#the human brain.....is an interesting place | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

There are dozens of funny blogs to kill time on Tumblr.

#the human brain.....is an interesting place

simon-roy · 2 days

Note

The idea of logging on a colonized alien planet brings my mind back to the planet Lalonde from Peter F. Hamilton's Night's Dawn books - a world that had very hard wood as its only meaningful export, and was also stuck developing its economy from agriculturalism (due to investment shortages, though).

All this is to say - Hey! What are some foundational inspirations for your sci fi verse? You gotta have some like recommendations of classic or older sci-fi for us, right? What are some of your suggestions of books and authors to read?

OK SO - My sci-fi tastes have sort of ended up in some very specific niches. Growing up, I was a Larry Niven +Jerry Pournelle man, in part because my dad amassed a huge collection of their books - then gave 90% of them away before i was old enough to read them. So one of my teenage missions was rebuilding that library, trash and all!

Stuff like Footfall, Ringworld, Gil "The Arm" Hamilton, Protector (yes i attempted to name a comic series similarly, and paid for it) "The Mote in God's Eye"... you name it, I read fuckloads of these books. And while they tend to land on a sort of human chauvinist "mankind will win based on his inherent adaptive human-ness, and the aliens will fail because of their rigid alien-ness", this shit was very foundational to me.

Their more collaborative series, The Man-Kzin Wars and War World, also loom large in my teenage mind. The Man-Kzin wars are super fun - humans meet a race of tiger-men, and go from being NWO peaceniks to roughneck cat-skinners in a generation! PEACE AND LOVE WONT DEFEAT TIGER MEN!

Similarly, war world (like lots of that 70s/80s military sci fi) was a sort of catch-all for western military nerds to play with their favorite factions - it was a planet where all the un-ruleable ethnic groups and nationalities had been deported by the authoritarian earth government, and left to rot... until a race of genetically engineered fascist super men land on the world, and start trying to rule the place. Pretty fun shit.

As I got older, I turned hard into William Gibson, and read the absolute shit out of both the Neuromancer trilogy and the Bridge trilogy, as well as his short stories. Bruce Sterling was part of that wave for me, too, and I religiously sought his old paperbacks out too. In terms of novels, "Distraction" is my favorite coherent Sterling Novel - though the short stories in the "Schismatrix" novel/collection of his remain my absolute favorite space opera pieces.

At this age, too, I found my top-top fave Sterling Stories - "Taklaman" and "Bicycle Repairman", both gritty pseudo-cyberpunk stories of the highest degree, in this collection:

This thousand-plus page collection of short stories and novellas was basically my bible for a few years - i put sticky notes on each story i loved and meant to return to, until the book was so festooned with sticky note bookmarks i abandoned the practice altogether. If you have the chance, just buy this book and chew on it for a few years.

As i got into my 20s, Charles Stross became my lode star - his books like Accelerando and Glasshouse were total game changers for me. They come with their own peculiarities, but I loved his transhuman/posthuman musings (or at least i was obsessed with his stuff for a good few years - the venn diagram of his obvious interests and my own overlapped enough that his books were great fodder for a growing sci-fi loving brain).

But since then, my main literary squeeze has been the great man, JACK VANCE. Working on Prophet, my friend @cmkosemen made a remark about how much the early issues of the series reminded him of a book series called "Planet of Adventure" or "the Tschai Cycle", by Jack Vance. The book has a beautifully simple setup - a man from an entirely undescribed spacefaring human civilization crash-lands onto a weird planet. But on that planet, he finds four separate civilizations, each who possess a population of enslaved humans, culturally and physically molded to the needs of their masters. And each book of this series covers our generic hero's interactions with each bizarre expoitative culture. I was extremely intrigued.

Soon thereafter, I found my current absolute favorite book - "THE DRAGON MASTERS". A book about an isolated medieval world... which gets visited, once every few generations, by a black pyramid starship, flown by a reptilian race known as the Greph. The greph capture humans to (surprise surprise) breed them into hyper specific slaves... who in turn become Greph-like in their thinking and demeanours. But the last time the BLACK PYRAMID landed, a bunch of angry medieval dudes stormed the thing, blew it up, and captured a bunch of greph... who became the breeding stock for a whole new human world of slave labour. By the time we meet this planet, the two rival lords of the human-populated regions have been breeding greph slave warriors, or "dragons", for generations, for combat against one another. But soon, the black pyramid will return...

I love this book I even spent a good few months during covid talking with the Vance Estate and several publishers about developing it into a graphic novel, but nobody could quite agree on how it could get made with old Simon getting a paycheque... so sadly it fell apart. There are concept drawings floating around my patreon and other corners of the internet. But one day I'll use 'em...

My other favorite books of his, to name a couple of the MANY books of his I love:

THE BLUE WORLD: A caste system of humans, descended from a crashed prison ship, live on floating settlements on an ocean planet, paying protection to a giant long-lived intelligent crustacean. But one man is tired of giving up all his crops to this tyrannical megafauna...

THE MIRACLE WORKERS: Rival lords on a planet descended to medieval tech (surprise surprise) fight using armies... and rival SORCERORS who employ the powers of suggestion to voodoo each others' warriors... but when facing non-human intelligences, these sorceror's skills fall short.

But there are heaps more, and I love most (thought not all) of the ones i've read. They're generally short, concise, and full of all sorts of bizarre bullshit.

THere are more books i've read and enjoyed in my life, of course, but these are the core ones that I think of when I think of my career as a sci-fi reader... let me know what your top recs are!

#sciencefiction #science fiction #book recommendations #jack vance #larry niven #jerry pournelle #simon roy #griz grobus #charles stross #dragon masters #william gibson #bruce sterling

40 notes · View notes

bunnys-kisses · 2 hours

Text

"the bounties & death au" (a modern gods au)

a/n: 'sunlight' by hozier is burned into my brain

god of death!simon has been locked away for centuries, not able to return to the surface of the earth after being casted away into the shadows of the underworld. but once he finds himself free, in the countryside of england.

the world feels and looks different than what he remembered. it even smelled different. but the familiar grey sky of england loomed in a familiar way. the only thing in the distance was a small stone cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney. his legs felt weak, but he managed to make it to the cottage. it had been so long since he walked, after being chained on his knees. to walk again felt like being a newborn deer.

who was he to see on the other side of the door, was none other than you. you looked scared and quickly closed the door. you squeaked, "no one's home! please leave."

simon was a bit confused, his eyebrows knitted together as he knocked once more. he said in his low voice, "i know yer in there. please, let me in."

"are you going to kill me?" "no." "are you sure?" "i need help, i have no interest in killing ya." he lit up when he saw you open the door and look up at him.

you took him in but told him that he had to sit at the chair in the kitchen and not move. you knew it was a risk but, there was something familiar about him that you couldn't quite put your finger on. (you'd later recall when you felt close to death after the death of your previous boyfriend).

but simon is kind, you find it comforting to speak to him. he was calm and didn't move from the chair. when he moved as he ate, his movements were slow as to not scare you. simon thought of you like a rabbit. small and delicate, easily nervous.

the first act of kindness he had received in a long time was you sharing a meal with him. the gods didn't need to eat, but the warmth of the stew you made had him feeling warm.

you were an author who had stayed out in the country for some time in order to get a break from the weight of being in the city. you remarked that london was beautiful, and while simon had no way of imagining a city that big, he knew it was nowhere as beautiful as you.

he wouldn't make a move until your last night in the cottage before you headed back to the city. you said you'd drive him wherever he needed to be, but he said he had no home.

you asked him why and he said, "the place i came from. i cannot go back to." and while he hunched his shoulders, you reached up to him and allowed him to stay with you. you had grown to feel affection towards the man, even if you had many more questions about him than answers.

but that night, you shared wine together. you were all over him, your smaller body up against him. when he held onto your ass so you wouldn't fall over, you moaned. you giggled and told him you hadn't been held like that in a long time.

and for the first time in eternity, as simon thrusted into you, he would worship you rather than people worshiping him. as he held your hands onto the bed while you made love, he wondered if it was possible to build a shrine to you. to allow others to worship you the way he wished to do to you.

"you make me feel alive." you whispered in his ear.

an exhale left simon's lips, he then kissed you deeply once more. as you moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist, all simon could think about was that he understood why humans were so desperate to get into the heavens. because if it felt anywhere close to how he felt next to you, he would scramble to get through the gates.

his little human, his little fruitful bounty <3

#the bounties & death au #bunny speaks #call of duty #reader insert #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley #call of duty x reader #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley fanfiction #god!simon #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost x reader #ghost #ghost cod #gods au

37 notes · View notes

ink-asunder · 5 months

Text

Man Dragon's Dogma is so cool. The game may be unfinished, but it's tight as hell. In order to actually see any of the world building, you actually have to engage with the world around you--which is the whole point of the game. That life and will and love is NOT meaningless and is worth protecting. And there's a stark contrast in brutality. You go from finding and nurturing vulnerability in the world to a marathon of full-scale gladitorial battles with monsters ten times your size.

All so you can earn the right to mend the hole in the world and take care of the world which you love. A right which the god before you WANTS you to have and believes you to be worthy to have it. You just have to step up.

#additionally the parallels between dd and rdr2 and what they do to my brain specifically is interesting.#with both being about love and humanity in a brutal world.#with rdr2 having a FRONT of 'damn the compassionate we're mean here' but then going on to show that having compassion in a cruel world is #the most meaningful thing of all.#meanwhile dd didnt ha r the budget or time to build that front so its more upfront about its messaging (<<joke)#confession: i have a really weak stomach when it comes to brutality. dark arisen REALLY toed the line for me in places.#so getting to the end of this grimdark dlc and having the message of love reinforced at the end was a very gratifying experience #anywya ill probs make a different post if i have more to say #dragon's dogma #dragons dogma spoilers

32 notes · View notes

corvidmafia · 3 months

Text

I think as part of the entrance exam for all psych majors they should be asked why they want to be a psych major and if they say anything about, like, being fascinated by crazy people or true crime and serial killers, they should be shot point black between the eyes where they stand. Treating mentally ill individuals like actual human people instead of interesting little animals to observe for your entertainment should be a requirement for entering the psych field but also just for staying on this plane of existence I think but that's just me.

#I find the human brain equal parts horrifying and fascinating and I have a lot of interest in psychology #as an aspect of better understanding people and helping others and determining the actual best way to do that #But you say Im interested in psychology and all the true crime girlies are like omg me too crazy people are so interesting!#I'm kind of conflating two issues w true crime girlies and psychological students that dehumanize the ppl they want to work w #But it comes from the same place I think even if the outcome is often seemingly different

4 notes · View notes

pearlsdiamondsandvodka · 1 year

Text

hmm thinking about fallen hero sidestep + against the kitchen floor by will wood ”lord knows i owed you more than im pretty sure i could give anybody” “i cant pin down what normal people want from foreign objects” “it just don’t come natural to me to think you’d want me for me” “i just haven’t learned how to be human like you are yet” “im still lonely that morbid sort that even company cant cure me. and the more you reassure me the less i trust” “im not a real person just the shit you can’t make up” “im just as exposed if i take off my clothes when we make the closet thing to love im capable off” “APOLOGISING FOR MY LIFE AND EVER ENTERING YOURS I KNOW YOU GOT SCARS OF YOUR OWN BUT HIDE MY KNIVES BEFORE YOU GO I’LL EITHER DIE OR LIVE ALONE”

#i was listening to the lyrics absentmindedly to the ‘I haven’t learned how to be human’#and I was like ‘ah yes’ kinda makes me think of sie / sidestep #and then I listened to the whole song with that in mind and was like ‘holy shit it was tailor made for them’#obviously it depends on how you play them but it fits soo well with my character #the part with leaving your body at home because you thought nobody would want it? c’mon now that’s peak sidestep / puppet relationship #as always these are just my random thoughts because I started this sideblog just to get interests and thoughts my friends can’t relate to-#-off my chest. then for some reasons I got followers here. sorry for being all over the place #but fallen hero was my peak coping mechanism for awhile in the beginning of 2021 and it still makes my brain rot <3 #all that angst felt like it was personally written for me #ANYWAY great song choice for mc #fallen hero rebirth #fallen hero retribution #hosted games #choice of games #sidestep #will wood #against the kitchen floor

21 notes · View notes

oh-cramity-its-amity · 2 months

Text

its so weird to read some of my old fics (do NOT do it but i'm just being hypothetical rn) and reading it. like who even was this person?? i completely was in a haze back in 2020. i literally was posting 3 chapters a day. A DAY. what in the WORLD was that shit.

anyway i remembered some STUPID sappy shit and i didnt remember if i'd put it into a fic or not BUT I FOUND IT.

She and Hope had been dating in secret for months anyway, and any attempt to go talk to Ryan only filed her disposition of displeasure upon knowing that she couldn’t tell anyone, Molly especially, it destroyed herself mentally. They couldn’t really go anywhere near the school, always having to lie to everyone about having projects together when Molly wasn’t around them. It’d consisted with 9 PM - 2 AM intervals of being able to actually see each other. Hope would sneak through her small bedroom window with a portable record player and whatever she had gotten from the vintage record store downtown, and Amy would always fall asleep around eleven because of her internal clock. She would always wake up to find a single sticky note stuck on the edge of her desk whenever she woke up to her alarm the next morning. One of them, Amy still had tucked inside of her phone case, a heavily detailed human heart, with blue and red ink sketched onto a neon pink sticky note, there was a caption that headed the small paper reading the phrase over every now and again makes her almost melt every time. “You have my heart.”

yeah idk why the fuck but i thought of this fucking idea again today and i was like "omg did i ever put that heart note thing in a fic???" yeah you fucking did.

all that to say ME AND WHO???? imagine. thats so fucking.... RAHHHH.

#NOT TOH FANFIC #see this is why i write fanfic. to enact some gay ass shit like this.#the fucking STICKY NOTE WITH A DRAWING OF A HUMAN HEART AND SAYING “YOU HAVE MY HEART” I AM ON THE FLOOR.#*sighs* sucks i cant reuse it on lumity though.#my friend making me realize i actually have rizz but am just too much of a disaster to actually understand cues with people #its a MESS. im just all over the place. i literally ranted to THE SAME FRIEND yesterday (or the day before??) abt some girl jesus.#anyway i remember writing A LOT OF POETRY back in hs about this one girl and then the same girl i got to talk to--#--my first actual conversation with her i blurted out that i wanted to shave my head. she was like.... oooooo god i was A MESS #still slid into her school dms during covid and was like “haha guess what i actually mf did???” anyway all that to say underlying dysphoria #they're nonbinary now too and i kinda ghosted them like a complete idiot :(. its been two years or so but i still think of them... a lot...#actually i have more lore about this person and its like istg they actually really liked me but i could not pick it up.#we had such SUCH good chemistry and vibes. n they were really pretty. ughhhhhh.#anyway yeah idk crushes are weird sometimes. the universe knows how unstoppable id be with a partner #i feel like i was the reason they were able to find themself and their identity because when we were talking i always encouraged them #and told them to do what felt right. im glad they did. i think sometimes that brings me peace. like i served a purpose.#STILL showed them toh. STILL SHOWED THEM TOH.#we were talking about amity LMAO “this green haired girl seems interesting” SHE SO WAS.#...yeah i wish i could text them but i kinda probably fucked it up.#shitposting shit #idk what this post is i just wanted to talk about this dumb sticky note thing because im rotating it in my brain and remembering how #mentally ill i was back in 2020 #talking into the void yk how it isssss

4 notes · View notes

ehlnofay · 1 year

Text

content warnings: discussions of abuse, death and violence

The knife Torr usually uses is too thick and blunt to split the pane from the frame; with a muffled curse they sheathe it and feel for the letter-opener in their sleeve. (Katla gave it to them a few weeks back, managing to look guilty and irrepressible at the same time. They’d sighed, enough to make the guilt flicker, and told her that they’d told her to stop taking shit, that they weren’t going to stand for it, where did she steal it from? She’d told them. They’d told her they’d go and give it back. They lied, of course; it’s a nifty little blade, and it wouldn’t be missed by the stationer’s shop, what good would returning it do? They just needed there to be no point to it, to make sure she wouldn’t do it again.)

The house is a bitch to break into, worse than Torr anticipated. The locks, he’d expected them to be beyond his skill level – he’s a novice pick at best – but from what he could glean with his awkward fumbling they’re even tougher to crack than he’d thought they would be. He almost cracked his pick in half just trying to dislodge it from wherever he managed to stick it. No dice there. None of the lower-floor windows are open, and thanks to the weird layout getting higher up would be practically impossible, not to mention very visible. He’s already more obvious than he would like; tucked just behind the corner of the house, in clear view of anyone who passes through the road, very obviously fucking with a window.

He's chosen the most time-consuming way of getting in, too, but what else could he do? Doors won’t work and smashing a window’s a terrible idea for so many reasons. (The situation in there is going to be sensitive, judging from everything Torr’s heard; strange rumours bleeding poisonous through the city and Griss’ dead certainty that she saw him, her less-than-favourable description. The last thing they need to do is freak the kid out, ruin it before it’s begun. Plus if they shattered the window it would let the cold in. Probably the last thing the boy needs.)

The letter-opener works better than the dagger. The narrow blade worms into the space between the windowpane and its sturdy wooden framing, chipping away at the glaze, widening the gap bit by bit. Whenever Torr shifts its angle there’s a hair-raising sound of metal point scratching glass. The wood creaks. It’s all quiet enough that Torr can only just hear it when they’re inches away, but in the strange and silent shadow of the lopsided house it feels deafening.

Torr keeps going, carefully listening out for anyone approaching, preparing potential excuses or escape routes just-in-case. He doesn’t have to use any of them; no-one comes, not in all the time he spends separating the glass from the wood. It takes more time than it feels like it should. More time than Torr has. There’s a million other things he could be doing right now.

(It’s a market day, and there’s always work to be had when the stalls are out – runner errands, mostly, and it’s a pittance but it’s something. Skrauti at least is probably down the markets, begging maybe, or helping with some of the stalls there if the vendors let him. They probably are – they like him. Talres might be there as well, if Idrela is. And then there’s checking up on Skygna, who he hasn’t seen in long enough to worry, and asking around for jobs for Ogaefa that would let her bring her sister as well. He needs to figure something out about Kyrri’s nightmares, too – he won’t go to sleep half the time and it’s not sustainable.)

But. There’s a kid in there that needs his help. Needs something. (Another Windhelm orphan. You’d think the city would get sick of making them.)

The gap Torr’s made reaches all the way around the glass. They chip away extra along the place where it joins at the bottom – the frame looks peeling and scrabbled, like an animal ate away at it – and then finally the pane shivers, loose enough that when Torr drops the letter-opener into the snow and presses it down it slips right out of place without a fuss. They ease it out of the window-frame – it’s heavy, they always manage to be surprised by how heavy glass is – and lean it gently against the wall by the door.

The good thing about this method is that the window can go back in. (More or less. As long as no-one touches it, or the wind doesn’t blow too hard the wrong way.) Hopefully, the house will stay insulated. Torr doesn’t want to give the boy in there hypothermia. (Torr doesn’t need to see that again.)

They take up the letter opener again, cold and wet with snow, and slide it back into their sleeve. (Its freezing shape against their skin feels like a brand.)

They take a breath.

The boy’s name is Aventus Aretino. That’s what Torr’s heard. His mother was well-known in political circles, apparently – her death, a few months back, caused quite a stir. (So they’ve heard, at least. Naalia Aretino wasn’t exactly part of Torr’s social strata.) Torr doesn’t know if the kid left, or kept real to himself, or what, but he’s there now, holed up in his house, performing a ritual to summon assassins. Apparently. That’s the talk, anyway – it’s all swear on the Nine, my cousin heard him, scared her half out of her wits kind of stuff. Not substantiated. But some of the kids have heard noises in the house – not assassin cult rituals necessarily, but something – and who else would be in there? The place is shut up. Plus Griss is dead certain she saw him once (creepy boy with a lip split from the cold that talked to himself) and Skrauti thinks they might have met when they were younger and was worrying about it. So Torr had to check, to assuage their concerns, and to help how necessary. Who the hell would he be if he didn’t?

Torr braces his hands against the emptied frame, splintered wood digging into his palms, and hoists himself deftly through the deconstructed window.

Inside, the house is both muggy and colder than Torr feels like it should be.

The windows haven’t been open – no airflow – but it doesn’t feel like there’s been a fire lit, either; at least not today. Maybe not for a while. It doesn’t feel like a place someone should live. But, separated by the thin walls (sans one window) from the noise of the city large, Torr’s pretty sure he can hear something somewhere upstairs.

The windowpane Torr took out let him into what looks like – a larder, maybe? Some kind of storage room? An aboveground cellar? Fuck if he knows; he’s never lived in a house with more than two rooms (or any houses, for that matter, in the last four years) and this seems excessive. Whatever it is it has shelves and not much else. Whether that’s by design or the place has been cleared out, he couldn’t say.

The shelves are covered in dust, mostly; the wind whistling in through the empty window-frame, clingy collections of dirt and debris tumbling merrily along the wooden surfaces. There’s nothing in here.

Torr moves on.

The hallway isn’t much better – all creaky floorboards and dark, no windows or fireplaces to light it up. They have to blink hard to adjust. There’s pictures on the walls but in the dim lighting they can’t make them out.

Torr checks the whole ground floor (two rooms and a hallway, already more than they’re used to) and finds nothing. The place feels like a mausoleum. All the curtains that there are, are drawn. Half the furniture seems to have been taken away and what’s left is just gathering dust. It’s all a strange warped tableau of how these people lived, before, but now the mother is dead and the son – well, who’s to say?

Torr feels a bit weird in what looks like a study, running his fingers over inkpots that have long since congealed, glancing over a shuffle of papers left precariously at the corner of a desk. (One of the pages has fallen onto the floor. He can see the track it left in the dust.) After a few seconds, he leaves; there’s nothing for him there.

(Yet. They didn’t rummage through the desk drawers. Could be something valuable in there, and it’s not like anybody else is using it. Not like they’d care too much if they were.)

The staircase groans obnoxiously as soon as Torr puts a foot on the first step – even though he has nothing to fear from discovery, he freezes. No-one comes peeking around the corner of the upper floor, though. Even though by rights someone should – Torr can definitely hear something higher up in the house. A sort of banging, he thinks. Slow and rhythmic, as if on a drum.

The rest of the steps squeak as well, but they’re quieter about it. The pounding gets louder the higher he goes. Thud, thud… thud. The staircase leads onto a landing that’s as blank and dim and dusty as everywhere else.

A bedroom with the bed stripped. Toys on the windowsill (nice ones, the kind Torr points out in shop windows and lets the kids imagine having). The door was closed when Torr came in. No-one has been in here, he thinks, for a long time.

They close the door again behind them.

The noise is on this side of the house, they’re sure of it, so they don’t bother crossing to the other half. (It’s strange – they’ve been poking around, and they’ve definitely not been quiet about it. If there’s someone in the house, they should have come to look.) There’s a sort of living room – a nice space, with chairs and an ashy fireplace; and it’s not dusty, wouldn’t even be dark if not for the heavy drapes drawn over the windows. The drapes trap everything in. The dark. The sweaty cold. The smell.

There’s definitely a smell. Torr thought initially that it might just be mould. It’s not.

On the other side of the living room, there is a door. On the other side of the door is the banging noise. Torr takes a deep breath – almost chokes, because it stinks. (They’re used to normal bad smells – fucking have to be, spending time with so many children who’d barely know how to bathe themselves even with regular access to washing things – but this is something else. Sickly sweet and rancid all at once. They can taste it.)

(It isn’t wholly unfamiliar. Shit.)

Torr takes another steeling breath, this one shallow, and crosses the room, giving the arm of a chair an absent pat as they go. The door is cracked just a little bit open. There is something very bad on the other side.

They nudge it open.

It’s brighter, in this room, and stuffier. The smell is much worse, settling around their shoulders like a shroud, worming through their ribcage into their lungs – they don’t gag, but it’s a near thing. The room is brighter, even though its curtains are drawn as well, because it is lit by candles. Several of them. The smell is worse because of the mess of rotting meat laid out over the floor. (Torr recognises some – that’s a human heart, for example, there between two candles; he’s seen one in Nurelion’s shop, though it was much better preserved. Good for poisons, but only if you really know what you’re doing.) There are bones, too, carefully arranged in a caricature of a person’s skeleton. And before it all is the child.

The kid is here. Torr doesn’t know whether that’s worthy of relief or not.

The boy is the one making the noise. He kneels, huddled, a fraying blanket draped around his hips and puddling on the floor behind him. It might have been covering his shoulders at one time and slipped down quite badly. He’s bent almost in two, hunched over his own thighs, so bent Torr wonders if it’s a spinal condition, a kitchen knife in hand, rhythmically lifting it up and bringing it thudding down into the floorboards.

The knife leaves deep grooves in the wood. Periodically it hits one of the bones and splinters them into bits.

Torr’s not sure how long they’ve been watching. Fuck, they don’t know how long the boy’s been here, doing this. He doesn’t move to acknowledge them; didn’t seem to hear them come in. Doesn’t shift to pull the blanket back up or change the position of his legs or stretch his back. He just stays, head lowered, lifting the knife like it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever held, plunging it into the floor over and over and over again. Knees tucked under him, bent almost in half, forehead almost touching the ground, he seems almost to be prostrating himself. The candleflames rise and fall with the knife. The shadows flicker over the rotting heart with eerie regularity. A languid, lifeless beat.

Torr steps into the room. He’s not quiet. Aventus Aretino doesn’t move but to stab the space between the bones again.

“Hey,” Torr says, “Aventus,” but there’s nothing.

He kneels down, bending over the candles, trying to get a look at the kid’s face.

His lips are cracked, like Griss said; it’s hard to see in the strange lighting but his cheeks look hollow. The veins stand out on his hands. His eyes stare into fathomless distance as though seeing through the smoothed-out knots of the flooring; and his mouth moves, though all Torr can hear is the rattling of breath in his chest, and that’s only if they really listen.

“Aventus,” they say again, sharper, louder, but he doesn’t seem to hear, bloody lips almost kissing the floor, corpse-scented oxygen whistling in and out of his lungs. His mouth forms the same shapes again and again. Prayer. Supplication. Deadly benediction. Torr was already not particularly religious; this is going to put them off it for life.

Even so, in their head, they offer the Nine a quick, impious plea. Something is very badly wrong; they need whatever help they can scramble to get.

“Aventus,” they snap, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he responds then, flinging himself away across the meat and bones and fire, the knife at least left standing straight up in between two wooden planks where he can’t hurt himself with it. The bones scatter. There is an unpleasant stain on the boy’s sleeve. The knocked over candles, dripping wax, fizzle out before they manage to set either the walls or his hair alight; small mercies.

The boy stares, eyes bloodshot and hollow – eyes like gore dripping down a too-pale throat and beneath a collar, eyes like poison splattered on a bedspread, eyes like dirt and blood and snow. He gapes at Torr with something like wonder; when he smiles, it looks like it hurts, the dark scabs on his lips reopened. The hope on his face is the worst thing Torr has ever seen.

“You came,” he says, his voice so cracked and raw it’s barely audible. “You came, you –”

He’s still lying there, among the candles and the remains – he seems to register this at the same time Torr does, and he starts to scramble into a sitting position, the process looking much more laborious than it should. Torr reaches out to help, a hand on his arm pulling him to his feet, but the boy’s head drops into Torr’s palm and they freeze.

With a sound not unlike a sob, but also not quite like anything in the world, he rubs his matted thatch of hair into their hand.

Torr feels their face creasing; very deliberately, they smooth it out. “Okay,” they say, soft and soothing, and they adjust the angle of their knees so they can reach him without being in danger of tipping over. They crook their fingers enough to scratch gently at his scalp and he makes another horrible sound. “Okay. Let’s get you up, yeah?”

He ends up having to shuffle over on his knees. The kid can’t or won’t move until Torr’s basically holding him up, an arm tight around the shoulders, one hand still in his hair. Torr’s pretty sure he cracks one of the bones, stepping on it. He hauls the boy, trembling, to his feet.

“You’re here,” the kid mumbles. Torr can feel the points of his shoulder-blades through his shirt. They almost forgot the blanket – he hooks it around his shoe and shuffles it into the next room with them. The poor bugger clearly needs something to keep him warm.

He pauses to pull the door closed behind them with his unoccupied foot. They don’t need that right now. “I am. You’re Aventus Aretino?”

The boy nods, near-frantic. “I – and you – I –”

“Relax,” Torr says automatically as he lowers him into an armchair. Aventus sounds like he’ll cough up a bloody lung if he keeps trying to talk. “You need to drink. You got water in here?”

Aventus points mutely to a bucket next to the cold fireplace, but when Torr goes to get it, he clings. Like he’s a mirage. Like he’ll disappear if he stops touching him.

Torr ruffles Aventus’ hair again unthinkingly, his mind elsewhere. So there’s water, and the boy knows where it is, even in his state. (Whatever his state is – all Torr really knows is bad.) But they’d bet money he hasn’t been eating, enough or at all; he’s pale, slow, his eyes sunken. Torr knows that look far too well. He hasn’t been sleeping, either, or going outside – curtains all drawn and doors all locked. And his behaviour – well.

It’s not promising.

Gently, Torr detaches his arm from Aventus’ grasping fingers and goes to get the bucket. He hears the kid’s breathing kick into something sharp and uneven behind him. The bucket, he finds, is indeed full of water; there’s a mug lying on the bottom, under the surface. He brings it back, scoops out the mug, offers it to Aventus, who, naturally, can’t manage to get his shaking fingers to get a hold of it; he lifts it to his lips and tips down his throat. A bit of water splashes down the boy’s chest; he doesn’t seem to notice. Torr doesn’t think it matters.

Aventus isn’t able to drink much before he starts coughing. Torr sets the mug down. Aventus grasps for him again; he grabs a fistful of sleeve and tips his head back, air rattling in his chest. Torr stays crouched by the chair, looking up at him, and waits.

“You’re here,” Aventus repeats, gazing unfocused at the rafters. “I knew – I knew you would be. I prayed.”

Torr’s face scrunches. “You prayed for me?”

“Again and again.” The words sound like a prayer in the boy’s reedy voice; a litany. “And again and again and again and again… with the bones and things. I kept praying. I knew you’d come. I just had to be patient.”

Ah.

Shit.

Torr closes a hand around the boy’s wrist. He opens his mouth to speak, but Aventus beats him to it – his eyes slide down from the ceiling, vague and bottomless, and he confesses, “I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you are,” Torr says, rubbing their thumb in comforting circles over the point of his wrist. They keep their voice level. “Aventus. I’m not an assassin.”

In the blink of an eye, the boy is sitting bolt upright.

“Yes you are,” he says, saying the words louder than he really seems able to, wheezing them out with as much fierce desperation as he can manage. His scrabbly little fingers dig into Torr’s arm. His face is frightening. “Yes, you are. You are, I prayed, I prayed so much –” He chokes. His grip is actually beginning to hurt. “Did I do something wrong? Please, don’t go, please, I can do it right!”

“Aventus,” Torr tries.

“I can do it right,” Aventus insists. The frenetic energy with which he speaks makes him stretch his lips more than advisable. The scabs are splitting open. “I can, I can, and I can pay, I promise, I promise, I promise – !”

Torr shoves into the chair next to him, crushing him against the arm (just a little, just enough to force him to stay inside his body) and pulls him to leaning on Torr’s shoulder. He can feel his jaw still working, like with the prayer. He wraps an arm around the kid’s neck and threads fingers into his hair and waits for the shuddering to subside.

“I can,” he mumbles weakly after a few minutes of desparate silence. “I promise.”

“Stop talking,” Torr tells him, and he does. “I believe you, okay? Just try to keep calm. I’m here to help you.”

Aventus’ hands, crabbed and clawed, are fisted in the folds of Torr’s jacket. Even through their layers they can feel his bony fingers pressing into their ribs. He isn’t letting his eyes close, no matter how soothing a presence Torr tries to be, carding their fingers through the knots of his hair as best they can, badly humming that lullaby Swims down the docks taught them. It has the slow rolling cadence of the waves lapping at the barnacle-covered board. Aventus doesn’t stop shaking, but at least it slows.

Torr squeezes his shoulder. “There you go.”

The boy heaves a rasping breath.

“Why do you need an assassin so bad, anyway?” It might be a bad idea to ask – just rile him up again – but Torr has to know. He’s met a lot of kids with a lot of problems and none of them have ever tried to hire a hitman in reaction.

(Skygna might come close, he supposes, but no money ever changed hands. And besides, it’s not like she ever asked him to.)

Aventus takes another shaky breath, still clinging to Torr hard enough to bruise, like he’s trying to put down roots in their chest. “Grelod,” he says, and then doesn’t say anymore.

Torr pauses, replies, “I don’t know who that is.”

“They made me go to the orphanage,” Aventus croaks. The side of his head is pressed hard against Torr’s shoulder. “In Riften. After my mother –”

Another pause.

Torr tries to tease the knots out of his hair one-handed. “I never heard much about the orphanage,” he muses; it’s often been mentioned, but no details, except, “I hear it’s nicer than the street.”

“It’s not,” says Aventus with sudden, unshakeable conviction; considering the fact that he evidently travelled back from the Rift up to Windhelm alone, and has been in this house doing fuck only knows for a while, Torr’s inclined to think he would know.

The corpse smell permeates this room as well, even with the door closed.

“It was bad enough that you learned how to invoke the Dark Brotherhood?”

“Black Sacrament,” Aventus mutters, still leaning into Torr’s hand like a starved dog; they’re not sure if it’s a correction, or just information, or what. “I learned it on accident in a bookshop. First time I ran away.”

What the hell kind of bookshop includes instructions for ritualistically summoning a quasi-folkloric murder cult? “How many times did you run away?”

“Three.” He offers no other information. He tucks his face into Torr’s sleeve and says, muffled, “I want her dead.”

“Who?”

“Grelod.”

“Why?”

Aventus’ whole body quakes. His hands dig into Torr’s torso; they feel like he’s going to try to pry up their ribs and rearrange everything underneath. “She can’t,” he starts, then stops, like a fire sputtering in the absence of fuel. “It’s not fair. She doesn’t – she – I need – and everyone else –”

“Slow down,” Torr says, slipping into the soft voice he uses when things get bad; he doesn’t think he’ll end up having any other voices with Aventus. “So she’s in charge of the orphanage?”

Aventus nods into his shoulder.

“And she’s not nice?” Torr can’t really make heads or tails of anything the kid’s been saying, but this seems like hazarding a safe guess.

He tries to press closer, though that isn’t really possible with how he’s already clinging. He mumbles, but his voice is rasping and whispery already, and all Torr can make out is the word monster.

There’s some familiarity to it all, and not in a good way. Aventus’ desperation for touch and reassurance is reminiscent of Gellir when the anger goes. His reticence and scrunched-up posture reminds them of Skygna back when they first met her. Something is very wrong – that much is clear, has been clear since Torr broke into this bloody house – but they don’t know what.

They want to ask, but they don’t want to make it worse.

But then Aventus’ chin nudges at their arm. He’s doing it again, the mouthing – only not quite; when Torr cranes their head, almost snapping their neck in half, they can actually just about hear his whispers.

(Not understand them – they’re an unsettling stream of consciousness – but they can hear them.)

“… the keyhole,” he murmurs, teeth dampening their sleeve, nails scraping against the fraying fabric. “Just in the dark with the keyhole. In the dark, days, and she’d put your face in it. Make you sick. Made Hroar sick, and she was too old, even with the cane, and she made us. Made us hate each other. But I can’t leave them. They’re my friends.”

“Aventus,” Torr says gently, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Sorry,” he says, automatic, and then they feel his face screw up, his nose pressing itself flat against their arm. He’s quaking again.

Not crying; Torr checks. Just shaking, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, his eyes huge and hollow.

Torr holds him, silent, for another few minutes, and thinks.

Malnourished, sleep deprived, mannerisms too close to kids who have been through shit Torr wishes he could have protected them from. Won’t meet Torr’s eyes. Won’t cry, just shakes. That state he was in when they arrived – trance-like, unfocused. Lost it when Torr stepped away to grab water. Disjointed speech. Blood on his lips.

Open-ended questions, thus far, have not gone well. “Did she hurt you?” Torr asks.

The kid nods into his sleeve.

He swallows the how. “Are you afraid she’ll hurt the other kids in her care?”

Aventus mumbles, “Already did. Can’t do it again.”

Won’t stop. Have to make her go away. “Right,” Torr says, low and drawn-out, pondering more than they should; and then, “Aventus. How long have you been praying?”

He lifts his head. “I don’t,” he starts, and squints, his eyes more focused than Torr’s seen them. “I’m not sure. Whenever I’m awake.”

“Since how long ago?”

“I don’t know.”

Griss saw the boy matching Aventus’ description almost five weeks ago. Torr’s been hearing rumours of the Aretino kid trying to summon assassins for two.

How does a ten-or-so-year-old even get his hands on a human fucking heart? On bones? How long has he been in that room, swaddled by the stink of flesh putrefying, methodically carving a hole into his dead mother’s floorboards? If he’s been praying to the Dark Brotherhood for a month, then where the fuck are they?

This is a terrible idea. Hafgrim and the guards and whatnot, they were all one thing; they were pragmatic. Necessary. Close to home. Surely this Grelod woman being a hold away is enough distance?

Only it’s not, clearly. Whatever put Aventus here was bad, bad enough that he hasn’t escaped it, isn’t going to with the threat of it lingering. If it were enough distance the windows would be opened to clear out the smell. And what of the other children down in the Rift, left to rot – sucks to suck, kids, maybe you should have suffered closer to home?

Torr has to draw a line somewhere, he knows that. He can only just manage the responsibilities he’s taken on as is. And yet.

If I don’t, no-one will.

Torr doesn’t groan aloud, if only because it would frighten Aventus more than he already is. Instead, they say, “You said you could pay?”

He snaps to attention quick enough that the top of his head clips Torr’s chin. “I can,” he assures them, so terribly eager. “Anything. Promise. There’s a family heirloom.”

Bloody hell, they’re not doing this. (They are.) (They’re already thinking – need to research the cheapest ways to travel fast, because they can’t get away for long. Borrow some money – from Nurelion, maybe, they’ve got enough of a rapport with him he might actually consider it. They’ll probably need to steal as well. Which is a shit. They don’t even like it. There’s just so rarely a better option. Sort things out with the kids as well, get food and things arranged, get someone to keep an eye on the rabble – Kat and Talres will help, of course, and maybe if they ask Eirmund and Ambarys…)

“Okay,” Torr says eventually. He gently, but not without difficulty, unhooks Aventus’ hands from his jacket and begins to stand. “Okay. I’m going to get you some food, right, kid?”

Aventus’ face crumbles. “But –”

“I’ll take the contract.” And he’s committed now. Damn it. “Okay? But you’re going to eat first. Get some sleep, too. Condition of the deal.”

“Okay,” Aventus copies, blinking; he nods. “Yes. I will. And then you’ll go to Riften?”

“I need to sort some things out first.” A lot of things. Torr really doesn’t have the time for this. (He’ll have to make it.) “But I will soon. Swear on –” and he stops; what do Dark Brotherhood types swear on? Should he tell the kid he’s not an assassin? Is he now, effectively, an assassin, thereby negating the point? Is the honesty worth it, or will it just be confusing? Is it better for him to believe that his prayers were answered, or to know that they weren’t but someone will help him anyway?

It really doesn’t matter in the end; Aventus cuts him off before he can figure out how to end the sentence. “Thank you,” he says, far too earnestly, scrambling to his feet.

Torr holds out a hand to stop him. “Don’t,” he says, and he retrieves the blanket from where it’s crumpled on the floor and spreads it over the boy’s lap. “Rest. Remember? I’ll be back in a bit with some food, yeah?” He glances at the closed door behind him. “I’ll dispose of your Sacrament, too.” It can’t be healthy to be in a house with rotting remains.

Aventus blinks; his face twists like he’s just now realising the smell, or perhaps like he’s about to cry. “Thank you,” he repeats.

“No problem.” Even if it is, a bit. Nothing they can’t handle.

Torr wraps the mess in the fraying scarf that he’d planned on using as repair material. Aventus’ eyes are already closed by the time he comes back into the living room, though he doesn’t look any less stressed. Torr thinks about squeezing his hand or ruffling his hair, anything to make him relax, but if he is dozing they don’t want to wake him up.

So they just leave, replacing the window in its framing as they go. There’s a lot they need to do.

#this one is LONG AS HELL #but I like it :)#they're sooo normal together.#torr will meet a kid and go 'someone is a problem for you? want me to make them go away?'#and aventus will meet literally anyone and go 'you're here to kill someone for me right? right?? yes? good yes'#match made in. something #writing aventus here was really interesting because that kid has a lot going on with him #this guy grieved his mother was sent to an extremely abusive place ran away and lived on the street until he could get home #then solitarily confined himself in his mother's house with a corpse #now I can't speak to that experience personally. but I don't think you come out of it doing too great #a significant part of aventus' trauma and emotional state here originated in honourhall but his weird impulsive behaviour #is largely due to the sleep deprivation and lack of human contact #his brain is not so normal right now #love this child. weirdo miserable beast of a kid #anyway #my writing #fay writes #skyrim #the elder scrolls #dark brotherhood #oc tag #torr #aventus aretino #tes #tesblr

10 notes · View notes

recents · 5 months

Text

idk i think what is interesting about astarion to me is the fact that you have a guy who started out an asshole (normal type) and then spent two hundred years in a very carefully and specifically crafted (by the writers of the game) Become A Terrible Person Or Die nexus. like it wasn’t just a Torment Nexus, he wasn’t just in hell, i feel like this is very important not to forget, he was in hell but it was specifically a hell designed to, over time, kill the empathy of anyone trapped in it, kill their brain’s ability to prioritize other peoples’ survival, to numb one’s conscience.

and then he gets yanked directly out of that nexus and despite that the fact that he spent, again, two hundred years in a situation that was sort of a rock tumbler for the human soul, there’s still a pebble left in there. and it’s a pebble that can be grown if placed in the right environment and provided with a support network.

so i think it becomes interesting because it really does i think force you to start thinking about the limits of free will even on as basic a level as the human personality. i think the fact that he becomes such a different character based on player choice, that his end morality is so hugely dependent on player choice, is uhhh. a big part of what the devs were going for probably.

it makes a lot of people really uncomfortable to acknowledge some bad people would be good people if literally nothing changed except they had a good support network and different circumstances. especially because it means the opposite is also true. which is even more uncomfortable.

you know that part in the beginning of fellowship of the ring where gandalf is talking about how gollum is ultimately only like that because of the ring and gandalf thinks his story is sad? astarion is kinda like if they sexualized gollum.

#okay well im doing the dishes and going to bed.#bg3 tag

31K notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

jaytay62

JayTay62

sulekocojig

Untitled

barbiemichiru

Make-up Michiru's inner beauty life

dawebimuso

Untitled

hallowmace

HALLOWMACE