Look, we all know this is true. But there isn't a SOURCE for this, and the graph itself is basically illegible beyond "ooh colors". If we want to be good stewards of our informational resources, we need to cite our sources.
From a reverse image search, I found the website Show Your Stripes, run by the University of Reading in the UK, which is likely where the above graph originated. It provides temperature data for various regions of the world from approximately 1900-2025. For example, here are graphs for Canada, India, and Papua New Guinea:
All clearly show a sharp rise in temperature beginning around approximately the 1980s, which corresponds with the graph in OP's post. But now we know where this data came from, and we can verify its validity accordingly.
Would anyone be interested in a fic im writing? Im debating publishing it at all, but ive been writing it for the past several months (its decently long) and ive almost got it done...
Its my own AU of VSMP, where Goldsmith's past is a certain Starborne from Origins SMP...
If anyone's interested, feel free to comment a 🦇 for a quick sentence, or a 👁 for a story lore/AU info/world building blipit.
Cosplay PSA for Pantheon Cosplayers because I have a feeling this is gonna be a lot of yall's first time cosplaying semi nude charecters and we gotta go over some things for health and safety + some general fandom and artist points.
I am classing perceived nudity as something which looks nude but isn't (muscle suits, fake nips, mesh tops.) Please keep in mind that perceived nudity often falls under the same visual catatory as actual nudity because y'know. Its perceived. Never assume a rule doesn't apply just because the tits are fake. With that being said...
Check TOS! This goes for conventions, social media and discord servers. Some conventions allow partial nudity as long as nips are covered, others don't even allow crop tops. Even if a convention allows perceived nudity, remember to account for what you are comfortable wearing in public if you are getting public transport / walking to the convention. Especially check if the convention is in a different country as local norms may be different, looking at you TwitchCon. Social media is always a finicky beast so keep that in mind when posting, especially if your content is monetised. Discord servers also have different rules for sharing perceived and real nudity, remember 18+ does not automatically mean nothing is off limits!
Remember your age! Under 18s, please be mindful when cosplaying these charecters. Over 18s, please remember to be mindful in family friendy areas and remember to remind under 18s who dont know better the risks of cosplaying suggestive charecters. I am mainly talking conventions because it's important to curate online experiences and 18+ servers exsist for a reason.
Cosplayer =/= charecter! We are all simping for these designs but remember to be respectful when interacting with other cosplayers and remember that cosplay is not consent! Furthermore if there are any cannon relationships in Pantheon, you re not automatically entitled to that dynamic with another cosplayer just because you are cosplaying that duo. I'm going to tap the remember your age sign again, if an adult is cosplaying and starts their videos with "Minors DNI" please respect this. Same goes for no body comments.
Respect other people's preferences! The bar for what does and doesn't class as suggestive content is going to get VERY low and murky during this SMP. Everyone has different standards on what they class as suggestive, some see it as any amount of skin and others don't class something as suggestive unless it's hardcore DDDNE. My bias for example is I am classing anything a family convention would class as suggestive so yall may not agree with that. At an absolute minimum, if you are uncomfortable with semi nude cosplay content, don't look it up. If you are talking to someone and they say they're uncomfortable with the conversation, back off. TLDR we can navigate this without slut shaming and without ignoring the boundaries of cosplayers and artists.
Additionally, CC's deciding to make a semi nude charecter doesn't immediately bless NSFW cosplay content if they previously have stood against it. Its pretty easy to get a vibe from a CC of how receptive they are - some have been very encouraging of the "OH MY GOD THEY'RE HOT" comments while others haven't - so be mindful and read the room in comment sections and live chats.
PLEASE BIND SAFELY. This is going for trans cosplayers as well as cis ones. If you are looking into getting a binder for a cosplay, please research reputable brands and check the reviews. Specifically cis cosplayers, I don't know who needs to hear this but it is okay to look up advice for trans men when doing research. You're not intruding or appropriating, you are protecting your ribs. Same goes for muscle suits and fake chests, always check if you are allergic to latex or rubber, pick a size that allows you to breath and take breaks. Research thoroughly for trans tape too. There's not many corsets in these designs but binding practices also apply to corsets. Get one that fits and don't tight lace to the point of discomfort.
I'm going to give bandage binding it's own number so it doesn't get lost. Binding with bandages or general strips of material is general unsafe because many pull it way too tight to get chests as flat as possible. It does not matter if your chest isn't a table's flatness, even cis men's chest aren't ESPECIALLY bodybuilder types like seen in Pantheon. You can absolutely use bandages as a way to cover the chest but please remember it is for decoration and shouldn't be the only support you have. Wearing a skin coloured crop top underneath and LOOSELY wrapping bandages is the way to go. Don't be fooled into thinking stretch bandages are safer because they "mould around the skin", its specifically the stretch that carries the risk of not allowing breathing.
Do not use sharpies for tattoos. On the cheap I reccomend face paint, brushing with setting powder and then shit tons of setting spray. On the expensive I reccomend 4 way stretch power mesh in a skin tone and paint on that. You can buy bodysuits made from this and they blend into the skin really well for things like tattoos and body hair. In general though if it rubs off, so be it. Not worth alchohol poisoning.
Do a shake test before going to cons! You never know what will break, snag or come off during the day and if your whole dignity relies on one tiny string, it's going to fail and flash everyone. Run around in your cosplay, shake, like properly flail all your limbs and see what breaks first and needs more attention.
Don't be scared to adapt a cosplay to make it more modest! Cannon accuracy is not the be all and end all and the minecraft community thrives on its re interpretations, so get creative! Example, I'm planning a Legs cosplay but I don't want my entire chest out so I'll be making some adjustments! Additionally, don't shame anyone for not being cannon especially if it ties to covering up. It's not cool and in the context of cleavage it's actually really creepy to request it.
At the end of the day, we are all excited for this SMP and excited for the creativity that will follow. Its very important that we look after each other, look after ourselves and avoid getting into trouble for public indecency.
This list is also not the be all and end all. I am one person with my own biases and I intend for this to start a conversation, not define it. As I said my biases are defined by my experiences at conventions as both a minor and now and adult. There's a lot of conversations which define this one, and while I'd like to avoid engaging in discourse, please share your thoughts! Discussion is how we learn and work out the best courses of action.
Finally, the debate on nudity in public spaces will continue as it always has. We all have different interpretations and beliefs and it's important to remember the divisiveness and layers of the subject when approaching it. No one is immediately evil incarnate and everyone has the potential to have misguided views based on the world we live in, including me, including you.
The soil testing equipment on Curiosity makes a buzzing noise and the pitch of the noise changes depending on what part of an experiment Curiosity is performing, this is the way Curiosity sings to itself.
So some of the finest minds currently alive decided to take incredibly expensive important scientific equipment and mess with it until they worked out how to move in just the right way to sing Happy Birthday, then someone made a cake on Curiosity’s birthday and took it into Mission control so that a room full of brilliant scientists and engineers could throw a birthday party for a non-autonomous robot 225 million kilometres away and listen to it sing the first ever song sung on Mars*, which was Happy Birthday.
This isn’t a sad story, this a happy story about the ridiculousness of humans and the way we love things. We built a little robot and called it Curiosity and flung it into the star to go and explore places we can’t get to because it’s name is in our nature and then just because we could, we taught it how to sing.
That’s not sad, that’s awesome.
*this is different from the first song ever played on mars (Reach For The Stars by Will.I.Am) which happened the year before, singing is different from playing
sometimes when they ask you how did you know you were gay, there's a long list of ways that the truth presented itself. this makes it feel like there's a beginning and an end, some kind of dawn that burned into you. as if you walked through the door and were a changed person, a split that happened where once you were straight.
when you were six or maybe seven, you realized the game of pretend you'd been playing would resolve in two princesses kissing. you had a strange and distorted sensation then, something akin to panic, as if you'd been caught doing something terrible. you forced a response to the idea: i am not supposed to do that yet, and shivered the thought into the abyss. in your house, did you even really know the term queer? somehow you already knew it wasn't right of you. it was something for adults, the way that kissing boys wasn't. kissing boys was acceptable, even cute.
in the books you read - and you read so many of them, were particularly fond of ones with dragons or cats or wolves in them - sometimes you'd be taken aback by certain instances of "romance." all of a sudden, the girl and the boy would end up together, and it was almost as if you'd somehow missed a chapter. in one book, the girl had been bullied by this boy, had to cut off her precious hair (that he stuck gum into!), had professed repeatedly to hating him - and still, the two of them were together in the last few pages. you'd flipped back and forth a few times, scanning for something you'd just missed, some reason that was evidently subvocal or understood. for a long time you avoided realistic fiction after that, annoyed by plots that resolved with but then he realized he loved her.
this was not an outlier, but a commonality. this of course was the 90's and the early aughts. women would roll their eyes and stay with their cheating partner. often two people would wind up together that you felt had no purpose to love each other. you watched the female main character disappoint the female best friend - over and over - just for the sake of a boy that wasn't even interesting. you learned that sisterhood was maybe fickle and fragile - that the desire for a boy should conquer all. you couldn't help that it all felt - even then - somehow distant and somewhat wrong.
a long time from now, tracing patterns on the tattooed leg of a beautiful woman, you'll both be talking about how neither of you really understood why everyone was obsessed with justin beiber. so that was a sign, you both laugh. you'd both feigned interest in some boyband or another. coming out was a long process for both of you: both the slow realization as well as the eternal again-and-again cycle of admitting it eventually to friends and family and the workforce. both of you have been asked - when did you know?
technically you didn't "know" until you were 28. these days, though - looking back at the little girl you were - you think to yourself i was trying to tell myself something and i couldn't listen. this breaks your heart a lot of the time, but some part of that is actually very warm to you - you carried your past self all this way. she always knew. you got her here so she could see the comfort of the morning you're in bed with a beautiful girl. so that you could know, too. you, antlered and stable now - you saved that timid, shaking foal.
how beautiful to think some part of you has always been like this. that you've always been whole.
the pros of reading ao3 fics in public is that their layout is so clean and simple that people would think you’re reading some academic researches when you’re in fact reading a 50k fic. the cons is that you need to control your face all the fucking time
Ao3 version that lets you open the 'director's cut' where I, the author, explain every detail in excruciating detail to you and what it is in reference to.
Would anyone be interested in a fic im writing? Im debating publishing it at all, but ive been writing it for the past several months (its decently long) and ive almost got it done...
Its my own AU of VSMP, where Goldsmith's past is a certain Starborne from Origins SMP...
If anyone's interested, feel free to comment a 🦇 for a quick sentence, or a 👁 for a story lore/AU info/world building blipit.
Would anyone be interested in a fic im writing? Im debating publishing it at all, but ive been writing it for the past several months (its decently long) and ive almost got it done...
Its my own AU of VSMP, where Goldsmith's past is a certain Starborne from Origins SMP...
If anyone's interested, feel free to comment a 🦇 for a quick sentence, or a 👁 for a story lore/AU info/world building blipit.
easy mode is abolish doing his job and killing that guy. either during canon or post canon. but let’s do something less expected for these two
wait so. okay. I’ve been glancing at some bad things happen bingos while I do these to see if I get any inspiration. and well. once square that I haven’t seen a need for yet is. body swap. and y’all might not know this about me. but I freaking love body swaps. and I imagined this one for two seconds and was immediately sold.
please do yourselves a favor and imagine scott and abolish body swap. they are so divergent in their mannerisms that this thing writes itself. both opportunistically figuring out how to angle this in their goals’ favor while being so inconvenienced by each other’s situations and usual dispositions that they have to emulate. mr works in the shadows and mr charisma. I need them to be so annoyed but still playing this to their advantage
I raise you… Scott flirting with Doc while in Abolish’s body, and Doc IMMEDIATELY decks him (doesn’t even hesitate, it’s just an instant full-body reaction in the moment, even he can’t explain why he did that)
*sigh* here's version 1, where Morcant encounters Legs shortly after the town poisoning. Turns out I couldn't resist TT^TT
.
"The man is little more than a foot soldier," the knight says. "His family is of no repute, his rank befitting that, and his education sorely lacking. He cannot recognise his own name in writing, and yet your lordship wants to speak to the man?"
"In a matter of days he destroyed a town you laid siege to for months," Morcant says.
"By my orders."
Oh, Morcant doubts that. The knight has been too comfortable all his silver-spooned life to have need for such creativity. No, what happened at Belsbury took a kind of imagination fuelled by blood-knuckled desperation.
Morcant doesn't really care much for the petty wars of humanity, but he has to admit: it brings so much potential to the surface.
"Are you refusing to grant me an audience with the man?" Morcant asks, perfectly pleasantly.
"No, your lordship. But he's only a peasant."
"And you are but human," Morcant says. The new religion spreading through the kingdom has made such jokes a secret amusement to him. "None of us are without flaw. Now, where is this foot soldier?"
The tent to which he is brought is the knight's own temporary abode, and Morcant is shown into a space of hearthfire and comfort. There is the remains of a generous meal on the oaken table, and hides laid to preserve the warmth from the frostbitten earth.
The only thing truly out of place is the soldier.
"This is the Belsbury poisoner," the officer says. "As you requested. Soldier, show your superior the proper respect."
The commoner drops a bow, moving with a woodenness that belies exhaustion. There is dirt and blood beneath his fingernails, calluses on his palms, and fatigue bruising beneath his eyes. He is young, but there is already something of the wolf in the man; in his eyes is a brightness born from prologued violence.
"Your lordship," he defers.
"Rise," Morcant says. He sits upon a many-furred seat – he may not tire, but he is not immune to comforts – and offers a genial closed-mouthed smile. "I hear we have you to thank for the taking of Belsbury."
The soldier straightens, and common indeed he is. His armour is battered, disjointed and ill-fitting. His right boot is newer than his left, his helm cracked along the jaw, and the leather vambraces too tight about the forearms. There is still blood on the latter from its previous owner.
He is a far cry from the polished and perfect knight whose tent he is littering.
But a polished and perfect knight was not the one to demolish a town.
"I didn't work alone," the soldier says. "There were several of us who took to the town's well that night."
"But the concoction was yours."
"I... Yes."
"Tell me how you did it."
The soldier's gaze flickers to his immediate superior, but the knight, in a rare display of tact, remains silent. "We picked berries from a local tree, ground them into a compound, and waited until the cover of night–"
"You misunderstand me," Morcant says. "That is the what. I want to know how you came to your decision."
"Your lordship," the knight interjects. "I fear you expect too much of the man. These peasants are simple souls, built for war and field work. You do not ask an ox why it plows."
Morcant does not growl because your lordships do not snarl. The sudden wave of ire finds its outlet in other ways, as he tilts his head – not enough to look to the knight directly, but marking him as a bear marks a rustling bush – and his voice mellows with dangerous affability. "A simple soul who did what you could not. Continue, soldier."
The soldier hesitates. And then his mind registers the order, as softly-spoken as it was, for what it is and he straightens. "We lay a similar recipe for the rats in my village, your lordship. But it is known to kill children and barn cats who eat it without warning. I had hoped a large enough dose would weaken the town."
"And the well?"
"Everyone has to drink, your lordship."
Morcant nods. "Even the fields must be watered."
There is a different pause in the soldier now. "I didn't realise the poison would take to the land too. I thought..." He swallows. "I just thought it might end the fighting quicker."
"Death does that."
"I didn't think that they would... that the hunger would..."
"They were savages," the knight says, and Morcant dislikes the interruption, but does not wholly begrudge it. "Brutes. No civilised man would sink to such depths. You only brought out their true faces."
The words seem to give some consolation to the soldier, but not dismiss the unease entirely. Morcant will not blame the man for that – after all, the kill of battle is a breed of immediate bloodshed, so different compared to the tooth and claw hunger which has ravaged Belsbury. More than one man had heaved at the stench and sight in taking the town. The weakness is only human.
He observes the soldier.
So many of Morcant’s contemporaries liken humanity to sheep: livestock to be herded and kept, too stupid to be left unattended, but Morcant knows better. Sheep, after all, do not build their own enclosures, or the houses in which their keepers sleep. Shepherds are not raised from the flock.
No, humanity is creative, and to that measure dangerous. Already, the tools of war are changing, and this soldier – this commoner with nothing more than a will to live and a curiosity despite the limits of his birth – proves that. Give them time, and humanity will outstrip Morcant’s kind through sheer violence between their kin. Give them time, and a vampire’s speed and claws will become as primative as the spears the mortals once wielded.
Give them time, and immortals will find that title comes with a caveat.
No, humanity is worth watching.
This human is worth watching.
He rises back to his feet, and the air shifts as both mortals brace for his verdict, but Morcant has found all he was looking for. "I believe we are done here. Good work, soldier."
The soldier exhales – relief and pride mingling in the sound – but some tension still remains. It is only as Morcant is reaching the tent curtain, that he breaks his reserve. "Your lordship," he calls out. "Were there any survivors?"
"None that couldn't be dispatched easily," Morcant says. "Your method was remarkably efficient, soldier."
"There were children there."
"Even children need to drink."
Morcant will not begrudge the mortal his compassion. Even in war – perhaps, especially in war – humans are a social species, forging bonds which can only ever end in a severing. The clear-eyed ruthlessness which guided his hand to the well's edge is a young thing, a potential which naturally unsettles its mortal owner. The soldier, with all its inherent foibles, is only human, after all.
*another sigh* so, uh, here's the follow-up to version 1, specifically the turning of Legs via Morcant. I had thoughts, it turned out!
.
Morcant can smell the rot from outwith the tent.
It is war; there is blood and death aplenty, but decay of the living carries its own potent scent. The same knight as before – his armour ever-spotless – accompanies Morcant to the entrance, and hesitates again.
"Your lordship, I cannot stop you," the man says, "but heed my warning. There is nothing to be done for the soldier now, save last rites and a grave."
"Is he dead already?" Morcant asks.
"No, but–"
"Then I have business to conclude," he says, and enters.
Within, the stench is stronger still. But Morcant has had lifetimes to suppress his base reactions, and he takes a seat upon the rickety stool beside the dying man's cot.
The man – soldier, peasant, mortal – is senseless to his presence. In his fevered delirium he half-slumbers, babbling incoherent sounds and stirring fitfully. It's in one of these restless tosses that his face turns towards Morcant, and the vampire sees where a blade has split the skin from cheek to brow. The welt is red and rotting. The left eye is gone, cleaved by the same strike. Within the wounds, Morcant can smell the death.
The man is decomposing from the inside out.
"You've been reckless, my boy," Morcant says. His voice lands somehow between fond and idle, as if remarking on the lackadaisical travels of a favourite nephew. Morcant assumes. He's never had a favourite nephew, but there is a tone of voice, he's found, that lowers the mortals' caution.
Of course, the soldier is far beyond that right now, but Morcant enjoys the habit.
"I've been following your successes, you know," he says, and the pride is not all facade. Watching the soldier throw himself into one suicidal mission after the other and survive has been akin to watching a prized terrier badger-bait. He knows, naturally, it must eventually end in the hound being gutted by a brock's claws, but until then?
Until then, it's one hell of a show.
"You're smart – for a human," Morcant concedes. "But if all I wanted was intelligence, I'd be better served amongst the scholars and philosophers. No, you're intelligent and you know how to use it, which is something no book can teach. You're a fighter, a survivor – present situation notwithstanding."
The soldier doesn't respond. He's too busy dying.
Morcant sighs, and places a corpse-cold hand against the man's brow. The soldier's skin is burning, fire-hot and nearly uncomfortable even for the likes of Morcant. But the chilled contact eases something in the dying man, and he stirs.
The right eye opens. It rolls madly in its socket, disorientated by the singularly monocular vision, and Morcant waits the confusion out.
The man is a soldier. It's not the first time he's woken from life-threatening injuries.
But it might just be the last.
The eye finds Morcant, and its glassy gaze struggles to focus. "Where...? What's happening?"
"You are back at camp," Morcant says. "I suspect you don't remember, but your companions dragged you back after losing a skirmish with northern barbarians. As for what is happening, that's easy. You're dying."
The man makes a rasping sound in the back of his throat. It's hindered somewhat by the inflamed lungs and the shutting down of... well, everything.
"The healer stemmed the bleeding, but there's nothing to be done for the infection. It's killing you, soldier, beyond where any leech or scalpel can reach."
A shuttering sound shudders from the man. He is young, even by human standards – barely a quarter-century; less, perhaps – but he's seen death. He's been its emissary for months now.
He must know the truth of Morcant’s words.
Morcant leans back on the stool, giving the human chance to ponder his mortality. Despite his age, Morcant has precious few fledglings – they're exhausting, demanding, fighting a bloodlust which he has long since tempered – but he can admit the advantages of fresh blood. Of new minds.
So many vampires assign their condition a moral quality – calling it gift or curse – but Morcant is more discerning. He knows there is no inherent virtue or lack in turning another.
Vampirism is a tactical choice.
"You don't have to die," he says, and the soldier claws his way back to muddied consciousness, his remaining eye fever-bright. "There is another way."
"What way?" the soldier wheezes.
Morcant smiles, and this time he draws back his lips to reveal the fangs. "Become something else, beyond death, beyond human. Become immortal, soldier, and work alongside me."
"I don't want..." The human heaves, gasping great rasping breaths, and for a moment Morcant fears he has come just in time to witness the soldier's passing.
But he's a survivor.
"I don't want immortality," he says through thinned breath. "I don't want– I don't deserve..."
"I have no interest in what you deserve," Morcant says. "Only in what you can be. And what you can be is useful."
Something in the soldier weakens. Or that may just be the encroaching death. Either way, Morcant files it aside.
"But if you are sure of your answer, then I will not press it," Morcant says, and it's the truth. It will be a shame to lose this soldier, but humanity is plentiful and there will always be others. Still, no need to yield quite so readily. "If it is what you wish, I can make your passing quick. I can promise it will be a softer death than what awaits you."
The man forms words on his lips – and Morcant almost believes he will ask for the mercy killing – but then falters. Perhaps if he was older, perhaps if he had less natural life to live, he might be capable of it. But he's still so young.
He's still a fighter.
"I..."
"But if you wish to accept my offer," Morcant continues, "think fast. For if you sleep now, I do not think you'll wake again."
The soldier readies words, but they never come. Instead, wrenching coughs rack through his chest, pain lacerating his body, and blood is spat from his lips. He lies there, his head on blankets readied to become his shroud, and his singular eye works the crimsoned cloth.
Morcant can smell the fear.
He takes the clammy, shivering hand, and the human doesn't even flinch from the unnatural cold. "It doesn't have to end here," he says gently. "I can take away the pain and the fear. I can give you a new life. But only if you agree. Will you agree, soldier?"
Death looms large over the human, its shadow so close that even the mortal can sense it now. A shiver wracks through him, in ways more than mere chill or fever. A tear wells up in the remnant eye.
*facedown* I am never getting out of this building, am I? *gestures loosely from the floor* Have a Morcant dealing with a post-turned Legs, and turning to a friend for advice
.
There is something wrong with Morcant's fledgling.
He will concede that near death – or rebirth, depending on one's stance – will do funny things to an ex-mortal's mind. Morcant should know; his own sire barred their bond a month after his turning until he had adequately adjusted. It was a long time back, but he still remembers the lesson.
(There are newer vampires who consider it cruel to sever a fresh fledgling's sire bond – however temporarily – but they are young, often still on their first fledgling. To Morcant’s mind, it is not dissimilar to leaving a newborn to cry itself out; better to teach it now that mewling won't be rewarded, rather than spoil it past the point of independence.)
(It never did him any harm, anyway.)
In the month since his turning, the soldier has rallied – externally – exceptionally well. Morcant was willing to grant him weeks to adjust to the bloodlust, but instead it was a matter of days before he could focus it onto the enemy.
(The camp was a pity, but there are always sacrifices in war. And regardless, there was nothing left in the place worth keeping.)
And since then, the soldier-fledgling has become the weapon Morcant had hoped him to be. Single-minded. Ruthless. Efficient. From the outside looking in, his plan has been pulled off without a hitch.
Unfortunately, Morcant has a window straight to the soul, and the shutters only do so much.
"His mind's a mess," he says to his host.
Camille scoffs, somehow sounding both fond and derisive.
She is not as old as he, but she comes from an old coven, and that confers a power greater than the sum of the one. That said, she's still old enough to have cycled through a few names – last he knew her by Morrigan, and already she's setting her sights on Claudia – and she has taken to vampirism like a fox in a henhouse.
Unlike his most recent fledgling.
(And he'll be damned if he admits his grievances to a contemporary. Vampires his age do not get problem fledglings.)
"You turned a soldier; what else did you expect?" she derides.
"You misunderstand. I said a mess, not violent."
Violent, he could understand. Violent, he could work with. Violent, he could use.
Camille rolls her eyes, without ever losing her poise. Every vampire eventually finds a mask to wear for the mortals' sakes; for Morcant, it is the illusion of age, his affable old man demeanour, while Camille wields an indifference which is almost cutting in its apathy. "Then stake him and be done with it. It really doesn't need to be this complicated."
"I have put time into this one."
"You're immortal," she says flatly. "Get over it."
There are days where the apathy feels less facade than face with Camille.
"Forgive an old man his eccentricities," he replies – if Camille wants to lean into her mask, he can do the same right back at her, "but I'd rather like to make this work." And scrapping the fledgling would be too close to admitting he'd made a mistake. "I came to you because you've turned a few in your time. You've surely had the odd trouble."
"I follow the Code. I've never had trouble."
"Didn't your last one try to stake you?"
"Growing pains." Camille sighs and leans back in her chair. There's only the one in the library, and she has notably made no attempt to procure one for her guest. If he was visiting on less embarrassing grounds, he'd call her out on it.
He is an old man, after all.
"Morcant, you've talked an awful lot, but I've yet to hear what's actually amiss with your fledgling. They're all messes at the start; that's why you don't open the sire bond until they're stabilised."
She doesn't add idiot, but he knows her well enough to hear it regardless.
Morcant dwells on his answer. Sporadically, he'll ease the locks on the bond, like opening the hearthgrate to see if the fire has died to ash yet, and each time he is forced to slam it shut once more. He does not want to voice, in as many words, the mire of grief and pain and guilt that is drowning his fledgling.
He does not want to explain how each time he sends the soldier out on another mission – and perhaps it is merely bloodlust that haunts him; perhaps this time it'll sate the hollow – the man comes back with more blood on shaking hands that he hides from his sire.
He does not want to say how, even through the shutters of his own defences, on full-moon nights he can still hear the whisper of his fledgling's self-hatred.
"It's been a month, and his mind is still full of horror," Morcant says eventually.
"Some fledglings take longer to adapt."
"Do they usually deteriorate?"
Camille smiles a fanged smile. "Not long enough to regret it. You wanted my advice? Abandon it. So you made a mistake? So what? Put the poor thing out of its misery before it does the job for you."
"I didn't come asking for how to end it," Morcant replies, a tone sharper than usual.
"Then don't," she retorts. "But if you wanted a nice, bloodless solution, then I don't have it. Kill it, keep it, I don't care. But I suggest you take matters into your own hands," she calls as Morcant makes his exit. "Before he goes from mess to threat."
Y'know, I had been planning to do a proper map of the town area for a while now, and just never got around to it.
The sketch is pretty spot-on, I'm mostly posting this because 1) I want an excuse to make more maps, and 2) some people might benefit from seeing more exact placements.
Calypso D'Arcas @calypsodarcas - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
