sometimes fire emblem but mostly tomatoes

Now defunct. Posts remain for archival posts only.

[amielleon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

In the years following the fall of the Phantom King, Leon and Takumi lead their countries through a changing world. In weighty moments in between, they navigate their relationship with each other.

Epilogue.

Or, start from the beginning.

[amielleon]

Finished Persona 5 a week ago or so. Wrote up my thoughts for anyone who's curious.

[hazeljng]

INTROSPECTION

(A drawing I did for another project, but I tuned it up a bit and made the image size not so awkward!)

[amielleon]

Realistically I will probably never finish this. Just felt like playing with colors and composition tonight I guess. And I've had Soujirou on the mind.

[ammie-plays-fe14]

I just finished rereading most of the Fates one-shots I’ve written and have come to the realization that, barring the vampire crack and pregnancy crack, pretty much everything is incredibly sad. Even the fluffy boyfriends h/c is incredibly sad. Actually, I don’t know if it’s h/c so much as just h insofar as the cuddling only serves to drive home mc’s inability to solve his bf’s problems.

“ammie I don’t think you understand what ‘happy ending’ means” yeah I’m starting to… see that…

[amielleon]

Conversely, though, I think I've rarely expressed the full extent of my dark worldview in my writing. "Life in Reverse" is maybe the only story where I didn't offer my characters some piece of saccharine hope that I don't honestly have.

(This is very much on my mind as I try to construct JoW's epilogue based on what should happen based on what I've written while irl I don't feel half as much at peace.)

[amielleon]

Tournament of Lies: A weird experimental retelling of Radiant Dawn Part 3 where Soren and Zelgius square off in information/disinformation campaigns as they try to break each other's well-entrenched front lines. Maybe through this they also somehow come to realize each other's secret identities and there can be some fun with that, and the way they are foils in their attachment to their masters. The Red Leaf: since I already gave a serious answer can I just say that my mind went straight to terrible Leif puns and never left

[amielleon]

made up titles: "A Lucid Nightmare" and "The Quiet"

“A Lucid Nightmare” is too straightforward for my taste when it comes to a story that’s actually about something horrifying. I’d be most likely to use it as a title for crackfic. Say, some older gen FE characters dream that they’re playing the parts of new age FE game characters, and they’re horrified at all the things grumpy FE elitists are horrified at? ww

“The Quiet” strikes me as a strangely good title for the big crossover asylum AU I’d been pondering a few years back. The perspective character, and hence the main plot, follows Tinny. She cries a lot. She has a lot to cry about. Her arc involves trying to get in contact with her angry biker brother (Arthur), the only one who she thinks loves her. Getting in contact with someone is a lot harder when you’re as cut off from the world as you are under her circumstances. Anyway, honorable mentions include Henry, who hides his pills and flushes them down the toilet because he’s fucking lonely and the voices he hears keep him company, and Lewyn, who is, ironically, a shrink.

[amielleon]

Title meme: Triple Platinum

Band AU, except instead of being about the cool rock star life I'd probably write about the imaginary nature of the relationship between star and fan, because when is my writing ever not about the failure of people to connect?One-sided Pelleas/Micaiah works well here. I can see the story taking place in that vulnerable period where Pelleas has just been handed a small commercial success he feels like he doesn't deserve. Micaiah, whose recent work hit triple platinum, helped promote Pelleas and that probably had quite a lot to do with it. Now an artist in his own right, Pelleas's relationship to the Dawn Brigade isn't that of being purely a fan. But he can't think of himself as being on their level either. And at the same time he feels like Micaiah must be able to see inside him, given how her songs pierce him (she is not actually psychic in this AU).Is "Pelleas is a mess" a story? Idk most of my stories boil down to something like that, don't they? :p

[bluegrasshole]

send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it

[allegedgreywarden]

I see a lot of writing advice, particularly about giving characters flaws. The main advice is “everyone has flaws! make sure to give your character flaws or else it’s not realistic!” And after thinking about it… I would like to challenge this.

It essentially posits a view of human nature that there are good and bad traits, and that these traits can be neatly diagrammed into separate columns, one set of which can and should be eliminated. It tends to go along with a view that posits character development should be about scrubbing away of “flawed” traits until the character achieves more a higher level of goodness, or else the character doesn’t and falls into tragedy. This is not untrue, necessarily. There are definitely some “flaws” that are 100% bad and sometimes a good arc is about slowly losing them. However, I could call this advice incomplete.

Consider thinking about it this way. Characters have traits and often whether or not that trait is a flaw is purely circumstantial.

For instance, fairy tales I read as a child. In some, when an old beggar asked for money on the road, it was a secret test of character. The prince who gave the old man money or food would be rewarded. But in other folktales I read, the old beggar would be malevolent, and any prince who stooped to help him would be beaten, punished for letting his guard down. Now, in a story as well as in real life, either of these scenarios can occur–a stranger who asks for help can be benevolent or malevolent. So which is the flaw? Is it a “flaw” to be compassionate? or is it a “flaw” to be guarded? 

Trick question–it’s purely conditional. Both traits are simultaneously a strength and a weakness. Either has an advantage, but either comes with a price as well. And whether the price is greater than the advantage depends on circumstance. The same can be said for most character traits, in fact!

An agreeable character who gets along with everyone will be pressured into agreeing with something atrocious because it’s a commonly held viewpoint. A character who’s principled and holds firm even under great pressure will take much, much longer to change their mind when they are actually in the wrong. A character who loves animals and loves to shower them with affection will get bitten if they try the same on every animal. As the circumstances change, flaws become strengths, and strengths become weaknesses. And even a trait that’s wholly virtuous, such as compassion, comes with a price and can be turned for the worst.

You don’t have to think about inserting flaws into your character. Your character, even the most perfect “Mary Sue,” is already flawed the moment you give her any traits at all. The problem with Mary Sue isn’t a lack of flaws, it’s a lack of circumstances to challenge her properly, to show her paying the natural price. Your job as an author is to create circumstances in the narrative that 1) justify why these traits exist in your character 2) show what your character gains from these traits and then 3) change the circumstances to challenge her. 

Make your character pay the price for their traits, for their choices. And then, when challenged, you can make a hell of a story by showing us how they adapt, or why they stick to their guns anyway.

[amielleon]

Update: my FEH stranger friend “daddy Ike” (now “your daddy”) does not disappoint.

(Also, I got my own RD Ike today. Hooray!!)

[catfromjapan]

[sonnywortzik]

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief” - taken from Anne Carson’s “Tragedy: A Curious Art Form”

[npr]

Cat Lovers, Is Your Cat Right- Or Left-Pawed?

Do you know which paw your cat uses first when coming down the stairs? Anthropologist and cat lover Barbara J. King discusses with researchers why a new finding of paw preference matters for our pets.

[bestpersonaccordingtosome-deact]

@julystorms

[amielleon]

I have literally drawn no 5*s whatsoever off this RD banner. My last attempt turned out to be Est. Why would RD betray me like this. (The PoR banner was like this too... I had a friend reroll me a new acc with Ike and Soren back then. This time I'll wait for Micaiah to reappear I guess...)

[omnia-est-vanitas]

"Last Letter" by Ted Hughes

[lovingsylvia]

What happened that night? Your final night. Double, treble exposure Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday, My last sight of you alive. Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray, With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan? Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed? Had I rushed it back to you too promptly? One hour later—-you would have been gone Where I could not have traced you. I would have turned from your locked red door That nobody would open Still holding your letter, A thunderbolt that could not earth itself. That would have been electric shock treatment For me. Repeated over and over, all weekend, As often as I read it, or thought of it. That would have remade my brains, and my life. The treatment that you planned needed some time. I cannot imagine How I would have got through that weekend. I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all? Your note reached me too soon—-that same day, Friday afternoon, posted in the morning. The prevalent devils expedited it. That was one more straw of ill-luck Drawn against you by the Post-Office And added to your load. I moved fast, Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight. Wept with relief when you opened the door. A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge Their real import. But what did you say Over the smoking shards of that letter So carefully annihilated, so calmly, That let me release you, and leave you To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray Against which you would lean for me to read The Doctor’s phone-number.                                                  My escape Had become such a hunted thing Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted, Only wanting to be recaptured, only Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum. Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis. Two days in no calendar, but stolen From no world, Beyond actuality, feeling, or name. My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life With its two mad needles, Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo Somewhere behind my navel, Treading that morass of emblazon, Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches, Selecting among my nerves For their colours, refashioning me Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other With their self-caricatures, Their obsessed in and out. Two women Each with her needle.                                        That night My dellarobbia Susan. I moved With the circumspection Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury Was an abandoned effort to blow up The old globe where shadows bent over My telltale track of ashes. I raced From and from, face backwards, a film reversed, Towards what? We went to Rugby St Where you and I began. Why did we go there? Of all places Why did we go there? Perversity In the artistry of our fate Adjusted its refinements for you, for me And for Susan. Solitaire Played by the Minotaur of that maze Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat. You had noted her—-a girl for a story. You never met her. Few ever met her, Except across the ears and raving mask Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her. You had only recoiled When her demented animal crashed its weight Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway; And heard it choking on infinite German hatred. That Sunday night she eased her door open Its few permitted inches. Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out Across the little chain. The door closed. We heard her consoling her jailor Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later, She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself. Susan and I spent that night In our wedding bed. I had not seen it Since we lay there on our wedding day. I did not take her back to my own bed. It had occurred to me, your weekend over, You might appear—-a surprise visitation. Did you appear, to tap at my dark window? So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you, In our own wedding bed—-the same from which Within three years she would be taken to die In that same hospital where, within twelve hours, I would find you dead.                                                   Monday morning I drove her to work, in the City, Then parked my van North of Euston Road And returned to where my telephone waited. What happened that night, inside your hours, Is as unknown as if it never happened. What accumulation of your whole life, Like effort unconscious, like birth Pushing through the membrane of each slow second Into the next, happened Only as if it could not happen, As if it was not happening. How often Did the phone ring there in my empty room, You hearing the ring in your receiver—- At both ends the fading memory Of a telephone ringing, in a brain As if already dead. I count How often you walked to the phone-booth At the bottom of St George’s terrace. You are there whenever I look, just turning Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar. In your long black coat, With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair You walk unable to move, or wake, and are Already nobody walking Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill Towards the phone booth that can never be reached. Before midnight. After midnight. Again. Again. Again. And, near dawn, again. At what position of the hands on my watch-face Did your last attempt, Already deeply past My being able to hear it, shake the pillow Of that empty bed? A last time Lightly touch at my books, and my papers? By the time I got there my phone was asleep. The pillow innocent. My room slept, Already filled with the snowlit morning light. I lit my fire. I had got out my papers. And I had started to write when the telephone Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm, Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand. Then a voice like a selected weapon Or a measured injection, Coolly delivered its four words Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

[amielleon]

Hi, I’ve spent 42/51 of my f2p orbs without finding a Micaiah. Who else can commiserate?

[amielleon]

Went through all the mini tempest orbs and the ones from the new event. 18 banked waiting on 2 more, still no Micaiah, can't even get blue orbs half the time. :( Maybe I'll just go back to Overwatch, where I'm nearly Diamond.

ETA: I’m Diamond! And still don’t have Micaiah.

[amielleon]

Did Nasir actually say that there was a time laguz enslaved beorcs in FE9?

I saw this thread on my dash and decided to pass because I'm just too tired for this. Sorry.