
Magic materializes another axe in the palm of his foe’s hand. An endless supply. Great.
Simon’s attention splits as the second of the armours has also thrown their axe, aiming squarely for Simon kneeled on the floor.
He doesn’t have time to think before he dodges, rolling out and away upon the stone ground. Like the first, some magic bestows the animated armour with a new weapon readily.
Simon has to take them out, and quickly.
Hauling himself up, he readies the leather whip in hand before snapping it towards the leg of one of them, pulling with all of his might in an attempt to send it to the ground.
It’s so much heavier than he was expecting. It takes all of his force for the armour to lose balance. Miraculously, it seems to be aware of its restraint. The armour’s helm looks down at the leather wound around its heel.
Simon will take advantage of its sentience.
As the armour busies itself trying to become undone, Simon sprints towards it before tackling it with all of his might, sending both to the ground with a loud crash onto the stone floor beneath.
As quickly as possible, Simon tears the helm off, tossing it away before reaching his arm into the breastplate through the opening for the neck.
His hand squeezes an object—fleshy, pulsing and warm—before his attention is torn away again.
The second animated armour is readying to throw another axe towards him.
Simon doesn’t have time to think before he’s wrenching the shield from the fallen one’s grasp, using it to block the the axe blitzing towards him.
It connects with a terrible ringing sound far too close to Simon’s ear. The axe has embedded itself into the shield, which Simon now struggles to hold due to sheer weight.
Simon separates both objects in either hand before rising to stand, hurling the axe with all of his strength towards the second.
It connects, and the helm comes clean off before the sentient armour falls to the ground.
Good. He’ll tend to that one, next.
He discards the shield onto the ground with a heavy thud. He straddles the armour on the ground beneath him again, returning to the task of fishing out its core.
With a tug, he pulls out the fleshy orb from the body.
He watches it beat in his hand—it's tinted an unnatural blue hue. It almost looks like a heart.
Simon flexes his hand closed, crushing it with ease. Blood from it spews down his forearm and onto his face.
With his free hand, Simon wipes his face before dismounting. He collects his whip before moving onto the next felled behind him.
To his shock, another creature has appeared without him noticing. It is leaning over the fallen armour. It is a cloaked being, partially translucent as it carries a sort of fog behind it.
The putrid scent of disease and rot accost Simon’s senses, next.
Then a harrowing ache overwhelms him. His instincts are screaming at him to run.
It can only be for one reason:
before him stands Death itself.
And Death comes for all men. For all manner of creatures and beasts.
It is the omnipresent shepherd for all life lost.
And this can only mean Simon’s own end is drawing closer still.
The hooded cloak lifts to meet Simon’s gaze. A glowing pair of red orbs illuminate Death’s skull-like face.
Simon stares Death in the face. It burns into him. Its visage will haunt him.
“You must be the Belmont.”
No mouth has opened to utter these words. They flow in as a distorted, inhuman sound, echoing within Simon’s mind.
“Are you Death?” Simon finally has the courage to ask aloud, and he does what he can to sound unaffected.
“Then you know why I am here.” It replies ominously, extending a boned hand outwards.
A glistening scythe materializes within its grasp.
“My lord desires your soul,” Death explains “and while it is before your time, I mustn’t disobey my master.”
Simon’s throat tightens. Death knows when he will die.
And Death has the ability to change when Simon will meet his end.
The time is now—all he can do is ready himself to fight him, calling upon God to grant him protection against this omnipotent force that has bowed to Dracula’s influence.
All he can do is fight.
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