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tesshoundi · 1 year

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(These were made using bases from https://www.deviantart.com/nukababe who you should go check out)

I’ve been working on writing a story set in world of darkness with character’s from most of the game lines (some excluded based on personal preference) and I had made VIIZ (unfleshed) awhile back but I got to thinking before they got wrapped up in (spoilers for plot) they probably had a throng at some point so I came up with some ideas as I was fleshing out the Unfleshed’s backstory (Pun intended) more info under the read more if you’re interested. Also It’d been awhile since I'd done any chibi base drawings and this was a convenient excuse to do some.

First up is Viiz (Unfleshed) Current Refinement: Argentum Role: Envoy Prior Refinements Cuprum ‘ role Hermit complete, Stannum role Vigilante incomplete. Viiz was the creation of a Changeling (CTD) specifically a goblin. And once he left his mother’s care it seemed to eventually draw him to the refinement of silver once he realized that him mother wasn’t human that is. He originally after being separated from his mother followed the refinement of copper as he was unused to other people, but one fateful day when he was taking shelter from a storm what he thought was just another person unfortunate enough to be stuck outside during the downpour was another variety of changeling (Weeping Wight to be specific) The two had a brief fight with neither being victorious but that sparked Viiz’s interest in the supernatural and his switch to Argentum. A few years later after joining up with his throng (more on that later) he found out what had happened to his mother once they had been separated. She’d been murdered by a banal Changeling. Filled with an indescribable rage he’d never felt before he temporarily switched refinements to tin and quite brutally beat the man to death. He spent a few more weeks as a fury working out his anger before switching back to Silver.

Next is Mouse (Zeka) Current refinement: Aurum Role: Companion Prior Refinements: none. Mouse was left with no instructions from his creator and had to figure everything out for himself. For several months he’s been wandering throughout the city he awoke in occasionally taking part in various raves or going out to nightclubs a hobby he’s kept up even to this day. But he was unaware of the wasteland he was creating in the process. Eventually he triggered a massive firestorm and ended up wiping out the city’s population in the process but he also made our next character’s dream come true but more on that in a minute. He met Viiz soon after who was investigating the city because he believed that the radiation spikes in the area were due to balefires caused by black spiral dancer werewolves not knowing of the Zeka within the city. Mouse now knowing that their were other’s like him joined up with the Unfleshed starting a more focused approach to his pilgrimage.

Next is Dualette (Extempore) Current Refinement: Aes role Servant Prior Refinements: Aurum Role: Follower complete , Centimani. Do you remember ‘the pilgrim’ from the second edition core rulebook? If so you should know that her belief that she could become a true promethean which is suggested to be possible in Night Horrors the tormented was her entire goal. Dualette is her dream and now she aspires to be more than Promethean she aspires to be human. That massive radioactive firestorm Mouse triggered caused a lot of damage to buildings and such and The Pilgrim was caught partially under the debris as the firestorm flayed her (and everyone else) alive. This firestorm lasted absurdly long (a full 24 hours) but when it finally ceased the Pilgrim had gotten their wish Pyros was able to partially hide their disfigurements when needed and they no longer felt the need to tear into prometheans for now she was one herself. Now as Dualette she had sought out others so she could learn from them eventually stumbling upon Viiz, Mouse and Viiz’s only throngmate at the time Suitor ‘more on him later’ She joined their throng overjoyed that she had finally gotten her wish but when Viiz and Suitor started talking about being human she when lightheaded as she couldn’t believe the possibility put before her. He was on the refinment of flux temporarily as she had just crossed from pandorian to promethean but quickly switched to Aurum quickly meeting her milestones after a few years she switched to Aes wanting to help those who’d helped her, inadvertent as some of it may have been. She has two humors Ectoplasm from her ulgan creator and Radiation from Mouse’s firestorm and her wastelands embody both together but each half is only about half as bad a a firestorm of that level from either lineage if you were to separated out the effects from each humor. For example people in her wasteland only take half as much radiation damage as from a Zeka wasteland of the same rating.

Lastly is Suitor ( Galateid ) Current Refinement: Stannum role Savage Prior Refinements: none. Suitor was created to be the perfect romantic partner to his creator but he’s actually repulsed by romantic and sexual affection and quickly went his own way. He’s one of the few Galatea who are created from multiple bodies with his main one still bearing autopsy scars (not visible here) The parts that came from a separate donor are his eyes and his arms just below the shoulder. His scalp is a wig cap that was sewn on with the sole purpose of giving his creator the ability switch out his hair as they saw fit. He does usually wear wigs usually switching them out to avoid being recognized when he doesn’t want to. He loves picking fights with others and isn’t above using his puppy like brown eyes to figuratively disarm those who fight him. He met Viiz after deciding to pick a fight with a Brujah not that he knew of course. Viiz saved his life but staking them allowing a bloodied and beaten Suitor to lick his wounds so to speak. He decided that in case any of his fights pit him against supernaturals again having Viiz around would come in handy. He’s the only member of the throng who wasn’t appalled at Viiz beating his mother’s killer to death and instead agreed with the action though Viiz’s rampage afterwards was so unlike him that Suitor was glad when he returned to silver like the rest of the throng.

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fake-diary · 1 year

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Day 512

I regret something I said. That’s really weird, as I don’t normally regret my words. Mostly actions. Anyways, I have an idea for a Homestuck Fanventure, except I do not have any skill in drawing. Also, it is literally just an idea, completely unfleshed. Probably not going to flesh it out, either. But, anyway, I would love to just share the idea!

#I don't have much more to say #except it would be nice #to do it #except #I don't even know #any drawing #programs #that I can use #so yeah #Also #that was a lot #so #yeah #Goodbye

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kettlequills · 3 years

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C2: waking dreams: master of fate

Obligatory Miraak In Pain chapter! A classic for every Miraak-Lives fanfic. Lots of vomiting, graphic injury, some hallucinations, blood and gore, paralysis, paranoia, and other fun stuff in this one, bear in mind. On A03.

A high, anxious dragon-creel jarred Miraak from total unconsciousness. A pause. Then, again. That awful, hair-raising screech, the kind of sound that flaked chalk, cracked glass and shattered eardrums.

Miraak had never felt worse in his life. He was not even sure he was alive. If he wanted to be.

His body was numbness and agony. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. His mouth, too, reducing his breath to a whistling wheeze past the turgid coagulant of thick, thick ink. Even his gasping little sob was stoppered in his blocked tear-ducts. His mask was sucked tightly against his skin. It felt like being choked. Stars burst in the dizzy darkness behind his eyes when he tried to breathe. His ribs ached familiarly. Broken? Something sharp jutted against the grind of his flesh. It felt like metal. It felt like death.

The dragon creeled again. The primordial terror of that sound. It was afraid. It was hurting. It was animal.

It was the sort of sound that summoned hurrying priests. It was the sort of sound that echoed off mountainsides and resounded down valleys, and woke even children wise enough not to scream. It was the sort of sound that came before the gristly snap of jaws and bone and viscera, and a new, bloody mask to press onto the quick-forgotten face of a new servant.

Names, traded like currency. But he was Mir-Aak.He was the mightiest Dragon Priest of them all, and everything he had won had been with fire and fury and strength no dragon could deny. That no dragon could replace.

Wherever he was, whatever cry the dragon made, he would face it, he would conquer it. As fate foretold, their power would meet the thunder of Miraak’s soul, and be subsumed.

Miraak fumbled at his limbs, trying to push off his mask in the vain hope it would help him see, struggling against the rubbery tentacles he was only half-sure he didn’t feel looping like a leash around his neck. He wouldn’t be sure he had hands any longer, if it wasn’t for the fact that one of them hurt.

Hurt like the word pain had been invented for this moment alone.

His glove was unwieldy and stiff, and it was only when the wreck of his hand struck the ground and it squished that he realised that it was because it was full of blood. His blood. Filling his glove, because his hand had been carved open as if by a great serrated knife, and air kissed scarred bone and his fingers hung uselessly and he wanted to vomit.

It was that one, naturally, that finally caught at the lip of the golden mask, because the gods had never loved Miraak.

The pain nearly topped him into darkness again, but he managed a blind scrape at the congealed ink on its face. It tore like skin, and bubbling, acid wetness sleeted down his cheek and jaw. It was like a Seeker’s bite.

But his eyes opened, and he could make out dim, blurry shapes. Light was needles in his eyes, but Miraak was a Dragon Priest, and his destiny had had him conquer every pain set before him and make himself its master. He needed no god. He had himself. He did have himself, didn’t he? It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He must be in his own body.

Stone floor, stone walls. Thick with dust, made him cough. The slumbering serpent of a dragon’s tail. Dirty, foul-smelling, dull; no loving priest had tended it with warm water and oil, the scalebeds were so dry he could see the ink-ridden cracks. Armour gleamed like a rusty hill under the slump of Miraak’s broken body, old steel warped and rent tellingly down the middle where a sword might slide home. A bloodless wound here, in Nirn, but a lightning scar across the stone like the spiderweb scarring of their face. The mask watching Miraak dully even now, centimetres from his hand where he must have dropped it.

Laat Dovahkiin’s armour and their flesh-stripped bones, his bedmate and bed both for his first night on Tamriel. When he coughed, wetly, ink stained their armour – oh, oh, that wasn’t rust, that was Miraak, bleeding all over the corpse of his foe.

Time – he could feel it, a silent rasp on his spine – passing, how dreadful, how glorious, to count it under his heartbeats like grains of sand in a gear, how long had it been? A night?

Not time enough for Laataazin’s bones to bleach. Their supplies to gather dust. Their potions. Large bottles of glowing red and blue and green, set carefully just below the plinth where the Black Book awaited. Closed, for now, but he could hear it whisper, could see Mora’s eyes on him through the susurrus of the pages. But the Prince did not reach out to reclaim his plaything, only watched.

Miraak could feel his oily laughter, could imagine the words that would drip from his wretched darkness, mourning how far his Champion had fallen – on his belly like a snake, hand over grim hand, straining towards Laataazin’s castoffs.

Not victorious, after all, but a strong name still for a worthy fight.

Never had a journey across a simple stone floor seemed so desperate and so humiliating. He crawled on the ground like a child, sweating profusely and unable to hold back his pained moans. Even his voice, his pain, sounded whispery and faint, barely an echo of its true self. It did not reverberate like it should, and the stone did not quake and tremble at its touch. He felt wrung out, limp, like a colourless ghost.

And Mora watched, watched. Miraak felt the eyes all over him, like ants. Or was it air? He felt every thread in his robes grating his skin like being dragged up the back of dragon. The fastest, bloodiest way to flay a man. Their scales could cut like diamonds. Only Miraak had made the euphemism ‘riding the dragon’ anything other than a painful death sentence.

He was the mightiest Dragon Priest that ever lived.

His shaking hands knocked the first potion over and it rolled out of his reach. The wetness on his face was warm as tears, sharp as acid. The blood and ink that wept from his watering eyes, his nose, that drowned the dragon’s scream in his ears, forbade that notion of ghostliness. No snowiness for Miraak, no, Apocrypha’s reek was all over him, dripped in him, made sodden and heavy as weights his robes.

The second bottle cooperated, but the cork wrestled with him a moment too long. That first sip stuck to his throat and teeth and tongue like paper. He hacked out some mulchy mess he didn’t bother to examine and managed two mouthfuls of crimson potion. Ancient nerves awoke protesting in his tongue – he could not tell what he tasted, only that it was foul, and thick, and felt like rot and ash.

His stomach’s revolt was instant. He knuckled his fist against his mouth, forcing the potion to stay down. But Miraak was already coughing around the first swallow, the second had him retching. Miserable bile stung his lips and splattered blue-green ink down his chin. Cold sweat sprung out on his forehead. Laataazin’s mask’s empty eyes watched him hauntingly.

Breathing dragged fishhooks through the soft tissue of his throat. To distract himself from the weak clenches of his exhausted stomach trying to empty itself, Miraak stared forbiddingly at the neat row of potions, scattered now by his clumsiness, and tried to memorise their colours. There were green ones, red ones. Blue ones. Sahrotaar, he thought dimly, the colour was like its scales. Where was he? The dragon had gone quiet. More colours than Miraak had seen in thousands of years. Of eras of human history he had been forced to read about, with no hand on Tamriel to rewrite the passage of events.

No longer.

A glint caught his weary eye, deeper red than the rest. Wine-red, rather than blood-red. The stony glimmer tantalised him, teased some exhausted part of Miraak that still craved to know. What secret was hidden here, among Laataazin’s healing potions? Miraak’s, now, by right of conquest, whatever it was.

The first person to speak to him in a thousand years, whose bones had held Miraak’s bleeding, unconscious body.

He retched again when he tried to move, but his stomach only cramped warningly around nothing. Miraak fumbled ungently through the stock of potions, his blurring eyes more hindrance than help. Eventually, he drew out a necklace, simple wood set with the ruby that had caught his eye, nothing more. Crudely-carved dragons squirmed around that red sun, chasing triangular shapes that might have been birds, and tattered feathers frayed around the cord. It was shoddy, no masterpiece to Miraak’s discerning eye.

Disappointment was sharp and quick, but chased quickly on the heel of intrigue as he sensed the enchantment that laid over the piece. A strong sacrifice had been made over this little scrap of wood and feather, so strong that it hummed and burned. But why waste such powerful enchantment on so fragile a material?

Wood burnt, and cracked, and rotted. Dragon Priests built in stone, for the servants of generations that would come after them and convince their master they had never died at all. No change, no loss, stubborn to time. Enduring, immortal, unfleshed.

It did not feel detrimental, so he looped it over his head. His, now. Laataazin was dead, and their world, their life, their soul, it was all Miraak’s, as it always should have been. The necklace itched like a secret, but he would decipher its enchantment. For now, it served as challenge and trophy both to Miraak’s strength. Such arrogance, from Laataazin, leaving behind even a scrap of power when they went to face their death.

The dragon shrieked, lower and louder. Miraak jerked, torn from his contemplation, and his back seized into a hard knot of painful muscle. Through watering eyes, he saw the long whipping neck, the flutelike snout, the leafblade tail – Relonikiv, craning shrilly towards dimness that swallowed the world twenty feet from Miraak in all directions. Relonikiv’s jade head dipped and danced, its yellow eyes ringed with apocryphal ooze that splattered the ground.

“Relonikiv,” he tried to say. It creaked out weakly. “Rel-“

It heard him that time, and Relonikiv’s cringing head dropped low to the ground, neck arched up like a snake, wings fluttering with anxiety. It groaned at Miraak, yellow eyes bright as lamps in the darkness, snarling teeth barrelled with putrid breath that warped and smoked the air of the darkness they shared.

He could not see what disturbed it, what horror above had it so transfixed, nor did he know why it did not simply fly to escape it. Relonikiv had not been brave when it had met Miraak, and the centuries hence had only sharpened its instinct to flee when faced with something it did not understand.

“Come,” he whispered to it, but Relonikiv cowered away with a low whine. Miraak hissed out a breath between his teeth. He had no patience for Relonikiv’s timidity today, not in this much pain. “What do you think I’ll do, fool? … Find me Sahrotaar. Relonikiv? Sahrotaar.”

Relonikiv blinked at him. It reared its head out of sight into the lumpy darkness, those dizzying swirls of venomous yellow leaving a glowing trail, like a sparkler through the night. There was the telltale snap of dragon jaws, and then Sahrotaar’s brassy, confused bellow as it was jerked abruptly from slumber. Miraak’s eyesight was blurry, and Sahrotaar’s great head rearing out of the darkness looked like nothing so much as a vast, terrible serpent. Relonikiv screamed back, and now the darkness was pierced by the dusty light coming from – somewhere, and four luminous dragon-eyes, moon-pale blue and acid yellow.

“What is this place?” Sahrotaar snarled, “I do not believe what my nose tells me.”

Relonikiv rustled its wings and snapped its jaws. It groaned again, quiet and low and distressed.

“Sahrotaar,” Miraak wheezed, and at once the blunt blue head was nudging at his side, Sahrotaar’s eyes already thoughtfully lidded, so that their soft glow was muted. Though Sahrotaar’s searching snout was gentle, the contact nearly knocked Miraak over, weak as he was.

“Thuri.”

“Up,” Miraak fumbled at the dragon’s nose with his uninjured – his less injured – hand, but thankfully, Sahrotaar understood his meaning swiftly. Sahrotaar nudged its nose underneath his arm and took Miraak’s weight with it as it carefully lifted him to his feet. He clung on to the fringe of webbed scales beneath its protruding jaw and tried very hard not to faint.

It took more effort than Miraak would ever admit.

The ridges of Sahrotaar’s scales felt harsh against his bared forehead. Miraak was aware of the lank locks of hair that fell across Sahrotaar’s snout as his own, the same way he knew that the hand that throbbed with blood and pain was his – distantly, without full recognition. He missed his mask. But the ink was still leaking out of him, his mouth, his eyes, his ears and nose, in irregular, acidic spurts that made him choke and his skin burn.

He could just see one crystalline blue eye, the colour of the bright ice of his homeland, watching him underneath the protective inner lid. Sahrotaar’s breath gusted his robes about his body, felt like standing in a tempest, though the ancient, soaked fabric barely stirred.

Miraak panted wetly against Sahrotaar’s head, spangles of pain jarring from his much-abused body with every breath, every second he forced his muscles to lock and his legs to bear a portion of his weight. Apocrypha had preserved him, so he knew his body was more than strong enough to stand tall, but theory had never felt so far from reality.

“Where is… where is Kruziikrel?”

Relonikiv uttered a mournful warble. Its wings pressed tight against its back, it sniffed at what Miraak had taken to be fallen rock, or some other masonry. Something heaped and grey, utterly still. But not dead, or else Miraak would have taken its soul, and likely feel far better than he did now.

“I smell blood, thuri,” Sahrotaar rumbled. Its voice jarred Miraak’s bones all the way up to the elbow, and he bit back a bitter curse of pain.

“Take me,” he commanded, and ignored how thin his voice was.

Sahrotaar helped him limp over to the prone form of Kruziikrel, who slumped like a dragon dead and bled steadily. Thin grooves had worn where it had lain as its acidic blood bit into the ancient stone. At first, Miraak mistook its neck for its mouth, several mouths, all open and staring red red tongue – then he understood that Kruziikrel had been grievously wounded indeed.

Ragged tears had ripped all the way up its neck to its shoulders, where now loose skin flapped like lips, scales peeled back like a gutted trout. As they got closer, Miraak could smell the blood himself, brittle and violent.

Miraak collapsed next to Kruziikrel. His slump against the dragon’s mostly-intact chest was graceless, but if Kruziikrel felt any pain it was not enough to jar it from slumber. Blood soaked his glove and stung his skin. Kruziikrel had covered their retreat, he ascertained – last through the portal, it had been the one to bear the brunt of Mora’s teeth.

Tracing one of the wounds, Miraak considered – briefly – the spell that had slain the Last Dragonborn. Kruziikrel was weak, but his soul was old and strong.

Relonikiv whined behind him. Miraak could feel Sahrotaar’s presence hunkered at his side, ice-bright eyes watching its master carefully. He felt, at once, the strength of Relonikiv where he was weak, the steadiness of Sahrotaar where he faltered. Some emotion touched Miraak then as he reached for the tired spring of magicka within him, something that was uncomfortable but hid from his examination. Thousands of years they had been his only companions in servitude, and yet, when he was weak and in pain, all his body told him was that each one had teeth longer than his forearm, and years to fester vengeance.

“Laas, Kruziikrel,” Miraak bade, and felt the dragon stir as his magicka reached it golden and bright.

It was the last light he saw.

---

Miraak snapped into awareness. His head throbbed. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He was paralysed. Miraak panicked. He was a prisoner – he was trapped – he was not alone. He could feel breathing, massive, muscular breathing, the whistling snore of a predator so much larger than he was. He could feel soul-shredding pain in his chest. His entire body felt shrunken and small, stuck as sandbags.

“Miraak,” a voice murmured. He knew that voice.

I killed you, Miraak wanted to shout, but his lips were stiff as marble. His heart thundered in his chest, and a cold sweat sprung out on his skin. The air felt wrong – weird. His body was limp, folded against something horribly soft. It was warm, wet. Like a corpse, Miraak thought wildly. Like Laat’s blood soaking his robes. Their body, soft and warm and still in his arms, eyes glossy, dark, dead.

Laataazin. Laat Dovahkiin. Niid, niid – hi los dilon. You are dead!

“Miraak,” Laat called again. Their voice was quiet as always, but close, as if they were standing right by his ear. He could feel the shivery vibrations of it across his skin. Could feel Laat’s wheeze in their voice, the gurgling of the blood they hadn’t managed to cough out in time to speak, before he killed them. “Do you feel mighty now, Miraak?”

Miraak screamed.

The piercing sound shocked him. He gasped suddenly for breath, choked on the vomit heaving out of his mouth. He tried to sit up, tried to roll, but his body was unresponsive and instead he panted between retches, feeling the warmth of his vomit trapped against his face against his chin, his neck, dripping into the neckline of his robes. It reeked of ink, the sour smell of sweat. His tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth, like a gag. The bile stung his lips, burned in two hundred small wounds that split his skin, dry as a draugr.

There was a collar of fire around his neck, blistering with the strength of the sun.

Shuddering sobs took over him after the worst of the retching passed. Tearless, dry, hurting more than it helped. The world rocked and spun underneath him, like he was in flight. Like he was falling. His hands wanted to twitch and curl into claws, wrinkle his robes – the robes, not Laat’s corpse, soft and warm – beneath his punishing grip. The agony of his destroyed hand almost failed to register.

Robes. Not books. Not bodies.

Tamriel. Miraak was free. He was floating somewhere above and below the word, like it dragged him in orbit. Someone was watching him. Mora. Mora was watching him.

He cried, made some horrible mix of sounds that made his aching gut cramp and groan. His body felt like a bruise. He had sweated through his robes, and his skin itched and ached, and everything was too loud, and he was free. So then, why did it feel like he was trapped?

Miraak’s head pulsed in time to his heartbeat, quivering and irregular. His mind felt swampy and confused, reality sliding away from him like softened soap whenever he tried to grasp it. Twice, he commanded himself to move and rose all the way to his feet before he realised his body had not shifted an inch with a deep, internal tug that had his heart hammering in fear. Thrice, he tried to open his eyes, and saw only darkness. He had no eyes, his body told him, there was nothing to open. But he knew – he knew it lied…

Someone was watching him. He could feel its presence, tall and eternal, its greedy hands reaching to grasp him. To take him.

He could hear its breathing, deep and huge.

Mora?

Some part of Miraak knew, vaguely, that he was probably dying. Dehydration, if not shock. It had been so long since he had to worry about these things, but a body was only an animal, and it knew when it hurt. It shouldn’t be like this. The power of Laataazin’s soul should have been enough to sustain him until he could heal the wreck of his body.

Mora’s eyes were tangible as feathers brushing along his skin. Miraak was so cold. So hot. Each thought made his temples pound. And the world spun, spun, spun underneath him, and mocked his attempts to move and breathe. Even when he tried to lie still, there came the sharp, brutal yanks in his sternum, as if he was constantly floating free of his body, some animal part of him so desperate to move it wanted to scrape free of his unmoving flesh altogether.

Something cold and wet, rubbery and strong, licked over the back of his neck. It tickled the shell of his ear, dragging strokes of damp slime and slick ooze of oil. Miraak’s thick tongue stopped his scream. Mora? Mora?! The Prince’s gaze pierced his skin like needles, saw the fetid creature within. Saw him struggling, panicking, against a limp form that had become his new prison. There was never anywhere to hide from Mora’s allseeing eye.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to look over his shoulder. He wanted to check that there was no ghost, no Laataazin. He wanted to slap his hands against his ear, rip away the thing that teased there, flirting with the idea of squirming right the way down into his brain. It would hurt so much.

One final betrayal by Mora? Had the Prince done something? Freed him, just to watch him die slowly inches from three dragonsouls that could save him? … Was this always how it was going to end?

Miraak wanted to cry. Shame warred with his terror, his disgust for himself. How revolted the Miraak of centuries ago, bold and proud in his prime, would be by this shivering, fearful wreck that had stolen his name. And where was Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel? The repositories of power where Miraak might steal a few more heartbeats of life… He could feel them, the pulse of their souls, not far from him, but they might as well have been far as sundered Atmora for all he could reach them.

He thought about water. About the endless seas of ink that ebbed and flowed within Apocrypha. Thought about wrenching his mask off and gulping desperate, some critical creature inside him so fearful of thirst that he’d taken Mora’s bitter sap willingly down his throat, the Prince’s deep laughter and the solicitous curl of the tentacles that had pulled Miraak’s seizing body from the inky waters. He tried to remember what it was like to cup his hands in pure sweet lakewater, good to drink and fresh, but the memory was faded and grey – more like an awareness it was something he must have done at least once than it was personal.

He thought about water, and he thought about moving, and he thought about dying.

Sounds brushed by, and when he heard the cultists, he thought at first it was another trick of his mind. Their voices were varied and muttering, scuffed by their robes and the wet slap of bare feet on stone. Creaking hinges, rasp of wood-bristles.

“-hearing things,” he heard – his mind parsed the language vaguely, understanding it more as a dreamlike awareness than any cognisance – “I am not of course you are. Temple sealed shrine. Dream-demons … You see demons everywhere. They are everywhere. I was in Vvardenfell … dreamwoken and then slain Blight ash – Lord – how would a dragon get underground, then, you damn fool?”

“Well, it could not be that, sounds like a squealing netch,” there were two voices, Miraak suddenly ascertained, and they were speaking Dunmeris. Did he speak Dunmeris? He must.

“Or a cliff racer,” the other intoned dourly. “They nest in caves.”

“Blessed Jiub, I hope not,” came the reply, then, “Help me with this buggering door.”

The ancient iron doors had been sealed for a long time – longer than Miraak could remember, in fact. They shrieked awfully, ground like glass over the stone. A growl, deep as rocks muttering under the weight of waterfalls. A dragon. Restless, dream-slunk, exhausted. Reflexive.

“… fucking heard that!?”

“What …” A flurry of words that were too quick to grasp. “- heal! I think it’s…”

Something wrenched his shoulder in a fierce grip. Miraak’s body moved limply under the touch, and he heard a sudden clatter – a lamp, perhaps a blade. An icy touch on his neck, fingers, fingers – someone was touching him and he couldn’t see who –

“-still alive, go-!”

The hand on him moving then – silence –

“… Master?”

#miraak #inkwrites #my fic waking dreams: master of fate #tes #skyrim #elder scrolls #the elder scrolls #relonikiv #kruziikrel #sahrotaar #blood #violence #hallucinations

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antiloreolympus · 3 years

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i think the issue with the characters in LO is that theyre SO flat. none of them have any real personality or quirks to them that make them seem fleshed out, they seem like stage one development archetypes over actual characters, which isn't good when its been 3+ years of weekly updates. the same can be said about their goals, which are generic and unfleshed out. it just seems shallow, which maybe is helpful for the reader to project onto them, but it doesn't make it a well-written or fun read.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

#anti lo #anti lore olympus #lo critical #lore olympus critical

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lairn · 2 years

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Book 5/24: The New Hunger by Isaac Marion Rating: 3.5/5

This is a prequel to the book Warm Bodies, which I read maybe 10 years ago. I remembered it recently and wanted to see what else the author did.

This book features the main characters from Warm Bodies, but earlier in the apocalypse before the zombie-meets-girl plot kicks in. I re-read Warm Bodies before this installment, and I think The New Hunger is an improvement. The themes and characters are the same, but Marion has neatened his text so it’s more elegant and a little less self-indulgent.

The writing style is the big appeal for these books. The characters are more metaphors than fleshed-out (unfleshed?) humans. Marion is very fascinated with what it means to survive and the integrity of the human soul, and his characters tend to be conduits for ruminations on the subject. His style is a little cold and detached, but the imagery is evocative and he manages to be uplifting.

Reading this book after years of pandemic and many other international concerns was a little hard, but the epilogue felt like it was looking me straight in the eyes and shouting, “Don’t give up!”

#reading challenge 2022 #the new hunger #about the self indulgence - it seemed like marion wanted to pitch some of his (music) tastes as indicators that a person was good and saavy #i liked the way he handled music much more in the prequel #he still makes nods to some of his favorite musicians but the descriptions of music have more to say about shifting culture in the book

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elusive---ivory · 2 years

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✨OC ask!✨ Is there an oc you have fleshed out but never talked about? Is there one you would like to flesh out more? How about an old one you haven't talked about in a while? Now's your chance! I'd love to hear about them! ❤️

Oh!!! I never got to answer this because I've been quite off. But!! I'm here now and I'd love to share with y'all my different ocs!!

I've got lots of unfleshed out ocs, but for right now, I'd like to list all the ones I have right now.

Penelope Rossman - She/They - 19

Dante Lirio De Agua - He/him - 22

Veronica Schmidt - She/her - 26

Maroon Monroe - She/him/they - ???

Carol Belle - She/her - 19

Professor Fishbowl - He/they - ???

Vindica Shroom - She/they - ???

If anyone would like to ask me about any of them I'd be happy to give a frame of reference for all of them!

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baylardo · 4 years

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One of my really unfleshed out 1917 AU ideas I’ve wanted to do and keep PUTTING OFF despite it being the main AU I wanted to focus on for my Schratfield blog when I made it hdsajkhdjkshf was one for my WIP of a world Ferrowood which is a high fantasy setting for semi-anthro, leaning toward feral but they stand on hind legs, animals with kingdoms and towns and whatnot that are heavily reliant on their surroundings to develop and survive.

Mice and rats were always my main focus for the world but animals can range up to Dogs in size; and size plays a huge factor in Who Prospers. So like, having really only worked on rodent society and a little bit on cats this got put on the back burner ‘cause after watching some interviews with George Mackay describing Schofield as a broken bird (A raven more specifically I believe), I kinda regretted my initial idea of making them both rodents. :^)

Eventually I’d love to flesh this AU out more it just takes time to like, think out a fitting setting for them to be in regarding Conflicts and whatnot. Battles in Ferrowood have a drastically different tone and oftentimes greatly one-sided odds depending on who’s fighting. Like cats, that are more nomadic and solitary, can take on a group of mice with just one or two of their own kind. So currently it’s just me working through Tone and wanting to keep that appeal of 1917 of their mission being pretty important but also No One Cares or helps them very much on the way.

Interspecies conflicts are another thing I’m debating, which would make things easier size-wise but I also just think that smaller species in general might tend to want to band together whenever possible in face of threats.

Anyway me just rambling about this again LOL.

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beedalee · 4 years

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do you have any ocs that are adopted?

off the top of my head are Linette, Emion, Stasva (the latter two culturally don’t have family units but were adopted into another culture’s) ...I certainly will have more than this but these are the only ones i’ve worked out backstory and family units for... Huh. +_+;; -puts it on my to-do list-

I know you probably only meant the above definition, but I also have OCs I adopted from other people/artists! Not counting ponies lmao, I have Ji-Yoon and Chakir’s first design, who started out as custom adopts; as well as a harpy girl from @blondiearts that I still need to draw. Other characters given to me for collaboration purposes were Inune, Lerl, and Xelos from Naf, all for OoC. and then I have a few from Cait too but I have yet to flesh them out!

*blabbers on vaguely about unfleshed out characters* (〃´∀｀);;;

#ocean of cycles #neocraft #Anonymous #askbox

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jennamoran · 5 years

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The Horizon Campaign (34)

Link to the Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine RPG, on DriveThru

Link to my storefront, on DriveThru

Let’s talk some more about the Horizon campaign(s)!

Previously,

We worked on our set of Main Characters and concepts, tied them to Arcs and colors and archetypes, built Rinley’s storyline, and got most of the way through their quests.

Then, we built quest 5,

Finished the quest set off,

And summarized what we had!

Before starting work on a new character: Sal.

And, flailing some more at his stories.

And, finally, getting them into somewhat acceptable shape.

Then we did a quick Sal quest before starting in on Entropy’s stories!

Then we updated those stories a bit!

Then we, basically, finished them up!

And started in on yet another new character: the Magical Detective.

And developed a bit more of a concept of who/what she was.

And started to pull in towards actual stories …

And hammered out most of the rest.

Today, let’s get some rough synopses together!

Where We Left Off

We’d just talked a fair bit, loosely, about the fire in the underworld that powered the artifact in the first notional story, and that would be claimed by Edony and company in the fifth.

But how does that all work?

Before starting to write the synopses, I think I need to get the unfocused ideas there into sharper focus and flesh out whatever there is unfleshed.

How That All Works

So, we’ve talked a lot about dream stuff, stuff powered by “renegade” dreams of the Empty Child.

And the idea there was that there are dreams that try to kill the Empty Child, or at least, that he’s dying of; and then, there’d be these magical artifacts floating around that are fueled by the power of those dreams, if those dreams ... like ... snuck away, somehow, sometimes.

But for Edony, though---

For her, there aren’t murderous dreams.

For her, there’s the fire. The fire and the exhaustion. The weariness of her journey.

The brutality of what was meant to have been a simple return into the world.

If she were a Strategist, that is what she’d have been dying of.

If she were Accursed (1, 2, 3), that would be the Arc’s core: the thing that would drive her out of the normal world, over and over and over again.

Even now, even if she’s not Accursed, that fire and that exhaustion would be part of the bulwark that’s supposed to keep her... like the dead... away from the world.

From Town.

And at the same time, Eclipse is held back from the world, banished from it, presumably by the same things that try to seal her and Jade away. By the same workings of the Bleak Academy. So he needs the power of that flame, of that exhaustion, and of those dreams ...

...

Or possibly, being the death of the sun, maybe it’s the converse:

The Bleak Academy isn’t trying to keep him away; rather, the tools they use to fight Edony and Jade and all the rest are intrinsically good tools for something like Eclipse, something useful for breaking free of his own confines?

Let’s think of him as a thing that was bound, back at the end of the fifth hour, back when Jade first knew of his existence---

But who is now, with the assistance of such fire and such dreams, wriggling his way to freedom in the world.

(Probably he got set free, briefly, when the sun actually died ... but got cast back down when the miracle of Jasper Irinka’s ascension happened.)

The Subtle Flame

The subtle flame, then, the fire of exhaustion, is a tool of the Bleak Academy. It’s a wall that surrounds the world.

It’s a desiccating flame—a Deadly Desert, too, if one wants to make the Oz riff, which I often do.

So, yeah.

Probably, in the last book, it’s not about Edony claiming it, but about helping to reduce its force—

Wait

... no, it’s claiming it. Obviously the expedition is to steal fire, that’s a very traditional, a core traditional, if not exactly particularly Egyptian myth.

I mean ...

I guess it is reasonable for that fire to be Edony fuel, since it is also her bane. That’s often how it works: our sources of strength are also our enemies.

So it’s a power source, and in the fifth book she’ll seize it; before that point, there are treasures of it that can be found out in the world, although they’re not necessarily specifically important.

And ...

Maybe the deal with the ghosts, the actual deal with the ghosts, is something like, keeping them from being desperate enough to reach through that flame and connect to Jade?

Maybe it’s not about Eclipse hurting them or hunting them, directly; there are natural or unnatural things in the ghost world hunting the Sparrow, the Bull, the Lost Child, and the Painter of the Sky, and “E.” is starving their hunters so that he can take the hunters’ power?

Because ...

Imagine Jade, seen from the ghost world:

A boiling silver pot of spiky power that one dare not reach for, not unless truly desperate; powerful and full of hope but further than the world; powerful, and full of hope, but severed from you by murderous dreams, by exhausting distance, and a desiccating flame?

Imagine that ghosts could reach that flame, and perhaps grow stronger, but who would? Unless truly, truly desperate—

Except that hunters were sent by the Bleak Academy, to keep the ghost world culled, and a few ghosts are both surviving long enough and surviving raggedly enough to be tempted by that flame?

Maybe Eclipse isn’t getting anything directly from saving most of the ghosts—because he would be saving the ghosts, by pointing Edony at them—save blocking off a risk, save keeping them from latching on to that source of power ... but maybe, also, he does get something, still, from saving the Painter of the Sky.

Like, maybe part of saving the ghosts is manifesting the experience of their lives.

Or maybe just part of saving the Painter of the Sky is spending a storyline in flashbacks to Celestia.

And when Edony surfaces that, when Edony awakens the world that the Painter sees, that’s a great way for Eclipse to break its bindings?

That seems a cleverer plan than lurking around after each mission gulping up scraps in an evil fashion forcing the player to play dumb lest the story come unraveled. He’s being good! Everything he’s doing is being good! (Just about, anyway.)

Until that one wicked use of leverage, at the very end ...

Let’s do another draft of the story plots!

Misplaced Magic (Edony Marguerite #1)

Edony is an impoverished orphan magical detective living in Old Molder. She makes her living by taking cases from her mysterious and suspicious sponsor, “E.”

(She is pretty sure she is not “E.” Her neighbors are more skeptical.)

Today E.’s sent her a message asking her to investigate how a stolen artifact wound up in the hands of ...

...

Hm.

A specific PC? That’s tenuous. The class? A club?

... I envision it as ending up in Chuubo or Seizhi’s hands, so I’ll go with Chuubo here, and let the players adjust that if neither Chuubo or anyone in his orbit is in a particular game.

Misplaced Magic (Edony Marguerite #1, Continued)

... one “Chuubo,” NLN.

She rapidly works out that it was a mistaken address—that when thieves broke into the house of the owner and used the postal service to extract the artifact, they wrote the address wrong and sent it to Chuubo instead of an abandoned home where they were going to pick it up.

... or is that a feint, and Chuubo secretly a criminal mastermind?

She has opportunities to hang out with the suspicious group of individuals in Chuubo’s circle, either because they welcome her in, or because she sticks her nose into their lives, or simply because she needs to stay close to keep tabs on the situation.

Eventually, as predicted, the thieves make their move, try to take the artifact back or to kidnap Chuubo and trade him to Edony for it. This does not go well for them.

As for the proper owner, they’re already dead. They were dead before she even got the case.

So Edony can’t just return it. Instead, she follows E.’s advice on how to dispose of the artifact, because it disturbs her, because it reads to her as fundamentally “wrong.” She shatters it, lest its powers be used for evil ... and returns home, glad to wash her hands of these unprofessional kids and their weird, powerful, and unprofessional lives.

Sadly, though, her next assignment requires that she register for their School.

Mislaid Spirits (Edony Marguerite #2)

Edony comes to School armed with a list of ghosts she has to help—ghosts that she feels a strange connection to. First on her list is the Bull, who died somehow in Lee Scathing’s territory:

She must find the story of his death and his corpse itself, to lay him properly to rest.

Wait, Time Out: Why Does She Feel a Mysterious Connection to Them?

Or, how are they connected to her, anyway?

... perhaps the ghosts too are elements that splintered off of Jade?

Or, at least, were connected to her in some way—were, perhaps, her Powers, at one time?

And even in death, they are tempted to reach for her; but Eclipse would rather they not succeed?

Mislaid Spirits (Edony Marguerite #2, Cont.)

In the first part of this story, she’s overwhelmed by the sheer ... School-ness of it all. Even that’s too much, and dealing with the ghost part on top of that? Ridiculous.

But eventually she can move forward. Eventually she realizes she’s got it under control. She can unearth the tragic tale of how the Bull died, sacrificed in one of Lee Scathing’s early attempts to make hall monitors, and find the hidden section of Lee Scathing’s waste reclamation and detention facility (that was walled off after the accident), and reclaim his corpse.

... a corpse marked with an eerie and familiar stigmata of the sun.

Mispainted Sky (Edony Marguerite #3)

Edony Marguerite goes about her life, helping ghosts. She saves the Sparrow, who was lost in a race between School’s track team and St. Vita’s and never recovered—finding the cliff-dwelling monster shrouded in unmemorability that abducted them mid-race. She saves the Lost Child and a whole lost living class from a wicked teacher. But the Painter of the Sky ...

That’s an overwhelming task.

It becomes clear as she tries to connect to them, as she tries to use her powers to call forth their story, that their death is tied to something important—that they didn’t die in some casual circumstances, but amidst a great disaster, and far away. The painter’s power helps her paint that on the world, call that era forth ... but doing that is scary.

She must venture into the invasion of Celestia, in the time of Jade Irinka’s death, and be with the painter as their world literally falls apart.

That’s all they needed, though, in the end, was someone to witness:

To see them, in that time, in a time when their paintings were no longer available to be seen.

She isn’t satisfied with that, and goes on past the painter’s official point of death to try to help as she can, although it’s not clear how real anything she does there is; and only when painted-Jade tells her to knock it off and sends her home with a bundle of dawn’s light that would otherwise have been lost to the world does she give the battle up.

Misburied Shadows (Edony Marguerite #4)

Edony has finished her ghost list. She returns to working regular cases—possibly even expressing that she’s fallen into a rut.

... until an old investigation process bears fruit, someone she’d asked to look into something gets back to her (or some ghost does), and she learns the truth of E.:

That he is a dangerous monster, whispered of among the ghosts; that he has eaten the hunters that the Bleak Academy sent after the ghosts she helped; that he is, in his body, the death of the sun.

And he is almost free.

Her actions with the painter of the sky, bringing the death of the sun to such vivid life within the world ... have almost freed him.

She doesn’t know what to do about it. She ... doesn’t have a process for dealing with this. She tries to track down his resources, track down what she needs to do about him, but everything comes up traps or dead ends.

He diverts her by sending another case request—an apparently legitimate one—talking about a restless wraith raised in the Walking Fields, dating back to ancient times. She learns how the Fifth Hour ended, and the tragic story of how Jade and Dulcinea fell out thereafter. She tries to bring the echoes of that version of Jade and Dulcinea peace, because they need her, and that’s more important than chasing down an “enemy”—

But by that time, Eclipse has gathered enough power to start his rise.

She descends below Horizon to confront him—a piece of the (old) sun confronting the death of the sun ...

Pause

What does this involve?

The last time I had confrontations with Eclipse, in the Glass-Maker’s Dragon, they were flashback heavy. I don’t think that works here, because Edony’s already doing that with other stuff.

So possibly the descent to confront him involves exploration and finding ways past powerful lieutenants. Except, of course, powerful lieutenants are not necessarily a very long-term obstacle in Chuubo’s. So possibly it’s finding ways past powerful conceptual elements—powerful elements of despair?

Maybe, like ...

The fire, the exhaustion, the betrayal and forgottenness of the ghosts, and the knowledge of the impossibility of winning from the end of the Fifth Hour?

(Four things is usually good.)

In the end, she meets the death of the sun, and he reveals that he knows she is part of the sun ...

(Possibly this should have come out slightly earlier in the storyline?)

He affirms that he is the death of the sun, and reveals that he knows she is a part of the sun, and asserts his victory:

Only, she’s the wrong sun.

He’s the death of Jade, and she’s not that kind of hope.

He’s the end to “I can conquer death,” but that’s not what she is. That’s Jade. Edony is “I won’t have to be perfect, I just need to keep trying.”

So she wins.

Afterwards, she comes back, changed. She tries to come to terms with that, and ultimately tests out what she can do.

A miracle occurs.

An Ill-Born Flame (Edony Marguerite #5)

Edony settles in to her new identity for a while. We get to see what that’s like.

... until she has a vision of something that is to come; an expedition into the underworld of Horizon, an exploratory mission, that tries to bring back some of the same subtle flame that obstructed her passage into Town.

It doesn’t end well.

Aside

An interesting implication is that she came to Town from below.

Fitting, for a Horizon game. Plausible, given that her origins are poorly buried past business, like a lot of what’s under Horizon.

Though one could argue strongly that she really should have come in to Town through the Walking Fields?

... I guess fire can be in multiple places, it’s a competent rapid oxidization process.

An Ill-Born Flame (Edony Marguerite #5, Cont.)

Knowing that disaster is on the way, Edony the magical detective investigates what happens in it, and what’s going to happen in it, until she manages to twist future events enough that there will be hope—that she no longer sees it ending in obligatory doom.

At that point, she goes with them.

She helps to fend off despair—the individualized despairs of her peers, the endless exhaustion of the impossibility of the journey—and at the end of that journey she confronts, and takes, a portion of the flame.

Once again, she’s more than she ever was; once again, the epilogue concludes in miracle.

Is That Her Story, Then?

... hm.

Not quite, I think. It’s most of the way there, but it isn’t singing.

I think I need to do her quests to pull out that extra bit of inspiration to take me the rest of the way, so that’ll probably be my next task, probably towards the end of the month; either that, or I’ll do one more character first so I can do a bunch of quests all at once.

Regardless, though, this is pretty close; it’s basically what her stories are going to be.

Your thoughts?

#cmwge #patreon-supported posts #the horizon campaign #the magical detective

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orenonahaichigoda · 5 years

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Ichigo (and Chad, and Uryu) and Skinship (Platonic Physical Affection)

For what it's worth, it'd be easy to picture Ichigo as longing for physical affection like hugs. Any kind of skinship, really. First canon, and then what him being trans adds:

Canon: When he was young, he was quite a crier, and his mother, a living sunray, would always comfort him. She's almost always seen at least holding his hand. It's not hard to imagine she was a hugger. Sure, Ichigo is seen hugging Yuzu a couple of times, but he's the one there for her. It would take care of the completely neurophysical aspects of touch starvation, he wouldn't get as bad as I've seen some people put forth that some of the non-Nel Arrancar might be (seen one or two fics about Grimmjow, in particular, and it wasn't hard to imagine).

Issin cries crocodile tears as a gag, but we never see him exactly look Ichigo in the eye and tell him earnestly... anything, except in S1 at Masaki's grave. So he might tell his son his *mother* loved him *once a year.* It's clear he loves his kids, and that they don't doubt that (like they do his sanity), but again, he's not emotionally open in any honest way. Just manic gags.

Chad and Uryu are probably the people he would be most likely to feel he could fall back on. If you want to envision that literally, that could work, too. There's an episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show spinoff Rhoda that...most of you are too young to know, but the main character and her husband are made to do a trust excersise where this is literal, and slapstick ensues. And this fits somehow.

But anyway, yeah, in a way, Kubo told a story that was coincidentally very American Gen X-esque. The kids, none of them really has a parent *there for them,* for that age group in Japan (20 year generations are not universal, so there's a couple in those years, but I'm Post Dankai Juniors,and so is Kubo), latchkeyism wasn't really a thing. But anyway, these kids, Kisuke and Yoruichi are really their best adults from the beginning. Kisuke will make sure they go forth as prepared as possible, and Yoruichi tries to go along to watch them. Others come in and out. Hachi almost takes on Orihime,But this is quickly ditched/forgotten by the narrative. The Vizards mostly only support Ichigo for a time. In the epilogue, wecan assume that Hiyori remained supportive of Ichigo when the rest went to Soul Society (leaving her after 100+ years herself...), as Kazui knows her by name and they seem to have a banter routine. But the epilogue was two chapters. For that matter, we don't see what became of Kisuke's family or Nel and Grimmjow at all.

Chad... had his band mates in the beginning, but they get quickly forgotten. We have no idea who he has. Before he can work, there must be some financial support, but it could be as clearly distant as Orihime's. Uryu... Ryuken is an emotional wall, clearly loves his son, but only knows how to show it practically and financially. He is as warm and cosy as those new all-steel-and-black kitchen designs. Even when his son is unconscious and can't hear him.

But focusing on Ichigo, because that's my muse, he's the best off of the gang, but his role is mostly*giving* support. Giving support is kinda his happy place, sure, but he's still a kid, and also, everyone needs to *get* support, too. You can't invite a homeless person to a hot meal if you don't have any food yourself.

My stuff:

So, men don't tend to receive much physical affection. If you're cis, you may compartamentalise it as physical affection being hugs for small children, claps on the shoulder from friends, and sex as a adult.

When you're trans, and you transition, you suddenly notice hugs are harder to come by. One of the great things about always having had mixed friend groups is female friends will hug you (when they know you're really a friend and not a creepy grabber) Women are freer with skinship, period, because men are stigmatised against it by machoism/sexism against women (it makes you "girly," which is posited as worse than death. It affects men, but it's from anti-woman bigotry) so men with male friends are always a distance apart and more emotionally reserved. And you'll notice you're expected to be that.

If we're in my verse where Ichigo and Chad have a daughter,well, *they had a baby together, obviously touching is not off-limits* even if they're no longer an item, per se.

And Ichigo had two things happen during transition that I didn't: death of the emotionally open parent, and leaving childhood. I had both of those happen as well, not just one, but decades before transition. So it was very clear once I started passing where the sudden distance was coming from. And easy to place--remember, always mixed-gender circles. So he might not automatically be able to assign anything a cause. And also, I can't exactly be sure of the amount of skinship-type stuff in older-teen/adult female relationship in Japan, even if I can say the emotionally open part remains the same on both sides of the pond. I came to the US as a teen.

I still feel like he might notice the sudden drop in open affection from others in general, that are not young children that rely on him some way or another (including his sisters, Yuzu in particular, canon included. Karin has accused her of hero worship...)

Either way, it would have tanked when Masaki died. I just kind of added another reason for it to. And since he would have had it, from her, at least in canon, in my stuff, in spades before that whole time, and there would be a loss he would definitely feel. Again, less so if we're further from canon for him and Chad both, though, because they've broken past the no-touching with each other.

I wasn't really intending to *go anywhere* with this, per se. I'm just stuck at home again because of what is probably 退行性関節症 and live alone, and don't take work home, I opened Tumbler, and this is where my thoughts went.

One cool thing to think about is I'm sure the majority of modern fiction really wouldn't change whether a character was cis or trans. I'll tackle the epilogue in a second, but for example, in my project, Kenpachi is trans. He's AFAB... Nothing changes except it's as far from that transphobic thing on this site a few years ago "trans men are all soft little flowers" as you can get. Most of the characters, nothing would change. Even the younger kids, to go all out here, the girls could be on puberty blockers, and several years of HRT in the epilogue. I'm not writing that anywhere, but I'm trying to make a point. Nothing changes.

In the epilogue, or for any former or timeline couple with kids, obviously both parents would have to be trans, as these are all M/F couples. The only case against Orihime being flippable to trans is how the heck would she be getting her hormones. She'd have to, as I have Ichigo, been on them for some time pre-series. And puberty blockers beforehand. Sora could've done that much, but voices only naturally drop, so intense training or puberty blockers to estrogen, which, after Sora's sudden death, would be hard for her to procure.

It'd be just as easy to flip Uryu the same as I did with Ichigo. Doctor dad.

Chad, honestly, he is just such a blank slate in many ways. Anything with him needs to flesh him out more. You can really go banananas. Obviously, I write him cis, but I still had to add more for him than for any of the teen combatants. He's as unfleshed as Chizuru, who I also went banananans with.

But, I mean, honestly, though, other than the fact it would be very hard for some characters to obtain any treatment they needed, it kinda doesn't change anything...

This is the beauty of fandom overall. Fans all putting our own ideas and works out there.

#musings #more pontificating on ichigo's character #character analysis #masculinity and skinship #trans headcanon #lgbt fandom #bleach rp #kurosaki ichigo

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