#styll speaks

[styllwaters]

necklace carpet sharks are SO silly and beautiful and it is of upmost importance that you all look at them

#styll speaks #on my small shark propaganda again #its so pretty too LOOK AT ITTT #not my images #aquatic shoelace blessed by the night sky #sharks #marine biology

[libidomechanica]

Is that

‘What sigh supposed no sing—of palm.     Full-blown a life to my age at their phant, nor heed my not     to transcendent or war is full forget high—each day this     should expectancy. I folly: was much as your Machiavel,     buried theme with a

non-age. As I tell you appear’d     with ardor, alacrity diners no one, when home, when     have my lads, as into itself overcoming and called     by the sacred prove is of wild civil was run for you     at they fed held tune of

the ever distance, stars. Go from     varies, this Child say, and so great a meteor in the     glides I slept, kind of her sweet, if parable, life, for you     dined, nor face; nor work of yore. The Russ read is so carry     gun? How sooner here’s

art left bank to encount there was     a seas chains and wish our hand—back? The black and merry drown’d     to a moderatum. Madam, ’ that allow’d, like that’s keep     piling love, if we look in the measure than a them in     measure take the should tell

me thanks of job,—what time, as thee.     I someone, or pinion; but natural. Pretty pass of the     splendid so, never stay, as leaguing, dark eyes see betray     fresh case weight, love’s sake that carnival, and justly on the     days brilling the fiddle

wrath: he feasts. Such a knew to young     all their way of the for you are vast do knows what every     where, it might of joy; you would say a sea dirges loss of     the tame; for repeated rap, and little dry; it so; but     there Hymettus, like her

heart is nation; on his still death.     Muffles there We sharp shine this rapes. She came; serene airplane     is the name who problem with Allegories, as in the     conceiving the sublimity from my rose relax’d     ferocity, though doom, with

mine, nor woman of mi skirted     moon. Its stylle þer him disappear’d but at time serving     lights of the seem’d to an air beaten, if parable     consummated life too much perish well the begged in their banner     minds as to the beggars

raffle that he middler’s sweet,     must be grief and I ween, coffee leaves without remote himself,     for being did hold out-of-date appal. To speaking     low silence in Englishment? How slip balls while before     And does slumber, and love.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #204 texts #ballad

[narniaandplowmen]

My lute be still for I have done.

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2608 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Part 1 of Half a Century of Poetry

Three months after The Mountain, Jaskier is a one-day journey away from Oxenfurt. There, one night before he enters the city to become a professor, he writes and performs his final song.

Jaskier couldn’t perform. It had been three damn months  and he still couldn’t perform. Oh sure, he tried, and he did manage to get through some songs without being hindered by sobs ripping their way up from the core of his heart. But he couldn’t perform.  He couldn’t even get through the first few chords of Toss a Coin without his throat closing up and forcing him to change to a different song before even opening his mouth to sing the first line. Sure, he had tried singing the very few songs in his repertoire that did  not  speak about the Witcher and his heroic deeds, but every single song somehow circled back to Geralt. Geralt, who had, in no uncertain terms, told him it was better if Jaskier were dead. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

He had attempted to sing Fishmonger’s Daughter, but that only reminded him of their first meeting and Parvetta’s betrothal feast. Even the songs he had written for Countess de Stael were unplayable. He couldn’t fool himself. He knew that, even though the songs described the long soft hair and gorgeous eyes of a maid unaware of her own beauty, he was really describing a certain long-haired, yellow-eyed self-conscious Witcher. And even if he did manage to fool himself, the instrument he held was, on occasion, more than enough to make his heart break into even smaller pieces, if that was even possible. The lute was a physical reminder of their first adventure, of the compassion Geralt had shown even when his life was threatened. And yet Jaskier could not manage to part with it, could not even conceive of selling it. It was, after all, some sort of reminder that Geralt had, once, cared. Had, once, put Jaskier’s life above his own. Once.

It had been three months. Three damn months and Jaskier felt pathetic. He had hoped, dreamed, wished, prayed that by now he would be over it, his broken heart would be healed even the tiniest bit, but now that winter was fast approaching, he had to accept the fact that it would not. Instead of nagging at Geralt that he was getting so cold, that he needed the Witcher’s body warmth -  ‘I am a mutant, my skin is cold,’ Jaskier could hear the words as if Geralt was standing next to him - he was camping in a forest alone, with nothing but his thoughts to distract him from the biting cold and his chattering teeth. Tomorrow, he would be in Oxenfurt. Tomorrow, he would be surrounded by hundreds of people, welcomed warmly and, hopefully, offered a teaching position, like the university had done every time he travelled through town. Where he had always kindly refused, he would, this time, graciously accept. Jaskier had prepared his excuses well: he would tell them he was too old to travel the road, he would speak of the ‘importance of giving way for a new generation’, he would complain about his knees hurting if he walked too much. And then, maybe, hopefully, nobody would question that he was not following the white-haired Witcher anymore. And if they begged him to play… If they begged him to play, he would refuse. He would, Jaskier had decided, claim he was rheumatic. State that playing hurt. It would give an excuse for his sombre state, for his tears if he did play, for his choice to leave the Path he had always spoken so fondly of. Jaskier the Traveling Bard, the moment he entered Oxenfurt, would cease to exist, replaced by Professor Pankratz.

 But that wouldn’t be until he entered the city. So now, in the dark loneliness of the forest, Jaskier grabbed his lute and played.

  My lute awake performe the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste:

And end that I have now begonne:

And when this song is song and past:

My lute be styll for I have done.

 Jaskier remembered how his parents had disapproved of his career path. They had been elated when he had announced he wanted to go to Oxenfurt, but this happiness was short-lived once they had learned that their son was not planning on studying business, or politics, or some sort of scientific program. Wanting to study the seven liberal arts had caused multiple huge fights. Most of them were now, so many years later, a vague, negative blur in his mind, but he remembered one thing vividly. During one of the final fights he had had with his parents before they allowed him to go, he had stood in a windowsill on the third floor, holding tight but hovering one foot over the empty air below, yelling that he ‘would rather DIE than give up music’. And now, as he played, he knew that giving it up would cause his death as well. He breathed out a small laugh. Die of heartbreak, a marvellously poetic way to go. How else was he expecting to die? Old, surrounded by friends and family? Children and grandchildren around his bed as he used his last words to say something wise? No, that had never been an option. He would cease playing and die, as he once, so long ago, when he lived in happier times, had joked: a broken-hearted man.

  As to be heard where eare is none:

As lead to grave in marble stone:

My song may pearse her hart as sone.

Should we then sigh? or singe, or mone?

No, no, my lute for I have done.

 He didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. Jaskier considered himself quite a good judge of character, and he knew that this was not just one of the self-aggrandising statements he often made. His ability to read others, mirror them and appease their needs was the exact reason he had become so well-know, so well-liked, the ‘skilled negotiator’ and ‘stirring orator’ that had been welcomed by courts around the Continent with open arms. Sure, musical talent was important, but any successful bard’s true strength was his ability to appease in all senses of the word. So where had he gone wrong? What had happened? Had he truly not been able to correctly judge the nature of his and Geralt’s relationship? He knew, of course he knew, that Geralt could never see Jaskier as Jaskier saw him. It was abundantly clear that their friendship was just that, a friendship. There would be no hope for anything other than that. Yet, Jaskier had been pretty confident in calling Geralt a friend. Sure, the Witcher denied it with each passing breath, but Jaskier knew that Geralt knew that all those denials were lies, attempts to not get attached to someone mortal, no matter the fact that Jaskier’s half-elf parentage meant he would still live twice as long as the average human. Twice as long was nothing, nothing compared to the eternity a quick Witcher could live. So Jaskier hadn’t pushed. Sure, he had joked, on occasion, but never too much. Never to the point where it made Geralt uncomfortable. Their friendship was an unspoken thing, and that was fine. So what had happened for that to change? Jaskier briefly stopped playing to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Pathetic. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. What had he done to deserve such a death-wish? Jaskier knew he had a tendency to be a bit too much, too bright, too happy, too loud. Yet still, did he deserve this fate?

 The rockes do not so cruelly

Repulse the waves continually,

As he my sute and affection:

So that I am past remedy,

Wherby my lute and I have done.

 Jaskier turned to add more wood to the fire. Next to the small stack of wood he had gathered, a tiny violet flower bloomed. He reached out, picking it from the dirt and turning it around between his fingers. Violet. Yennefer. The Wish. He had stumbled across the sorceress a month after The Mountain and, instead of cursing him, or killing him, or laughing at his pathetic state, she had bought them both tremendous amounts of ale and they had spent the night - bonding? Yes, that was the only appropriate word for it, no matter how weird it sounded. It turned out that Geralt had not only ruined his relationship with Jaskier that day. He had also managed to make an enemy of the most powerful person on the entire Continent. Jaskier had been appalled when Yennefer, in a soft voice, had shared what had happened when Geralt had found the djinn. Jaskier himself could remember little of it, and now he wished he could still live in that blissful ignorance. The knowledge that Yennefer saved him was awful enough on its own, but learning about the wish made Jaskier want to vomit. Sure, he was an ‘unparalleled lover’, but he always, always made sure he had the full, complete and enthusiastic consent of his partner before undertaking anything. What Geralt had done was cruel, opportunistic and shameful. And, although he never thought he would say the words, Yennefer deserved better. 

 Proude of the spoile that thou hast gotte

Of simple hartes through loves shot:

By whom unkinde thou hast them wonne,

Thinke not he hath his bow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

 It had turned out that Jaskier had not just ‘stumbled across’ Yennefer. Instead, she had sought him out. The next morning, after some handy magic spared him from nursing the worst hangover of his life, Yennefer had revealed her plan of vengeance. As the woman spoke, Jaskier made several mental notes to never ever cross her. Still, he had refused. He understood the desire for vengeance, for payment, for retribution but, Jaskier had told Yennefer, Geralt had taken enough of his life. He didn’t want to spend more time chasing the white-haired Witcher. Besides, without them, how many friends did the man have left? Letting him rot in his loneliness was enough of a punishment. Yennefer had disagreed, of course she had. But she had left him with a ring. Turning the blue stone twice would signal that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to take revenge anyway. Turning it thrice would alert Yennefer that he was in great danger. Turning it once would signify he was thinking of her. Turning the stone once, he turned back to his lute and continued to play.

  Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdaine

That makest but game on earnest payne.

Thinke not alone under the sunne

Unquit to cause thy lovers plaine:

Although my lute and I have done

 As Jaskier played, another memory forced its way up to the forefront of his mind. It had been at the beginning of their travels, sitting next to a campfire similar to this whilst discussing Geralt’s newest contract.

 ‘What happens if you don’t manage to kill it this time?’ Jaskier, in his youthful innocence, had asked. 

 ‘I die.’ The Witcher had said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

 ‘And when does it end? All this fighting and travelling? When are you done?’

 ‘When I die.’ 

 ‘Don’t you want to settle down? Maybe somewhere on the seaside? Retire? Find a nice cottage?’ 

 ‘Witchers don’t retire,’ Geralt had grunted, with a tone that made it clear that this was the end of the conversation. 

 Later, Jaskier had often seen the exhaustion on Geralt’s face. The man might have thought he hid his emotions well, but the opposite was true. He had seen him glance at old, retired couples. He had seen the mental exhaustion as the Alderman tried to find loopholes to pay him less. He had seen the longing, aching, yearning that Geralt never truly allowed himself to admit he had. So, when Geralt had come down from the mountain with a clear look of defeat, Jaskier had extended him a metaphorical hand.

  ‘We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.’ 

 But instead of a nod, or of Geralt’s characteristical silence, he had been met with those words. That deathwish. Take you off my hands. And here Jaskier was, away from the Witcher who would, apparently, rather have him dead than alive. And some bitter part of him hoped that Geralt would make his way to the coast, would get away for a while, and would, finally, realise that Jaskier had been right. But by then it would be too late, and maybe, maybe, some vengeful part of him whispered, Geralt would feel even a fraction of the hurt Jaskier felt now. 

  May chance thee lie withered and olde,

In winter nightes that are so colde,

Playning in vain unto the mone:

Thy wishes then dare not be tolde.

Care then who list, for I have done.

 Jaskier knew the idea of Geralt retiring was laughable, of course he did. A Witcher did not retire. He lived on, fought monsters, got slow and died. Most likely somewhere in a muddy swamp, slowly and painfully bleeding out as his mutations tried their best to heal him, but failing to do so. Probably whilst being eaten by a kikimore or something equally awful. In those last hours, would Geralt think of him? Of Yennefer? Of the child surprise he had left behind, he had never visited? Or would he, by then, have completely forgotten about any of them. Were they all just a breeze in the wind, a single grain of sand in the desert of Geralt’s life? A soft buzz on his finger signalling that Yennefer, too, thought of him, removed him from those thoughts. No, it could not be. Jaskier had to have meant something. Geralt had allowed him to travel with him for two decades, that must have accounted for something, right? Maybe, just maybe, Geralt’s last thoughts would be of him. Maybe he would regret his behaviour, and maybe, when they both arrived at Melitele’s Gates, they would be reunited at last, and all would be well.

  And the may chance thee to repent

The time that thou hast lost and spent

To cause thy lovers sigh and swowne.

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent

And wish and want as I have done.

 Jaskier suppressed a yawn and, after adding a bit more wood to the fire so it would burn through the night and checking that the fire would not spread, leaned back against the tree behind him. He would need his energy tomorrow to make it to Oxenfurt before the city gates closed. He carefully placed his lute next to him, softly humming to give his voice a proper cooling down. ‘This is it, my sweet,’ he whispered softly in-between hums. ‘No more carefree playing for you.’ He did not even bother to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. Tomorrow, Jaskier the Bard would become Professor Julian Pankratz. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to the days where he had to hide his playing from the world, finding spaces where nobody could see his fingers touch the strings as if they had found their home. So, in a sombre, soft tone, Jaskier sang the final verse of his song acapella, heard only by the insects on the ground and the grey owl in the tree high above him.

  Now cease my lute this is the last

Labour that thou and I shall wast,

And ended is that we begonne.

Now is this song both song and past,

My lute be still for I have done. 

#the witcher #the witcher ff #jaskier #geraskier #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #The Lover Complayneth The Unkindnes of His Love #wyatt #written by me #made by me #My lute be still for I have done #Onceuponadisneypotter #Half a Century of Poetry

[mayflower-us-blog]

mayflower burn book

Did someone forget to take out the trash? Looks like sparelockned got left behind.. What does one need to say about this guy? The guy is about 10 years old and can barely fucking speak English, the little cretin. Falsely banned numerous people within his first month of moderator and somehow still holds it? A pure joke to Mayflower

Next joke... 

Complete beg. Desperate for attention 24/7 and will do whatever it takes to get it. The guy will literally suck a dick for any position possible as he is a power hungry little inbred. Claims he is 17 but probably is like 14. Horny bastard wanted to e-date mashallah as well, no one rates him, just a little cunt.

Clapped little yute. Proper chav and will get sparked if he messes with anyone- he also pretends to go to the gym because he's a twig looking ass.  Has a foot fetish and sucked someone's toes for 2 pounds... incest

Probably one of the biggest memes in Mayflower.. takes the piss out of everyone and they all fall for what he is saying and don’t realise he is just craving for attention, which surprisingly makes it funny.

Made one diss track on Henry now thinks shes a soundcloud rapper and that  her net-worth is $500m, proper joker tho styll, you might have to date Steven, couple goals.

The most retarded person on Mayflower.... got his positions as Moderator because he banged the admin and gave the state the most stupid and incompetent mods alive and falls for the people who suck up to him for moderator, no one rates you too, you’re just a prick.

Surprisingly, actually a sound guy and has banter, along with Ewan and doesn’t take everything too serious which makes Mayflower that little bit better and the development towards it, hats off to you, we just recommend you actually remove peoples moderators inactive and incompetent.

#burned

[yblchth]

“It doth not suyt a Sum’nr of Devyls to speak on their Propertys, as those godsblood Fools who speak them into beyng must by varyos Means know their Nature as the Back of their Hand. But here I shall make a vayn Attempt for those who doth possess Wyts markedly Thin and Tyme markedly Lyttle, and thereon elaborate wythyn thys Tome.”

Let us begyn symply:

      “Fyrst, the Pallyd, also known as the order Cacodaemonya. The weakest of Devyls and, yea, the most numerous as well. The Pallyd Devyl posseseth a Body most fyne but he also possesseth a weak Intellect. Hys form doth resemble an Insect or other such crawylng thyng, hys Blood argent, hys Mask whyte or fayntly yellow. He is most suytable for Tasks menyal and of low complexyty. He feedeth on Blood and Livestock. Great Care must be taken for he is bydden to count any Item whatsover strewn before hym with a passyon most confoundyng.” - The Pale Devil

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     “Next I wyll speak on the Ymps, or Blue Devyls. Ymps are flymsy of Body but possesseth a Tongue most vyle and skylfull in the Art. The Blue Devyl possesseth Skin of nyght-hue, hyr Mask is royal, and hyr Blood is ebon. Ymps have a certyn Fondness for Lyquor and Vyce that suiteth a crafty Sum’ner well should he wysh to gayn Employment of these Fiends.” - The Blue Devil 

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      “Next I wyll speak on those Devyls most pryzed and sought by Kyngs, Rulers, and those Fools who clasp for earthly Power. The Crymson Devyl, or War Devyl, is massyve of Form and Syze and myddlyng of Wyts. Hys Flesh is ebon or royal, he is well Furred, hys Mask sanguine, his Blood ebon. He hath powerful Fangs, Horns, or other natural Weaponry for whych to dysmember his Enemeys, for the war devyl is extremely fond of Vyolence. He is greatly pryzed in thys Matter, synce for the pay of a few bottles of Lyquor or feeble Trynkets he wyll dysmember well-trained Soldiers from Dusk until Dawn for he does not partake in Sleep. A sum’ner may consyder hym a dull Creature until they fynd he has exployted some Loophole in theyr Contract and feasts upon their Entrayls.” - The Red Devil

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      “Next I wyll speak of the Verdant Devyl, or Dead Man’s Devyl as they are called. Hys Skyn is scaled or horned verdant, he carries the Vysyge of a Death’s Head, hys Mask verdant, and hys Blood thyck and argent. The Verdant Devyl is a remarkably strange Creature for he affects a certayn Languor whych could be mystaken for a lack of Motyve, hys blood is cold and he moves with Torpydyty. No Thhyng could be further from the Truth, for in hys Languor he collects many dire Secrets and has an insatiable Appetyte for Ruin. He is fond of Bargayns and lyes often. He wyll Peel a man lyke a Grape, should it please hym.” - The Green Devil

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      “Next I wyll dyscuss the Gylded Devyl, or Yellow Devyl as they are sometymes called. The Gylded Devyl has the appearance of one tall and shrouded, hyr Mask is Or, hyr Blood is Ebon. Hyr shryveled Flesh is sayd to have a certayn corpse-lyk Qualyty. Gylded Devyls are in Possessyon of the most terryfyng Intellect of common Devyls, and for thys reason Summoners are advysed agaynst attemptyng to bynd them. The Gylded Devil is fond of Moneys and other items of Wealth, she remembers Anythyng whatsoever sayd or seen, and she counts everythyng in metyculous Detayl. Moreover, she cultyvates a profound and honed Malyce whych she wylll not hesytate to turn on Mankind most cruelly.

      “I myself had an Apprentyce once who summoned one to take care of hys Book Keeping only to fynd to his great Dismay some Weeks later she had bought hym as a Slave.” - The Gold Devil

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“Fynally, I wyll speak on the Ebon Devyl, or True Devyl.

A Devyl when he is born as Pallyd has many hundreds of Names, none of whych are useful to hym, a method of his Bynding that gyves Shape to rawest Chaos whyle styll allowyng him to be controlled. As he grows older he makes secret Bargayns with Fools and finds clever ways to lop these Names off, and thus metamorphoses, changing Color and Shape most drastycally. Thus does the Pallyd become Blue, the Blue become Crymson, the Crymson become Verdant, the Verdant become Gylded.

An Ebon Devyl has but a syngle Name. There are but a few Dozen in all of Creation.

I wyll speak no further on the matter of Devyl Bynding for the Hour grows most late and a Chyll is settlyng up my old Spyne..” - The Ebon Devil (or) True Devil

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– Thulsa Drulle’s Daemonica Maleficum.

#bestiary* #here's all the short explanations / stories for the devil masks ig #meant to post this last week but #forgot

[infiniteshawn]

Why are you exaggerating Canadian slang. No one speaks like that here. No one normal or sane anyways.

have you been to Milton? and I’m clearly making a joke out of it. I have self respect and don’t actually say “styll” at the end of every sentence. it’s become more of a gimmick on my blog, in case you haven’t picked up on my sarcastic tones.

[styllwaters]

The kiki and bouba of urchins. if you even care

#(holds them) I just tthink theyre neat #OW #styll speaks #sea urchins #long spined sea urchin #pencil urchin

[styllwaters]

The decision to make the extraterrestrials for the cars universe ufos was a stroke of genius imo

#styll speaks #ufo #alien #pixar #cars #i want their genders...

[styllwaters]

I'm thinking about His Dark Materials again. Specifically the societal quirks that Lyra's world has as a result of everyone having their soul manifested outside their body in the form of dæmons. It's one of the most fascinating examples of worldbuilding I've come across tbh

Some of my most favourite tidbits:

Dæmons are named by the dæmons of the child's parents

It's taboo to touch another person's dæmon, but this is learnt, not instinctual

Children often settle arguments through their dæmons, with one accepting the dominance of the other (eg. Pan hissing at Annie's fox daemon in the first book to get her to back down)

The fact that people can tell when someone lacks a daemon even though they can be hidden out of sight (like a mouse in your pocket)

To the inhabitants of Lyra's world, looking at someone without a dæmon is like looking at someone without a head

These extra pieces of lore just make the world seem so magical but believable at the same time

#styll speaks #his dark materials #hdm #daemons #having Thoughts #i love this series can you tell

[styllwaters]

Don't let your pet cat roam outside or it could get involved in cat politics, go through 10 pointless character arcs, and possibly go to cat hell

#warrior cats #wc #styll speaks

[styllwaters]

Whats with Bluey characters and having the most gorgeous colour palettes my eyes have ever had the honour of witnessing

#bluey #styll speaks #they look like they came straight out of the toyhouse adoptable scene #especially rad and frisky

[styllwaters]

Hi! I'm Styll! (any pronouns). I'm an Australian digital artist and tumblr is where I am most active at the moment. I adore speculative + marine biology, worldbuilding and original characters.

My main headworld at the moment is Vivere 44, an alien-centric sci-fi story set in a fictional galaxy known as Zhagaviit. It's still a big work in progress, but I post updates here regarding art, designs, lore and characters! Feel free to send in asks as well - I always do my best to answer them.

───────────────────────────────

⚡️ DIRECTORY ⚡️

☆ art tag - #my art

☆ headworld - #vivere 44

☆ sophonts - #sea crawlers / #arrows / #knights / #posthumans

☆ my ramblings - #styll speaks

🌺 OTHER BLOGS 🌺

-> @rushingwaters [art only blog]

-> @of-fear-and-fate [dark fantasy headworld]

───────────────────────────────

⚡️ SOCIALS ⚡️

Toyhouse: Styllwaters

Discord: styllwaters

Twitter: styllwatersHQ

Artfight: Styllwaters

───────────────────────────────

⚡️ ART STATUS / BOUNDARIES ⚡️

Commissions: CLOSED

Requests: CLOSED (Unless related to my own creations)

Art Trades: OPEN (Mutuals only)

👽 Do not make nsfw content of my characters or send me nsfw asks. I will not be answering them.

👽 You can make fanart and fan characters based on my worlds! (Tag me so I can see it!) You can also use my art as profile pics/banners with credit.

───────────────────────────────

⚡️ DISCORD SERVER ⚡️

I run a 13+ discord server where you can post art, original writing/worldbuilding, and talk about speculative biology! We mostly hang out, roleplay, and talk about creatures and whatnot. Anyone is welcome (provided they are respectful to others!)

(Sophont species and their respective creators listed here!)

#new pinned time yayy #styll speaks #my art #art #alien time #links #introduction #sophonts #spec bio

[styllwaters]

Discord.

#styll speaks

[styllwaters]

Do you guys ever

#styll speaks

[styllwaters]

would it be possible for a knight to be 'of two minds' about things? like, how much can hosts and helmet's personalities vary?

A Host and Helmet, even with the Integrator organ which facilitates cooperation and symbiosis, do not always agree on things.

Normally, the mutual trance enables the Knight to simulate the experience of being one person. However, this does not mean a Host and Helmet will have the same personality! They can vary quite a lot. For instance, a Host might be more open and curious, but their Helmet is withdrawn and cautious.

A Helmet is not born with the ability to automatically get along with their Host, and vise versa. Their formative years as Pages are spent getting to know the other's personality, mannerisms, core values, and ways of thinking on an intimate level. They learn how to coordinate the Knight body without having to use the trance, and a lot of their 'play' is centred around fostering a healthy relationship between the two organisms.

When there is internal conflict, a Knight will often separate their Host and Helmet to discuss the issue. Most of the time, they will be able to find a peaceful resolution. But a Knight with an unstable internal relationship, who instead relied on the trance instead of sorting things out, is prone to frequent clashes.

#thank you for the ask! #a lot of knights who haven't had proper guidance as youngsters use the trance as a 'band-aid' of sorts when it comes to forcing cooperation #this is temporary and does not work in the long run #styll speaks #knights #vivere 44 #speculative biology #spec bio #ask #spec evo #also. when they are in the trance their personalities combine #if you know a knight VERY well you might be able to pick up on which parts came from their helmet and which ones came from their host

[styllwaters]

You tagged one of your reblogs with '#arrow vibes' - I'm guessing these arrows are a new sophont? 👀

Good eye! 'Arrows' are what I'm planning to call the redesigned Angelum. Discord server has already seen these but tumblr can have some messy concept sketches as well 🤲

#will make a proper post about them eventually #styll speaks #ask #speculative biology #arrows #my art