#very very souls-like of them to do this vague storytelling you have to piece together | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grollow · 1 year

Note

writing suggest: grimm and the knight(/the lord of shades) chatting about places they've travelled~

Every time you ask me to write these two together, I feel like I can hear @aewrie making a little delighted noise. The psychic transmission is strong.

(But I like writing their interactions, I think they are fun.)

I am enjoying the attempts of half of these asks to get me to write fluff. You might be the one who succeeded. Is this fluff? Does it count?

storyteller || AO3

His companion does not make words. Whether that be a limitation of the design of the vessels or simply its choice, he is unsure: it communicates fine, however, on the rare occasions when it chooses to.

Grimm hopes this will be one of those times.

“The wind is cold up there,” he tells it, gesturing vaguely to the east. “Where we came from. But it is not as cold as the kingdom we last visited. Would you like to know more about it?”

He is draped across the back of the bench. The elderly bug that often lingers nearby has retreated to the safety of the general store and is casting him looks that are distinctly, undeniably hostile: he does not like the troupe’s presence in his town and is very convinced they are of a sinister make.

Perhaps he is not entirely wrong – but he is not completely correct either.

Grimm sees no need to alter his perceptions. It is rare for him to come out of the tents and mingle, but his summoner is a worthwhile source of interest – especially when it is yet nursing injuries.

Its mask is cracked and it has not healed it (although he knows that they can). He suspects that extending the soul to do so is not something it is interested in when it can just as easily rest in the comfort of the sleepy little town.

It looks up at him, its head craning back as if to meet his gaze, and he drums his claws melodiously on the back of the bench.

He takes the movement as indication of interest.

“The last one was frozen solid. The ground was slippery to walk on and the Steeds… well, did you know that they slip? We found this out quite unpleasantly. It is difficult for them to gain traction on ice.”

It stares openly. There is something on its face, he realises belatedly, and he reaches down to remove it: a shorn piece of some kind of plant leaf stuck to the hard white shell. It leaves behind a smudge of green stain that makes it seem all the more like the child its form is often mistaken for.

He makes no such mistake. There is wisdom in those eyes. There is also something a little wild. He is reminded of the black clouds that billow overhead and the smell of the air before coming rainfall. He is, in the same moment, also reminded that it is better to be indoors before the water starts to descend.

But he has ever been a reckless creature, so it is in his nature to ignore self-preservation.

Besides. He likes its company. Small and unassuming but with a will that could overcome any obstacle. It is an admirable trait.

He hopes the child adopts it.

“Have you ever seen snow fall heavily enough to collect upon the ground?” he asks it and to his surprise, it nods.

His mind is filled, then, with an image of the sprawling desert wastes: barren, lifeless dunes and great wooden structures that stand as testament to time. The image shifts to chilly winds and the blowing snow, positively howling, and then snow piled up thick enough to be impossible to navigate.

Along with the images is a distinct feeling of frustration. It does not like the cold and it does not like the snow. These things it finds inconvenient to try and work around. It does not enjoy anything getting in its way.

He is amused by how cranky it is. That he (a spirit of flame) should find snow more entertaining than it (a creature of the cold and fathomless dark) is an irony not lost on him as well.

Perhaps it is evidence of magnetism.

“It melts in my presence,” he tells it. “Turns to slushy water and mixes with the dirt; it stains black and brown and becomes very messy.”

It looks down and then lifts its hands in front of its face. He wonders if it is trying to picture what he is describing.

“I thought to try skating across a frozen pond in the last kingdom. The bugs do it, and it looked to be entertaining. I was young, you see, and I thought… when would I ever get a chance like that again? And so I slid out onto the ice. I would dance as the others did. They made it look easy. I have a confession.”

He leans down, then he whispers, “It is not easy.”

It turns its head to the side. He thinks it is probably trying to picture what he is telling it. Unfortunately, while it can share its memories with him to some degree, the same is not true in reverse. He does not possess that skill, that strange form of communication. He is bound to the mercy of words, as helpful and hindering as they can sometimes be.

“It is especially not easy,” he continues, “when the ice starts melting underneath you.”

Its shoulders shake. It is laughing at him. It has no voice with which to do so, but he knows the gesture just the same and that is the response that he was trying to elicit with his story. After all, are bedtime tales not ideal to lighten one’s mood before sleeping?

He circles around the bench and then settles on one knee before it. The vessel follows him with its eyes and he turns his head before offering it a smile.

“I managed a few loops, trailing water and ice behind me, and then, in an act of enviable grace, I managed to tumble onto my backside.”

Its shoulders shook again and he hummed.

“You will, perhaps, be pleased to know that the child takes after its father in some regards. Falling caught me off guard and I reacted appropriately… by summoning fire.”

It shares a mental picture with him again: of ice melting into water.

He nods to it and then smiles widely: all teeth, but harmless.

“That is exactly what happened, my friend. I went swimming. I did not know how to swim yet. Brumm had to come wade out and rescue me while I floundered about, half-frozen. To this day, he does not let me live it down.”

The shaking becomes more and more prominent and he laughs with it; he gives sound to what it cannot. Perhaps he should be embarrassed by the tale but it is so long ago now that he hardly finds it worthwhile to dwell on. He is long past humiliation over the deeds committed when he was yet a child himself.

It is not as though it will tell his secrets.

It laughs and it laughs, soundless and shaking, its tiny body trembling under the force of it, and when the laughter subsides, it is still. It is possessed by an eerie, statue-like quality that tells him it has fallen asleep there on the bench.

Exhaustion takes its toll.

He stays with it, sitting on the ground in front of the sleeping figure. He has time to spare and there is something peaceful in the quiet.

And his presence greatly annoys the elderly bug staring nails into his back. He will take his wins where he can get them.

#ashe writes #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #hk fanfic #drabble #hk ghost #hk grimm #troupe master grimm #prompts

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

Text

FEVER-DREAM ; echo/reader

summary: echo is fine-tuning his new prosthesis. you have experience, you help. unspoken feelings are acted on. adoration blooms. you learn what mesh’la means.

word count: 3k

pairing: echo / f!reader

tags: mutual pining, lots of tender looks, victorian-era hand-touching sluttiness, echo is a gentle soul, reader is head over heels, a touch of ptsd mention, set on ord mantell, mention of our boy fives, in this house we love assistive devices, enough sexual tension to power the death star

a/n: this is me round-house kicking the bad batch writers in the throat because they made echo cosplay a droid — but, also because this man deserves to be treated as more than a means to a mission’s end. majority of you know i am ~bitter~ (understatement of the century) of tbb’s plot/design/writing. but echo has been a favorite from the original days... so have some very soft fic.

i reference character redesigns by @nibeul in this piece — please go peep them here, and some updated character spreads here! they’re really beautiful and add a phenomenal layer of storytelling to the existing designs that’s lacking. nibuel’s art and writing is lovely. please give them a follow — i can’t rec their work enough.

“How does it feel?”

The words are nearly whispered; it’s clear you didn’t want to startle him, and Echo can feel the pinch in his brow soften at your sudden appearence in the doorway.

His bunk, at the back of the Havoc Marauder, is small — the space itself even more so. There’s a makeshift partition, hooked together with spare parts and meant to offer a bit of privacy on the cramped vessel. Its slate grey color has faded, and the edges have become tattered in the cycles of use.

When Echo pulls his dark eyes up from his work, you’re leaning against the frame — your expression is earnest.

For a moment, the once-ARC Trooper is quiet.

He wonders if he’ll ever get used to your attention. Each and every time, it sends him into a spiral; his heart catches as he inhales and tries to push down the warm stir in his gut. The sight of you is enough, nowadays, to melt Echo’s well-maintained irritability. His attention is stolen from his ever-present pain, if only for a bit.

There are plenty of days where he misses the old him — the wide-eyed, eager ARC Trooper who had his brothers by his side. His real brothers. Hevy, Cutup, Droidbait... Fives.

Fuckin’ hell, Fives was probably staring down at him now laughing.

No matter what changes, you’re still shit with the ladies, vod’ika.

In a way he hasn’t fully admitted to himself, you make him feel like himself again. Like... Like some shiny cadet, on leave and distracted by the promises of pretty smiles passing-by. It’s good.

This makes him feel... good.

He flexes, and his right hand — the new, gunmetal durasteel cyberized-prosthesis — closes into a tight fist. It’s taken him a bit, but the feeling isn’t so foreign now. It’s still... slow. Slower than he’s used to, but you’d mentioned it may take some time. The phantom feelings get better, too. All in all, it’s a good thing.

Your own hand, your left, glimmers back in the same gunmetal color.

(Echo had never pressed you about the missing limb — not until one day, in Cid’s, you’d joined him in a quiet corner. You’d spilled your drink and a complaint about getting the star-cherry syrup out of the joints had slipped out. Echo had laughed; a real laugh, the sort that was so rare coming from him, it had you staring at him as if he’d hung ever star in the sky.

Can I ask how it happened? he’d said, breaking the heavy silence when your eyes never left his.

The Pykes, you’d said, and that was enough.)

“I haven’t, uh... Haven’t gotten the sensory calibration right yet.”

Then, his prosthesis cramps. His fingers go rigid, and Echo curses sharply as he reaches around his forearm to quickly reboot the appendage. It goes slack, then hums alive once more.

You wince.

You’re slow to move into the room — and you settle atop one of the crates Echo had stolen from the belly of the ship, an old Mantell Mix shipping container. You’re mindful to set his datapad aside, to not disturb his space too much. Before you reach for his hand, however, you lift your chin and open your hands in your lap.

“May I?” you ask, just as soft as before.

Echo feels small under your gaze.

Truth be told, you’re doing more than just... asking. You’re taking him in — appreciating him. It’s a habit that’s grown more and more apparent to not only himself, but the others.

In recent rotations, Echo has let his hair grow out — not long, but the once close buzz he’d kept has begun to curl at the top. Not entirely dissimilair to how it was before the Citadel. The dermal implants, the ones the Techno Union installed in order to parse the nuerological data in his head, stand out against his warm-colored skin.

His usual AJ^6-inspired headpiece is resting on his bunk.

That damn thing.

A neccesary tool. One that, given the amount of user data Tech had procured when working on modifying the implant, Echo found himself immediately distrusting. It wasn’t as if the AJ^6 cyborg construct had a beautiful track record, and frankly, Echo would like to keep his personality in tact, thank you very much. There were plenty of days he felt machine enough.

It wasn’t often you saw him without the headset; you knew it made linking in via his scomp easier to handle, it made the visualization of data transfers as easy as breathing. For Echo, it was a part of his vast kit, an important tool. For you, seeing him without it bubbles up a bit of a smile.

Echo catches it.

His eyes narrow playfully.

He looks... well. You — hell, are there words for it? For the way the sight of him makes you feel? It’s like there’s a world full of potential there, a thousand words unsaid, and feelings that have steeped in the warmth of longing gazes and half-there touches.

You’re still looking up at him, knees bent on the crate.

You blink, realizing you’ve been caught staring — not for the first time and certainly not for the last. In the beginning, it had left a sour taste in Echo’s mouth. But, now... Well, it stokes a sort of pride in his chest that he hangs onto.

It never gets easier to recover from — certainly not when Echo smirks. He moves to allow you to take his prosthesis into your lap. The gesture is gentle; your fingers cradle the firm yet pliable metal.

“What?” he asks. His voice, low and rough and warm, is tinted with amusement.

“Nothing,” you say vaguely with a shrug — as if that’s supposed to explain any part of your enamored stare. Your attention moves to the prosthesis.

“Nothing?” he asks, moving to thumb his left ear with his free hand with a dash of nervousness. A habit. Echo tilts his head as his fingers brush the cochlear implant there. The panel rests neatly against the side of his head, a small rounded-off square. The bite of self-consciousness has dwindled around you — but still, it creeps back up every now and again.

The Corporal’s brows knot playfully as you turn his new hand over in your lap; you’re admiring the upgraded feel, the more seamless panelling in comparison to your own. Echo watches your lashes flutter in silent thought.

Then:

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

You blink slowly at the hand, swallow down your sudden sheepishness and ignore his gaze. You bite back the smile digging into your cheeks. “Maybe.”

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks suddenly, and you look up.

A baited trick. He’s smiling.

The warm sort — the sort reserved for you and for Omega. The two souls that hold a piece of his heart, with all its ticking valves and electric timed pulses. There are machinisms that keep him alive, and then there is you. Your wide-eyed expression melts, giving way to the sort of smile he’s tried to memorize over and over. It’s the same smile that has warded off that reoccuring nightmare of the night on the tarmac at the Citadel, the same smile that has pulled him through the grit of phantom pains.

“What—” a sudden laugh bursts from your chest, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You were staring, mesh’la,” he rumbles out as a reminder, enjoying the fact he’s suddenly become the center of your attention. Echo leans back, his boot toeing yours. You nudge it back. Your face feels hot. You ignore his pointedly teasing look with a roll of your eyes.

The nickname started a few weeks ago. You haven’t asked what it means — no, for now it’s meaning hangs in the balance. Untouched but there. The affection the word carries makes your heart feel heavier and unbelievably full.

“Bad habit,” you chirp back, looking up at him through your lashes.

His laugh is warm.

“Maybe not.”

“No,” you say quietly; your voice is soft as your eyes bounce across his face, tracing the lines of his face with your gaze, “I don’t think it is.”

There’s a silence that slips between you — a comfortable one. It’s heavier than before. That has begun to happen recently, especially with the petal-soft utterance of mesh’la becoming more and more frequent. You hold his gaze. Echo lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Then, you remember the task at hand.

You clear your throat.

“Uh... The access panel I’m looking for,” you say slowly as your raise your finger to point to your own arm, “It’s on your bicep.”

Echo blinks. He clears his own throat before looking down — he hadn’t even noticed that access panel. That could explain the jarring miscommunication stalling the limb. This model had more bells and whistles than he initally realized.

Better than a fuckin’ scomp link, that’s for sure.

Wordlessly, Echo makes room on his bunk. You move to settle beside him, your bent leg resting aginst his hip as you half-straddle the bed; your other knee brushes his thigh — and Echo tries to sit still. You’re close, now.

“Is it okay if...?” you trail off, fingers tugging on the short sleeve of his blacks; you pause until Echo offers a curt nod. You catch him swallow. You push onward, fingers nimbly rolling the fabric up over his broad bicep.

Echo steals a glance your way as your fingers pass across a slip of his bare skin.

In his lap, both his hands twitch.

He’s no small man. Lean and athletic, Echo is built like a soldier. Omega had said once that Echo was an ARC Trooper, one of the best of the best. You believed every bit of it, and you’d hung on her words when she’d rambled on about ARC training, about Kamino, and about who Echo was before you knew him. It was all in the past, though. That Echo is a part of this Echo but... They’re different men. He’s been changed by the things that have happened.

You don’t press him on the details.

In time, they’re slipped into conversation here and there — between the here and now.

In the beginning, when you’d found yourself amongst the crew of the Havoc Marauder — be it for a simple job on Cid’s behalf — Echo had hardly paid you a moment of attention, though you admit you’d been curious from the start. It had taken three jobs for you to finally see his face. Then began the slow and gradual bonding over catching joints, grating plates, and hardware updates. His legs, your arm. Two pieces of a pair.

Now, he has this. A beautiful new upgrade — something he’s wanted for a long time. A part of his old self is back, in a way.

You liked that it was more than just a tool. That, in having this piece of his body back, he felt like more than a tool. More than a scomp link.

After all, he is a man — a... a very handsome man. One whose proximity is sort of distracting you, again, from the task at hand.

“The panel here,” you say as you slowly press on the seam that enables the settings panel to be revealed; you’re mindful to explain, “It controls sensory outputs, as well as synchonized synaptic commands. The panel on my forearm does the same to my hand, yours is just... well, you’ve got the new and improve version.”

Echo ducks his head as you work, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Feeling a bit jealous, mesh’la?”

“Maybe,” you breathe out with a smile.

Then, you lift your eyes. You intended to see that he was still comfortable, but instead you come face to face with the Corporal. His nose nearly brushes yours when you lift you chin, completely dragged in by the closeness shared.

There’s a beat of tension. Echo’s mouth goes dry.

You fingers pause. You swallow hard. “How... uh, how does it feel?”

Echo tightens his grip, then releases. His breath tickles your cheeks. His eyes, a deep, warm brown, flit from your eyes to your mouth, and then back. His voice is a croak.

“...Same as before.”

You tinker with a dial, eyes never leaving his; your voice is above a whisper. “And now?”

It’s immediate. Like a rush of cold air up his arm — and on instinct, Echo’s hand twitches. His fingers grip the fabric of his blacks, along his thigh, and... he feels it. The smooth, stretch of the material. It’s... it feels like a lot. His fingertips, metallic and cyberized, tingle. It’s distracting.

He can feel.

His hand is slow. It moves across to bridge the space between you. His pointer finger settles on the curve of your knee; the feeling of your tactical pants beneath his fingertip is ignored, instead he chases the heat of your body.

Your breath catches at the touch.

Echo’s face is turned to you, but... his attention has settled on his hand. His palm then sweeps across your thigh. He follows the curve, soaks in the feeling. You’re frozen in place, beating back the desperate sound of appreciation that threatens to be pulled from your throat. The touch is... more than welcomed.

The closeness itself is making you dizzy.

Then, Echo turns — and the warm, durasteel-plated palm finds your cheek.

Your skin is hot.

“Is this okay, mesh’la?” he whispers, words riding on a quiet exhale — the sort that make you feel... well, you don’t even have words for the way he makes you feel. Echo is... kind, honest, and loyal. Above all else, he’s gentle. Despite it all, despite every bit of horror he’d been put through, he’d never lost sight of the importance of a gentle hand. Especially now in a moment as intimate as this. It coaxes you closer.

You lean into the cybernetic attachment, cheek resting in his palm. You nod, then, with eyes eager to take in every bit of this moment.

He chuckles at the enthusiasm. Echo’s thumb, deft and smooth, then traces the line of your lower lip.

The feeling is... the gnawing pain that he’s felt for nearly a year has melted. Finally, the itch has been scratched in his brain and the hollow ache of his bones is gone. It’s relief, and comfort, and excitement and all these beautiful things — and you.

You’re stuck — you don’t want to move, you won’t move. He’s rooted you completely, and when his other hand — the calloused and warm one of flesh and blood — finds it’s spot along your thigh, you swallow a lovesick sigh that would only exaserbate your desperation.

Your mouth is moving before you realize it.

“What does it mean?”

Echo’s eyes narrow, only a bit, and he runs his thumb up your cheekbone.

“What does what mean?”

“Mesh’la,” it sounds foreign on your tongue. It’s not Hutteese or Twi’leki, not like any language you know, “Will you tell me what it means, Echo?”

The corner of his lips quirk. Your eyes jump to it.

You feel like someone’s reached right into your chest and given your heart a squeeze — and it only worsens when he laughs. He laughs, deep and quiet and warm, like a thunderstorm on a summer night. It feels cruel, to string you along like this when you’re here, lips parted, hanging off his every touch and his every word.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly as his other hand touches your jaw — it’s so damn reverent, this little moment in time, that you almost don’t believe it’s real.

It feels like a dream — like someone has come in and stolen your thoughts from you; like the unrequited yearning has finally stoked a fire large enough to burn you up entirely, a fever you never knew you wanted.

His nose brushes yours.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his chest. You’re clinging, lost to the moment — and you can’t help wonder if this is how it feels when he catches you adoring him. He’s admiring you so tenderly that you nearly break.

You want to kiss him.

He’s thought about nothing but kissing you for the last five days at least. Longer in his dreams. Nowadays, it’s a constant pull, a constant want.

And now, it’s here — a present and current moment where it can happen. Where he can stop being a shiny cadet and he can make a move...

Enter Omega.

“Echo, we’re back—!”

The telltale hammer of a girl’s boots on the floor signals that the party is back from their supply run — but you’re so far off, spinning in a different universe, you don’t even hear her until its too late... Until Echo is yanking himself away and clearing his throat and rolling his wrist to test the prosthesis in a different way, a less intimate way.

You blink, then rattle yourself back to the present. Omega is in the doorway staring with a quizzical look. Clearly, your state does little to dissuade the assumptions she’s already making and you can see the gears turning in her head. The dark-haired girl then slowly grins.

“Hi.”

You swallow. “Hi, Omega.”

“...Whatcha guys doin’?”

Echo coughs. “Uh, just fine-tuning the new upgrade.”

“...Riiiiiight.”

You rub your cheeks and laugh — clearly forced and incredibly pained — as you stand up and nearly ram your head right into the top of Echo’s bunk. It’s met with a hiss of warning from the trooper as he jumps up to try and protect you from the impact.

“Well! Uh, thanks for letting me help, Echo,” you clap, rocking back and forth on your boots, “I, uh... Oh, Cid called. I should... I should get back—”

“Yea,” he says, straining a bit to find the words, “Yea, I’ll... I’ll comm you if it starts to, uh... If it starts to act up?”

Omega watches the exchange, big brown eyes moving from left to right.

“Good, great — yea, that’s,” you inhale as you rub your thighs and move towards the door, “Perfect. Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye!” Omega calls, waving.

You wave back, smiling. “Bye, Omega.”

Then, once it’s only Echo and Omega in the bunk, the tween speaks.

“...What the kriff was that?”

#HE IS A CORPORAL!!!!!#let echo say fuck #and omega #echo x reader #echo imagine #arc trooper echo x reader #echo/reader #echo/you #echo x you #tcw imagine #tbb imagine #sw imagine #the bad batch imagine #THANK YOU ANON WHO SENT ME THE UPDATED SPREADS #LOVE U ANGEL

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elsewhereuniversity · 3 years

Text

The amateur's society

There is a new society in Elsewhere. It is well-known and well-advertised, even among those of the student body that have not seen, or do not believe in, the Gentry. In fact, it seems to gather the unaware students far more freely than others, for it names itself as The Amateur’s Society, and describes itself as a place for people who want to practice an art without needing any baseline of skill or past practice, and without any judgment for any piece that falls short of the usual standards.

This society meets, rather unusually, in the same place every time. The same corridor in the same building, with the same rooms set aside for different kinds of art, on the same days, twice a week. There are never any rooms that have been booked by someone else in advance. The rooms and various workshops are always fitted adequately for what is required of them. There are never any rooms that fail to exist, any student who wants to get to that floor and that corridor always seems to find themselves there on time, without any half-dimensions or neverending staircases or suddenly appearing forests getting in their way.

These strangely convenient arrangements have drawn no end of suspicion from those that are more aware of the Gentry’s machinations. They whisper that the society must be trying to lure in artists, that it must be a place for hunting Fey to spot their prey, that it advertises to unAware students to make their being Taken that much easier. And indeed, from the outside, it seems that way. Many of the attending student’s are simply freshmen who have come to sing songs and sculpt and practice rhymes in order to relieve the stress that university life naturally applies on them. In amongst these students, there are often people with slightly unnatural edges to them, keeping a keen ear out for anything that may attract their fancy and doom the unwitting artist to a sudden disappearance.

And yet, inside this convenient corridor, things seem to change. Above the entrance is a Treaty. It is written elegantly, and is kept both vague enough not to incite a search for loopholes, whilst also being kept specific enough that it’s nature is clear to anyone who so much as skims it. It is a Peace Treaty. It states that those who enter the society’s borders do not go there to ridicule other artists, or to find someone to Take, or any other malicious intent. It states that anyone is welcome, no matter their background or species. It states that everyone who enters must try their hand at art. And, perhaps most importantly, it states that Anyone can try their hand at art.

Once you have entered, the omnipresent, ever-so-subtle tenseness of Elsewhere University seems to vanish. People give names willingly and happily, although it is unclear if those are their true names. It does not matter if they are, as nobody who truly belongs to the society would ever dare attempt to use them. People sing songs of things they care about with mismatched pitch, and sloppily pour their heart into poetry for all to see, and put their greatest fears into half-finished drawings. They write stories with emotion but no substance, make pottery that is bright and misshapen, and paint undecipherable life studies, all with smiles on their faces and gleams behind their eyes.

Any and all of these creations are applauded, simply for the beauty of having been created. When their creator chooses to have it displayed, they are encouraged for their confidence. When they choose instead to ferry it home without showing it to anyone, they are simply encouraged for pushing themselves into the ever-daunting task of artistry. Try as they might, nobody has ever detected a hint of sarcasm or judgement in the rooms that make up the amateur’s society. The administrator’s, those in charge of managing the society and keeping it's patrons inspired and encouraged, were carefully picked out to be those who understood the difficulties of trying something new, and who were compassionate enough to help others surpass these difficulties.

There are Gentry among these people, of course. Many of them simply sit back and watch with fascination in their eyes, for they may have seen finer art pieces many times before, but never have they seen such enthusiasm and genuine reckless empathy put into the art of creation. There are those Gentry that have been so caught up the society’s attitude towards throwing away your fears and Creating, that they have even attempted their own pieces of art. Strange, janky poetry that speaks of lands beyond imagination in words quite unfamiliar to the listener’s ears. Paintings made entirely out of single sharp lines, that do not portray anything, but give the viewer a deeper understanding of the relationship between being indebted and being owned. Crude iron rings and necklaces, crafted from behind thick gloves and safety glasses, that will never be worn and fill anyone who sees them with a sense of heedless freedom. Any Court would be horrified at the thought of one of these pieces existing, let alone one of their own number creating one. But the Courts do not hold power here, and these pieces go unjudged by all but the kindest of eyes.

There have been Fey that have disregarded the Treaty above the entrance. That have stalked through the rooms of the Society, that have found a mark and followed them out. That have Taken them, and left the society with one less Creator. In such cases, the administrators have been known to start off the next meeting with a direction. With an instruction. They have been known to give the myriad of artists under their care something to envision and replicate in today’s Works: a safe return for the missing artist, and swift judgement for their Taker.

In such cases, the society is always somewhat different. The poems more pointed, the drawings more crude and vicious. The halls are filled with songs of pain and safety and revenge. Dozens upon dozens of minds fix themselves on the pain of one soul and the return of another, and they apply all the belief and creativity and Power they have to bringing this about in their stories and their sculptures and their scripts and their dreams.

It never takes long for the missing artist to return, dropped off by something unrecognisable and shivering. It never takes long for apologies to be sent to every administrator begging for mercy, or for thanks to be written into the form of a slightly-shoddy couplet and scrawled on a university wall. It never takes long for the amateur to come back to the society and for it’s usual function and atmosphere to reclaim it’s halls.

When the administrators are asked about what powers the society, what gives it this ethereal protection and keeps it free from the Courts’ gaze and allows anyone to create free of judgement and keeps it’s rooms in the same place and time every time, they always smile, and they do not lie. They tall tales of belief shaping the world. They say that iron only harms those from under the hill because the whole world has applied enough belief to this fact. They talk of folk stories about salt lines and iron horseshoes and milk left out at night, and how those stories eventually grew into their own form of protection. They talk about how the art of creation has always been a unique power of humanity, about how it has allowed them to shape the mystical world without knowing it, about how even one person, believing in something small, like a lucky charm, can give that belief a certain tangibility.

And they talk about how, if you get enough people together, and you free them from their inhibitions about applying their unique gifts, and you give them some beliefs to follow, like a corridor that is always there when it is needed, those beliefs will naturally form. They will talk about how the amateur’s society was created by one woman who believed very hard that people could truly enjoy trying a new artform and joining a new community. And they will talk about how ultimately, Elsewhere University is shaped by human thought and storytellers more than by any real laws or rules.

And when the administrators, are don talking, they will thank you for the insightful question, they will encourage you to follow your passion, they will remind you that making something just for the sake of making it it is always worth it, and they will ask you if you want to join up.

-To the person behind this blog, and everyone who has created content for it. It’s been amazing seeing you all try your hardest at this, and I hope I will continue to do the same for a very long time. Thank you.-

#clockworkman #the amateur's society #stories #long post #i love this!#'simply for the beauty of being created'#i love that the gentry are included here #especially bc of the bit of folklore that says they steal musicians bc they can't create their own music/poetry #trying anyway!!!#just for the sake of creating!#also thank you for the sweet note it made me smile #submission

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p-and-p-admin · 3 years

Photo

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group. (sharing here Admin approved)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/

Hello IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse and welcome to Behind the Quill, it’s wonderful to finally have the chance to chat with you.

Many readers will know you from your extensive catalogue of works like Convergence, A Soul-Mate’s Kiss, Entangled and of course, The Ribboned-Witch

Okay, let’s jump right in. What's the story behind your pen name? It’s a simple one. I should be writing anything but fanfiction, ie o-fic. I need the pennies! Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most? Probably a mix of Snape and Granger. Snape’s general curmudgeonliness (is that even a word?!) and Granger’s swottiness, (also perhaps not a word…) Do you have a favourite genre to read? (not in fic, just in general) Romance. Always romance. I am addicted to my Happily Ever Afters. Do you have a favourite "classic" novel? Persuasion by Jane Austen. Reunited lovers, a fave trope. At what age did you start writing? 14. How did you get into writing fanfiction? I blame Wolverine. I fell into Rogan (Wolverine and Rogue) in 2011, then starting writing it, when I *should* have been writing my o-fic…. What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works? The Marriage Law Challenge. Can that be called a theme? I love that, and have written a few. It’s probably an equal love with soul-mates/fated mates. I’ve written a few of those, too. What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter? I’m a fairly linear shipper. So it was Rogan, then Sherlolly…then SSHG and it’s been only that for *gulp* almost seven years. If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? Do you have a favourite piece of fanon? Naturally, Severus Snape lives (not that he died in the first place!). Fanon? At the minute, I’ve read so much fanfiction, I’m not sure what’s solely in the books anymore! Dark Revels, maybe? Or could Jason Issac’s idea for long hair for Lucius Malfoy be considered fanon? lol Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet? It varies. Sometimes it’s whatever I have listed on Amazon Prime, or various rainy ASMRs. I so have a creativity sound thing that’s supposed to tap into your writing brain. It runs for 3 hours and does *seem* to work…when I remember to turn it on! What are your favourite fanfictions of all time? Hope Reawakened - Georgesgurl117 A Place in the World - Noodle In the Darkness in Which We Are Made - Corvusdraconis A Number of Ways to Kill Ron Weasley - Ms-Figg From the Corner - Coffeeonthepatio Chocolate Enchantment - Vivian B Forged in Flames - MsWhich Owned - TwilightDarkness82 Three Pregnancies and an Adoption - rhapsodybree A Witchhiker’s Guide to Beltane - TeddyRadiator Romancing the War - Pubella The Marriage Benefit - Miamadwyn The Nature of the Phoenix - scatteredlogic Vomica Domintor - Always_ss There are probably fistfuls more… lol Are you a plotter or a pantser? How does that affect your writing process? A panster. Which is why I often get to the middle of the middle of a story (*the* hardest place!) and it stalls! What is your writing genre of choice? Romance. Always. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why? Ignis Tactus, mainly for the feel of it. And chapter 5, because of quality of the writing. It’s intimacy. Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it? I had a vague idea of where it was going and wrote the first chapters in a few days. Chapter 5 took longer - as the smexiness always does. It was a reminder to pick out the right detail, which is a simple idea and the hardest to achieve. How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write? It wasn’t personal, I don’t think. A story is always a tapestry to me, weaving threads together to make sense. What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing? Probably from years back, Orwell and Hemingway. And a shedload of poetry. It’s made me aware of language and to aim to use the least words I can to sharpen the imagery, dialogue and setting. Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction? My other half does and that’s about it. I keep my fanfiction separate from my o-fic world. How true for you is the notion of "writing for yourself"? I like to write what I want to read, so very true? lol How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media? I’m a social media hermit, tbh. I’m on the usual sites, because I have to be for work…and even then, I can happily wander away for weeks! I envy people who do social stuff naturally. What is the best advice you've received about writing? Look at your verbs and make them strong. What do you do when you hit writer's block? I’m been blocked for about 2/3 years, which is why I’ve slacked on writing, both fanfic and o-fic. I’m still trying to find a way around it. At the minute, I mostly play with digital art/Daz3d. Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing? Very probably. I do sit and ‘feel’ the emotion in a scene as I write it. Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser? I’m plugging away on bits and pieces, the odd few hundred words here and there. So this is a bit of a bare snippet from The Offer of Just One More (yes, I also peck at that!) “Victoire said you’re mean, Daddy.” Alexandra’s little Severus scowl was quite plain. “I said you weren’t, so she tried to pull my hair. So we sat on her,” she pointed to herself, Oona and a beaming Olivia, “until she said you wasn’t…weren’t.” Hermione sighed. The Burrow was a bloody minefield. And she was certain there was more than Ron stirring trouble, through their children, to get in a dig at Severus. “You shouldn’t sit on people who disagree with you,” Severus murmured. There was a light in his eyes. Hermione was sure she’d get the blame for their three daughters being little hellions. A lifted eyebrow and the murmured, “Draco? An attack of birds? Setting me on fire?” “She sat under the tree with us last week when you were at the Burrow,” Emily said. Obviously their eldest had known about the altercation. And supported it. The Snape girls were just as protective of their father as he was as them. It was sweet. In a Mafioso sort of way… “It was the troll then, too. And she thinks you’re the best storyteller, now.” “Troll!” Meredith cried, waving her juice cup, obviously at the end of her patience in waiting for her story. “The troll, indeed, Meredith.” The toddler beamed up at her father and clapped her hands. Severus glanced down at a still-sleeping Hannah. His voice was soft as he asked. “So…who is the hero of this story?” Five little girls grinned and looked towards Hermione. She blushed. “Mummy!”

“And who is the villain?”

“The Troll!” Oona and Olivia declared. “Because he attacked her.”

“Quirrell. He released the troll.” Alexandra said. Emily shook her head.

“She wouldn’t be in the toilet at all without Ronald Weasley.”

“Weedy!” Meredith laughed and the semi-circle of girls fell into giggles. Her eldest had recently taken a sharp dislike to her old friend. Hermione’s eyes met her husband’s. They would have to keep an eye on what the ginger menace was saying around their children. Or wait four years, and let Emily hex him. Any words of encouragement to other writers? Write what calls to you…and find your fun in playing with language. Hunt out those moments where you go ‘ooh, that’s good!’ Thanks so much for giving us your time. No worries. A pleasure :)

#fanfiction #fanfic #snamione #writing

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juleswolverton-hyde · 4 years

Text

The Words upon the Window Pane | Chanyeol

Genre: Smut, Angst (only a wee bit), PwP

Pairing: Auhor!Chanyeol x Reader

Warnings: Top!/Dom!Chanyeol, fingering, unprotected wall sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses!), subtle dom/sub themes, swearing/cussing, dirty talk, love bites

Summary: The relation between Logic and Passion is often difficult for artists and certainly so when the involved parties dabble in words. Because language has the power to conceal the truth, to say what otherwise might not be said.

The words upon the window pane.

However, one night, a mouth is brave enough to at last utter them.

And to bring about unexpected consequences.

Author’s Note: The title is derived from the play of the same name by W.B. Yeats, who is, as you may or may not know, one of my favourite poets and greatest inspirations as of late. Furthermore, this is the first EXO smut piece to be written by this wee birdy, which hopefully shall not disappoint more experienced EXO-Ls.

All in all, I hope you enjoy the work of a feather.

Making a living as an author is not easy, especially when starting out and having only a single book to one’s name. However, Voice is not merely a literary tool to use in order to be heard, since it can also realistically become audible when speaking. All in all, it remains a fluent phenomenon and so it is of great benefit to storytellers to have mastery over it. To provide experiences that ignite vivid imagery thanks to simply creating an ambience with sound when not craftily doing the same on the page. Such is the talent of the author rapidly grown popular online due to a deep voice and funny personality, thousands of women drooling over the tailored experiences provided to them on multiple platforms.

But none of them has ever gotten the real deal, their sensual emotions remaining one-sided whereas those of a newbie novelist are answered.

Sometimes.

The relationship started after the romance department of the same publishing house contracting the famous erotic writer took a bold chance by offering a contract to an unknown name having just completed a manuscript about an innocent coffee shop romance. During the meeting with the assigned editor, icy pale locks wandered into the modern cafeteria and toward the table where a conversation about the next steps towards actual publishing took place, sitting down wordlessly and merely observing. Withal, basalt irises blatantly ignored rapidly flushing rosy cheeks on the adjacent seat, focused intently on the ones across the table that tried to maintain a steady composure.

Yet it crumbled bit by bit as genuine interest was shown during a spontaneous proposal to drink coffee together sometime after the editor held a brief round of introductions at the end of the important chat, which had gained an unintentional third participant. Piece by stiff piece got chipped away over warm beverages thereafter, talking about upcoming manuscripts and the professional giving a newbie a couple of tips to not stumble and, perhaps, fall without hopes of getting up.

And were entirely smoothed out among the sheets after the daring kiss when goodbye came on the first proper dinner date, Chanyeol leaning in without hesitance to rapidly turn a chaste caress of the cheek into sin once having been escorted safely to the front door of one’s own roof.

To make a heart fall for one which is unbound, according to the rumours spoken by the female tongues which all supposedly possess a sensual experience of sorts concerning the novelist. Notwithstanding, one can talk but not say anything, let alone the truth. Withal, the gossip has expanded while being in a strange type of relationship, always being the first to propose something to do and bleached smooth strands simply agreeing if the busy schedule allows it, of course. Spontaneous proposals for a movie night or trying out a new café are one-sided, the first time drinking coffee together being the sole occasion on which it came from the distant beloved. However, during the opportunities to be together, it never fails to feel genuine.

Sincere in spite of the mouths believing it is merely about sex, warning to get out now before it is too late.

The logical ship has left the safe haven.

It is too late.

Regardless of bravely sailing in an individual sea, the doubt can never be kept at bay since it lurks as a kraken in the darker waters coming up on the journey every now and again. After all, the fans of the deep voice catering supposedly “exclusive” experiences for them would loathe the fact their imaginary lover actually has a girlfriend. Moreover, the serpents roaming the office keep telling tales that steadily grow arms and legs, each limb stemming from the period in which minds were apart.

Those spans of time increase in frequency.

Lunch grows lonelier.

Days are spent in isolation.

Reassuring words do not hold significance on the floor of the publishing house nor on those of one of our apartments on a lucky night.

No acknowledgement.

All there is, is vagueness.

Just something.

Something.

Undefinable.

Certainly not pretty or comforting.

Empty. Yes, that is the best way to describe it.

Hollow, lonely, one-sided.

Unrequited.

And it takes away the hunger at the dinner table beneath the luxurious roof, the expensive wine and home-cooked meal using high-quality ingredients holding as much inherent value as a shilling in the gutter. So the fork is put down, the bite laboriously swallowed and focus averted from the porcelain plate presenting little yet seeming too stacked.

‘Baby, are you alright?’ Head cocked to the side in wonder, Chanyeol stops mid-bite, sensing something is off.

Something.

Always something is off.

Right now, it finds a voice in a lowly muttered remark as disappointed fingers shove the still full plate and cutlery away as far as possible. The stomach can live with the stone in it, like the heart slowly freezing itself thanks to the vicious tales of betrayal can continue to exist in ice. After all, even this week’s audio consisting of ‘’sexy’’ unboxing ramblings and testing out toys sent by mistresses somewhere else is but a mere drop in the overflowing bucket. ‘I’m not hungry.’

The limit has been reached.

End of the line.

Of this.

Us.

If there even ever has been a happy chronicling couple.

‘You’ve barely eaten.’ The unsuspecting fork picks up a perfectly grilled asparagus, endeavouring the feed a soul starved of happiness. A perfectly useless attempt at making things right for the culprit knows very well what goes on behind the scenes that are enacted every time at the workplace, the little faked though credible moments of two youngsters being solely friends but perhaps a bit more. No one knows for sure, but they do assume. Gossip has a way of being heard, even when feigning to ignore it in favour of personal fantasies. ‘At least have a few more vegetables.’

‘Did it...’ A wry smile carves itself on a face which is on the edge of tears, remembering every word said at the collective coffee machine in the cafeteria alongside the lovesick comments on every digital upload and equally sensual reaction to a novel novel. How can the detailed storyteller not notice the burning water droplets searing their way to the lash line?

Begging.

Begging to fall.

To be noticed.

Because they have had to hide so bloody long in loneliness.

Denied.

A significant detail.

‘Did it mean anything?’ God forbid that the words spilt between the sheets, on dates and in secrecy in the coffee corner did not hold any meaning. Withal, knowing how writers are for the craft is part of one’s own personality, there are no better tricksters. Words can be made pretty, cunningly serving to conceal the ugly truth.

‘What? Did what mean anything? Babe, what are you on about?’ The uncomprehending gravely worried furrowed brows relax, raven irises softening as they discover the tale of the Ice Queen’s heart and damnably igniting the thawing process. Looks can kill, as is the word on the street, and the big pale wolf knows it judging by the gentle smile only reserved for his foolish mistress. ‘You’ve been listening to gossip again. Look, I’ll say it again and I still mean it. I love you, Y/N. Only you. You ought to know that by now.’

The supposedly well-meaning palm resting between the abandoned dishes is not lovingly covered, digits remaining apart instead of entwining in blissful union. Instead, the chair is pushed back as the napkin that formerly rested on the lap is viciously thrown onto the table surface. Voice is barely controlled, dangerously close to cracking yet forced to maintain steady fury. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me! I know this means nothing.’

‘Means nothing? This means nothing?’ The actions are fiercely mimicked, the pleading tone in speech overruling the fabricated calm demeanour. ‘It does, babe. It really does.’

‘Yeah, right. As if you haven’t said that to one of those horny dolls who gladly listen to their fantasy boyfriend or read about all the wonderful things you’d do to them. What did you call them again? Your honeys?’ There is no stopping the jeering guided by the incomparable ache rendering every nerve paralyzed, an alternative ego who feels betrayed rising with every second of the outburst.

In the end, she, too, is one of many.

I am nothing.

‘Babe, please-’ Agonizingly following footsteps attempt to reason, begging to stay for a proper vis-á-vis to resolve this “problem” while making their way to the hallway.

Evidently without success. ‘Oh, piss off. I’m sure you had others in the time I was gone.’ The searing tears on lashes in the wee hall finally stream down the cheeks, lost in bittersweet memories of a time ruled by naivety. When every touch was so certain of love, felt protective and was believed to be sincere.

Notwithstanding, that was then.

This is now.

‘It really meant something to me, you know? I fucking gave myself to you because I stupidly trusted you, Chan! You were my first.’ A shake of the head brings about enough steadiness to remain coherent in speech, to at least keep a total breakdown at bay a little longer. The battle is almost won, a little bit more perseverance needs to be put in before all might become actually well. ‘But I could’ve, no, should’ve known better. So fuck off and leave me alone.’

Just as a hand reaches towards the knob of the front door, a firm palm wraps painfully around the left wrist. Once that power was loved, but now it is just that: hurt.

And it wants… needs to be left behind.

To make it pay for the solitude.

The agony needs to face the consequences.

‘No.’

The pain in the shape of the man who was believed to make up the world.

Stupid.

We both only have our stories to speak honestly in because they are the sole place where it is possible to be true.

Funny how a broken heart ignites a sense of creativity to exploit and there is a sudden haste to make use of it. Or so the mind wants this to be the reason behind the futile struggle for freedom for the real reason is the simple need to get away before breaking the character of the hard-headed sneering Ice Queen and leave oneself in fragments on the battlefield. ‘Let. Me. Go.’

A vicious tug makes feet stumble away from the entryway and slam into the wall opposite the stairs, Chanyeol’s face mere inches away and obsidian irises burning with sorrowful rage that has grown from incomprehension. All acting halts at once, alarmed breath coming out ragged as the powerful gentleman is sought frantically on a quietly raging beautiful expression. ‘I won’t. Not until you finally listen to me and know who you belong to, young lady.’

Slender digits clad in a chic ink-black jacket roughly push aside underwear, unapologetically disappearing beneath the skirt to exert sexual dominance as lips powerfully nullify all chances at protest. ‘This is mine. Only mine. All I can think about these days, so much so I can’t even write without giving you a role in my novel.’

The possessive growling fuels the heat below, slowly reducing the hurtful stretch, as all vocabulary is lost in the marks left behind on the throat by stark white teeth. Miraculously, the ability to resist the temptation remains although it falters and starts to stutter in the strong secure warmth of a familiar palm at the end of the spine. ‘I- I don’t be- believe you.’

‘Who do you think is more credible?’ A rough mind-boggling thrust goes paired with the branding being interrupted to snarl against a slightly open mouth, dominant despite oddly affectionately resting foreheads against one another and chuckling as haphazard fluttery palms rest on broad shoulders. ‘The man who loves you or some women you don’t even know?’

In spite of being barely able to respond, a piece of hateful Logic remains and is capable of jeering and mocking the question that should have served to set things right. ‘But y- you could’ve fucked.’

‘I didn’t. Listen to me, young lady.’ The hand that formerly rested on the small of the lower back rises to envelop the throat, forcing a lock of gazes while enchantingly cutting off access to air. ‘Ever since we met, I’ve been yours. I’d never give anyone else a role in my novels because nobody inspires me like you do.’

‘D- Don’t stop.’ There is too much deliria to persist in protesting, each movement beneath fabric erasing the thought of resisting the platinum wolf as soon as it arises. Instead, it gives rise to memories of beautiful naive nights that make up the horror and delight of an insane mistress of letters, both inside the pages and outside.

Throwing the heart back into bittersweet love.

‘Ah, there she is. There’s the helpless little slut I know.’ With an ashamedly wet noise, slim fingers undo the bodily connection that had been greedily gone along with, leading to an inevitable displeased whine that evokes a lovely dark chuckle.

A nudge of the nose asks to follow the focus of the seemingly only sane mind, see what the writer wants to be noticed without resorting to loathsome spoon-feeding. It is all in the details, that is where the heart of the tale lies. ‘See that?’

Lashes flutter innocently as gaze wanders lower and lower to restricting dusk-shaded denim, wordlessly remarking on the considerable outlined shape that the idiotic heart and persona meant to have walked out the door greatly want to exploit. ‘Only you do that to me, Y/N.’ An almost sweet peck on the forehead turns attention upward briefly before receiving another on the lips, after which a command makes hands act in too enthusiastic desirable greed. ‘Undo the zipper.’

It takes little time nor effort to force down sturdy and elastic fabric to bare burning desire to the chill air in the hallway. And it takes even less than that very same moment to be pinned against the wall once again, thighs supported by iron hands promising to never let go, and directly connect in body and soul.

Willingly.

Beautifully.

‘Fuck, every time is like the first. I remember our, grm, hrm, first night. How you begged me to go harder-’ the speed accelerates, snarls growing more and more savage with every advance as behaviour, too, becomes wonderfully harsher, ‘rough you up. All the while acting like an innocent doe, turning me on. Mewling, pinned to the bed, forced to take me. God, I love it when you’re like that. Helpless. Powerless. Submissive.’

Every word is accentuated by an animalistic thrust, a sweet kiss on the side of the neck contrasting with the teeth leaving behind plum marks of possession at equal intervals. A low rumble of delight at platinum locks being pulled on vibrates in the buff chest lovingly keeping the spine against the wall, rejoicing in the flowing waterfall of mere meek noises.

Exactly as we were during the first night.

Loving now as we had before.

Honestly.

Snarling sweet nothings against skin while erasing every thought in the chase for the satisfaction of primal desire. When tears of analyzed sadness turned into those of unadulterated pleasure. ‘Crying as you take my cock deep inside that dripping little pussy.’

‘Cha- Chanyeol-’ There are no words to break through the haze of bittersweet nostalgia, leaving the sentence unfinished. It does not matter for all focus is turned towards reaching temporary enlightenment as fast as possible in the most savage manner.

‘Cum on that cock, baby. Cream that fucking cock.’

Any sense of resistance that somehow managed to linger, loathing Logic deeming the act wrong in every aspect and begging for liberation, is erased in an instant as the command is pressed onto firm lips.

It is wonderful.

Incredibly gorgeous.

Having Chanyeol wrap his storytelling palm around the throat once more as the other presses bodies together until there cannot possibly be any distance left. Wolfish grunts fall from cushiony lips, chanting maddening “mine, mine, mine”s, while sprinting during the final bit of the primitive race, soon reaching the white light found between shivering thighs.

Who are crying silently in a paradoxical mixture that cannot be kept alive consisting of sensual delight, heartbroken self-hatred and rage directed towards loved pale locks.

Tears to, fortunately, be noticed once reason returns enough to no longer be under the influence of the desirable beast beneath the skin. Henceforth, it is the incredible author who affectionately wipes away the droplets running over the cheeks as onyx irises soften in comprehension of pain. ‘Hey, don’t cry, Y/N. Remember what I promised you?’

A head shake shows ignorance because there have been a great number of promises until now, which is acknowledged by the low chuckle that never fails to allow the usual guard to be let down and now disrupts the quiet panting betraying a sliver of glad exhaustion. The simple sound never fails to make the chest puff a little in pride and veins to bask in a loving warmth, even after being frozen in place without hopes of crumbling thanks to the vivid rumours floating around the office. ‘I know I have promised you a lot, but one thing is that I’d never make you cry because I’d never dare to break your heart. I genuinely love you, seriously am head over heels for you. Can you believe me when I say that?’

It is hard to respond negatively when bodies are still one and foolishly trusted palms envelop the cheeks, resulting in wavering speech on the verge of cracking. Withal, a little bit of strength is gathered from the tight grip on defined biceps engraved with ink. ‘I wa- want to, but... the gossip...’

‘Listen.’ A long tender kiss muffles the sobs aching to be released alongside the gasp at the sudden hollow feeling when the physical spell is lifted. Another one asks for focus on talking things over instead of paying attention on the faint sound of liquid dripping onto the hallway tiles. ‘You crying makes me want to cry because it hurts me to see you like this. It really does, babe. And people will always talk, but, perhaps, it might help if we go public? I have an interview soon.’

‘People will think I’m only dating you for your money.’ No matter if a statement will be made, the way of thought lies outside the influence of words. Authors know this first and foremost for each sentence that is penned down fails to fully convey what might be going on in vivid imagination and thus fails to be entirely understood.

A bittersweet smile tugs on the corners of the mouth as messy snow white locks fall obscure the sight of lips drawn into a stern line speaking melancholically, mocking oneself. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you’d do.’

With more fierceness than expected, an answer to the rhetorical assumption bursts from a panicked mouth uncensored, clutching the soft fabric of clothes as if not doing so will induce an unbridgeable abyss. ‘But I don’t!’

‘I know that, Y/N. I know.’ Thumbs start to caress the sides of the face, somberly smoothing the anxious sorrow in self-reflection. ‘You know I hate losing, be it games or bets, but- but I- I-‘ Breaths grow short as tears start to brim in the corner of beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Hands fall away from the cheeks to wrap around the middle, the waist caught in a sturdy grip. Foreheads rest against each other and the arms of a claimed mistress wrap around the neck, fingertips playing with the pale strands at the back. ‘I would scorn myself if I’d lose you.’

‘You’ll lose readers if we go public.’ After all, not everyone enjoys a real life romance and certainly not those imagining one individual as their partner while he is, in truth, already faithfully bonded to another woman.

‘Doesn’t matter, I don’t care. If they’re true fans, they’ll be happy for us.’ Chanyeol’s voice has renovated its ocean deep steadiness, tiny lights appearing out of nowhere to illuminate a sudden bright cheery idea in a nightly gaze creating a bit of distance. ‘You know what? I’ll buy you a ring and a matching one for myself so everyone can see you’re mine.’ A palm shows itself from behind the small of the back to grab the left wrist and trace over the second-to-last digit. ‘To wear on this finger.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Yes.’ The breathless chuckle is strangely melancholic yet delighted, the curious combination taking over demeanour entirely. ‘Yes, of course. Anything to keep you with me.’ The mere embrace suddenly turns into an inescapable hug, broad shoulders blocking out the world that wants to be temporarily forgotten. ‘I want you with me, only you. Please, stay with me. Here.’ The nose often kissed in the morning or cheekily out of sight of the publishing house staff nuzzles the side of the neck, whispering against the warm skin. ‘I want you to move in.’

‘Is that a wish or a command? I’m my own person, you know?’ The weak attempt at humour is seemingly appreciated, Chan tangibly chuckling before sighing in relief when being kissed on the top of the head.

‘There she is, there’s my good clever girl.’ Foreheads come to rest against each other once more in the air scented by whatever remains of dinner, perspiration and our perfumes combined, creating a weird musky howbeit fruity undertone. The chin is lifted by a curled finger after calmly being put to rest against the wall instead of being fully at the mercy of the writer’s engraved arms. ‘But you know very well what I mean, young lady.’

‘I do,’ fingertips bashfully run over the side of the storyteller’s neck, leaving behind a growling trail of anticipating goosebumps before rising to comb through pale strands, ‘sir.’

‘Don’t.’

A peck.

‘Tease.’

A kiss.

‘Me like that.’

Lip caught between teeth.

And freed once having clearly asserted dominance. ‘I’m yours.’ Although the inquiring peck on the cheek does not partake in the sensual teasing but is severe in character. ‘And you’re mine?’

Catching on to the need for credibility, the erotic novelist acknowledges it while sweetly yet sincerely murmuring. ‘Entirely yours. Not just in stories or audios, in real life as well. As long as possible, until we no longer breathe. This I promise.’

And thus this part of our tale ends, the fragment of the middle part leading to the end.

Of that which ink cannot fully capture on paper, in sounds or on skin.

Withal, it is not necessary because we have each other for inspiration and retellings.

Musing.

In love.

In medias res.

#ksmutclub #EXO #EXO smut #EXO x Reader #Chanyeol #Park Chanyeol #LOEY

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otheroutlandertales · 5 years

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Anonymous said: In season 2 Ep. 13 Brianna and Roger go to Fort William. As Brianna comes close to the platform where Jamie was flogged, she says the place gives her the chills. What if she walked up the platform and touched the post where Jamie was shackled. Would she see anything? Brianna was born with a caul which according to Scottish superstition states she might have second sight. Just wondering.

Chills

by @futurelounging

Brianna hadn’t expected to laugh quite so much with him. In the short time she’d spent getting to know Roger within the quiet sorrow of the Manse, the conversation was muted, their voices prone to whispering as if the Reverend’s spirit might take offense at too soon a return to normalcy. She found herself immediately drawn to his open face, soulful eyes that held no secrets. She thought them the very opposite of her mother’s, whose eyes always seemed to be looking through everything.

He had a boyish smile that contrasted with the sharp lines of his face, his beard aging him just enough for Bree to feel a hint of danger in her attraction to him. Where other men might concern themselves with appearing strong and confident, she had met Roger at his most vulnerable, moments after tears had stung his eyes while he tried to swallow the loss that weighed down the air in his home.

Bree had initially thought little of his offer to provide rooms for her and her mother for a few days. She was merely happy to have some time to get to know him, to explore this land that was so different from her home. Driving along the winding road with him now, curving along the edge of snow-capped mountains, she spies the rooftop of a bothy peaking through the branches of leafless oaks. She pulls her focus back to him, to his face expressively recounting his attempt to fix the boiler for the Reverend last winter. She’s entranced by the words falling from his lips, though every fourth one seems made up, some lyrical Scots word she’s left piecing together through context.

In his storytelling she sees the first signs of his true self, shining brighter the deeper into a story he gets. Brianna realizes, as he smiles at her, waiting for her reaction, that his invitation to her and her mother was his attempt to staunch the flow of his life draining away. That great home would swallow him in loneliness and mourning, so he opened his palms to them, a request for aid.

She laughs at him, at his story and his words and the leisurely speed at which he drives. “I’ve seen grannies drive faster than you.”

“Wha -! Ye ken deer could come running in front of us at any moment, making a right mess of things, stranding us out here.” He looks at her a bit shocked at her accusation and finds her biting her lip back at him, choking on a laugh.

“Is that so?” she teases.

“Hmmph. All right.” Roger presses his foot to the accelerator and the car shudders before picking up speed, at which point it begins to shake. “I canna tell if that’s the car shaking or you laughing so hard. All right, see? She doesna want to go too fast. I must abide by her rules.” He slows down and mock laughs along with Bree.

She realizes, as he pulls the car to a stop outside Fort William, that she hasn’t enjoyed herself this much in a long time. And with that realization she feels a nervous energy, her stomach knotting as she exits the car, pulling her cap down just as a gust of wind threatens to abscond with it.

Bree’s customary response to nerves is to follow her parents’ ways. She pulls herself up straight, walks quickly toward the entrance, and drapes herself in a forced confidence, a casual intellectualism that serves as a barrier to the uncertainties hiding inside her. She tries to impress Roger with her knowledge, tamping down the defensive arrogance that threatens to surface. And throughout it all she hates that she feels compelled to put on a show now. They are working backward, starting off vulnerable and real, and growing stilted and affected.

The day has been perfect, a charge sparking between the two of them as they near each other, shoulders bumping on the uneven stone within the fort. And still, something inside her wishes to push him away. A fear of rejection, of loss, of failure, that keeps a corner of her heart locked away.

The suffocating stone walls give way to open air in the center of the court. She rambles to him of her memories of visiting Fort Ticonderoga with her father pontificating on American historical heroes, only vaguely conscious of how she is mimicking him now. Roger attempts to impress her with his knowledge of American history and fails, another notch of endearment Bree stows away.

The memories of her father in a place like this stirs something deeper inside her, the empty places where her parents still remain a mystery to her. “Do you remember my father very well?”

She isn’t sure what she hopes to hear. Perhaps some secret to unlocking her father’s mask, the part of his story that seemed to follow their family like a shadow while he lived and seemed like a ghost once he was gone. To know him, she thinks, would help her understand that same part of herself that feels elusive and incomplete.

Her mother has been of no use, doling out memories of her father with measured precision, void of personal connection, the same conclusions that might be reached from paging through photo albums. Her mother has grown more and more distant since her father’s death and she knows it isn’t due to her mourning him.

Brianna cannot say there was ever a certain moment to point to, or question left unanswered, but there was more to their family’s story. That she knew.

Roger answers with vague memories of his youth and she pockets them as tiny treasures, another piece of the puzzle. Still, something about being in this place makes her uneasy, off balance. She had felt it from the moment they left the car, thinking the jitters in her stomach were caused by her attraction to Roger. Perhaps it was simply the harsh history of the place, the brutality soaked into the ground she walked upon. But no, she thinks not; there is something else.

They round the corner and stop short of the platform. It has a lower level with a thick post up the back against which is affixed a higher platform where men would be kept in stocks, exposed to the elements. Her feet freeze before it, legs leaden, and a shiver runs through her body. “This place gives me the chills.”

Brianna is not one to be spooked. She views the world with hard rationality; an explanation exists for all things. But Roger does not know this of her, how unusual it might be for her to sense something beyond the world she can perceive with eyes, ears, and fingertips. He himself is no stranger to spirits and ghosts. Scotland is crawling with them, the air shifting as the dead move through the world.

She hears Roger speaking of the blood from men long departed that had run from the platform, but his words are distant, something carried on the wind. Her nails dig into her side, the wool of her jacket snagging against a cut on her finger and she feels lost in the dark, stained wood of the raised dais. She hears a creak, as if someone had pulled a rope tightly against the wood. Another creak. A moan, as if someone has fallen, has been broken by this place. Her ribs feel like they are crushing her lungs and her wrists burn, her body revolting against the very air of this place.

Roger turns back to her and she joins him, her feet clumsily skidding over the damp stones as they return to the car.

“Are ye all right, Bree? Ye look pale,” Roger notes, concern creasing his face.

“Mmhm. I’m fine,” she answers, her voice clipped.

Roger turns the ignition and waits, resting his hands on his thighs. “The Highlands are full of stories of folk getting visions of the past in places like this. I dinna mean imagine things, but truly seeing them. To have the Sight and know the truth of something.”

Brianna does not look at him. Her throat tightens.

“Were ye born with a caul, do ye ken? Some say that might foretell yer abilities.” Roger speaks tentatively and gently, not wanting to push her.

Her gasp is confirmation enough. “How did you know?” She barely speaks the words, lets them escape her lips on a breath.

“What did ye see?” The car hums and vibrates as they sit, an occasional gust of wind rocking it.

“I don’t know. Just… Hands tied, bloody wrists. Limp fingers. Pain and loss and fear. And a spark of defiance or courage, maybe? I could feel it.” She risks a glance at him and finds him watching her intently, no hint of amusement on his face. “What is the point of me seeing that? Why show me something like that?” Her voice rises in frustration.

Roger shakes his head, thinking. “In the old wives’ tale version of the story, you were being shown the answer to a question, maybe one you’ve never dared ask aloud, maybe one ye dinna even ken yet. Like pieces to a puzzle.”

Brianna huffs an amused breath and smiles at him, eager to free herself from the weight of the vision. “Right. Well, no more puzzles for me today.”

Roger returns the smile and pulls the car onto the road, turning to look at her again. “Let’s go, then. I’m starving.”

“You say that a lot, I’ve noticed,” she laughs.

“Weel, it happens to be true a lot.”

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod fulo #pair: roger x bree #ch: bree #ch: roger #show compliant #show: season 2 #category: mf #oot #*

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bthump · 5 years

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I'm pretty sure you've already talked about this but, I want to know your opinion on guts letting go of his obsession with griffith? In one of berserks chapters when they ask his opinion about hawk of light he answers with a smile so people think that he's gotten over it

Extremely short answer: if that’s chapter 345 you’re referring to Guts isn’t smiling in a single one of his panels after he gets asked about Griffith, in fact he has a pretty pronounced :/ face throughout, so that’s just inaccurate. If it’s a different scene, then I have no memory of Guts being asked about the ~Hawk of Light~ any other time so idk lol.

Now, here’s the long answer. I wrote it out last night and decided it was too late to post. Now that the new chapter raws have come out, well, idk if anything here is straight up contradicted now (i’m being pretty vague anyway), but bear in mind that I wrote this before seeing them.

This is a tricky topic for me ngl, like this is the exact question that fucks me up when it comes to my hopes and fears for Berserk.

Is Guts going to get over his obsession with Griffith and genuinely move on?

But as of right now my answer is an emphatic no, Guts is not over his obsession yet. After his last climactic test of resolve when he got in a boat on the docks we saw Guts’ residual feelings loud and clear. Guts’ eyes meeting Griffith’s across a vast distance, the Beast of Darkness taunting him in his subconscious and calling Griffith “the true light that burns us,” and Guts thinking to himself on the boat, “when this journey’s over, I’ll…” before flashing to an image of Griffith.

It would just be straight up poor storytelling if somewhere between Guts ruminating on the boat after the sea god fight and landing at Elfhelm he’d conquered his obsession off-screen and now he’s totally “over it.”

What I think is possible, if shitty, is Guts conquering his obsession at some point in the future in a climactic and conclusive way - after backsliding first. Like let’s be real here, all this constant foreshadowing about the armour and the Beast of Darkness and Guts ignoring various warning signs etc isn’t going nowhere. Guts is going to lose himself to the armour and fight Griffith. That’s pretty much a foregone conclusion.

After that happens I will grant that there is a chance we’re headed for something along the lines of the power of rpg group friendship and/or het love saving the day and Guts’ soul, bringing him back from the armour, and then Guts conquers his obsession properly and… Griffith is defeated in some way, quite possibly because after everything he’s failed to overcome his own feelings. Might be an end of his own making, if that’s the case. Could be by Casca’s hand. Guts could still easily die in this scenario, but yk, it’d be bittersweet bc he dies with his humanity intact or whatever.

Conversely, what I want to happen, what I think would be good, emotionally impactful and thematically resonant writing, is Guts being forced to confront and untangle his feelings for Griffith instead of just trying to overcome them. I want Guts’ apparent inner conflict of Griffith/revenge/Beast of Darkness vs Casca/rpg group/humanity to ultimately turn out to be overly simplistic bullshit. I want Guts’ attempt to get over Griffith to have been misguided from the start, another one of his many ultimately futile and misguided attempts to repress painful and complex feelings through the pursuit of a goal.

I think the most satisfying ending is one where Guts finally confronts his mixed feelings for Griffith and untangles them, and finds the positive feelings still have value. I want the remains of their intense world-altering relationship to go hand in hand with the tattered remnants of their respective humanities. I want Guts to emotionally connect with Griffith and his conveniently unfrozen heart during their final confrontation so they can finally understand each other and their feelings and give readers a real cathartic conclusion to their relationship while probably providing an intimate emotional parallel to whatever world changing metaphysical bullshit is also going on.

Like not only do I not want Guts to move on, I want Guts’ failure to move on to mirror Griffith’s failure to move on and be an essential piece of a non-tragic ending. I want Guts’ lingering positive feelings for Griffith to be what save him from the armour, or from losing his soul to the temptation of revenge, or what the fuck ever.

I want their Golden Age relationship to still have a positive impact on the story, basically.

Essentially my question when it comes to the future of Berserk isn’t Will Guts get over Griffith? but rather Should Guts get over Griffith? And I want the answer to be no.

Idk. I can honestly see good arguments either way lol. It’s frustrating, for every great argument I come up with that supports Guts examining his complicated contradictory feelings and untangling them rather than lumping them together and getting over them, I think of an argument that supports Guts getting over Griffith entirely as intended genuine personal growth. And vice versa, for that matter.

But no matter which option is more likely at this point, I absolutely 100% think that Guts confronting his feelings instead of getting over them is by far better writing. It’s less contradictory, it’s more interesting, it’s narratively symmetrical (in that Guts and Griffith and their mutual failed attempts to get over their residual feelings would mirror each other), their relationship’s got more emotional grounding and build up than Guts and a group of people who barely know him, or Guts and a woman who only even entered into a relationship because Miura wanted more Eclipse drama, it’s more thematically resonant*, and imo it’s absolutely necessary to any emotionally satisfying ending.

Also like, I want to emphasize that this doesn’t mean Guts needs to go “oh shit I’ve been wrong the whole time I should’ve been dealing with my Griffith related feelings instead of trying to fix Casca, wow I fucked up” lol. Literally all it would take is a) Elfhelm turns out to be a bust (which I think is very likely anyway), and b) the emotions between Griffith and Guts amount to something positive as they conflict. This can be anything from smthn life saving to a moment of understanding and personal fulfillment to something that affects the world in a more yk epic metaphysical way to saving souls, to one or both dying smiling.

I just need something, you know?

*I use this phrase a lot lol but what I mean specifically here is that Guts and Griffith’s relationship has been our main illustration of the impact of relationships in contrast to isolating dreams, and I think it would be more powerful to maintain their relationship as our illustration of that theme - true light, the impact of being known and valued, love and hate and need for connection, humanity vs monstrosity - than to swap it out with a different relationship in the last fifth of the story or whatever, and depict Guts and Griffith’s confrontation without that intense, complex emotion fueling it.

#Anonymous #ask #a #b #theme: speculation #theme: ending #theme: true light #character: guts #theme: relationships as personal growth

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hisband · 6 years

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okay, so i’m trying to process a lot of fucking information about the current lore at once and a lot is happening so bear with me while i try to sort out my thoughts

spoiler alert: i don’t hate it! no negativity to be found here; just analysis. also a trigger warning for mentions of medical stuff, injuries and a brief mention of animal death.

mur.doc has been sent to the infirmary due to a serious beating from big ba.lls mcgui.nness, the most feared inmate at worm.wood scr.ubs. he mentions that his jaw is wired shut, most of his fingers are broken, he cannot walk and one of his eyes has been badly damaged.

i actually predicted mur.doc suffering a serious eye injury some time ago and while i’m horrified and upset that this has happened to him, it made me feel really validated that my theory ended up coming true!

i actually really like how they’re writing mur.doc right now. he’s made some remarks and jokes that haven’t sat well with me, sure (re: the “death” of cor.tez that i’m refusing to believe is anything but a sick joke), but that’s to be expected. he’s mur.doc - he’s always been like that. it’s an integral part of his personality. but overall his attitude has changed for the better, and i think a lot of that has to do with the fact his escape plan is actually starting to work. it’s put him in much better spirits. while still pretty snarky and rude, muds shows genuine graciousness towards the parts of the gor.illaz fanbase who have reached out and helped him. his concern for the wellbeing of those fans is genuine as well; he knows el mie.rda is extremely dangerous and explicitly states that he doesn’t want anyone else getting hurt. that’s a huge step forward in terms of character growth. back in phases 1 - 3, mur.doc would’ve been much more willing to throw someone under the bus if that meant getting something out of them faster and more easily. here, he’s upfront and tells his fans that there is a risk factor involved with helping him. i understand that the writers probably threw that in there for exposition purposes as opposed to character development, but i can’t help but take note of it nonetheless. let me have this.

while i’m inclined to say they’re probably doing it for cheap laughs as opposed to actual representation, the writers have been allowing mur.doc to openly express attraction to other men far more often. his status as a mlm is not something he hides anymore; he’s pretty open about it, and that’s also a huge sign of character growth. i’m incredibly proud of him. unless the tv show / movie decides to do something really progressive, i think this is as close to mur.doc canonically coming out as we’re gonna get.

for those saying mur.doc has been sidelined in terms of the plot... i’m sorry, but he’s literally the one carrying the whole story right now. everything else, outside of mur.doc’s time in prison, has been pretty vague. he’s just as confused about what’s going on as the audience is, and we’re finding out new information with mur.doc in real time. i really like this style of storytelling.

on the topic of mur.doc acting as our major protagonist / the driving force of the narrative as he usually is (whether fans like to accept that or not), the team is really pushing him in terms of marketing right now - possibly more so than any other character with the exception of maybe stu. they really wanted to get people involved with the chat bot today and promoted the fuck out of it. it was really heartwarming to see, especially in light of all the negativity towards him from the fanbase and the official team themselves. even though the team has been treating him pretty badly up until this point and i still don’t totally trust them with him, they want people to like him. they’re actively trying people to engage with him. this is a really, really promising sign.

other promising signs include mur.doc stating that he fucking detests tr.ump if you ask him about that (it doesn’t totally make up for that hideous MAGA merch, but it’s a step in the right direction) and mur.doc actually replying to posts on tw.itter! he was very quick to chime in with fans insisting he’s not as bad of a person as he used to be, and while one can make a strong argument that he’s just doing it to make himself look good... that at least means the team was actually taking to time to go through fan responses. i’m not holding my breath or expecting much in terms of them listening to us about really sensitive topics (like getting mur.doc some professional fucking help for his mental health issues), but at least they’re getting to see that are still fans who really like him and want to see him become a better person!

as for the real meat and potatoes of the storyline... hear me out on this, but i’m starting to believe stu might have something to do with mur.doc not only being taken to prison, but some of the other really horrible shit that’s happening to him - like his eye trauma. look at this post. at first this looks like it could be a scary coincidence, but then you look at other shit like the lyrics of humility. i can’t take the credit for coming up with this theory (i found it here), but one of the lyrics for hum.ility is “i’m the lonely twin, the left hand”. if one does a quick google search, they’ll find this:

the full article can be found here. as mentioned in the original theory post, left-hand magic is often associated with satanism, which we know mur.doc is incredibly well-versed in and takes very seriously. what are the fucking chances that stu might’ve swiped some of mur.doc’s spell-books / satanic texts as a means of finally taking revenge on him for all the suffering mur.doc has caused him over the last 21 years? especially when you consider that da.mon, the songwriter, has opened up about being a pagan himself and would know what he’s talking about?

if you still think this sounds far-fetched, check out this illustration that can be found in stu’s journal. when you put that together with all the other evidence we have so far, along with the fact the sketch is meant to accompany the lyrics of a song called “sorc.ererz”... you can’t help but wonder how much credibility it has.

and if all this isn’t crazy enough? one of the warnings mur.doc gives you about el mier.da is that this demon is extremely manipulative and can “make your own mother turn against you.” could that explain why russ.el and noo.dle have been giving mur.doc the cold shoulder for five months straight? is this something that goes beyond just the the band just being fed up with mur.doc and wanting nothing more to do with him for the sake of their own sanity? it may just be a coincidence, but it seems like a very odd and specific detail to include.

and top it all off? mur.doc suspects that el mier.da may be a soul harvester. this is far from the first time that gor.illaz explored a “deal with the devil gone horribly wrong” storyline, and i’m wondering if that’s the route that they’re going with ph.ase 5, and if that’s connected to all the previous stuff i mentioned.

in summary: something extremely strange and unsettling is going on with the plot, and the groundwork for major upcoming events is clearly be laid out as we speak. da.mon already stated that the new album is just the chapter one of a much bigger story, and both he and jam.ie confirmed that a character-focused pha.se 6 is in the works. i’m a little nervous that things are going to go horribly wrong, but i’m at least invested in the story again and am willing - yet again - to give this all a chance. i just hope mur.doc comes out of it in one piece.

#( DO NOT REBLOG. )#⇩ ▬ sᴜɴsʜɪɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ʙᴀɢ ( ooc. )#( META. )#long post /#i didn't talk about the injured eye as much as i planned because i already covered that in an older analysis #but i'm starting to wonder if that's going to be a permanent change to mur.doc's character #i feel like... there's a chance it might be or that it's at least gonna take some time for the eye to heal up properly

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burlybard · 7 years

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The Living and the Dead and Undertale

I wrote this in October 2015. Four months later, my grandmother died. Six months later, my mom died. Grappling with so much tragedy has absolutely altered how I look at pop culture now, especially our culture’s relationship with death and mourning. But looking back at this piece, I don’t think I’d change a word. Only one thing has really changed: I believe, more than ever, that Undertale is perhaps the wisest and most emotionally honest game ever made about the subject of death, which is something most games are inundated with but never have the courage to address. It’s about sadness, mourning, remembrance, and love. It’s about the things we are so often afraid to confront when we experience tragedy. It is almost certainly my favorite game ever made.

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As a child, I didn’t comprehend death until a whole bunch of it hit my family all at once. When I was five years old, over a six month span aunt died at 23 of bone cancer, my grandfather died at 62 of pancreatic cancer, and my uncle died at 30 after he was struck in his car by a drunk driver. I learned then, before I knew much else about anything, that death was permanent, that death disabled entire families (some temporarily, some permanently), that death presented a wall of grief that simply has to be endured until every individual affected has the strength to move on, on their own terms.

As I grew older, the stories I consumed pretty much ignored all that.

In stories, death is typically a device. It is an obstacle for a hero to avoid. It is a convenient way of setting stakes. It is a means of taking large numbers of enemies out of the equation and assuring that they will not bother you again. It is a way of showing how much a character has changed, for the good (in how and why they face death) or for the bad (usually in inflicting it). This is not inherently a bad thing. Storytelling relies on tension. To create tension, characters need to have something to worry about. Death is hard to beat in that regard. Of the greatest TV dramas of all-time, how many didn’t rely on the possibility of death to provide impetus for the plot? Breaking Bad, The Wire, The Sopranos, Deadwood- all had death and killing around every corner. The same for Lost, The-X-Files, 24, and Game of Thrones.

Or what about films? Of the AFI’s top 50 films, by my count 35 feature death as a major plot point. Citizen Kane opens with the protagonist’s final breath. The Godfather is about a man’s descent into cold-blooded killing. Shane is about a man’s inability to escape a life of killing. Some Like it Hot is about two men who witness a murder and go on the run. Death moves stories forward. It’s natural to use to it to that effect. But sometimes, I wish more stories reflected on the aftermath. Sometimes, I wish more stories were about what happens when it feels like everything is crashing down at once, because someone you know and love has died. The way death affects the living is different for everyone. Stories are rarely about this.

That video games feature killing and death goes without saying. Ludonarrative dissonance permanently entered the gaming thinkpiece lexicon a few years ago as it became harder and harder to sympathize with a protagonist who commits mass slaughter simply to move the plot forward. I remember checking the stats while playing Uncharted 2 and seeing that I had amassed more than 900 kills and wasn’t close to finishing the game. The sheer absurdity of the number made it impossible not to imagine Nathan Drake- the game’s jovial and good-hearted protagonist- as a harbinger of death, wiping out entire bloodlines. It’s easier to make no attempt to reconcile the dissonance. It’s easier to accept it and get back to having fun.

My favorite work of literature about death is James Joyce’s short story The Dead. It’s title is up front about its theme, no? And yet the story itself meanders through a day in a man’s life, not broaching its titular subject until the very end. You’ve probably read it. If you haven’t, please do so now. It won’t take that long. The plot isn’t really about death. It’s about a man named Gabriel who builds his ego up a bit too much over a speech at a Christmas party. He hears someone singing “The Lass of Aughrim” in another room. He gives the speech. He is proud of himself. He is flushed with affection for his wife, Gretta. On the way to their hotel for the night, he asks her how she feels. Gretta reflects sadly on a boy she’d loved when she was young. He sang “The Lass of Aughrim” to her. Got caught in the rain. Died. Snow falls. Gabriel reflects on how this young man whose life was so short, who accomplished so little during it, could still so deeply affect his wife. They are all still bound together. The dead never really abandon the living. Humanity is in a perpetual state of overlap, those who knew the dead keep living, passing on their memories to others who never knew them. Joyce writes: His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

We never leave Gabriel’s point of view. Somehow, by the story’s end, we know Michael Furey. Time stopped for Gretta when he died. Sometimes, it still does.

Undertale. What does that title evoke? Graves, perhaps. A vague sense of the unknown. It takes place in a world of monsters. You are thrown into this world with no preparation. Early on, one monster asks you very kindly, to please have mercy when you get into a fight. This is easier said than done. You play the game as you are accustomed to doing with these games. Fight monsters, defeat them, level up. Progress through the story. But this game gives you options. You don’t have to fight. And if you do, you don’t have to fight to the death. Granted, it can be hard. But you don’t have to. You are reminded of this regularly. A character you kill might be referenced by someone else later on in the game. Characters you speak to might mention a frightening entity who has come down from above, killing innocents. But this isn’t new. You move on. You reach the end, beat the game. There’s much, much more to it than that, but I’m trying leave this experience as fresh as possible. The first playthrough of Undertale took me about six hours, and I enjoyed every minute.

After winning, the game does something that was surprising when it happened and, in hindsight, is sort of remarkable.

It asks you to play again. With absolutely no killing.

Is this a gimmick? It might look to be. It’s not. It’s where Undertale becomes something truly remarkable.

One of my favorite films about death is The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. Have you seen it? There’s a good chance you haven’t. It was directed by and stars Tommy Lee Jones, and written by Guillermo Arriaga. It generated some buzz at the 2005 Cannes Film Festival, where Jones won best actor and Arriaga won best screenplay. It came and went in February 2006, earned mostly strong reviews, grossed less than $10 million. I believe it’s one of the best films ever made about the living and the dead.

Melquiades Estrada (Julio Cellido) is a rancher in southern Texas. Pete Perkins (Jones) is his work partner and closest friend. Estrada (this isn’t a spoiler, look at the title) is killed senselessly by a border patrol agent (Barry Pepper) who, as men in positions of power and holding weapons that kill often do, fires without regard. The agent attempts to cover up the killing. Pete digs deep, finds out what happened, and exacts justice. A normal telling of this story would involve revenge. Eye for an eye. A killing for a killing. Death as a device. Jones and Arriaga have a better story to tell than that. Pete wants the agent to see what he has done. To honor the life he stole. Pete kidnaps the agent and takes him on a journey to Melquiades’s home town in Mexico. To say any more would be to spoil the quiet richness of this film. In refusing the easier path, it finds truth and beauty. Revenge makes for shallow stories. Pete’s method of justice accomplishes something deeper. He makes sure his friend is not forgotten. He ensures that Melquiades will survive for unforgiving march of time.

On my second playthrough of Undertale, I noticed a detail in one of the first locations. A diary. Its contents were amusing at first. Knowing their full context is impossible without beating the game once. Seeing it again, I felt my spirits lift with a sort of happy recognition, its meaning coming full circle., before falling back down with sadness, knowing its full context.

I found myself being more careful. Not just refusing to fight. Getting to know characters I hadn’t talked to before. Talking my way out of conflicts that I thought could only be resolved through violence. I found myself unlocking new relationships, new stories, and even new places in the game. I was more than happy with the novelty of this experience, of how different the game was with this approach. Then I neared the end.

A character who’d been my adversary in both playthroughs found themselves changed by my actions. They wanted to change. But time was running out for them. I hadn’t fought them. As in life, death comes to all, one way or another. I was given the chance to reach out to them, to forgive them for our differences. They reached out physically and embraced me. I don’t want to let go, they said.

They were the first character to die in this playthrough. I was moved to tears. Screw that. I was sobbing. Games are so often rife with death. Undertale, more than any I’ve ever played, is about the dead, as well as the living. It’s a game where the dead are meant to be remembered. And for the living in their wake, time stops.

#Undertale

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fan-tastic-fiction · 7 years

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Fanfiction Author Profile Friday

This is the seventh interview in what I hope will be a long running series! I think people need to feel more connected to the brilliant authors behind their favorite fics, I also feel that fic authors need to be taken just as seriously as published authors and treated with respect and admiration in the same way. Making money should not be the only way to gain prestige! Some of the best peices of writing I’ve ever read have been fanfictions and they are often equal or superior to published stories. If you have a story or author recommendation, let me know! And if you have a question you’ve always wanted to ask your favorite author, message me and I’ll try to make it happen!

Pen name: The Moonmoth (fun fact: I shudder at the “The” every time I write it out. Thirteen-year-old me thought it made me sound very serious and mature, but thirteen-year-old me was Pretentious with a capital P!)

Age: 33? I think? I am at that stage where I have to count up from my date of birth D:

Is English your first language? No. At home, we talk in Baby

How long have you been writing? There’s a beautiful self-insert Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles story in a primary school exercise book that my parents have kept, from when I was about 5. I was kidnapped and the turtles came to rescue me. I like to think of that as the start of my writing career.

What do you think your strongest piece of writing has been? If we’re saying completed piece, it’s The Lady of the Gift. I think the story is tightly written, well-paced and plotted, and has lots of nice world-building. It’s also, to date, the longest thing I’ve ever written – as a slow writer, I take quite a bit of pride in that :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/325083/chapters/523878

If we’re allowing WIPs, then it has to be The Soul Lies Down, which is possibly not at all well-paced or plotted since it keeps growing like a hydra, but has been so successful for me (so far) in terms of exercising The Craft that I feel like it’s brought me on a huge amount as a writer.

http://the-moonmoth.livejournal.com/200408.html

Your weakest? Well, I have (perhaps unwisely) uploaded fic to my AO3 account dating all the way back to 2004, so it’s a fair bet some of that is a little sketchier in quality than my more recent stuff…

What is your favorite website for posting your writing and why? In general it’s AO3 because it’s just so user friendly, but for Spuffy stuff, Elysian Fields is where the main action (read: comments) is.

What do you find most challenging about writing fanfiction in particular? The actual writing part! I have a six-month-old who, one could say, is occasionally healthy. The 5% of my day she doesn’t currently take up I spend eating or taking “me time” locked in the bathroom with the fan on (sometimes together)

In your opinion, what can the fanfiction community do to encourage fanfiction writers to continue their art? Cheer, cajole and bribe new writers to pick up their metaphorical pens and join the ranks of the obsessed. Once they’re in, it’s a drug – there’s no going back! Oh, and leave essay-length comments describing in detail what’s awesome about the fic, highlighting favourite lines and analysing the author’s clever allusions, symbolism and foreshadowing :D

What was your favorite review or comment? I’ve been very lucky over the years to have received some wonderful and often inspirational comments, but the one that springs to mind is the one that @yavannies left on The Lady of the Gift. It was the start of our friendship, which has lasted many years, changes of fandom, (very occasional!) differences of opinion, foul language, cross-continental moves, and child rearing.

What type of fanfiction do you enjoy reading? One of the wonderful things about fanfic is that you find yourself reading and enjoying genres you wouldn’t normally touch with a punt pole in the mainstream. For example, I fricking HATE zombies. HATE THEM. And yet one of the best fics I’ve read in recent years is Solstice’s “A Home at the End of the World” (linked below). So pinning it down is hard, but I suppose in vague terms it’d be something along the lines of anything well-written, with good characterisation that drives a compelling plot, a romance with a well-paced and believable arc for my OTP, and, yeah, teh hawt sex ;) Also, anything that works with fandom tropes is like catnip to me, whether it’s inverting them or gleefully and unabashedly running at them headlong, I LOVE that shit.

What are some of your favorite fanfictions or fanfiction authors?

Bearing in mind this is just some from two decades of voracious fic-reading.

Solstice, A Home at the End of the World http://dark-solace.org/elysian/viewstory.php?sid=4155 (I love Sol’s take on S4 Spike, and the domestic element as he’s forced into protecting Buffy’s family)

FlightsofFancy, Accursed http://dark-solace.org/elysian/viewstory.php?sid=4465 (this story is just plain beautiful, with delicious plot in an alternate S6, vivid prose, and a really refreshing take on spuffy)

St Ephiny, Ever Sun, Ever Moon http://dark-solace.org/elysian/viewstory.php?sid=4762 (I have some quibbles with the author’s style, but her storytelling hits me square in the id, mmph)

Rahirah/BarbC, The Barbverse http://archiveofourown.org/series/514 (Barb has, imo, the best take on Spike in the fandom, and plenty of incisive and witty insight into the rest of the cast. Her writing ticks every box for me, plot, characterisation, storytelling, pacing, and just all round craftswomanship in the construction of a good story. I envy and admire her skill in equal measure)

Bewildered (aka, my partner in grime), if I have to pick one then Restfield Irregulars, which I believe right down to my slippered feet she is writing just for me :D http://archiveofourown.org/works/9257948/chapters/20986136 (I have never laughed so much as I have reading, beta-ing and corresponding with Be, but underneath the funny, fluffy romance is a rich core of feeling and writerly skill that is easy to overlook but hard to pull off. And she gives woooonderful Buffy)

Yavannie, The First Day of Spring http://archiveofourown.org/works/966791/chapters/1897169 (Yav excels at subtle symbolism, subtext, and a lovely, spare writing style. This fic in particular is perfection)

Seperis, You’ll Get There in the End (It Just Takes a While) http://archiveofourown.org/works/20274 (this fic is basically pure, distilled fanfiction – it revels in its tropeyness and NC-17 rating with the original OTP, Spock/Kirk. Can’t count the number of times I’ve read it)

What are some major influences on your writing? That pretentious inner-thirteen-year-old :D No, okay. (Well, yes, but moving on). It’s a total cliche of course, but: life. I’ve reached an age now where quite a lot of Stuff has happened to me. Bad stuff, good stuff, passing the time of day stuff. The last five or so years have been particularly packed with stuff-ness, and so most of what I write is drawn from my experiences in some way. I am also very influenced by visual media, and I think it was @kimberlite8 who once pointed out to me that my writing is packed full of descriptions of body language, which I hadn’t noticed before, but yes, I see the scenes in my head like a film reel, and then try to describe what I’m seeing. And of course, the way I frame these mind-movies is shaped very much by the movies and TV that I watch.

Anything else you would like to tell people about yourself? I have a personal vendetta against phonetic spelling of accents. It makes my eyeballs bleed. I think it might be an allergy or something. One day, when I have some free time again, I’d love to take some poetry classes.

I would like to thank The Moonmoth so much for their time! They are one of my personal favorite fanfiction authors. I would like to encourage you to go and read their fanfiction! Remember to leave comments and kudos in support!

#fanfic #fanfiction #fic #fantasticfiction #author profile #author interview

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almondbiscotti · 3 years

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Week 2 - Keeping It Up

Week 2, let’s go!

Has been an odd week. Have been feeling extremely lethargic workwise. Can’t seem to concentrate and I keep procrastinating things. Only small bits of work give me inspiration and sparks joy and I’ll ride on the energy wave for a bit and it just flickers out.

That said, on the personal front, things have been not bad. Sticking to my goals, feeding my soul. Issagoooood.

Reads This Week

If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha (3/2021) When I finished If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha, I felt such a sense of grief. That it had to end, that I could no longer be part of the tight quartet in the book, at the sorrows of each character. Ah, the deep, unsettling sense of despair this book left me. I was scrolling through Instagram and was mentally yelling at every Instastory “HOW CAN YOU GO ABOUT YOUR LIVES SO APATHETICALLY WHEN I’M COMPLETELY DEVASTED BY THIS ONE WOMAN’S WORDS?!

This is how I want a read to leave me, despairing and desperate for more. Though I have to say it doesn’t really have a plot, no major plot development, no typical “cleverness” in storytelling. And you have to accept that the 4+1 girls you’re introduced to in the book will remain vague and blurry, like silhouettes in the rain. There is no resolution, though there is hope. (And dread actually, now that I think about it, funny how those two come together so often, Hope and Dread.)

But the language, it was so well written! Cha is wonderful at conveying sentiments of female friendship and made me ache for my girlfriends. I could relate so intensely to the frustrations of her characters, seemingly frivolous issues about ridiculous intense admiration (obsession?) for Korean idols, other girls who look better than you, but also deep-seated scars, embarrassment at one’s childhood, monstrous guardians and care givers, a desire to be more. I could not recommend this more. I’m glad I picked it up. I will re-read this again.

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig (4/2021)

“Between life and death there is a library. And within that library, the shelves go on for ever. Every book provides a chance to try another life you could have lived. To see how things would be different if you have made other choices”

This was a strange book for me. I thought I liked it. And I think I do, just not as much as I thought I would have. It’s really strange for me to say this because this is literally a book about possibilities. About choices you make that lead you to completely different lives. And I’m ALL about possibilities. This book was dripping with potential and I feel the disappointment of unrealised potential so very acutely.

I liked the first half more than the second half. Haig spends a good amount of time world building in the first half, talking about loss, about disappointment, about consequence of action and outcomes that don’t always meet our expectations. The premise is MAGICAL, so beautifully clever. A Library of possible lives, my heart aches at how poetic that is.

The second half just went into weird philosophical town. “The only way to learn is to live.”, “But now you’re lost within your lostness.” It got a bit… The 5 People You Meet In Heaven-ish. Which for some people is probably great, for me… it felt a bit preachy. Perhaps if you share similar regrets as the protagonist, Nora, you might like this book a lot than me.

Still enjoyed it though. For the love of the language. Haig is quite a virtuoso at wielding language to break your heart. Maybe it’s just personal preference, but I wish Haig took a more fantasy route, instead of a philosophical, Life Is About Living, approach.

Kim Ji-young, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-ju (5/2021) I first heard of this book some time in 2019 I think, reading a SCMP article about how there were Korean couples breaking up because they could not agree on their feelings towards the movie adaptation. (Seriously, fucking Koreans wtf?!) Apparently there was great division on how women are treated in Korea, tensions on gender discrimination and The Patriarchy was rearing its ugly head, calling foul on attempts of the feminist movement in Korea.

At that time, I was more intrigued by how ridiculous Korea can be (seriously, there were people sending death threats to female celebrities who even mentioned they read the book, what in the world?!) so I got a little swept away reading about how intensely chauvinistic Korea is. For all the shine and beauty of Kpop, Korea is really quite fucked up.

I’m about 20% in and I quite like it so far! It’s translated so there are some awkward moments but overall, the language is easy and regular, highlighting how normal the discrimination and injustice Kim Ji-young faces is.

Writes This Week

I.. haven’t finished my Kang Trilogy. Heh. I think I need some time away from it and will come back to it soon. I’m noticing that the Kang in my writing and the actor that kind of inspired him are becoming increasingly different. I think the Kang in my writing is becoming more like... me. I hope that one day, I’ll be able to write about things that I’m not familiar with, experiences that I’ve never had before. Practice, I’ll practise till I get there.

I did finish a piece on Instagram woes, one that I started some time back but came back and finished in like... 10 mins. (Time away really does help.) It’s the first piece I’ve ever sent to a friend for critique and I’m so so so glad I did! I hope this is the start of something between AG and me, writing, reading and critiquing each others’ pieces. :)

Reading more really does help with writing better!

Watches This Week

MiChuRi 미추리 Season 1 & 2 on random website I googled out A Korean variety show I started on because Song Kang was in it. Premise is that the participants of the show have to solve clues to find a sum of money hidden somewhere in this “village”. It has elements of 2 Days 1 Night and Running Man. Yoo Jae Suk hosts so you already know it’s gonna be good!

IT IS SO FUNNY HOMG WHAT. 10/10 will recommend for crack lols. I actually found myself learning quite a bit about the Korean language through this show. Also conclude that Song Kang looks great but he is severely lacking in the reasoning department. Boy is not what we would typically deem “intelligent”. But God Damn his beautiful face! God is fair, God is always fair.

Extracurricular on Netflix About half way through it. It is really very good but in small doses please. Sometimes I forget that our main characters are just high school students but when I do, I feel almost physically sick watching what they have to do to survive.

Kim Dong Hee is perfect as the incredibly introverted and troubled Oh Ji Soo. I think he carries the show. Some actors act with their eyes, Kim Dong Hee acts with his whole body. You can feel the desperation rushing out in waves from him, from his eyes to his shoulders to his frickin hair. I feel so much for him even though he essentially is pimping out underage escorts. Ah, CHEF’S KISS!

The Uncanny Counter on Netflix 3 episodes in and it’s not bad! Though the amount of bullying that happens in Korean schools... is it normal?! I hope it’s just dramatised for shows... Now that I think about it, Extracurricular had lots of school bullying. Ya... Korea, what the hell is up man?!

Also, none of the actors playing high school students look like high school students. Seriously, some of them could pass off as 40 year old uncles. Especially the bullies. Maybe they retain every year for the past 10 years? Is that why?

Okay, don’t let me put you off The Uncanny Counter. It’s really quite good. So far at least. Excellent storytelling, great world building, above average cast. A solid 7.5/10 in my books.

My main problem with it is that the characters are very one dimensional. I wish there was more nuance? Like you can fit every character in typical Kdrama tropes almost immediately and it makes the show very predictable. I LOVE the little friendship trio that our protagonist is in though. Is a rare thing, to find such precious friendships in Kdramas built on just pure friendship with no weird love triangle thrown in to complicate things.

Listens This Week

Rediscovered some of IU’s old stuff. Like really old, like 2008, 2010 old. I really like her duet with Na Yoon Kown called First Love, and of course, Good Day is great.

Been listening to quite a bit of Twice this week too. Well, just 2 of their latest singles. I really like I Can’t Stop Me and More and More.

Kpop still dominates my listening charts this week. Heh. :)

This week was not bad to me but I think I really need to pull my weight a bit more. May week 3 continue to be kind to us all! :)

#Nessa2021writes

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entergamingxp · 4 years

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Kentucky Route Zero review – haunting drifter’s odyssey comes to an end • Eurogamer.net

And so a meandering journey comes to an end. Kentucky Route Zero, “a magical realist adventure game”, was funded, modestly, on Kickstarter back in 2012. The first of its five episodes released in early 2013, the second a few months later, the third a year after that, the fourth two years later still. Now, following the almost exponential trend, after a further three-and-a-half-years, we get the game’s conclusion – alongside a new console edition of the entire series.

Kentucky Route Zero review

Developer: Cardboard Computer

Publisher: Cardboard Computer (PC), Annapurna Interactive (console)

Platform: Reviewed on Switch

Availability: Act 5 released 28th January on PC. Kentucky Route Zero: TV Edition released 28th January on Switch, PS4 and Xbox One

If you’ve been following this game since the start, then, it’s been a long road, and perhaps an exasperating one. Not that this wasn’t a fitting way to experience Kentucky Route Zero’s tale of a band of misfits getting drawn into a truck driver’s quixotic quest to deliver his load of antique furniture to an address that seems to get further away with every step. Some made their peace with the open ending of the fourth act being as good a place as any to leave it – and they weren’t wrong. But I doubt they will be disappointed in the fifth act that releases this week. Strikingly different in style, it’s a gorgeous epilogue that finds resolution while resisting the urge to solve any of the game’s many mysteries.

If you’ve been on this long journey with the game, I envy you. I have played Kentucky Route Zero from start to finish in the space of a week – all five episodes, plus the four interludes that developer Cardboard Computer released for free – and I’m not sure it’s the best way to take it in. Essentially a beautifully illustrated and animated text adventure, Kentucky Route Zero is slow, whimsical, interior, elliptical and at times deliberately frustrating. It is as inspired by theatre and installation art as film or video games; it’s dense with memory, digression and fragmentary, half-remembered lore. It’s not long, but it has too little plot and too much story to be comfortably consumed in one go. Like a meal composed of dozens of dainty side-dishes, it risks leaving you stuffed but unsatisfied. Better to give each portion its space (though three-and-a-half years of space might be overdoing it), to savour the flavours that linger long after you put the game down.

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Conway, the truck driver, asks for directions at a petrol station decorated with a giant horse’s head. In the basement he has the first of many encounters with people – ghosts? – who don’t seem to exist in the same timeframe as him. He is directed to the Zero, a secret, underground, extra-dimensional highway; it’s the only way to reach his destination. Getting to the Zero won’t be easy, but navigating it and the spaces – and people – it leads to will be trickier still. He acquires a travelling companion, Shannon, who loves to repair old TV sets and sees visions of her vanished sister in the white noise. (This game has a strong retro fetish for analogue technology: cathode ray tubes, radio static, magnetic tape, theremins. The suggestion is that these old machines left more room for magic and mystery than the digital world does – a tempting, if heavily nostalgic, point of view.)

Searching for the Zero, Conway and Shannon explore an old mine, where he injures his leg. They find the mystical road, but it only leads them into a bureaucratic purgatory of dead ends, odd characters and illogical institutions. They keep getting sidetracked. There’s a huge bird that carries houses; a game-within-a-game, running on an ancient mainframe computer, that tells the story of its own making; a tugboat navigating an underground river. An orphaned boy joins them, and a cool musical couple, and other lost souls drift in and out of the scene. No-one ever seems to be fully present, being constantly pulled back to their own thoughts, their own reality. The ultimate goal of the delivery is not so much sought as drifted towards.

This is what Cardboard Computer means by magical realism: a recognisably real world where fantastical things can happen and where dream logic holds sway. Kentucky Route Zero is clearly inspired by David Lynch, though not in the totemistic way other video games quote his hugely influential mystery-horror-soap, Twin Peaks. (You know what I mean: red velvet curtains, sharp-suited investigators, torch songs in roadside bars, creeping unease in placid Smalltown, USA.) Plenty of games have indulged in this while pursuing their own more or less conventional concerns, from Deadly Premonition’s outsider-art survival horror to Virginia’s elegant procedural. Kentucky Route Zero gets closer to the unsettling core of Lynch’s work, where the things that ought to make the least sense make the most – where the unreal and impossible has an awful, implacable truth about it. (It does also feature a torch song in a roadside bar, mind.)

In this world, a band of distillery workers appear as glowing skeletons; they make everyone uneasy, but nobody remarks on it. The laws of space and time seem easily pierced or folded, to which characters react with, at most, a vague bemusement. The images and moments Cardboard Computer conjures from this dreamscape have a haunting power. The trouble is that there isn’t quite enough reality in this magical realism. In Lynch, the surreal and horrifying lurch suddenly from a landscape of extreme, almost anaesthetised normality. In Kentucky Route Zero’s middle episodes, however, it plunges into head-spinning concept after head-spinning concept, taking each as far as it will go – a very video gamey thing to do.

At times this is almost alienating, which is a risk when your game gives the player such a slender toehold in the narrative. For all its oddity, this is a pretty linear piece of storytelling in which the choices you make are less about what will happen next and more about the inner lives of the characters: where their memories lead, how curious they are, the song lyrics that haunt them. You spend most of your time in this game reading. The script, by Jake Elliott, is good, with a compassionate humanity that balances the occasional excesses of surreal southern Gothic. I loved the passages when there was a sudden shift in perspective and a voice from a different timeframe would cut through – such as the scene narrated by a couple of bored office workers from the future, reviewing old CCTV tapes.

Kentucky Route Zero is a game of words, but it’s Tamas Kemenczy’s vector visuals for which the game will be remembered. It is extraordinarily beautiful. Small, fragile, hazy figures pick their way through skeletal spaces. The lighting is dim and suggestive, using silhouette and negative space to leave your imagination room to breathe, and there are some startlingly lovely effects. It often looks like a flat, paper-cut diorama until the camera slowly rotates, revealing its surprising solidity and depth.

The game has many obsessions: death, memory, the decline of rural America. There’s a rather heavy-handed subplot about the entire region being in hock to the electric company. But above all else it is fascinated by art. It is full of artworks: videos, songs, installations, poems, and that primitive, fully playable adventure game. Half the characters seem to be artists or frustrated artists. If this sounds dangerously self-referential, well, I suppose it is. It does seem rather preoccupied with the hipster bubble within which it is all too easy to assume the game was created.

Yet some of the game’s most persuasive moments take place within this art-within-art. I’m thinking in particular of two of the interludes (which you can download for free at the game’s site). The Entertainment is a play, experienced from the point of view of one of the performers, that introduces a location and characters that will pop up in the subsequent episode; Un Pueblo De Nada puts us behind the scenes at a tiny community TV broadcast during a torrential downpour, foreshadowing the final act. Both use a single fixed camera point to brilliant effect, creating a strong unity of place and giving a much-needed shot of reality amid the magic – despite the air quotes they appear in.

This trick is repeated by the game’s fifth act, which breaks formally with the fragmentary, collage-like approach of the preceding four. It all plays out in a single location, with a single camera floating high above the action, following the player’s focus (rather sweetly embodied in a gambolling cat). Characters are discovered in different moments and attitudes as the camera sweeps across them and we stop to hear what they have to say. The sun warms the scene and, for the first time, the world of Kentucky Route Zero feels tangible, whole, held together. After a week drifting through Cardboard Computer’s elusive dream of a game, this was quite a moment. I can only imagine how it feels after seven years.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/01/kentucky-route-zero-review-haunting-drifters-odyssey-comes-to-an-end-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=kentucky-route-zero-review-haunting-drifters-odyssey-comes-to-an-end-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

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