#MY CROPS HAVE BEEN WATERED FOR A DECADE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lilacargent · 5 months

Text

Soooo first post ever and it is because i have gone down the #humansarespaceorcs rabbit hole, and my train of thought was:

Yes humans are weird and do strange things to survive. But more specifically we do weird things to our surroundings to survive, many different things.

What if, it has been a decade or two since the humans joined what ever coalition or council of aliens that work together and as a species they are mostly well known for their ability to grow crops under the worst circumstances (soil, climate anything) ofcourse the other deathworld apex predator human traits make the rounds but over time they seem to assume we cannot surprise them anymore.

Everyone knows that if a planet is ‘owned’ by a certain species they have to pay tax to the coalition, so planets that aren’t particularly useful are undesirable.

This particular planet p-jx-5£2 has been moved around endlessly, given with trade deals to get rid of it. P-jx-5£2 is 97% water, with a very high salt level so inhabitable for all developed aliens. Even though the atmosphere is a nice oxygen base and the gravitational pull allright most for the coalition members the fast spinning moon and the planets quick pace around its sun make the water move and tides switch every 2.5 hours keeping no land dry outside of low tide.

~~~~~~~~

The tall Avian alian il’trexz was elated this day was going to be great, a trade deal with the hardy humans and getting rid of a useless money drain, they didn’t have a clue what they were signing up for!

Turning towards the much smaller bipedal species standing in front of the window looking down on the blue planet that just came into their possession the strange creature mumbled something to them selves, frowning Il’trezx asks ‘im sorry what did you say, you spoke but the translator didn’t pick it up?’ The human (Steve) turned to him away from the window ‘my apologies, i was talking to myself, i said that we had to send the dutch.’ Il’trezx looked befuddled ‘the dutch? Is that some kind of animal?’

Steve threw his head back and made a series of sounds that ruffled the Avians feathers and had he not known it was a laugh it would have made him run for the hills ‘HA I’m going to tell Andreas you said that, no the Dutch is what call people from a country on earth that specialise in these kinds of climates, they’ve been begging for a challenge since they stopped the flooding on the umavi home world.’ With feathers puffed up Il’trezx wonders ‘and they are going to do what? This is an impossible planet’ immediately clasping his beak he looks a the human to see if he seemed angry at being swindled, but to his surprise Steve just looks at him ‘hm so you believe we can’t use this planet. Allright let’s make a bet.’ Interested Il’trezx leans in closer ‘what kind of bet?’ A predatory grin spreads on the bipedal aliens face ‘if we make less of this planet than the amount of tax we have to pay over it we will cover all trade costs for this quarter, insurance, travel all of it.’ Eagerly Il’trezx starts nodding ‘but’ Steve keeps going ‘if we do make more of this planet you will do the same.’

The bet is put onto paper and the higher ups of both parties also agree. In 5 years the Avians would be back and they would balance the costs to the benefits. When they departed Il’trezx says too Steve ‘you must have a lot of faith in these “dutch” ‘ the man grins teeth bared ‘ofcourse, after all they conquered water before’

The five years pass and stories have been going around of a new energy supplier from the humans, producing enough energy to run 78% of their ships and several facilities. Nobody seems to know where it is coming from but no new pollution is measured in any of these facilities. None of this bothers the Avians, after all humans come up with new things all the time.

The five years are up and Il’trezx is invited to the planet with a group of advisors and other officials, the planet which apparently they have renamed to ‘posy’ which is supposed to be short for some kind of sea god from their olden days.

On arrival the amount of coming and going baffles them massive groups of ships docking or docked and all somehow attached to wires that run into machines.

The planets change alone was awe inspiring, two cities on opposite sides of the planet and what seems like millions of weird blades attached to high poles every where. Strange wheels and long walls between towers rising from the rapidly moving waters.

This… this was their new energy source. They somehow made a battery of this uninhabitable planet and then built a home.

On the meeting place Steve is waiting with a man slightly taller than him. Spreading his arms the smaller human says ‘welcome to Poseidon, this is Andreas our main mechanic here. He has been here with planning since orbit 1.’

After the introductions were done Andreas led the group through what they called the Northern city and showed on his device the steps it took to get a foothold and how they proceeded from there, mentioning that many of these steps his home country had used thousands of year ago to gain land from sea, and energy from the movement of water and air. They specialised in this form of terra forming and it showed.

The Avians were astounded, not having realised that there was more than one kind of way the Humans had battled their environment even beating back the waters of their world.

Without a doubt the humans had won the bet and had another legend added to their name. More and more humans showed that with the right motivation they could settle right about anywhere.

********

So yea… my stupid little idea. Hopefully someone will enjoy it. I just liked the idea of specific cultures and stuff. specialising in certain things.

Edit: im amazed people seem to like it! If people have ideas or other cultures they think would baffle aliens, im certainly willing to try and write something

#humans are space orcs #humans in space #humans are space oddities

843 notes · View notes

moondirti · 1 year

Note

I love your writing ❤️ Can I ask, what do you think each of the 141 boys top kinks are?

thanks love! sorry this took so long, i was givin it some thought

characters included: simon 'ghost' riley, captain john price, john 'soap' mactavish, kyle 'gaz' garrick warnings: dacryphilia (mentioned sadism), gagging (spit and alluded breathplay), breeding (unprotected p-in-v and creampies), anal (lube/preparation, unprotected p-in-a)

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY: DACRYPHILIA

i've mentioned this before but i whole-heartedly believe that simon loves seeing you cry. he's not a good man, nor does he pretend to be – he's a sadist in many ways, and that extends to the bedroom, where, more than anything, he strives to find you writhing in half pain, half pleasure.

there are darker parts of him he tries to keep at bay; that instinct to push you to your limits - seeing just how far you can contort before you threaten to break, testing the give of your flesh and what it takes to pierce it. yet, no matter how much you beg for it - no matter what you say or do - he would never expose that part of himself to you. he’d keep it locked up, tucked between a rib and that doughy part of him that still rings with vexing guilt.

but drawing glossy tears to your lovely little eyes? fucking ragged moans and high-pitched wails out of you? it’s the perfect medium, a compromise he seeks almost every lay. simon would leave bruises, would push so far into you your belly bulges. he stretches you out, tender skin pulling with a fiery sting, and pinches your clit as you try to adjust. he leaves marks he knows will heal, but ones that ache enough to get you sniffing into the crook of his neck.

and it’s when you’re all flushed out, lips swollen and salted water staining your cheeks, that he cums the hardest. it’s when you’re still hiccuping in the aftermath, tender, raw, does he opt to stay the night. just this once, just for the girl whose tears he both hates and adores.

JOHN 'SOAP' MACTAVISH: GAGGING

it is without a doubt in my mind that i say: johnny has a major oral fixation. when people ask whether he’s an ass, tits or thighs guy, he has to turn them around to very intently point to that bloody fucking mouth of yours. it was the first thing that captured his eye – those lips smeared in lip gloss – and ever since then, he hasn’t been able to get a grip.

because – listen – he’s messy. sex with him involves every fluid imaginable, puddled in curves and bends you always miss when washing up. the worst of them is spit; he’s a sucker for you all cock-dumb and drooly, stuffed chock-full in every single hole. when he’s ramming you from behind, he’ll always hug an arm around to reach your face, pushing three thick fingers onto your tongue until you’re gagging like crazy. he nudges your tonsils, allows you the space to breathe but not enough to swallow back your piling saliva. johnny doesn’t pull back until he feels it running down his wrist, until he’s coated in you absolutely everywhere.

and it’s not just his fingers. he shoves just about anything down your throat. his cock, buried to the hilt so your nose smooshes into the crop of curly hair on his pelvis; your toys, right after making you play with yourself; hell, there was the one time he’d been too impatient to get back home and pulled you into a public restroom. he’d fucking crammed your panties into your mouth to prevent you from making noise.

he just likes seeing you struggle to fit them, issall

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE: BREEDING

at twenty-something, he’d made a list of things he wanted to accomplish in his lifetime and, while his career goals were rapidly realised, the domestic column went largely untouched for almost a decade. he thought he was past that point of adolescent naivete – having long since learnt to be okay with the way things are – but price isn’t getting any younger. when he meets you, that yearning for a family – a pregnant wife, barefoot and waiting for him, touched with a halo type of radiance – comes back twice as strong.

he knows he can’t intentionally fuck a baby into you, not yet – he’s still in a position where he’s away from home more often than not. that being said, the captain certainly plays fast and loose with the rules. no condoms? mm, no problem, sweetheart. i’ll fetch you a plan b tomorrow, before pumping you full of cum. he thinks he’s discreet when he manhandles you into those positions, the ones where your bottom half is propped up, where your legs are pushed to your chest and his cock spears into unfathomable depths. he just wants you to feel every of him, promise.

but lord, does he lose it when he feels his head kiss the wall of your womb. It’s the sight of you, spread open and overflowing, globs of pearlescent spend oozing from a wrecked hole. it’s you smearing it into your folds with two quivering fingers and tugging him closer. price thinks he’s ready to risk it all – every ticked box, his career, his livelihood – to get to see you like that every morning, blushing with an early dawn, biting down on his shoulder to keep the kids from waking up.

for now, though, he’ll settle for fingering his cum back into you, knowing that it won’t amount to anything.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK: ANAL

often pegged as the most ‘well-behaved’ member of the 141, gaz just tends to keep things quiet. he hides his snickers with a cough, his sarcastic remarks are whispered to himself (unlike soap – who almost yaps about everything to the lieutenant). as such, his top kink happens to be more of a dirty little secret than anything. it takes him a while to admit it to you, but the thought of stretching your other hole drives him mad; his eyes always draw to the ring of muscle whenever you’re bent in front of him.

he’s kind of ashamed, really. that is, until one slow afternoon where the two of you indulge in your routine of cuddles and shitty anime dubs. he’s got you nestled on his lap, curled under an old quilt that smells like sugar scrub and his aftershave. and maybe it’s the way your head tucks under his chin, or maybe it’s your legs intertwined with one another, but before he knows it, he’s grinding up into your ass and you’re reciprocating, panting as his hardening bulge cleaves between it.

you know, i’ve always wanted to try something… next thing you know, you’re in your bedroom, pillow buttressing your hips as he slowly preps you. he’s got one hand spreading your cheeks, the other coated in lube, scissoring the unbelievably tight clutch of your ass. he’s leaking onto his lap, practically twitching, but he doesn’t want to rush. he takes his time unravelling you, giving you all the orgasms you need to let go of your tensions. only then does he finally, finally, split you open.

and it’s beyond anything he’s ever imagined; your muscles are more controlled, stronger. you squeeze him with herculean strength, milking him for all he’s worth. gaz buries his face into your hair to muffle the satisfied groans that stream from him, taking you deeper, deeper, so that when he cums, you can feel it in your guts.

needless to say, anal becomes a regularity after that.

1K notes · View notes

chernabogs · 5 days

Note

ames you are COOKING (or should i say, planting???lol) SO HARD with the flower language prompts, 😭💖💞💖💞✨✨am really out here sobbing and crying over them like im watering these flowers with my Tears lol

so here i am requesting for these prompts: rosemary, begonia, pink camellia, dark crimson rose, purple hyacinth, blue salvia, zinnia

i picked these based on your initial tag about Maleficia and zinnia flower,,,, I SEE THE VISION so im requesting it now lol but also picked on prompts that reminded of Meleanor and Malleus,,, 😭i think therapy bills should be forwarded to Draconias instead, istg all they ever do is be in grief and loss /lh😭

if its too many, please feel free to choose whichever prompt you like and take your time in writing !! ☺️💞🌹✨✨

Ohhh I did my best here I promise LMAOOO. I tied in some easter eggs with other works i've done (namely Monody, Stasis, and Labours Gained). I hope you enjoy my absolute monstrous dump about Maleficia, whom I will die on a hill for tyvm

EMPTY CHAIRS

Inc: Maleficia, Meleanor, Levan, Lilia, Malleus (whole gang wow) WC: 4.2k :))) Warnings: Just some death, but I swear it ends on a happy note this time. Flowers: Begonia (How ghosts help the living live a little), Pink Camellia (Where I notice your absence the most), Dark Crimson Rose (The grave I visit everyday), Purple Hyacinth (The worst pain of my whole life and how it healed… multiple times) , Zinnia (The seats at the table and how they eventually became empty… multiple times) Summary: Moments where Maleficia was convinced her family was cursed, and a few times she truly wished this to not be the case.

A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.

Their family may be cursed.

For many decades now Maleficia had toyed with the possibility of such a matter in her mind. It had first passed briefly with the death of her father—the second monarch to take over after the initial uprising—and the subsequent death of her mother a few weeks later. No one was surprised when she went. Her grief for the loss of her love had been so profound that it had flooded Briar Nation, drowning both cattle and crops in her dismay. Maleficia had postponed her own coronation as the cleanup occurred. It felt ill-boding to be crowned while bodies were floating down the mountain pass.

The thought had returned once more when her husband vanished at sea, leaving her with a newborn hatchling on her own. Her love had been a strong headed man with adventure burning in his blood—it had been what drew her to him to begin with. That, and he was the only ex-sailor she knew who was bold enough to try and hold her for ransom. Wiping the deck with him had captured his heart—and the fact that he had been a dragon settled the Senate to a degree. But the sea is a fickle mistress, and although her love had skill and he had drive, even the most knowledgeable of sailors can never predict its next move.

She had not flooded Briar Nation like her mother had, and she had held herself together before her people, although the empty space in her bed and at the dinner table deepened the wound nightly. It was in the quiet moments alone when it was just her and Meleanor that she felt his absence the strongest.

In the beginning she loathed him for leaving her. Whenever she cradled their daughter as the hatchling shrieked and protested, blowing flame, and biting for flesh, she loathed him. Whenever she dealt with the Senate or another disaster befalling the Nation, she loathed him.

But when Meleanor learned to fly, learned to run, and shifted into her two-legged form for the first time, the hatred began to fade. Because although he had vanished into the mists on a voyage destined to fail, he had left her with the greatest treasure she could ever have—and for that alone she could hold no ill will.

Perhaps this sentimentality is why when Meleanor dragged a thin, sickly-looking bat into the halls of Black Scale, Maleficia heard her out.

“Please let him stay!” The princess had asked, green eyes wide as she grasped her mother’s skirts. “Please, mother!”

The other child had shrunk behind Meleanor, but shadows could not hide the burning defiance in the boy's eyes—a gaze of confrontation, and one that nothing truly innocent should hold. This is why she lacked the heart to say no. She quietly hoped that Lilia, as she would name him, would be the one to slay whatever reaper was following them—that the burning anger she had seen would ignite a fire that would cleanse the family of its suffocating misery.

With the presence of Meleanor, Lilia, and eventually Levan, the silent table Maleficia had sat at for so long soon became a place of raucous conversation again. Although she found herself scolding the three children more than once (especially Levan for his non-subtle attempts at discarding food), the lingering warmth she would feel as she gazed at the trio made her confident that this family curse was on the bend.

Naturally, it didn’t last.

The first time she heard of the Silver Owls, Meleanor was 200 years old and more focused on warding off suitors than an unmarked ship. Maleficia had allowed her daughter to indulge by instead consulting with an advisor alone in the dark of her office. The concern lingering in the advisor's words would grow to haunt her.

“Perhaps it is temporary?” She posited, trying her best to remain optimistic on the matter. Plenty of people came and went from Cape Sunrise. A single unmarked ship with a few scraggly sailor’s was not something she felt the need to stress over. The advisor seemed doubtful on the matter.

“But they have tools. Items designed to dig up our soil,” they had insisted, but Maleficia dismissed the concerns with a wave and a blase response.

“Let them try. They will not be able to break the first layer of our land.”

___________________________________

The first one to leave the table had been Levan. There were many soldiers and nobles who vanished before he did but, selfishly, he was the first one that Maleficia really felt the absence of. Levan had grown up from a non-confrontational child to her son-in-law, a general of the princess and a father to the future heir. His compassion had not faded despite the years of war that now tore the Nation apart. Maleficia knew this by the way she came across him one night, cradling his egg so gently while murmuring against its shell.

When he had noticed her, he had not corrected himself; if anything, he held the egg even closer. They had not exchanged too many words that night, but she sat next to him on the bench in the gardens, the silence speaking volume of her support to his decisions.

“You will return.” It was not a question—it was a demand. Her voice held the authority of a queen who had seen many, many losses in her long life. Levan had remained silent for a moment longer as his lips brushed against the shell of her grandson's egg.

“Always,” was the promise he made, and the last words Maleficia heard from him. When they didn’t receive notice for several days after he left, the conclusion was drawn that he was either dead, or the closest one could be to it. Meleanor held herself well in lieu of this information, as had Maleficia.

But the empty seat felt an ill omen.

___________________________________

The next one to leave the table had been Meleanor. When she was younger, she used to rest her head on Maleficia’s lap as her mother had fixed her hair. She would ramble on about her day and what she got up to with the two boys in the nonsensical fashion that many children do. Maleficia had listened with amusement, although her mind had always been half-focused on what she needed to do for her meetings the next day.

The regret of not giving Meleanor her full, undivided attention sunk in deep when she felt her daughter’s magic cut off. The bond in their family was intrinsically woven to allow them to get a sense of whether the other members were still alive. If asked, Maleficia might say it’s something of a dragon trait. Most of the time it served to be a blessing to allow her to know her family is alive and well.

When it cut off mid-emergency meeting, the abruptness had been so profound that she nearly collapsed then and there. Her breath had hitched, her words stuttering to a stop as she stared wide-eyed at the Senate members surrounding her. At first, she hoped it was simply a fluke—a disruption in the magic—until she didn’t feel it return and the horrible, tar-like panic of a mother when her child goes missing welled up in her heart. She was tearing out of the room before any of the Senate members even had a chance to speak, screaming for her guards and her soldiers to tell her what was going on at Wild Rose.

Her daughter, who spent her childhood running through the forests and laughing in the face of suitors. Her daughter, whose hair she would braid and then re-braid again when the girl somehow got burs in it. Her daughter, who was set to become a mother herself and experience all the precious moments Maleficia had.

Her daughter, whose body wasn’t even recovered at the end of it all.

___________________________________

The final one to leave the table was Lilia. In wake of the princesses passing, Malleus’ egg was put in the cradle tower, and Maleficia was designated to spirit him into hatching. She felt the faint connection of their magic from within the thick shell that guarded his body. His warmth, the subtle movements he made; they were all indicators that he was still alive and well despite his tumultuous arrival.

But Maleficia didn’t know if he would oblige. Hatchlings often needed the love of both parents to be shepherded forward—and Maleficia, now over eight hundred years old, already felt the strain of her magic from the conflicts going on in her Nation. There was no doubt that she held love for her grandson—but a lingering fear that her love wouldn’t be enough burned in her mind. This is what made her turn to Lilia, to send him on his quest around the world to try and find an additional means to bring the young prince forward.

For the first few decades, it worked well. Maleficia held the egg on a nightly basis and poured as much of her love and magic into it as she could. The egg consumed it all in a greedy fashion, demanding more every time she returned to the tower. One would think that Malleus was starving within by the way he pulled, and tore, and ripped at her powers to fuel his own development.

Then he ceased feeding. She recalls the first night it happened; everything had been going well, until the connection was suddenly severed, and the green glow within the egg dulled back into a faint tint of color. Maleficia had initially dismissed it as a one-off event. Until it happened again, and again, and again.

There’s a curious sense of panic that fills someone when they do everything they can to no avail. The panic she felt came in the form of a privatized breakdown in the tower. For many decades now Maleficia had toyed with the possibility of a curse in her mind. Now, she was beginning to consider that it was not her family who was cursed, but rather just herself.

First it came for her father, and her mother shortly after. Then, when it grew hungry again, it ate through her husband and that of her daughters. Then it came for Meleanor herself, and now whatever reaper followed them was looming over her shoulder as she held Malleus’ egg and begged him to take something.

Pleas fell from the lips of a monarch as she rocked the egg, stroked its shell so softly, whispering to just eat a little more, just take a little more. But the egg had remained as cold and aloof as it had for several nights now. Her desperation mounted in an order to Baul to summon Lilia back—to slay whatever reaper was following them before it pried the last of her bloodline from her hands.

Her hopes of his role as the vanquisher of death came in an explosive hatching that she was informed of after it occurred. When she requested for Lilia to be brought to Black Scale to be reinstated in his role in his efforts, the Senate had then informed her that Lilia Vanrouge would never step foot in the capital again.

And so, in a span of mere moments, the final seat was emptied—and Maleficia found herself alone once more.

___________________________________

Grandchildren are the best reminders of the beauty and innocence of childhood.

When Malleus was first brought to her after he hatched, she didn’t want to touch him. The purple hue of his stomach and the way his green gaze darted around, drinking in the new world he emerged to, reminded her so much of Meleanor that she wanted to laugh at the cruel irony. The hurt that smouldered in her heart ignited back into a flame that found her turning a cold shoulder to the hatchling.

“Go clean him. He has amniotic fluid all over.” She remembers ordering, voice deceptively calm for the turmoil happening within. The wet nurse that was hired obliged as the hatchling shrieked and protested the frequently changing environment around him. His cries made Maleficia clench her jaw tighter as she stared resolutely at the battle plans drawn before her, her hands gripping the table enough to turn her knuckles white.

A few times she went to him in the beginning. The encounters lasted only as long as Maleficia could tolerate seeing how similar he looked to Meleanor before she would depart and leave him in the care of his wet nurse once more. Guilt fought with anger in her heart about the circumstances that she found herself in and her inability to overcome them. She could feel the ghost of her daughter chastising her in the corner for being so cowardly in her approach.

The breakthrough arrived when Malleus became ill. Grieves—a fever-like condition that affected fae children in particular—resulted in Maleficia sitting with her grandson one night as the exhausted wet nurse was excused for a long overdue break. She held him on her lap in the dark as his small form fought his fever, whispering how the stars that looked down from above were the eyes of the people who loved him, keeping him safe in this world. Her voice had cracked as she spoke, and it was only when a small whine left him did she realize she was hugging him tight to her body.

“I am so sorry,” she had choked out, unsure if the apology was for the hold she had or the neglect she had given so far. “Please forgive me.”

Malleus had twisted in her arms, small wings fluttering before he settled himself down and began to doze. He had already forgotten what upset him to begin with. She wished it would always be that way—but she knew that was nothing but a vague hope.

She loathed Meleanor for leaving. Whenever she cradled Malleus as the hatchling threw his tantrums, blowing flame, and biting for flesh as all children seem to do, she loathed her. Whenever she dealt with another part of the war or signed another treaty alone, she loathed her.

But when Malleus scrambled onto her lap mid-Senate meeting, chased after courtiers, and flew for the first time (admittedly, into a flock of pigeons), Maleficia loved her. Because although like her father she had vanished in an ill-fated decision, she had left a small reminder that she was never truly gone. Maleficia could comfort Malleus, could see the ghost of his mother in his clever little eyes, and for that alone she could hold no ill will.

Meleanor’s death had proved to be far worse than anything else—but her gift of the small dragon in her lap felt like the first steps towards recovery again. So, she had kissed between his horns that night and promised to herself that she would do all that she could to give him a future free of the misery that plagued their family thus far.

___________________________________

In the aftermath, she spent time with him whenever she could. Via dinners, via having him sit in on meetings, via walks in the gardens—whenever she could, she would be there. However, despite her newfound presence changing some things for the better, she remained unable to quell the curiosity that burned in her grandson's mind.

She found him in the mausoleum once. He was standing on the toes of his mother with his small hand touching her stone-carved face. Maleficia had not been to the mausoleum since the boy hatched so many years ago. The raw memories still stirred in her heart and seeing him look up at his mother with such a gaze of innocent adoration did nothing but unsettle her more.

When he noticed her, his face had lit up into a smile as he hopped back down and pointed up to one of the other statues. “This is grandfather?”

Maleficia’s gaze slid to where he was pointing. A strong jaw, a dangerous glint in stone-etched eyes, and a faint smirk painted the picture of the man she had once loved and held so dearly many years ago. Maleficia nodded. Malleus, taking this as encouragement, then ran back to the other statue he had been touching with his small hands.

“And this is mother?”

Again, Maleficia nodded. The painful similarities between Malleus and his mother were more apparent when they were side to side. If Maleficia were to squint, she could mistake Malleus as a younger Meleanor: the same horns, same hair length, even the same streak of mischief that got both into so much trouble.

Malleus had hummed thoughtfully before stepping down again. “Do you miss them?”

A deceptively innocent question. Of course she missed them. All she had left of her family was one grandson and three empty coffins: a husband at sea, a daughter in the hands of humans, and a son-in-law somewhere in the moors. “I do,” she offered back. “I miss them greatly.”

Malleus had asked her why, then. Children like him were filled with innocence and wonder about the world. He had no knowledge of the bodies that were lost, or the tragedies that had predicated his birth. Her reply did nothing but fuel an unease in the boy, for moments after she offered it, he ran back to her and threw his small arms around her waist.

When he hugged her, he clung with a ferocity that was baffling for his size. Her hands rested on his head and stroked his hair soothingly as she had done with Meleanor many times before she guided him away from the tombs and the memory of family he never met.

She should visit them more often now.

___________________________________

She rediscovers that there’s a privilege in watching someone grow. Lilia’s gradual return into their lives helps ease the stress of raising a child again in her older age, which is partially why she turns a blind eye every time Malleus slips out of the palace to visit the man. She’s honoured to observe in a more passive manner the way her grandson changes and grows as a person. She watches him go from spiteful towards humans to more amiable with the arrival of Lilia’s adopted son. As he grows before her eyes, she begins to see less of Meleanor and Levan in his features and more of just Malleus—the quiet, albeit arrogant, boy that was hers.

Time goes by faster as she ages alongside him. One moment he’s clinging to her skirts, and the next he’s off to NRC, and then finally, 178 years have passed like the blink of an eye. She used to bemoan how slow time was—and now she wishes it to ease off a bit.

She’s sitting in the gazebo in the gardens for reprieve, a novel in hand as the screaming of insects choruses a song for her amusement. The aroma of flowers surrounds her and for a moment she feels utter peace in the world. The summer is ending and there are no celebrations or events to concern herself with. For the first time in what feels like eons, Maleficia Draconia can breathe.

The sound of someone approaching puts a pause in this.

She lowers her book to peer over at whoever is coming, hoping silently it isn’t an advisor or a courtier seeking out an audience on the sly. Fortunately, the sight of two horns and a scowling face turning the corner nullifies this as she turns back to her book.

“Finally decided to see the sun?” She muses as she hears him stepping onto the gazebo platform. She waits for his response, but only comes to feel surprised when Malleus kneels by where she sits and does something that he hasn’t done in a long time now—he places his head in her lap. At his age, his body is too tall now to really kneel efficiently at her side, but by the gods does the boy try as he hits his head right down. Her hand comes up on instinct to brush strands of his dark hair behind his ear as he looks over the gardens, his shoulders tense with stress.

They’re silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of screaming insects from beyond before Malleus speaks.

“The gardens look atrocious.”

Maleficia raises an eyebrow as she lowers her book to look at where he’s staring. Her hand continues to stroke his head soothingly as she huffs a soft laugh. “Our groundskeepers are going for a more ‘untamed’ look this season.”

“I have counted twenty-six thistles in the minute I have been here.” Malleus shoots back as his hand comes to rest by his face. “It’s late in the season. They might be growing lazy.”

“Nonsense. You know how hard working they are. You spent ample amounts of time with them when you were younger.” She fails to hide the smile teasing on her lips with this comment. Malleus’ temper tantrums had landed him in more than enough problems in his youth. Problems which were often rectified by a gentle lesson of how hard it is to fix up his messes—garden destruction included.

Malleus deigns her with a unprincely snort in response. They fall back into a warm silence as she keeps her hand on his head and returns her attention to her book. She knows that something is on his mind, but she retains her silence both to give him an opportunity to speak, and to enjoy the moment that they’re having. In the privacy of the garden, they can get away with this rare display of familial affection.

She feels him sigh as his eyes flutter close before he speaks up. “Do you ever feel… unease?”

“Unease?” She hums quietly as she turns a page. “On many occasions I have, yes. Unease tends to go hand in hand with some of the things I have dealt with.”

She knows he doesn’t mean in the sense of his royal duties. Malleus is an unusually quiet and introverted boy—but she had noticed him being more so the past week as summer began to inch towards its end. He opens his eyes and sighs again before withdrawing to sit back on his knees.

Maleficia wisely closes her book and sets it down before affixing him with as stern of a look as she can muster without chuckling. “Sighing and moping in the corners does little to aid me in providing advice.”

Malleus’ gaze goes upwards to stare at the ceiling of the gazebo before his expression drops to a pout. “I am feeling reluctant to return to NRC.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Maleficia quietly reaches her hand out to brush his bangs back from his forehead, revealing the scale pattern beneath. Malleus’ eyes flutter shut at the gesture as his pout remains present.

“Three years have passed now, and I have yet to feel included in the school environment. Spending my days with those I already know from here hardly feels like an efficient use of time.” His jaw clenches. “Every effort I make to form any sort of connection to others feels like it’s a pointless endeavour at this rate.”

“Malleus, you must be patient with these things. It takes time for people to warm up to the likes of us. You must simply continue being yourself, and the right people will make the effort to get to know you. I understand it may seem upsetting right now, but you must simply keep trying your best.” A faint smile touches her lips despite the worry gnawing at her heart. She wishes she could do more, but she also understands that these are things he must figure out himself. “You’re going to this school to gain new experiences and see the world beyond our little Valley without the Senate looming over you. Things will work out in the end.”

Malleus’ body seems to relax at her words as he opens his eyes again. His expression eases to his usual neutral look as he nods slightly. “... yes, I suppose you are correct.”

“I often am.” She pinches his cheek lightly, causing the scowl to immediately return to his face as he jerks to avoid her grasp, making her laugh in turn. “Besides, are you not excited to see Lilia, Silver, and Sebek more often again? Well. More often than you do already.”

A pointed look has him averting her gaze as she picks her book up again. His demeanour reminds her of Meleanor, but the similarities no longer ache when she considers them. This was Malleus—her grandson, not his mother, nor his father—and she was eager to see the person he was still destined to become. “Now, you should be packing, should you not? We don’t need the crisis we had last year where we were all hunting down books for you last minute.”

Malleus groans softly before rising to his feet and brushing his pants off. He presses a brief kiss to her forehead, coaxing another smile from her lips before he pulls away.

“Yes, grandmother,” he grumbles with all the moodiness of an embarrassed teenage boy, and Maleficia can’t help but feel happiness at seeing it. Cursed or not, she will continue to enjoy these moments of joy as long as she may have them.

#twst #twst fanfiction #maleficia draconia #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #meleanor draconia #levan draconia #40 min spent on deciding a header alone #'hey amy she hasnt even been in the game yet' and?#listen maleficia may be 0% in-game but she is 100% in my brain thank u #obviously some flexibility with the facts here idk who malleus' grandpa is or what maleficias thoughts were during malleus' upbringing #but AAAAAAA listen... her.#lian i hope i did u proud i even made it a happy ending LMAO

61 notes · View notes

probablyasocialecologist · 8 months

Text

Israel’s purported greenness is not without a material basis. In their trips to the Naqab, von der Leyen and Curtis would have seen, as I did on my pilgrimage to ‘Ibdis, an impressive number of farms and man-made forests, often in stark contrast to their surroundings. From thirty thousand hectares of irrigated land in 1948, the country now waters nearly two hundred thousand hectares. Yet for all the physical and rhetorical space these plantations and parks occupy, their domestic impact is slight: agriculture represents just over one percent of the nation’s GDP and less than 2 percent of its exports, making for a considerable trade deficit in food and agricultural products, according to a recent U.S. Department of Commerce report. This relatively small output has come at an exorbitant environmental cost: in the 1970s, Israel was devoting more than 75 percent of its freshwater to agriculture and in 2000 was still using almost 60 percent. After the three main reservoirs utilized by Israel dropped below critical levels, the Knesset launched an inquiry in 2001 scrutinizing this disproportionate allocation of water and decades-old subsidies to farmers. Though Israel had been plagued by three years of drought, the committee found the origin of the crisis was “not brought about only by climactic changes” but rather was “primarily manmade.” Their writeup cited an earlier report by State Comptroller Miriam Ben-Porath, which blamed “agricultural crops, that not only fail to contribute to the national economy, but cause it significant economic damage, in addition to the damage caused by the over-pumping from the reservoirs.” However, the committee concluded that no significant cuts to the industry should be made, as “agriculture has a Zionist-strategic-political value, which goes beyond its economic contribution.” Keeping the desert in bloom is worth the extravagant cost. Of course, Israel has never had to bear the real brunt of its own expenditure. The committee’s inquiry elided the vast architecture of water theft on which the agriculture industry relies. An estimated 40 percent of Israel’s water supply is derived from the West Bank, where Israel directly controls 85 percent of the water and separates 95 percent of Palestinians from their historic water sources. In addition to using Palestinian water to supply the roughly seven hundred thousand Israeli settlers living illegally in the Occupied West Bank, Israel has been diverting water from the Occupied Territories for decades. Much of it goes to Israel’s agricultural projects in the Naqab, including the territory where ‘Ibdis now lies under roughly 130 acres of irrigated almond trees.

#israel #palestine #settler colonialism #trees #water

64 notes · View notes

anonymouscomrade · 1 year

Text

so with the new version of Dwarf Fortress out on Steam, lots of people are getting into it for the first time. i still don't have this new version (yet) but here's some advice going off my playing the older versions on and off for like the last thirteen years. i'm not going to get into the extreme basics as there are plenty of full guides about that, this is just some personal advice from me:

especially for your first embark, pick a mundane-ass location with plenty of vegetation and trees and normal weather. don't fuck around with deserts or evil or glaciers or savage lands if you don't know what you're doing, you'll get killed by lack of water/the undead/the cold and absolutely nothing growing/giant wild animals, respectively. good-aligned regions are usually okay, if you want at least a little bit of the fantastic in your general vicinity. use the site finder to find a place with trees, vegetation, a river/stream/some other source of running water but NO AQUIFER, and multiple deep and shallow metals. personally my favorite embarks are the borders of forests and mountains, that way you have plenty of shit to mine AND plants to eat/brew, trees to chop down and make stuff with, etc. aquifers CAN be beneficial IF you know what you're doing (essentially they're a source of infinite fresh water if you can harness them, unless you're too close to the ocean and you get a saltwater aquifer, which sucks) but they can just as easily flood your entire fortress if you fuck up in even the slightest. i've been playing this game for over a decade and even i don't know what the fuck to do with aquifers so don't ask me

i personally prefer embarks with shallow soil. soil's super-easy to farm in (you CAN farm on stone but you have to have a way to irrigate it, and that can be a pain in the ass) but IMO most of your dwarves' living and working spaces should be carved out of stone, because soil can't be smoothed and therefore can't be engraved, and dwarves like moving around in smoothed areas and seeing high-quality engravings

your first priority when starting a fort is digging out a shelter for your dwarves. then make spaces for your first few workshops (stoneworking, carpenter, mechanic, and such) so you can get doors installed on your front entrance, and then immediately get your farms up and running. all dwarven crops can be grown indoors and plump helmets are a great choice of staple crop for literally any settlement since they can be eaten, cooked, OR brewed into dwarven wine. outdoor plants have to be grown on outdoor farm plots but they're still great for adding a little variety to your booze stocks and dwarves love that. take note of what kind of trees grow around your fortress, lots of them grow stuff that can be cooked (like walnuts or almonds) or pressed for oil (like olives) or brewed (almost any fruit tree) and you might not want to cut down those apple and pear trees right next to your fort's entrance when you can use them to make cider

NEVER BUILD ANYTHING OUT OF RAW STONE, WOOD, OR METAL. one raw stone can be used to build a single tile of wall or floor, a workshop, counts as one material for a bridge, etc AND is heavy as fuck, slowing down any dwarf carrying it to where it needs to go. FUCK THAT, have your masons cut that shit into BLOCKS. a raw stone will get you anywhere from 1-4 blocks, EACH of which can be used to make anything i mentioned earlier, AND won't weigh down your haulers or builders when they're carrying it. wood and metal can be cut into blocks too, if you need to make walls or floors or what have you out of those. HOWEVER, remember that blocks CAN'T be used in ANY crafting (that includes wooden blocks for burning in forges, making charcoal, etc), so once it's been cut into blocks, it's blocks FOREVER. you're gonna have a shitton of stone around almost any fort so making rock blocks is a good way to train new masons, but i'd only make wood or metal blocks if i needed those specifically

make some mugs early on, your dwarves like drinking out of them more than sticking their heads under the spigot. don't worry about individual bedrooms early on, you can absolutely get away with just sticking a bunch of beds in a big room at the beginning of your fort and digging out rooms later when you're more stable. don't build most workshops out in the open, dig out a room for each one and put in doors you can lock for each one. you'll thank me the first time one of your dwarves goes berserk after failing a strange mood and you can just lock them in there instead of letting them rampage around and beating your other dwarves to death

rock crafts will probably be your main trade good early on. most forts will have stone just laying around, absolutely fucking everywhere, so you might as well put it to use by carving little trinkets out of it and trading it for whatever the caravans bring

break into the caverns ASAP and then IMMEDIATELY seal that shit up. the easiest way to do this is digging an up/down stairway until the game lets you know you've found a cavern, then put a hatch cover on the stairs going immediately down into the cavern and lock it. you're not going to be able to handle hostile cavern creatures early on, but breaking into the caverns releases CAVE MOSS SPORES so ANY underground soil tile can start naturally growing moss or fungus. this is functionally identical to grass, so this means you'll be able to pasture your animals INSIDE, keeping them safe from any wild predators that might come along like wolverines or bears as well as keeping goblin raiding parties from using them for target practice

get a militia going sooner rather than later. a good array of traps and a locked door might keep the first couple bands of goblin invaders away, but larger armies of them are more likely to get through traps and keep you from sending your dwarves outdoors until they get bored and leave. were-beasts are not deterred by either, being capable of avoiding traps AND smashing down doors, and the bad guys only get tougher from there. check your migrants' skills, they always arrive as civilians so the guy with a title of "peasant" who isn't good at ANY labor might actually be pretty skilled with a mace. dwarves with only more esoteric skills like cheesemakers or gem setters are also good candidates for bolstering your military, once they get some training under their belt

IN GENERAL, for military purposes: wood/bone/leather <<<<<<<<<<<<<< silver <<<<<<<<<< copper < bronze < iron < steel < [REDACTED]. some exceptions: silver absolutely sucks for everything EXCEPT blunt weapons, where it suddenly becomes the best material in the game; pure copper is better than bronze for blunt weapons but bronze is better for edged weapons and far better for armor; bronze is only a hair below iron in terms of general military use. your greenest recruits who aren't fit for battle yet might actually benefit from wearing leather armor while they're training so it weighs them down less (at least until they get a few ranks of Armor User), but absolutely all of your actual fighters should be wearing metal helmets. [REDACTED] is the opposite of silver, it's the best metal in the game EXCEPT for blunt weapons which it absolutely sucks ass at. making steel is labor-intensive and time-consuming and requires specific materials and also kind of overkill since only dwarves can make it, but it's by far the best general-purpose military-grade metal you're going to possibly get reasonable quantities of

save metallic crossbow bolts for fights. wooden and bone bolts can't get through most armor but since wild animals aren't known for wearing armor, if you have hunters they will take prey down just fine without metal bolts. likewise, your marksmen should be training with wooden and bone bolts so they're not wasting metal ones on target dummies. yeah this means you'll need to constantly crank out wooden and bone bolts, pretty much

might add to these later if i think of anything else

#dwarf fortress

402 notes · View notes

allthebrazilianpolitics · 4 months

Text

‘We cannot be cowards’: the Brazilian village fighting for the right to have water

Latin America’s water wars: In a struggle that has already cost one life, a community founded by those who fled slavery is fighting to save its access to water and way of life against encroaching farmers

Beneath the family television stands a collection of trophies and a photo showing a smiling Haroldo Betcel sporting a football jersey. Smiling back at him is his widow, 41-year-old Cleia Betcel. The photo was taken a month before her husband’s murder.

Five years ago Betcel was stabbed in the back with a screwdriver in retaliation for defending water resources in Tiningu, a village on the edge of the Amazon rainforest in the Brazilian state of Pará.

Tiningu, whose pastel-coloured houses are home to 300 inhabitants, was originally a quilombo, a settlement founded by black fugitives from slavery. For two decades, this region’s fertile land has been settled by numerous farmers, known as fazendeiros, who grow cereal crops.

The five natural water sources – rivers, streams and creeks – that supply Tiningu increasingly attract farmers seeking larger parcels of land, leading to a fierce struggle over water. Betcel’s widow recalls when tensions began to appear in the village. “When a fazendeiro who settled in Tiningu decided that the water source we used belonged to him, my husband reacted – because water belongs to everyone,” she says.

The fazendeiro – a fish farmer named Silvio Tadeu – claimed ownership of a water-access point previously used by the community, including the health centre, that he said was on his six-hectare (15-acre) property. Villagers say that the farmer also banned children from swimming and bathing in the streams he now considered his own.

This posed a problem for the residents, who had long used water communally. Ademil Martínez Riveira, Haroldo Betcel’s uncle and president of the Tiningu Association between 2014 and 2018, says the community raised funds to build a 6-metre-deep microsystem to supply groundwater to the public water point.

#brazil #brazilian politics #politics #antiracism #environmental justice #quilombos #mod nise da silveira #image description in alt

23 notes · View notes

blackkatmagic · 11 months

Note

Kat, I was rereading "When the Dead Tree Flowers" and I just realized: we've all been talking about Jango's reaction, or Rex and Cody, or the Jedi, but what about Boba!? 😂

Just little tweenage Boba stomping into his dad's living room, slamming a datapad down on the coffee table like "I HAVE [MORE] SIBLINGS AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!? DID YOU- YOU L E F T- ARE YOU A *DEADBEAT*!?" "..... MY ALMOST-STEPDAD IS LOADED!?!?!?!?"

Jango just sitting there like:

Meanwhile Granta is speed running his way to family court with a loaded blaster and a solid decade of Fett/Kaminoan/Sith-fueled rage. He's going to adopt All The Kids he can get his hands on and absolutely destroy the Sith AND Jango's Galactic Credibility in the process.

I'm living. My crops are watered, my skin is clear, this fic is truly everything I didn’t know I needed. Granta for Emperor.

Askasjfds confrontations that almost, almost make me feel very bad for Jango. Amazing.

#kat answers

66 notes · View notes

thecatundertheladder · 24 days

Text

More info for my fsm lives au!

In the first few thousand years of Ninjago's existence, the First Spinjitzu Master was relatively involved with humanity's development. Not in a 'so this is how you make a vaccine' sort of way, but they would help out when crops failed and would travel around Ninjago giving out random bits of advice, all while trying not to interfere with humanity's progress.

(He did have a brief stint as the emperor of Central Ninjago as a young adult, but that was an accident)

Fsm did slip up occasionally with the whole 'let humanity progress naturally' things though, so every now and then a random human would be 'blessed' with the knowledge of how photosynthesis works.

After all, they may of been a child when they created humans but he was also from a much more ancient and advanced realm then Ninjago, so he had much more information about how the world then humans, and even Merlopians, did at the time. I'm talking like they knew clouds were made of water, hygiene was important and prevented sickness, and that stars were made of plasma. Essentially, science was a much more developed field back in the first realm so Fsm knew stuff that a fledgling civilization wouldn't.

Sorry for getting a bit off track there. But basically all this means that some 10-20 thousand years ago (I haven't worked out a timeline yet) the average Ninjagon citizen was a bit more involved in the Fsm's life then modern day citizens.

But over the thousands of years of humanity's existence he has slowly pulled away from them and (once he was sure the humans wouldn't die out due to lack of knowledge) left them largely to their own devices. This means that much of Fsm's life has been reduced to myth and legend in the eyes of Ninjago's citizens (there are exceptions, though, like the monks at the library of Domu). However, he was still a public figure.

Granted most of the legends are essentially fact, however, some key information has been forgotten - such as Nyad, and the Very Important Fact of Fsm not being human.

What this means is when the First Spinjitzu Master suddenly drops of the map a number of decades before Lloyd is born, the humans fear the worst: that he's dead (the Serpentine know better but that's another story). Wu and Garmadon only make the rumours of their father's demise worse by telling humanity the truth; that he's most likely in the Departed Realm. Unfortunately, both brothers have inherited their father's habit of forgetting to tell people things. As a result, they accidentally forgot to mention that their father going to the Departed Realm to visit their friends (the OG elemental masters) is a relatively regular thing, and that they can leave at any time.

Soon after this announcement, the rumour that the First Spinjitzu Master is buried in a tomb filled with ancient artifacts and unimaginable treasures makes it's way through the villages and cities of Ninjago. The tomb in question is actually just a storage facility for all the magical and potentially dangerous items Fsm didn't want in the monastery when raising kids.

All in all, the average Ninjagon citizen doesn't know that the Fsm is alive and well (doesn't stop them from praying to him though). So the ninja, including Lloyd, are incredibly surprised when Fsm shows up to congratulate them on their victory some time after the overlord is defeated.

And, just to add to the potential comedy, Misako - who knew quite a bit about the First Spinjitzu Master as a result of her research and from being married to their son - didn't even know Fsm was alive until he showed up a few days after Lloyd was born to meet his grandson. She fainted.

#sorry if this doesn't make sense #i tend to ramble sometimes #fsm lives au #the first spinjitzu master #ninjago fsm #fsm ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago

19 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 1 year

Note

Finnie if you have the time and energy, could I please have first date hcs and/or falling in love hcs with btaa!Scarecrow please? Your matchup for me with him watered my crops and cleared my skin. Yesterday however sucked and now I need more replenishment 🥲🥺❤️

🎀 No. 5: Close To Me 🎀

give me a character and i'll write some headcanons on what a first date with them would be like a/n: i feel like this is obvious but i wanted to indulge myself anyway lmao 1k milestone info! 🔞minors dni🔞 • kofi • tag: finnie1k

ok so first of up on the agenda, and starting at a ridiculous hour in the morning, is a trip to the independent cinema, the one with the weird smell, to watch a short (5 hours in total) marathon of some of basil karlo's best horror films, although they're all the best, c'mon

afterwards, a coffee, where you'll be treated to a lecture from him on why the films you just watched were so wonderful, truly beautiful actually

and if you want to, feel free to jump in and offer your analysis. he often finds that how people view or read certain horror films can be very telling about their personality, or their traumas, or their secrets, or their... sexual interests

then, there's a very neat exhibition of classical horror costumery at the museum, it's only on for five months, and he's only been 18 times already, so he's got to get at least another 3 or 4 trips in to really digest it, and he'd love to share it with you

then, he'll take you out for a meal. his questions are deep, interesting, insightful. it's like he's trying to get you pegged completely, like you're eating spgahetti while your psychiatrist grills you, but it's weirdly romantic, very intimate

and, finally, if you have the energy, he's booked back row seats to an all night lock-in marathon of the last decades top 10 biggest box office horror flops, with the full intention of remaining awake and vigilant through them all

unless you feel like getting a little bit frisky in the dark...

#finnie1k #finnie writes #scarecrow #jonathan crane #scarecrow imagine #scarecrow smut #scarecrow x reader #rogues gallery #batman rogues #btaa scarecrow

96 notes · View notes

delafiseaseses · 11 months

Text

I thought about the NCR Sharecropper Farms and Concluded they should not Exist.

Strong opening line, 'ey? How's ol' Delafiseaseses gonna justify that?

Quite easily, actually. Y'see some people misunderstand the NCR Sharecropper Farms, they think it provides food to the Mojave. Not true. It provides food to the NCR, clues in the name, really. Its a Sharecrop, the NCR gets some of the crop and the sharecroppers get the rest of their crop as payment, the portion the NCR takes goes to NCR Military bases. As Romanowski says 'A lot of the crops grown here support the various NCR camps in the region - McCarran, Golf, and Forlorn Hope, to name a few. We can't have wastelanders popping in here for a free meal, so my squad and I are assigned to keep things from going to hell.' and when Romanowski says 'Wastelanders' he means 'people from the Mojave Wasteland' of course.

Do the sharecroppers sell their crops to Mojave citizens? Possibly, but remember all the sharecroppers are NCR citizens brought over by the 'Thaler Act', nobody from the Mojave directly benefits from this arrangement.

You may think 'Well, not like anyone in the Mojave before was using the land.' possibly wrong. While he's not from the Mojave (and is an unrepentant Enclave fascist, but that's irrelevant) Orion Moreno has this to say 'I came out here to get away from them - didn't work out so well. Next thing I know, I'm squatting in "their" land. Never mind that I'd already been living here for years.', and when he says 'years' he could mean up to over 3 decades. So we've got to wonder... was the land unoccupied? Moreno is a stubborn old Enclave soldier, he wouldn't scare easy, he gets harassed by the NCR, as he says when you first meet him 'Bah. Looks like I forgot to lock the doors again. If you're with the NCR, get out. This place is mine, and I'm not leaving.' or, if you am in NCR faction armour 'Look, trooper, I was living in this house long before your farms got set up. Don't even think about evicting me.' most people would be forced off by these tactics. So it is entirely possible the NCR has displaced Mojave residents to set up their precious farm.

Both quests involving the Sharecropper Farm also include a backdrop of NCR vs Mojave Locals. The most obvious is, of course, The White Wash. The Westside Co-Op, an actual local community farming effort (which does have some New Californians, but they're unaffiliated with the NCR), is only surviving because of the syphoning of water from the Sharecroppers by Tom Anderson. The water from the local water system that the NCR took over, I might add. Why do they get to claim ownership of Lake Mead's water and the Vegas water system?

And the second, Hard Luck Blues is more indirect. The NCR isn't at fault at all for this, the Vault 34 Civil War damaged their reactor and that was entirely on them. But the final choice between saving the Vault 34 Survivors or dealing with the radiation leak caused by the Vault 34 Civil War killing the survivors. So it is literally saving an NCR Asset or saving people who for over 200 years have lived in the Mojave.

Now, I'm not saying the Sharecroppers themselves deserve to suffer lower than needed water rations or radiation in their soil. They didn't set this up, they're just working class NCR citizens trying to survive, but, the thing is, the Sharecroppers can just... leave. And they do if these quests are resolved in ways that hurt the Farms.

After the White Wash siding with Anderson/Westside the affected sharecropper Trent Bascom says he's quitting because 'I wouldn't be able to meet the quota, and the NCR would kick me out of my job, anyway. Nah, it's better I get out on my own terms.' and he's even got a plan for his future 'I hear the Brahmin ranchers out in Redding are looking for some hard workers, so I might try there first. I hate working with Brahmin, though.' so, yeah, that sucks for him, but he's got a future. He may not like that future, but its more of a future than the Westsiders have if they lose their Co-Op.

And after Hard Luck Blues you can find some Sharecroppers out front of the Big Horn Saloon in Boulder City. The named member of this group is a woman named Anne, she has this to say 'We're heading back home. I hope our troops do the same. This land can't be saved. Trying to grow crops in this heat, with so little water, is bad enough, but now we've got radiation seeping into the farmlands east of New Vegas. We're done. Let the people of these hell-hole deal with their problems, I say.' and, y'know, I agree. Maybe the people of the Mojave should deal with their problems and not have a military force from somewhere else claiming their land and water? Especially since the area is still disputed at this time. They're literally fighting a bloody war which they have a 3/4 chance of losing during all of this.

To put this all in a shorter way: The NCR Sharecropper Farm's existence is an example of NCR colonialism.

Like, it's textbook fucking colonialism. They forcefully took over part of a land that's not theirs, brought in their own people to 'settle' the land and violently keep the locals out of it all, who suffer because of it. I've said before that the NCR playacts the USA and they certainly playact it accurately.

So, unless you're doing an NCR playthrough, I'd say its probably best to side against the Sharecropper Farm in every instance because the NCR Sharecropper Farms should not exist. It sucks for the Sharecroppers, but they'd be out of the job when the NCR withdraws anyway. Probably best for everyone if they get out before the NCR Military does.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #new vegas #hard luck blues #the white wash #ncr #ncr sharecropper farms #trent bascom #anne #westside #vault 34 #orion moreno #new california republic

36 notes · View notes

gammagoop · 9 months

Text

Random Acts of Kindness

Small Limited Life fic I wrote for fun ^_^

Featuring Grian and Etho, with other members mentioned (do not tag as ship)

Warnings: emetophobia, lots of anxiety, and talks of death

Words: 1,574

fic is under the cut ⬇️

“Do you want to enact the sword?”

Etho stood, above him, higher than him, in the dirt and ruins of wooden structures. They were almost unrecognizable, as if decades had rotted away the wood and weather had trampled the crops. Joel had tilled this same sweat-soaked soil just a few weeks prior.

Grian’s face lit up at this, seeming to react with real emotion for the first time since Joel had gone out. He dropped his own weapon onto the ground, not bothering to consider the danger of doing so in the tidal wave of emotion.

“YES! Yes! I want to enact the sword!” He clapped his hands together.

His world hit him like a train, like a surprise thunderstorm, his mind reeling as he grasped desperately onto this new semblance of an ally. Etho was close enough to his state. He still had Impulse, but Impulse wasn’t here.

“Oh my god!” His breath ran out of him in a huff, and he felt dizzy all of a sudden, heart pounding blood in his ears.

Etho laughed how he always did, jumping down heavily onto the dirt below and tucking his weapon— the titular sword— away as well. A sign of peace, of agreement.

Grian couldn’t help himself, he reached out and grabbed Etho’s hands, pulled them near his chest and squeezed them. Felt Etho’s blood running in his veins under his fingernails, how warm another body could be.

Etho squeezed back as if he didn’t know what to do. His eyes squinted a bit like an awkward smile.

“I— I—“ Grian was suddenly aware of a tremor through his body, making him feel nauseous. He stepped back shakily, panting, blood loud, releasing his ally’s hands.

“Oh, Etho, I— Don’t feel so good—“

He bent and lurched and vomited into the mud.

“Oh,” Etho said, surprised, unsure, “Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you? You can rest if…”

Grian lifted his head “No— I—“ He heaved a bit. “I’m fine. It… happens,”

“Anxiety?”

“Yeah, that would be it wouldn’t it,”

Etho’s eyes softened, and he fumbled through his inventory for a minute. He pulled out a flask of water, and outstretched an arm to offer it to Grian.

“Drink this, I filled it up with clean water around 30 minutes ago,”

Grian already had water, he thought, but took it anyway. He stumbled over to the end of the bridge, where the wood was, and sat down among the upturned roots of potatoes, legs feeling too tired to hold him anymore. He drank about a third of the flask in two large swigs, just to get the acrid taste out. Etho sat down next to him, more smoothly, and put a hand on his back.

“Don’t go too fast,” He warned.

Grian panted heavily. “Right, yeah, don’t wanna barf again,”

“Mhm…”

They sat like that for a minute. It was nighttime, the sky cloudy enough to obscure the moon.

Grian caught himself expecting to hear the footsteps of Skizz on Skynet below, or the shouting from the clockers, or an explosion somewhere, or Jimmy and Joel running back to the mansion with their hair sticking out and damp from sweat, a bit bloodied, Jimmy stumbling a bit, and looking for Grian.

But it was quieter than it ever had been, trees rustling in waves against the wind.

“…Do you miss your teammates?”

Etho asked, as if it wasn’t obvious. Grian laughed dryly.

“What gave you that idea?”

A pause.

“I think we all do,” Etho responded, unhelpfully.

“You still have Impulse,” Grian pointed out, “Pearl still has BigB and BigB has Pearl. Scott and Martyn are probably going to make it to the very end together— and the Clockers can all be a happy family together in the sky,”

He looked up, as if to see them there. They might be watching, he supposed. He wouldn’t put it past them— out of everyone left on the server, they probably wanted to look down on Grian and Etho the most. He wondered if Jimmy and Joel were watching too. He wondered if they were even still floating around this world, or if they’d long since moved on. It made him feel dizzy again so he tried not to wonder too much.

“Yeah…”

The air was stiff between them. Grian pulled his knees in to sit criss-cross. Etho seemed to be listening to the sounds of the night, the shuffling of the living things below. It was always hard for Grian to tell what Etho was thinking, and he figured that must be the case for everyone. Maybe that’s why Scar was afraid of him.

Grian wasn’t afraid of Etho, not really. He wasn’t any more afraid of Etho than he was of Tango or Martyn or anyone else on the server. But he did feel squirmy around him, like he wasn’t meant to be there. He felt like he had to prove himself to even stand in proximity to Etho— but Etho didn’t seem to want that. There was nuance in the way the other man tapped his pinkie finger against his knee. Maybe he wasn’t coming up with some mastermind scheme to reinvent the and-gate — maybe he was just trying to think of what to say.

Joel had been paired with Etho in the time prior to this one. Random chance, of course, but they’d seem to hit it off quite well. Joel was just better with people than Grian was— he was more casual, if he made a mistake he brushed it off and kept rolling forward. Maybe there was something to the whole positive self-talk thing.

Confidence. Grian recalled it now, Jimmy telling him about the encounter he and Joel had had with Skizz. The affirmations, Grian remembered his own well.

Skizz had hit the nail on the head with each one of them, probably the whole server if he had to guess. Joel was confident, and Jimmy was quick, and Grian was a leader, and Grian was alone. And Grian was alone. And his Jimmy and Joel were dead. Grian was alone.

Grian let out a sudden sob, and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

“You haven’t really been alone before,” Etho murmured.

For all his generic comments before, Grian felt like Etho had looked right into his soul for that one.

“Guess I haven’t” Grian mumbled back.

Etho didn’t say anything for a bit as Grian cried, tears puffing up his eyes and cheeks, not really caring anymore about trying to quiet himself.

“I— I just,” his voice trembled, “I don’t know what to do with myself,”

He was snotty and red-faced now. He removed his glasses, “Can you hold these?” He handed them to Etho, who obliged, and pressed his palms to his wet eyes.

He sniffed, and coughed a bit.

“Etho, honestly I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t remind me of this. I could’ve gone out— I would’ve gone out,”

“I don’t know, you’re pretty good at surviving,”

“No, like—“ Grian squeezed his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails dig little crescent divots into his raw and worn palms. He glanced down, and then away from Etho.

“I would have gone out on purpose,”

Etho was silent for a moment.

“Oh,”

Then,

“Can I ask why?”

Grian opened his mouth, but his brain didn’t produce any words for him to say. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, and coughed.

“I don’t know…”

He said, feeling small.

“I just… I was thinking, that whole time with Pearl and BigB, like… I felt like I didn’t really… belong? Anymore? That there wasn’t anyone out there for me, anyone to go home to, like all my relationships had become temporary. Like… I don’t know. Like there wasn’t really… a point…,”

He grimaced, shifting uncomfortably.

“It sounds really bad when I put it like that,”

Etho was quiet. God, he was always so quiet. Grian almost wanted to scream to drown out the silence. He swallowed thickly, hands fidgeting and pulling tufts of weeds from the dirt, digging his fingers into the soil.

“But you didn’t,” Etho finally spoke.

“No, I didn’t get to,”

Etho hummed, idly cleaning Grian’s glasses with the hem of his shirt. Grian hadn’t realized how dirty they’d gotten, dusty and smattered with grime.

“I guess… maybe it proves something, yeah? If you had, you wouldn’t be here now. I would have never, uh, reminded you. Proves there’s… there’s always gonna be more, out there for you to find…. to…. be with,”

“This, too, shall pass,” Grian murmured like a recollection.

“Uh, yeah,” Etho said.

He raised his hand and hesitated, before gingerly patting Grian on the shoulder.

Grian looked up at him, met his eyes. He leaned into the touch, and then into a hug. His wet cheeks stained Etho’s jacket, but new tears didn’t fall.

They parted, and Grian grunted, shaking himself out. Etho gave him his glasses back, and he smiled back at him in thanks.

They each stood, Etho smooth and Grian shaky.

He thought about Joel lightheartedly teasing him for being sappy, he thought about Jimmy asking him if he was okay. He thought about Etho, standing beside him, gloved palms hoisting Grian up from his cliff, and onto solid ground again.

“Thank you,” He said, “You really didn’t have to do that,”

Etho laughed, “What else was I going to do?”

#limited life #limited life fic #fanfic #omg ive never posted a fic like this. hi guys #life series #mcyt #ethoslab #etho #grian #others mentioned #idk what to even tag this as. i dont have a fic tag.#shrug

27 notes · View notes

rococospade · 7 months

Text

Have some Letho attempts, in oil paints(!)

Art, life and cat updates under the cut.

Art update:

I’ve opened commissions again for the next two months (October-November 2023). The last one in my queue is nearly finished, and I’m excited to share it — though I’ll have to crop the tumblr version substantially. I’ve also been working on tutorial content for digital painting. Monie’s been poking me for years to do one on sheer fabric, and I’m trying to edit that between other tasks. I’ve thought about doing one for scars as well — is there anything you struggle with that you’d be interested to see a tutorial or tip-sheet for?

In terms of personal work I’ve struggled to connect with my digital painting in the last few months, so I’ve been working more with traditional mediums. I love watercolour, I’ve been fiddling with my oil pastels since I don’t want them to go bad (they keep for about 3 years past opening, apparently) and I’ve wanted to try oil painting for years. Last week I finally took the leap and bought some water soluble oil paints: pictured above is my first attempt with them.

Oil paints are slippery little bastards — I had a teacher tell me “it’s like painting with colourful mud” over a decade ago when discussing them, and that sort of prepared me. I finally get it. They move constantly, even if it looks dry it’s likely not, I have no idea what I’m doing, disposal is a pain, I am wrong at every step, and I love them. Oil painting looks so cool! It’s so much easier to rework than acrylics! This is not always a good thing! I’m having a great time :)

Naturally, upon getting a new and notoriously difficult medium, I dispensed with looking up guides (surely things I watched or read months and years ago are sufficient for right now?) and sat down to screw around with the paints a few evenings ago. This resulted in a muddy mess even with a limited palette, but I’m a toxic goblin who doesn’t learn, so I shrugged and started working with the muddy tones to try and fix it.

@silverscalestudios was kind enough to give me a quick and dirty explanation on workflow when they found out what I was doing. Thank you again for that! I spent a while last night reading about various forms of underpainting because of you, and will give brunaille a try. I knew underpaintings were a thing but I didn’t know *why* or how important they really are — it didn’t occur to me the oil colours would be so transparent. Hopefully the next picture will be a little bit neater as a result of your intervention — thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me about it!

I found some useful videos on YouTube as well, but I’m struggling with colour temperature shifts. Some studies might be in order.

As usual I’m not satisfied with anything I do for long. My current goals are to learn more of the body’s simplified muscle groups, simplify my compositions more, and make more illustrations with character interaction as the focus. Also, I guess, to gain some competence with the mediums I’m playing with — but that’s a bonus more than a goal. Oil pastels especially are just so pleasant to work with that even if I hate the result, the process is too enjoyable to complain. And failure is how we learn.

Potentially useful tip, buried for anyone who read this far: assign yourself studies for the projects you’re currently working on. This took me far too long to learn, but if you struggle with doing general studies for the sake of them, do them to prep for a specific painting instead. If you suspect something will be difficult (the hand gesture, the colour scheme, lighting, expression, whatever) grab or make some ref and doing a couple of studies, so you can fail quickly and make ugly versions. It’s a huge timesaver when it comes to the final piece. My big, detailed paintings usually take 10-20 hours, so I’d like to get any difficult elements sorted before I start whenever possible.

For an example of studies for a painting: the four roughly scribbled Letho’s in coloured pencil on this post — those were done after I had my composition sketched onto the canvas, to figure out what I wanted to do for colours. And I’m glad I did! I tried the analogous scheme on a whim, and if I hadn’t done this study, I’d have played it safe and gone with a mostly neutral palette. Next time I’ll also do some lighting studies so I have a detailed plan for those before I start painting. Traditional media in general involves a lot more concrete planning than digital, and working with it is underscoring how many bad habits I have — especially with massively reworking paintings mid-process.

I did have a photo reference I was using for this painting (one of the images from the rogue warrior reference pack by Noah Bradley) with the lighting and hair modified to try to resemble something I’d seen another digital artist do, and by awkwardly tilting an asaro head in my kitchen to figure out how the lighting would work. There’s a relatively common lighting scheme in anime-esque art where just the tip of the nose is lit. It’s cute, but playing with the asaro head, I found that the top half of the area around the mouth should also catch at least a bit of light. The lighting ended up being repainted into something more standard for this, but you can see the triangle of light on the upper mouth area in the wips.

Life update:

Well, it was a nice run, but spouse and I finally caught corona last month >< that was horrible. I got lucky, in that I only had for a week or so and it was a mild case. Now I’ve mostly recovered except for a cough. “Mild” is still probably the sickest I’ve been in my life. Do not recommend. Will be going for the booster as soon as I’m able to, I do not want that shit ever again.

I’ve been doing a bunch of new things like sashiko (satisfying), trying to make pie crust (hard! But delicious, and the ingredients are cheap enough that I don’t cry over failure. Please give making pie crust a try, if you haven’t, it’s really not that complicated — the recipe I’m using only calls for 3-4 ingredients, and it’s so versatile. We’ve had like four quiches in the last week and a half) and trying to cook more. Adulting is hard. I’m also considering more decorative embroidery attempts, because I’m reentering my goth phase and want to customise my clothes with little mushrooms and skulls :) it would be cute.

About the cats:

Cloud is cancer-free! She has to get rechecks every three months, but the little monster made it. She celebrates by trying to sleep with her butthole on my face, which is terrible. I love her dearly. I wish she would stop with the butthole thing though.

Sheik is currently taking her turn as the cat with medical problems. She couldn’t eat for a few days and the vet rushed us in when we called. The vet came in and informed me that she wasn’t eating… because she had gas. It’s in her small intestine, which isn’t supposed to have gas in it for cats? Good job, you little weirdo. She’s getting further checks or it this month.

We also adopted an adolescent cat. He’s bonded very well with Tez, whom our other cats — well, they don’t hate him, but they’re a bit aloof. Tez is very big and a bit like a bowling ball with teeth, and most of our cats are old (or Jetta, who is full of bitter hate) and do not appreciate being tackled by said bowling ball. The kitten loves him, and Tez seems much happier for the company. He’s more gentle with kittens than adults. Not all of the cats are thrilled, but our oldest queens have accepted the kitten, so it should be smoother sailing from here. Unfortunately they like to play at 8am, so I am suddenly on an adult sleep schedule for the first time since working from home. Nothing like a teenage cat launching himself onto your abdomen to get the day started :) They were yelling at each other as I typed this, but now he’s laying beside me like a prince. … and attacking my cardigan. Nevermind.

Currently trying to find more ways to install cat climbs and enrichment, since we’re running out of corners for cat trees. Debating the merits of a cat run — we have very tall walls, which is neat but also I don’t trust these guys not to fall off. If we could spring for a modular system that would be neat.

If you’re getting two cats, pro tip: get two with similar coat patterns but different sizes. You will hate yourself. It’s very funny, and you can disorient any house guests!

#Rococo rambles #personal #rococospade art #Long post

13 notes · View notes

honourablejester · 1 year

Text

Some thoughts for druid villains

So, dailyadventureprompts was asked recently about druid villains who aren’t just environmental extremists, and apparently I just have lots of thoughts on druids in general (which is odd, as they’re not really my favourite class, but apparently I really like the lore/themes behind them more than I want to play them), so I started musing about villainous druids.

I’ve had thoughts in this direction before, see Ylin Dos, my horrendous dustbowl extortionist of a druid, who likes to foul wells and blight crops and drop isolated villages into dire straits before showing up all innocent with goodberry and create/destroy water and purify food and drink and mold earth and asking how much would they pay for him to stay a while and help them through this hard time. Because I like the Pied Piper fairytale and the character of the snake-oil salesman in westerns and depression-era stories.

And I’ve had other thoughts in my urban druid musings above, about spymaster druids in cities, and slumlords/beggar lords/gang leader druids, who again leverage things like wildshape into urban animals and speak with animals to gather information in a city setting, as well as goodberry, again, to gain loyalty among the hungry of the city and either persuade or extort them into working for them. If you’re playing a city campaign or have a hub city, you could definitely turn that into a local villain, a slumlord who takes advantage of hungry urchins to be his eyes and ears, along with the rats and the starlings who watch from every gutter and eave. You could make a boogeyman doing that. The rats are watching! The rats are always watching. The Butcher Bird knows what you’re doing, sir. You’ve got to be careful, you know. He’ll get you. He knows where you sleep. But if you do what he says, if you bring him stuff, and don’t get in his way, sometimes he’ll make a berry in his hand, and he’ll let you have it, and it’ll feed you for a whole day.

And there’s a couple of historical characters/legends that could provide inspiration either. I was thinking about La Voisin, the famous 17th century French witch-slash-fortune teller who sold poisons and aphrodisiacs to the Parisian aristocracy. Possibly this is more of a herbalist than a druid, but I do feel like there’s potential there for an almost Rasputinian figure? The filthy hedge witch of a druid who, in flagrant defiance of her uncouth and distinctly uncharismatic manners, somehow has the ears (and wallets) of a court. Why? Because with the aid of a little plant growth and dedication, her poison garden in its little walled courtyard behind her townhouse blooms so beautifully.

And then, while I was thinking about French history and druids, I thought about the 18th century Beast of Gévaudan. Which was, in all likelihood, a pair or possibly pack of wolves who just developed a taste for human flesh, but was, unsurprisingly, the inspiration for a lot of theories about werewolves and also serial killers. And. If we’re thinking about werewolves and druids, obviously the place to go is moon druids. A circle. A circle of moon druids. Who believe in power and predation, and hunting the most dangerous game. So. Lets tie serial killers and werewolves and cannibals and cults in a bow, and say that the initiation ceremony for this particular moon druid circle, upon reaching second level and gaining wild shape, is to take the form of an animal and, while in that shape, murder someone and bring back some piece of their carcass to the circle as proof. And lets say they’ve been going for a while. So you have this … aura of fear around an area that’s been developing for years or maybe decades or centuries. An area that’s known for horrific animal attacks. Perhaps, like Gévaudan, people have been sent to try and figure out what’s happening here, to stop it, perhaps even royal agents, but the circle is smarter than that, established, and their bloody reign over the area continues unabated. Until, perhaps, the party.

And then. While I was thinking about werewolves and reigns of terror. I was looking at other signature elements of the druid class, and in particular one signature spell. Which is, of course, moonbeam. Because if you’re looking for horror in the druid spell list, ‘ghostly flames that cause searing pain’ does sort of fit the bill, just a little. And the thing I’ve always loved about moonbeam is this little extra effect: “A shapechanger makes its saving throw with disadvantage. If it fails, it also instantly reverts to its original form and can't assume a different form until it leaves the spell's light.”

Moonbeam targets shapeshifters specifically. It’s the spell for druid-on-druid violence. It’s also a great spell for werewolf hunters, and changeling hunters, and supernatural hunters in general. And if we’re setting a scene were moon druid shapeshifters terrorise a population, a close, claustrophobic, paranoid environment … then maybe we could also get our witchfinder general on. So. Let’s make a druid inquisition. Or at least a druid hunter organisation. A druid order or circle dedicated, perhaps fanatically so, to hunting other druids (though there’s room for ancients paladins to also be knocking around with this one). Think about Moonbeam as a witch trial. Questioning under the torture of ghostly flame. Beasts set alight to test if they are shapeshifters in disguise. People set alight to see if they are changelings in disguise. (While we’re talking about witch trials and the druid spell list, I might also mention heat metal as a … very evocative spell, here?)

If you wanted to have two mutually opposed villainous druid factions in a campaign, a little bit of law vs chaos on the evil end of the spectrum, and the moral dilemma of which is worse, or perhaps the need to champion a population desperately pinned between them, why not bring the Eyes of the Moon, the druid inquisition, to town to hunt down the brutal cannibalistic circle of serial killers who have terrorised the province for a decade?

The druid spell list, to be fair to it, is quite metal in places. And if you want to do folk horror, druids are a class of villains that gives you options. Heh.

I do like a villainous druid. And an urban druid. And just the worldbuilding inherent in the druid’s spell list and abilities. They are a fabulous class for lore and themes.

#d&d #ttrpgs #druids #villains #worldbuilding #folk horror #urban druids #boogeymen #poisoners #extortionists #cults #inquisition

33 notes · View notes