#story: Kryptic

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

forty-one - where it all began masterlist But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last. Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction. They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

TIMOTHEUS FLIPS ONE of her daggers into the air, catching the hilt as it falls. The craftsmanship is remarkable. He's not seen blades such as these in all his years serving in the Athenian forces. They're perfectly balanced —the metal lighter and edge sharper— with soft pale leather wrapped around the hilts and shining dark red stones set in each of the pommels.

He does not doubt these dual blades give his sister an advantage over her opponents, but he's seen her fight with an ordinary spear and kopis before too. These twin blades are not the reason men fear the mention of her epithet. Beyond the craftsmanship, they seem to be only ordinary blades, no more special than the sword he carries at his side. "What is so special about these?" Timotheus asks.

Lesya's head rolls back as she slumps against one of the benches at the stern of the Ippalkimon, the bandages wrapped around her middle dotted with fresh blood. "They belonged to Penthesilea," she rasps, eyes squeezed shut. Chrysis told her of the Amazonian queen after the Cult presented her with the blades —the same night Deimos was given the Sword of Damokles. Ancient and powerful weapons to make their champions even more deadly. She hadn't believed it until her first battle —wielding those blades, she always seemed to know her opponents' next move. They called to something deep inside her, just as the artifact does.

"The Amazonian slain by Achilles?" Timotheus cannot believe it. He believed them to be legends, the stories their mother told them as children. But given everything he knows about Enyo and the Cult of Kosmos, he does not doubt his sister's words. He looks at her and frowns. Her face is knitted in pain, the likes of which he cannot imagine. She should be dead, he thinks, but the gods have not taken her yet. It's easy to believe she truly is a demigoddess after witnessing what happened in the arena. "After your feats, history will say these were the blades of Lesya" —her lips quirk upward even if her eyes remain shut— "defender of Hellas."

Her smile fades. "Or Enyo," she whispers, feeling a hot tear streak down her cheek, "the sacker of cities." 

THUNDER ERUPTS AND lightning fills the dark sky above snow-capped mountains. The bolt of lightning strikes the stone of a broken altar, illuminating a lone figure garbed in gold-and-white armor painted with rivulets of red. Lesya thrashes, screaming, and rolls off the stern bench with a crash and scream. "Lesya?!" Someone cries her name from far away, but she cannot wake, cannot go back.

Lesya searches, but the storm is deafening, and she can only move forward. Deimos? She reaches out, fingers brushing his bicep. At her touch, he turns with a distant, empty expression, then falls back into the dark chasm below —the spear of Leonidas embedded deep in his chest. ALEXIOS! "Lesya!" Tundareos shouts, shaking her shoulders as hard as he dares. 

Her laurel eyes open, wide and unfocused —face a pale white canvas of horror. The daze releases her, and then panic sets in. "I have to get back to Sparta," she cries. Tundareos stares at the red splotches seeping through the white linen of her bandages —a wound that seems will never heal. Lesya presses her hand against her middle and sees the blood on her fingertips, but it doesn't matter. She grips Tundareos' arm. "Please, brother." It is a broken plea mingled with her sobs. She must return. "Sparta."

Tundareos nods once, then rises and stumbles back, nigh disbelieving his sister could ever look so weak, so desperate. He does not want to entertain whatever horror could make Enyo like this. "Timotheus!" He calls his brother. Timotheus strides to the helm of the trireme from the deck below. "Keep watch over her" —he motions back to their sister— "Tryphena." His second lieutenant rouses from sleep. "Help me prepare for departure." Then the rest of the crew wake, stumbling into their positions.

"But–" Timotheus protests, gripping his brother's shoulder to pull him back around. Their sister is in no state to travel. Rough seas will be enough to tear the wound on her stomach open wholly and send her to Hades. It's a miracle she's evaded Charon's grasp this long.

"I know," Tundareos says, barely a whisper, "but we have to go."

Timotheus swallows his protest and goes to Lesya. He kneels at his sister's sides and offers a vial of poppy milk —it will ease the pain and perhaps allow her to rest whilst they begin the voyage back to Sparta. Lesya drinks the bittersweet milk and tosses the vial aside. She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing the remedy would take away the pain —all of it. "What is it?" Timotheus asks. "What have you seen?" 

"Deimos." His name is barely a whisper. It's been nigh a year since she last saw him following Amphipolis, and vengeance cannot chase away the longing or fill the abyss in her heart that his absence has created. Lesya doesn't want to remember the dream, but his tawny-gold eyes —void of life— now haunt her waking thoughts. "I saw him falling from Taygetos," she admits.

Timotheus holds fast to her hands, hoping to provide reassurance —solace. "That doesn't mean–" but she cuts him off, shaking her head. "You don't understand, Timotheus." It is always memories that plague her dreams. Every horrified bystander. Every man and woman who's begged for their lives before receiving the kiss of cold iron. Every time Deimos' lips had ever brushed against hers —every tender and fleeting touch. It's all too much. "My dreams have only ever been memories" —she swallows the knot in her throat and looks away to hide her tears— "but that," Lesya can't bring herself to say it aloud. She knows it is not a memory but a foretelling of what is to come.

"ALEXIOS?" KASSANDRA STAMMERS. Ikaros's warning cries above the thunder are all too clear now, the eagle circling and screeching above. Alexios does not reply. She stares at her brother's back, his black-and-gold chiton hanging off one shoulder, revealing the angry welt of a recent scar from the arrow wound —it had not healed cleanly. There are other scars too. Some masked by his dark matted locks, but it's the one spanning the length of his exposed side that makes her stomach churn and throat feel tight —it's a jagged line of silver flesh from the night he fell.

Deimos turns to her, his face impassive. "I knew you would come here." There is a terrible steel in his gaze. And Kassandra realizes he is looking not at her but at someone behind her.

Myrrine steps up to Kassandra's side, her eyes wide and watering as she beholds her son for the first time since she left his mangled body at the Sanctuary of Asklepius —she sees the twisted scars on his body and the simmering rage in his tawny-gold eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thinks her daughter's intuition about him is right, but Lesya's words still give her hope. Hope that he is not lost. Hope he can be saved. She reaches out to him, breathing his name, a quiet plea. Alexios, she calls him.

Deimos' brow pinches, and he looks away. Unable to face his mother and sister. "On the edge of the world," he draws in a deep breath, "a mother cries out for her child." It is an echo of the night they brought him here to die. An echo of the moment that sealed his fate to become nothing more than a twisted weapon. "Touching," he sneers, unable to break the hold of the Cult's teachings.  

"Alexios, please," Myrrine whimpers, reaching out for her son. Kassandra grips her mother's arm, stopping her from going any further. She does not trust her brother and does not know what he will do —especially with Lesya absent and unable to quell his anger.

"You use that name as if it means something to me," he growls, turning his back to his sister and mother, hands clenched into tight fists at his side. It is the same name Lesya had started calling him too. But Alexios died as a babe on the cliff where he stands now.

"It's the name your father and I gave you." Myrrine's voice trembles.

"Was that before or after you brought me up here to die?" Deimos asks, looking over Sparta and beyond to the Valley of Two Kings. This should feel like home, but he's only a stranger here —loathed every Spartiate and helot alike.

Myrrine clutches her chest as though she is watching her son die all over again. "It was the Cult!" She cries, trying to make him understand. "I did everything I could to save you. The priests told me you were dead!"

Deimos shudders where he stands. "And they told me you abandoned your son!" He shouts. Left to die in the Sanctuary of Asklepios. He turns to face his mother and sister, beholding them with mistrust.

Kassandra sees the fire rise within him —a venomous rage. "Alexios, it is over," she tells him, taking a cautious step closer, "the war, the Cult." It all ended at Amphipolis. The last pillars of the Cult would fall without Kleon, without Pausanias, without him. She takes another step and holds her hand out, meeting the burning hatred and misery in his tawny-gold eyes. "Lesya" —Kassandra can see his face soften at the mention of her name and the harshness of his gaze ebb, if only a fraction— "she's gone to search for you," she tells him. But as quickly as he shows a shred of vulnerability, it vanishes behind tall, thick walls.

He shakes his head slowly, head lolling to the side in thought, and falls silent for a time and pictures her copper hair and laurel eyes —skin sun-kissed and brushed with freckles. "When I was little, Lesya and I found a lion cub trapped in a snare," he starts. "My friend tried to free it . . . and that's when I heard the deadly growl of its mother." His head begins to rise again. "I watched as the lioness tore my friend to bloody shreds." His voice lowers to a harsh rasp. "Even in the world of beasts, a family protects its young!" He looks at his mother and sister, his eyes dark and wet with emotion.

"I loved you," Myrrine sobs. She grimaces for a moment as if quarreling with herself —struggling to believe this is her son. "I still love you!"

He reaches to the scabbard on his hip, quarter-drawing his sword. "The one you love is dead," he proclaims. "My name is Deimos." Then he steps toward them, tearing his blade free in a flash. Kassandra's broken spear meets his strike —not letting him come any closer to their mother. Myrrine does not flinch, but her face floods with fresh tears.

"Alexios!" Kassandra cries, throwing him back and then pointing the Leonidas spear at him. "I don't want to fight you, brother." But spittle flies from his cage of teeth as their blades clash in a fury of sparks —the terrible song of steel rising from the mountainside, and all Myrrine can do is weep. She backs away and sinks to her knees as Deimos launches a flurry of strikes. He is too strong, Kassandra thinks, barely able to evade the sharp edge of the Sword of Damokles. She inches closer to the precipice, and if not for kicking up a puff of dust, he would have run her through.

Dark clouds gather and thunder rumbles high above —the first drops of the coming downpour echo off their armor. 

THE DREAM AND the feeling in her gut are right. She leaps off the back of a golden mare, hitting the rain-slick ground running —pressing through the pain and fatigue, knowing she is the only person in Hellas who can help end this. "DEIMOS!" Lesya charges him from the side, but he pivots in his blind rage and seizes one of her arms, tossing her aside like a child's doll in his blind rage. She cries out, not losing momentum even after colliding with the ground. Her world does not stop spinning, even as it disappears beneath her.

Lesya's fingers catch a divot in the cracked stone of an old altar floor. The scream torn from her lungs blends with Myrrine's hoarse cry for her children to stop quarreling with one another. "Alexios! STOP!" Kassandra shouts —pointing her broken spear at the edge of the cliff. Lesya's grip on the smooth, wet rock shelf falters.

Eyes squeezed close, she waits to plunge into the unforgiving abyss below Taygetos —waits to feel weightless before the shattering impact. Waits for true freedom. It never comes. A hand wraps around her wrist, keeping her from falling into the chasm. Tawny-gold eyes stare down at her —wide, fearful, and filled with regret. Deimos.

With a single heave, he hauls her back up and into his chest. She clings to him, her face streaked with tears, heart pounding in her ears. Deimos squeezes her against his chest, face buried in her neck —panting. "I–" he starts, unable to meet her petrified gaze. "Lesya."

Myrrine steps to her son and reaches for him, her hand resting on his shoulder as she kneels. It’s then Lesya pulls from the embrace and sits back. He looks at her, his sister, then his mother. There’s nothing he can say to make amends for the atrocities —for all the pain and grief he’s wrought upon his family. “I’ve” –his voice breaks– “I’ve done terrible things.” The admission does not come easily. 

“We all have,” Myrrine tells him —love could make monsters of even the most devout. Alexios grips his mother’s hand and rises from the shattered altar stone, eyes wet and shining with unshed tears. She grips his forearms, above where the metal of his golden vambraces ends, and feels the weight of Hellas lift from her chest. My family, she thinks —Nikolaos, Kassandra, Alexios. Everything the Cult had stolen from her is returned, at last. All except for time. “All that matters now is what we do with the time we have left.”

Lesya stands with a grimace and turns to face the valleys and hills of Lakonia. Sparta. She thinks this should feel like a victory —the long years of hunting Cultists and working to pry Deimos from their grasp have finally come to an end. He is free. But she knows neither of them can ever truly be free of the horrors. He is home. She sways on her feet, feeling the cool patter of rain on her skin —masking her tears— but the rain cannot wash away the fear of uncertainty about what the future now holds.  

Alexios breaks from the embrace of his mother and sister and turns to gaze upon Lesya’s silhouette against the dark sky. “Give them a moment, mater,” Kassandra whispers into Myrrine’s ear, guiding her mother away from the temple ruins on Taygetos —where it all began. 

He goes to Lesya but struggles to meet her laurel gaze when she turns to face him, always forgiving. Always overflowing with love —love that he does not deserve. Alexios reaches for her, meaning to caress her bruised cheek, though his hand falls away before his fingertips can brush her damp skin. She takes a step toward him, and then he does the same. “Lesya—” he falls to his knees, clutching the linen of her chiton, face pressed into her middle “—I.” He doesn’t know what to say or how to begin to set things right once more, but the tears gathering in his eyes speak more than words ever could. 

She runs her fingers through his damp matted locks and around to the nape of his neck, breathing a slow sigh of relief through the aching pain. “I know,” Lesya whispers. She’s the only person in all of Hellas who can ever truly understand. The only one who really knows. “It’s done,” she tells him. It’s over.  

Alexios looks up at her, guilt filling his gut. “I should not have left after Amphipolis,” he breathes. Darkness claimed him once more after leaving her embrace. He should have stayed with her —should have accepted freedom then instead of crawling back to war and destruction. He should have taken her back to that beach in Megaris and stayed. Lesya lifts her hands to cradle his face, and he knows the look in her laurel eyes well enough. We cannot change the past. But then something warm soaks into his palm resting on her side —blood. A red stain blossoms through the pale linen of her chiton. “Lesya,” Alexios chokes, fumbling backward, afeared he’d been the one to do this to her. 

“It wasn’t you,” she assures him, shaking her head —she will tell him of the events that transpired later, but for now Lesya only wants to truly rest.

He rises and is quick to lift her into his arms —there is no protest from her this time. She rests her head against his shoulder, and he can feel her warm, shallow breaths against his neck. He glances at her, and the sight of his Enyo like this makes his heart twist and ache. It is a long trek down the slopes of Taygetos, but given the chance, he’d carry her to the ends of the Earth and through the gates of the Underworld. Alexios turns his head, letting his cracked lips brush against her temple and forehead. Lesya curls her fingers into the linen of his tunic and closes her eyes, a fleeting smile twisting her lips as she breathes: “Se agapo.”

[taglist: @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @erzsebetrosztoczy @stormyblue90 @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @overratedsun @thepreciouspurrsian @alexandra-alle @mrsragnarlodbrok]if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my taglist for Kryptic, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing #holy hell its been a hot minute #i got one last chapter planned after this one #and then after three years Lesya and Deimos's story will be complete 😌

[joemuggs]

The Lonnnnng View

The brilliant Charlie Fracture just sent me his new blog post, Let's Take It Slow: The Wonders Of Slowing Down Music And The Importance Of The Long Form Listening Experience, saying "thought you might enjoy reading it". And I did, I really did. It REALLY spoke to me. I love slowing things down, I'm always doing it when DJing, as on this short mix when I took early hardcore rave and slowed it back towards the speed of the hip hop it was sampling. And I thought, hmm, I'm sure I've written about this somewhere... after a bit of head scratching and searching through old emails, I found the following article from the 2012 WIRE end of year issue. It's a bit sprawling, but it's on to something, you know... and somehow looking back over decades (as Charlie's piece does too) suits this topic. So.........

👇🏻

Off the grid

Club music's relationship to its own regularity has always been complicated, but 2012 saw these complications multiplying and the music pushing at its patterns and grids in some radical ways. While for many the story was of a retreat to the safety of familiar forms – mid-nineties house and techno in particular dominated, with a jungle revival nascent – in darker corners things were pulsing and warping, starting to ooze and waft around the steady four-square rhythm patterns that have been foundational at least since the invention of the sequencer. This was not a new genre or style in the conventional sense, rather the convergence of some key trends in 21st century music, the coming to a head of certain pressures, creating an uneasy but thrilling sense of potentiality. These are: slowness, rhythmic slippage, and a more physically expressive interaction with the digital means of production.

The tendency to slowing has been brewing for a long time but was everywhere this year. In 2012 the likes of Andy Stott, Demdike Stare, Raime, Holy Other, Old Apparatus, How To Dress Well, Lukid, Om Unit, Hype Williams and Downliners Sekt all dropped releases with rhythms so stretched that they become textural waves rather than percussion, magnified so that every surface of every sound becomes an environment. The tracks, when played on suitably sizeable speakers, are chambers into which one can enter – sometimes desolate and forbidding as with Raime, sometimes voluptuous and dangerously seductive like Holy Other, sometimes Tron-like and glossy like Om Unit, sometimes fantastical and bejewelled, as in the baroque complexity of this year’s EPs by Old Apparatus. This was “post-dubstep” not in the standard sense of simply applying dubstep's tropes to new rhythms, but in building from first principles entirely new takes on what it could have been.

Dubstep itself had an eye on those first principles, too. This was the year that the “dungeon sound” became prominent: the creepy-crawling update of the earliest half-step rhythms with added production finesse and technologically-enabled sense of detail saw the stock of originators like Distance, Tunnidge and Kryptic Minds, and newer talents like Mancunians Compa and Biome rising. It was a reminder that dubstep's original appeal was about bodily immersion and undulating push-pull physical dynamics rather than about the rave rush and the spectacle of the “drop”. Though we were reminded by the increased profile of Digital Mystikz's Coki – incredibly only now after a decade of dubstep production becoming a full-time musician and launching his own label – that even the harder end of dubstep doesn't have to be predicated on percussive impact: at the heart of even Coki's most violent tunes is always the sluggish undercurrent of his preposterously fractal, semi-liquified “scrambled egg” bass tones.

Even drum'n'bass continued a relationship with slowness. While one end of the scene intensified like commercial dubstep into hyper-pop, reaching vast new audiences, the spaced-out half-tempo “Autonomic” tendency of the last couple of years continued to develop. An album from ASC, various releases on the Space Cadets label, and most fascinatingly a terrifyingly psychedelic EP by Archer & Asanyeh on Romania's DubKraft label all turned d'n'b's velocity in on itself, creating suspenseful, gravity-loosened environments in place of demented drive. House rhythms, too, proved capable of suspending time, particular in the hadns of those re-examining the sparser strains of UK Funky and its potential to draw dubstep and Grime’s sonorities and double-time funk into a more considered space. Wen, Visionist, Beneath, Filter Dread, Shy One, DVA and Cooly G all to some degree created eerie, strangely static rhythms in this way. And throughout the underground, like an underlying pulse that influences all around it, increasingly ran samples of or references to the ‘trap’ sound of US hiphop: layered 808 kicks separated by large space through sheer necessity due to their gigantic size, and looping pitched-down vocal samples running throughout, a 21st century counterpart to the dread signals of reggae vocalists that were cut up into 1990s Jungle.

As Bristol DJ/producer Pinch put it in his Wire Invisible Jukebox interview (The Wire 346), “the way we perceive tempo and the rhythms we're most affiliated with does change, based on situations you're in and the way you tune your head to the world.” What it seems the new techniques of music creation allow is getting closer and closer to real-time manipulation of these changes, to “tune” not just the head but the whole nervous system of the listener in more and more precise ways: where the rhythmic codes of other dance rhythms may aim for the head, hips and feet, the enveloping flows and larger spaces between beats of slower music speak to the entire body as a whole. All of this is about the positioning of bodies in relation to music, allowing new ways of coming close to and entering into the music: about sculpting the affect of the sound in four dimensions. And it's technologically-enabled, the ability to zoom into the finest detail and view all the inhuman complexity of those sonic surfaces and spaces a function of just how much information is being pushed through digital signal processing (DSP) now: we are reminded in no uncertain terms that the dancefloor experience is the interface with that vertiginous information flow. As the hyper-acceleration of jungle illustrated the foaming wave of the digital future cresting as it rushed towards us, so this tendency speaks, perhaps, of it having broken and immersed us.

Rhythmic slippage is directly related to the way that slowing music makes it come in waves as much as beats or pulses. Dubstep, as mentioned, continued to prove it was about tones that undulate around and over the beat as much as the beat itself. Chicago's footworking sounds established that their determinedly tricksy rhythms were here to stay as part of the international dance language. The psychedelic hip hop of Flying Lotus and co has been elaborating on the lurch of J Dilla and the astral analogue funk of Sa-Ra for some years now, but in 2012 we saw plenty of proof in tracks like Fly-Lo's “Pretty Boy Strut”, Mark Pritchard's beats for Wiley, and the gloriously juddering melting pots of Geiom's and dÉbruit's albums, that this too is now established globally as dancefloor-rocking music, not just some over-elaborated gentrification or neo-triphop. It's no coincidence that the London club night where Kutmah, Om Unit, Kidkanevil, Blue Daisy & Offshore play these decentred beats is called “Tempo Clash”: this is, again, about grooves slithering out of expected tempo constraints, and more generally out of expected patterns.

Once again, this was about the body in relation to data: about the physicality of musical (re)production, the sampling of complex jazz playing, the hands dancing across MPC pads, the passed-down skills of the scratch DJ being applied to CDJs, touchscreens and other Ableton controllers. Whether in footworking beats or Fly-Lo's Brainfeeder imperative, it was the return of the repressed b-boy drive, a deranged scrawling of digital wildstyle lines across the weird, wired world. And again this was a tendency that had been building for some while, but in 2012 it became apparent that a convergence was taking place between tempo meltdown, rhythmic looseness and this new sense of placing of the body in relationship to the music. We begun to see – in dramatic contrast to the overtly cerebral abstractions of 1990s “IDM” – how the input-output between fleshy bodies and digital transmission systems could be made bigger, sloppier, stranger and more involving.

In this there were close parallels with The New Aesthetic – the (mainly) visual movement that coalesced in the spring of 2012 around a panel organised by British theorist James Bridle and popularised by Bruce Sterling. The New Aesthetic zooms in on the cracks in our day-to-day datasphere, glitches in normality, the sudden Turing Test fails, the moments when the comforting shields of digital culture wobble and you see the bots' myriad eyes peering out at you and assessing you. It's about revelling in ruptures between what we have naively cast as two separate worlds: the physical and the digital. The New Aesthetic – and the lurching, pulsating weirdings of electronic club music that warp and crack the regularity of sequencer patterns – are about the horror and thrill of realising that what is inside the computer and what is outside are all the same system, that we are submerged in floods of data.

It may even be that Burroughs's adage that “when you cut open the present, the future bleeds out” has some traction here: by defamiliarising the rhythms of common genres, by warping and cracking them, we may be discovering ways through the illusory impasse of the everything-available-all-at-once overwhelming by the past and present. Certainly these techniques are a way of breaking the comfort and ease that readily available sound manipulation technology – in particular the omnipresent Ableton Live – engender. Whether it's the excessively sensual surges of sound in Holy Other, the flailing iPad abuse of Gaslamp Killer or the rusted and irregular-edged grime of Filter Dread and Sd Laika, everything here can be seen as a reaction to the predictably mixed and mixable flows of the Ableton DJ generation. When precision and perfection become easier than making errors, magnifying and repeating errors suddenly seems hugely compelling.

Whether it can go further, or whether these remain just pockets of resistance, is questionable. Dance by its very nature is predicated on some degree of regularity and coherence, and the global forces of “EDM” – the all-encompassing term used since house and dubstep bizarrely gatecrashed the US mainstream at the turn of the decade – seem to increase the pressure to conformity and easily-packaged units of DJ culture. Again in The Wire, Pinch talked of wanting to emulate the freedom of tempo and metre in the Qawwali music that he has often taken inspiration from but bemoaned his lack of the “musical intelligence” of the Qawwali musicians – hinting towards an entirely new understanding of the production of rhythm that needs to be collectively built to cope with the possibilities of more flexible and expressive technology.

Dr Matt Yee-King, teacher of Computer Music at Goldsmiths college, and researcher into technological interfaces between sound, mind and information says: “musicians might start to realise that the best way to escape the grid is not to use the grid,” that is to abandon sequencers entirely in favour of all-live coding and manipulation, but it is still extraordinarily rare that club musicians and DJs feel able to break loose completely from the metronomic diktats of sequencing tools like Ableton. The grids are still in place. The slippage and melting of rhythmic and tempo constraints that have come to a head in 2012 are not a revolution in themselves, and whether one is possible is yet to be proved. Could a digital Coltrane or Hendrix, or a collective sound as improvisatory and free as Qawwali, emerge from these new opportunities, and actually become a part of the world's nightlife rituals? For the first time maybe since the peak of jungle's rhythmic fury, these extreme possibilities don't seem entirely ridiculous.

#slow music #slow it down #low and slow that is the tempo #dubstep #chopped & screwed #jungle #autonomic #dub #trap #space #irregularity #off-grid #improv #jazz

[twinegardening]

Tarot by Kryptic Kitty

Each Tarot card tells a unique tale,  so different yet alike all the same. Explore the stories and watch as fate strings them together and dances them to downfall.

After all, you can choose your cards...

...can't you?

#interactive fiction #twine gardening #tarot #add to ifdb #this game is a collection of short stories with some meta elements.

[snbc]

Kim Kardashian Gets Kryptic! But What Is She Calling Out??

Kim Kardashian Gets Kryptic! But What Is She Calling Out??

Kim Kardashian was on one this weekend! The 41-year-old reality TV star jumped on Instagram and took a breather from posting promotional SKIMS content for a bit to call out…. something?! And-slash-or someone?!?! The Selfish author posted not one or two but FOUR different cryptic messages and quotes to her IG Stories. And while the reason behind dropping them online is not immediately clear to us,…

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[crownquill]

Doodle/world building time lol

Here's some drawings of side characters (ones not introduced yet)

In case you can't read the writing the first photo says "Yorbon" and the second says "character who's not introduced yet" and the thing on their chin is a bandage and ngl it kinda messed up the characters expression but whatever ksjdkdnek

Some differences™ between the two cultures

Mages have to have their ears sharpened lmao they aren't like that naturally (yes it is very painful and it has something to do with magic flow or something. The University is pretty hush about why.)

Knights have to regularly cut their hair short (no one really knows why they do that but they just do lmao)

Mages have a lot more fun with piercings and things like that while

Knights are more uniformed

However knights tend to have a lot more brothership/make friends within the group easier

While mages are often victims of hazing or cliques

However it is important to note that both have an issue with discrimination (with knights it's if you have cultural traits that stand out and with mages it's if you're failing/not naturally good at magic)

Imma @ the people who read the story lol

@kryptic-krab @rainbowsnowflake @reblogging-corner @batteryaccid @enby-ichi @eat-the-door-to-the-v0id @insolent-mushroom @f-a-b-l-e

[favonius-captain]

what’s the story behind fancy story map 👀👀

bro … bro. i love you. thank you for asking so i can ramble about my original. i fucking Love talking about it

idek where to begin but like. important stuff bolder for easier reading of my mind scrabbled madness

the main story takes place on the continent of itharia which was the first continent of the entire world (called aeyan). there were originally 5 nations for the 5 gods (called Immortals) that ruled — xutia (fire/lightning) of art, axivus (earth/metal) of stability, koerin (ice/water) of justice, edea (wind/wood) of knowledge, and vena (phantom/shadow) of journey.( there’s also … a lot of stuff i can get in to with these 5 nations and how all of them went wrong. but you can’t ask for that separately if you want to know lol because i’m kinda going off the rails )

essentially, after a big war (called the Celestial War), the gods started teaching certain humans magic so they could learn to protect themselves, these people being called Vexes. and these “blessed” were able to manipulate certain elements depending on the immortal that blessed them. and then this special trait was passed down to their children and ye

and then few mortals, killed all said immortals and used their blood to make a serum which would create fake vexes called Aurtheins. these serums were caked kryptics. when the Vexes found out what was done , they created the 6th nation of Itharia called Assyk and they pushed all the mortals out. it was a desert land, and the mortals had no way of having resources which causes … problems

now to the actual plot, basically the princess of assyk, calista, has to go undercover with a corvital agent & vex named arya. corvital is actually in corvex (another continent) and it’s sort of this ultra secret company sponsored by the eldexian government and they have a lot of vexes — it’s essentially there to go in the gray areas of the law. corvex treats vexes very differently ( they have a whole other long history timeline that i can get into if you’re interested ). in corvital, the agents aren’t meant to be “good” per say but they have a sense of duty.

anyways, arya and calista have a long history, part of which in they fought in a war together and were almost lovers kind of thing. but then stuff happened, both being duty bound to their respective organizations/companies, they left

and now they both have to work together to steal a kryptic from a place called kadenza keep. since assyk is in the desert, they’re facing a serious drought problem and the idea is to steal the kryptic of ice/water which may give them the power to make water since dead godly power and stuff. which forces calista and arya into close proximity and to overcome all their past stuff and. yeah.

it’s a badly written fantasy/heist/romance novel and this is an awful explanation. i am sorry

(the unfinished map in question)

#: asks #I COJLD TALK ABOUT MY NOVEL ALL DAY #sorry this is such. an information dump #half of it was not needed #but i don’t get to talk about my world so #here’s a information load !! #: other projects

[diogenescynic2288]

I had an experience; I don't know if it's a story

So, I'm working someplace new to me. A high end fast food chain specializing in baked goods, sandwiches made on their bread, salads, soups, and coffee. I'm in my first month there.

I wear a mask to comply with covid regulations and precautions as best I can. I had previously owned two cloth masks: a neck gaiter bandanna mask with a Cthulhu head design and a loops over the ears mask that has the pan flag colors on it, both are mostly black for the background color. I recently acquired a pink sequined mask too.

My first day wearing the pink mask to work, a few minutes into my shift, one of my managers kind of pulls me aside and says "Have you been given any [company name] official masks?"

And I tell her Thoth's honest truth that I had not. So she hands me two official masks and mentions that face masks should be black, if they're not the company issued ones. So I pocket the masks, which are nice little black cloth masks with an unobtrusive logo in the corner; they come in plastic baggies.

Then at the end of my shift, a different manager asks if I received any official masks, now I say yes, but I hadn't had a good opportunity to change in the middle of the day, which is also true.

Both these managers were women in their fifties.

On the one hand, it was only two people and at relatively far apart points in time, so it's not like all day, everyone was like what's up with the pink mask?

On the other hand, two mentions in one work shift can feel like a lot.

I'm also curious why the only managers bothering to enforce that uniform standard are fifty-year-old women.

@rowdycatte @mousefangs @kryptic-krab

#work #personal stories #The Heat Death of the Universe May be my Only Hope

[thepreciouspurrsian]

🎶And if you and I

Can make it through the night

And if you and I

Can keep our love alive, we'll fight

We can meet in the middle

Bodies and souls collide

Dance in the moonlight

Where all the stars align

For you and I, for you and I🎶

.

'Every monstrous thing we ever did was to protect one another', tawny-gold eyes, laurel eyes, copper hair, his counterpart, dread and destruction & 'We should have stayed on that beach'...

There are several unique words that will always remind me of @alexi-ohs 's Kryptic. This is just a small edit to thank her for writing such a great story and sharing it with us. I love all the things you've written for ac: odyssey's Alexios so far! And I'll be looking for more✨

Dear author, I hope you like this! ❤️

-Check out her writings, you'll love them!

-

Other alternatives:

Song lyrics are from Pvris' You and I (the stripped version)

#A fanart for a fanfiction of a fictional work #I love cats #So this is a cat version of your characters Sierra #Hope you like it #assassin's creed odyssey #alexios #deimos #deimos alexios #deimos!alexios #Fanfic #Those bracers on their tiny paws #This edit has been my phone background for days #I wanted it to show romance love and intimacy between them #I also had it in mind to show all the difficulties they conquered together one by one as the cult's champions #That's why i chose the stripped version of this song #My edit

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

forty - are you not entertained masterlist But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last. Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction. They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

"I'VE COME TO fight," Lesya announces, standing before the gates of the arena. She nor Deimos had ever ventured to the fighting pits, but there are many among the Cult who had —all fodder for the Beast of Sparta. Today, his reign would end by her hand. 

"For glory or for riches?" The old gatekeeper asks. No one came to the arena in Pephka seeking an honorable death anymore —the age of heroes is gone. The crowd may cheer and sing praises of the champions, but the walls of the arena no longer shook as they once did when contenders stepped onto the sands. 

"So long as the crowd sees blood spilled, why does it matter?" Lesya refutes, impatient. The gatekeeper sighs. He has no doubt the woman before him is a warrior. The whispers of demigods walking amongst the realm of men have traveled on the winds. Lesya is not here to become a Hero of the Arena, but Skoura thinks she has the makings, even if it is vengeance burning in her laurel eyes. "I am here for Belos," she announces, and she will not leave until he is slain —body lying cold in the sands of the arena.

But the Beast of Sparta is only one of the champions, and scores of men lay between the twin blades on Lesya's back and Belos himself. Skoura motions around to the monuments celebrating the champions, and the scores of defected soldiers and mercenaries come to try their luck. "Then you must carve your way through the other contenders to see the ranks of our champions," he says. My blades are ready, old man, Lesya thinks, tired of the conversation —she has come for blood, for vengeance, not for conversation. Skoura motions above, and the gates to the area begin to swing open. "Your name, fighter?" He asks.

"Enyo," Lesya answers, no hesitation —the name which will strike fear into the heart of all those who knew of the Cult of Kosmos.  

SHE BRACES HER weight against one of the wooden pillars supporting the netting above the arena floor —forehead slick with sweat against her forearm, chest heaving with exertion. The crowd still shouts and cheers from above, and among them, she finds her brothers. They do not hail her as the others do. Their faces are a solemn mask of concern that one could almost mistake for pity. 

Scattered around the sands are no less than twenty-five corpses. There were no more left to challenge her except for Belos himself. Straightening, she steps back —staggering, finally feeling pain blossom in her thigh. There's a bloody cut just below the tassels of her dark leather belt. Lesya goes to the nearest corpse, ripping a long strip of linen from the man's chiton, and binds the wound, quickly.

Deep from the labyrinth of the pits comes the booming echo of a war drum —impending doom and dread. She paces the sands like a caged beast kicked one too many times. 

The drums grow louder as the iron gate at the far end of the arena lifts. Belos strides forth with his massive shield and labrys held aloft. From behind him stride a dozen more men wielding shields and spears, maces, and swords. Whispers made their way through the arena that the disgraced champion of the Cult of Kosmos had come to fight —Belos would not chance losing to her. "You've come to die, whore?" He bellows, knocking the broad head of his labrys against the bronze shield —the crowd erupts in roaring cheers. 

The vanguard encircles her, weapons leveled and shields raised. She curses Belos for his cowardice. That he hides behind weaker men and cannot face her alone. Lesya stands her ground at the center, leaving one blade sheathed on her back, daring one of the Spartiates to make the first move. A heartbeat passes before one of them acts, thrusting the end of his spear forward. She catches the wooden lance and rips it free, breaking it over her knee, and spins —ducking under the man's shield. He lets out a wail of pain when she thrusts the splintered end of the lance into his chest. His cry is silenced by a quick cut to the throat and a warm spray of blood. 

 Another tries the impale her with a dull spear, but she rolls forward, under the blow, and springs back to her feet, driving the other half of the broken spear into his thigh and her own blade upward through the chinstrap of his helm. "He's cheating!" Timotheus grits out, leaning onto the wooden and rope railing, looking down into the arena. No other champion fought with a host of men to protect them. "We have to help her!"  

"We can't," Tundareos reminds him, unable to tear his gaze away from his sister. "The rules," he utters, "it would forfeit her life." Lesya hammers her blade into the man's ribs, cracking through his exomis, skin, gristle, and bone. Pressing deeper as blood sluices from the gash and over her hands. She rips the blade back, and he falls in paroxysms of agony, unable to breathe with the blood filling his lungs. 

Two more lunges at her, and one scores her breastbone through the linen of her chiton with a swipe of his spear, the other nearly crushing her head with a heavy iron mace. Too many, Lesya curses, knowing she grows slower with each blow absorbed and strike dealt. And Belos, the Beast of Sparta himself, weighs the moment to strike the killing blow. Kosmos will reward him handsomely for bringing Enyo's head back to Delphi. Lesya scrambles backward, knees knocking against one of the weapons racks. 

The iron banded wood is rough and splintering under her fingers, but she surrenders her blades and hefts up the shield, stooping low as the iron mace swings above. Before the man can turn to swing again, Lesya smashes his face with the iron boss —breaking his nose, forcing the mace from his hands. Discarding the shield, she rushes to recover the mace and heaves the heavy weapon high above her head before chopping downward with a harsh scream. Blood spatters when the flanges bite into flesh and bone. The man crumbles instantly, his skull split wide open, and the crowd grows louder still —drunk at the sight of blood.

Belos remains behind her bidding his time, leaning on the heel of his great two-handed labrys. She hears the whistle of the sword cutting through the air and ducks, twisting out of the way, recovering a discarded spear. A swift cut to the backs of his knees and the Spartan falls, unable to stand again. His misery ends as Lesya thrusts the spear through his throat, pinning him upright with blood gurgling from his gaping mouth. The last of the vanguard protecting their champion, but then Belos is upon her without mercy. 

Lesya steps back and out of the sweeping arc of his axe, feet sliding on the slick sand. Regaining her balance is almost impossible. As quickly as she evades one blow, the next comes. Belos roars, aggravated, and throws aside his shield, using both hands on the labrys. She dances around him, always out of reach, but then he charges forward like a raging bull and pins her against the wall of the arena with the wooden lance pressed into her throat. 

The Beast snarls, pressing harder and pushing upward, the tips of her toes leaving the ground. For the briefest of moments, Lesya begins to panic —she has never met a foe she could not overcome— but Belos will not claim her.

Kicking out, her foot finds purchase on his bent knee, and the leverage is enough for her to reach back and unsheathe the blade on her back. He tries to pull it from her grasp, but his grip falters, and Lesya drives the blade into his shoulder with a harrowing scream. Belos drops his labrys, and Lesya darts around him, picking up a dulled sword from one of his defenders as he pulls out the blade and throws it down, recovering his axe.  

Belos feels the cold bite of iron just above the inside of his knee. He swings his axe down as Lesya quickly jerks the blade back, then his left leg twists and gives, blood spurting from the gash. 

The champion tries to stand in his stupor but cannot rise, and in place of the roaring crowd is only stunned silence. She takes the labrys from his grasp and uses the blade's edge to knock off his one-horned helmet, revealing the disfigured face beneath —one half marred by flames, the taut mass of scarred flesh pulls his lips into a permanent, sickly grin. Belos grits his teeth, fingers curled around the hilt of a dagger at the back of his armor, one last chance. It is not enough. He moves to strike, but Lesya kicks the blade from his hand and begins to pace around him —a rusting iron sword held tight in her bloodied right hand.  

She steps behind him and jerks his head back. Lesya will make sure Belos looks upon her as he draws his final breaths. Her cry is harrowing as she saws through Belos' thick neck with the dulled sword, but then she severs the last tendons, and his head comes free —body flopping forward, still twitching with the last beats of his cruel heart staining the sand. 

Lesya stumbles, lifting the maimed head high for all to see. The crowd erupts a mix of cheers from those blood-drunk and protests from those who know what this defeat means —upheaval in the rankings of the arena. She paces to one of the spear racks at the center of the arena, skewering the champion's head on a spike next to the decaying head of another felled contender. The Beast of Sparta is slain.

But the deafening roar of the crowd fades as Lesya steps away. The blood-lust stupor dissipates, ushering in pain. Her leg gives way, streaked with blood and the fabric of her chiton is torn open. The blood on her hand is dark and drying —not her own— but when she presses a hand to her side, it feels as though she's been touched by the Monger's hot poker again, and the blood on her fingertips and running down her front is bright red, slick and warm. Lesya looks up at the crowd, wishing to rise once more, yet she cannot do so. For a wavering moment, she straightens, then falls —laurel eyes turned upward to see a full moon shining down through the netted ceiling.

TUNDAREOS IS THE first to fling himself from the stands and into the arena, feet carrying him toward his sister as soon as he hits the sand. "Lesya!" She does not move. He falls to his knees at her side, skimming the burgeoning bruises and open wounds. Her eyes are open wide and darting around. For the first time, Tundareos sees fear in his sister's eyes. Even demigods fear death. Time is not on their side, and they will find little aid from those who head the fighting pits. "Fuck," he hisses, moving swiftly —stripping off his chlamys. 

Covering the wound, he brings her hands over the cloth and urges her to press down to stay the bleeding before lifting her into his arms and starting toward the gates. "My–" Lesya grimaces, voice fading as she points to the bloody twin blades lying on the arena floor "–my blades." He curses her for worrying about something so trivial, but Timotheus sees what she is pointing at and reclaims the two blades, following his brother —and fearing it may be too late.

They come across a Spartan camp on the shores not far from the arena. "Hold!" The Spartiate at the entrance calls, leveling his spear to stop them from coming closer. The small group looks to be vagabonds who've lost their way, but as they draw closer, the soldier sees a woman covered in blood with hair like flames. The men with her have little regard for their safety, expressions of worry twisting their faces. The Spartan lowers his spear but not his guard as they draw nearer. 

"Do you have supplies to spare?" Timotheus asks, desperate and hoping they will not recognize him as a former Athenian commander. Their arrival brings the rest of the Spartans occupying the camp to the entrance.  

"I know her!" One of the hoplites points out. It was hard to forget fighting alongside a copper-haired goddess of war. "We fought together on Pylos." He'd seen her save Brasidas and face down the champion of Athens. It's a sight he will not soon forget and is enough for them to welcome the trio into the small camp, albeit reluctantly. They point to the captain's tent, and the soldier most skilled in medicine joins them.

The Spartan peels back the stained chlamys and grimaces. It is not a clean-cut, and they do not have the means to properly suture the flesh back together, but she would not have made it to Lato for better treatment. He calls for water, linen, and boiled wine then looks back at the two men who accompanied her. It does not seem possible one renowned across Hellas for fighting like Enyo or Eris with the strength of a dozen men should be wounded in such a manner. "The fighting pits," Tundareos says, sensing the question before the Spartan can ask. 

He does what he can with what little supplies he has. The bleeding ceased, and the dried blood and sand washed clean from her side and leg. Only time will determine if the copper-haired demigoddess of war will live to fight again. "The wound is clean, but–" the soldier spares a glance back at the thick linens wrapped around Lesya's middle "–I have seen men die from less," he confesses. Demigoddess or not, she still bleeds like every other man, and only someone of great strength and with the gods' favor could overcome such a wound.  

Tundareos shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose when he sees Lesya stir and wake. "By the gods," he starts, "you're a bigger fool than I thought." She turns her head to look at him as he paces. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?" He doesn't try to hide the anger in his voice. Tundareos spent his life searching for his sister, and now that he's found her...he cannot bring himself to think of losing her —to know he'd given up his life for this. Lesya doesn't answer, the pounding in her head is nigh deafening.

"Is that why you wanted to come here?" He asks. But death would be too easy, and the gods were not so merciful as to let it end. She turns her head, feeling hot tears slip from her eyes. I am still Enyo, after all. "I will not pretend to know what you feel, Lesya, but if you continue to do this, it will kill you," Tundareos says, and Lesya knows he's right. There is little choice for her, and they both know it. "I will not watch you do this to yourself."

Lesya grits her teeth, forcing herself to sit up —the pain is almost paralyzing. "If I do not hunt them," she says, breathing labored, "then they will never stop hunting me." She will have no peace until the last cultist is snuffed out, ripped from this world by the roots. Until then, she must pursue them and break their hold on Hellas —must find Deimos. "I am a fool," Lesya admits, barely a whisper. "But–" she shakes her head "–what they did to me. I can't forget, and I won't forgive." But revenge is its own executioner.  

[taglist: @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @erzsebetrosztoczy @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @overratedsun @thepreciouspurrsian @alexandra-alle @mrsragnarlodbrok] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my taglist for Kryptic, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! 

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing #holy hell its been a hot minute #hope you all enjoy #and hope it was worth this long wait #the end is nigh #i hope u like the gladiator and spartacus references #felt fitting for this chapter

[little-red-toyota]

A commission for a very dear friend of mine. <3 This is their OC Penelope. I hope I got her somewhat right, and for the time being I can only do flat color drawings, but I hope to be able to buy a new art program soon.

To find out more about Penelope, I recommend reading Jen’s series “Distorted Diesels”. You can find the story here: https://www.deviantart.com/missluckychan29/art/Distorted-Diesels-806792259

Shout-out to my awesome Patreons: Javier Camamera, Kryptic and Roderick Grimm! Thank you so much for supporting my art! It means a lot. 

#my art #flat color #distorted diesels #penelope #locomotive #drawing #littleredtoyota

[hypnoticcdan]

can u tell me about ur other ocs that i dont know too much abt (xceline, zeon, kryptic, sailuma, etc) and what role they play in the story???

ok so

basically xceline, kryptic, sailuma, horizon and literally all of The Kids tm are orphans bc most of them lost their parents to the corruptionn :D and then viper and zen being the good gay dads they are decided to take them all in and they’re a big happy family (then alt viper being the dick he is notices and is like “fuck you *unhappys your ness*” later on in the story /hj) zen and zeon are brothers and zen makes him babysit The Kids whenever he and viper arent around the role they play in the story i can/cant tell you but long story short uhh xceline, zeon, and zen try to stop alt viper from getting too powerful while the rest of The Kids are like: “so how do we help our dads” “idk zen told us to stay here” “but-” “horizon shut up you ate all of the cookies you arent allowed to talk” “>:0″ btw The Kids consist of (but are not limited to bc i cant remember names rn): horizon, kryptic, sailuma, xceline (kind of/kind of not), proto, and like 2 more idk

#tw swearing #swearing tw #oc lore story shit #<-- thats the new lore tag

[resetting37]

Trying to think of what snippet to write about next. Because of course I don’t like going in order, I skip around and hope to put enough context in each mini story for it to make sense. There’s a sixth arc I didn’t mention in this note, it’s because it’s the last and while I know how the general of it plays outs, it’s a very hard arc to write about at this stage.

Any of these titles look interesting ? I can tell ya which characters appear in each one ! And of course I have way more story ideas to fill y’all in on, I just wanted to put down three each. Equality, I guess.

For my published snippets, all canon to RESETTING, they’re here. Not much, but my goal is to add more, and hopefully organize it if I can learn how.

https://toyhou.se/kryptical/literatures

[saintlaurentproblems]

waiiittttt, is that why kim has been posting kryptic ig quotes on her stories??? deuxmoi pointed this out and even said a major hollywood couple was getting divorced yesterday 😳😳😳

There have been divorce rumors for the last two years. I think they’ve just been waiting for the right time.

#answered

[realgarykhan]

Writers Beware

A Kryptic Blog Post…

You are merrily writing on your way toward finishing off your beloved project. You have spent months, no years pouring your heart and soul in to the project and now comes the time to get the thing published, but you have nowhere to turn.

Emails, calls and rando’s creep out the woodwork and begin offering you self-publishing deals. On the flip side, traditional publishing houses ignore your desperate pleas to take up your novel. The crippling blow struck by this cold rejection increases your desperation and now you find yourself ready to go to the dark side. Any publisher will do. But you couldn’t be more wrong.

My story and so many others’ follows the above-mentioned chilling tale and if you have not yet sold your soul and project to the devil, I pray you hold off a moment to continue reading this blog post. It will be well worth it in the end.

I took up the publishing deal with a so-called reputable publisher before the inception of the project as a gift from my supportive family who only wanted to help me on my journey. They all chipped in and got me the deal and now all I had to do was the hard part which was write the damn thing, right? Wrong. The hard part is not as many would think writing the book, its getting is published and then marketing it.

Take your time finding the right publisher because this will be time well spent and it will help you avoid heartbreak and disappointment later on.

Here are a 5 tips for finding the right publisher.

1.) Research

You can’t avoid this step no matter how much you try. Don’t accept the first deal that lands in your lap even if someone else is paying for it. You want to make sure the publisher is reputable. So how do you do this. Go to their website and write down what they stand for. Give them a call and create a list of questions you can ask them about how their process works end-to-end. If you are not sure what to ask check out my post on questions to ask your publisher. waters.

2.) Reviews

Go read reviews from other authors telling the tales of their experiences with the publisher. Your community of fellow authors will be your saving grace here. Rely on us to help guide you out of the murky. Create a list of positives and negatives. Many forums are helpful for this. For more information, check out my website where I review various publishers and their processes to make sure you find the right one. The site should be up in the coming weeks.

3.) Compare

Drawing up a comparison on a single spreadsheet is so helpful for you to understand the various costs of doing business with different self-publishers. Do they expect you to buy books? Do they try to upsell you fundamental missing features in your undersold publishing deal? What is the time until you realize a return on investment? What sort of marketing is involved in the package? How well are they known in the industry? What is their reach? Where do they operate? How well have authors who have gone with this publisher done? Go check out the statistics of their top selling authors. Do the calculations in terms of how much you anticipate they have made and write it all down.

It is unfortunate that you have to fumble around in the dark blind and dumb to find the right publisher to represent your work but trust me not doing the hard work of research, review and comparison has bit me square in the ass and boy does it hurt.

One last thing to mention is don’t let the publishers pressure you into closing the deal too soon before you have had the time to thoroughly vet them. In sales, which I do a lot of, there is a tactic we use to create urgency, for example a limited time promotion where you get certain services at a discounted price. They always come up with these especially if they sense you are close to closing. They will discount and discount and still making a killer profit off of you. Don’t be fooled by time pressures. There is always time and always another deal.

Okay, really the last thing. Be careful of publishers selling packages at full price while there is a promotion running which they don’t tell you about. This just inflates the sales person’s pockets and deflates your bank account. This is precious money you could spent elsewhere and derive more value in doing so. Always negotiate. The sales people have a target and leeway to negotiate. Ask for a discount and tell them you can go with them if they come up with something better. They will. And if they don’t good riddance. Even so always check that what you get is worth it.

I hope this post helps you avoid the same falling unwittingly into the same traps that I have. Watch this space for my author platform coming out designed for authors by authors, there to help you navigate the treacherous waters of a project from idea to bookshelf. It is going to turn this nightmarish industry around. Until then…

Happy reading, Kryptic Fans!

Twitter | Facebook | Website | The Coward Novel

#blog blogger blogging follow writing writer author authorlife book books FollowFriday AuthorRT Publishing

[crownquill]

Thinking of starting a new WIP ldjnebfuryeifu

does anyone want to be tagged?

also gonna @ the people who were reading my other work sorry im going to abandon it bfyrufhf i just kinda lost motivation after realizing how it mimiced a lot of my previous works if that makes sense? im trying to get more out of my comfort zone with this one

gonna explain the plot below the cut

@kryptic-krab @lesserbeans @rainbowsnowflake @insolent-mushroom @a-happy-dragon @certified-liumang-classic @reblogging-corner

The basic plot is going to be about Curia, a princess of a newly established empire, Ioden. The story will follow her as she grows up with her sibling and tries to learn how to become a ruler while keeping her identity intact. It will also go through the issues of trying to establish an empire/quell rebelions and how she can deal with them. I'm going to use my facination with history/empires to try and write more believable worldbuilding and characters :]] It'll also be my first time writing a female protagonist so yay! I really think this is going to be an important work to me since it's the first one I'm planning out before writing. Overall, I'm really excited to get started on this one and hope anyone reading will enjoy it as much as I will! /gen

#WIP #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writng #fangs writes

[yanochka97-blog]

Dating without obligation girls dance wanting to play pranks 18 plus

SITE - girls18plus.site

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