Tin as labelled

Dni if under 18, but like im not a cop thats on you. If you know me irl no you don't :) (or at least pretend you dont) various writings, assoc. snippets ramblings mostly dnd ocs and fallen hero but might be other fandoms Some nsfw and tagging aint one of my strengths but let me know if you need something tagged

[wrigglewormz]

Quite frankly yall need to be projecting more on the doms. Make the DOM have guilty sexual fantasies !!! Maybe the DOM is shamefully staring at the ceiling after waking up from a dream!!! Yall are cowards. Do none of you have any appreciation for the noble dom identity crisis. Do none of you have any respect for guilty sadists with control issues and who desperately want autonomy for once in their damn lives and who just want to Keep someone, for once, who want to be allowed to Want and Take . Do NONE of yall have any respect for sadists realizing with horror how badly they want to hurt the person they would do anything to protect and take care of and make smile? Cowards, all of you.

[sweetsweetemo]

my favorite chargestep dynamic is step being highly stupid in very simple ways to the point where Ortega knows they must've been like, a caged bird of a child, never allowed to do anything, probably homeschooled, is about to ask what "garlic flavor" means, and then one day they're 3 beers in and start speaking about classic literature and geopolitcs like they're an aristocrat at a fancy dinner

[stitchposts]

unfortunately i have free will so im about to make art that is going to appeal to basically 4 people. let us hope those 4 people follow me.

[heniareth]

I have a rant about Ortega incoming

[heniareth]

Okay, so I was talking to @bumblerhizal the other day. And I learned that I had mistakenly assumed that Julia was not physically abused by her dad (she was), but that Ricardo received the harsher punishments. And this, naturally, made me run to the wiki (AFAIK, none of the things I will be discussing here are spoilers for Revelations, but I cannot guarantee that since I haven't played through all of the routes. I believe the section about Ortega's childhood from the wiki is spoilered for mentions of child abuse tho, not for spoilers for Revelations. Either way, proceed with the care you deem appropriate)

While Enrique genuinely loved Ortega,[nb 5] he resented their hyperactivity and unruliness, and the two rarely saw eye to eye.[13] He sometimes physically abused them.[nb 7][4] They were made to call him 'sir'.[nb 102]

Okay. So both abused for the same reason! But here come in the very gendered differences:

Julia had no interest in fitting into the role of being a daughter, and two argued frequently. Enrique disapproved of her (lack of) career choices and was unsure how to connect with her due to her gender. If he had survived, they may have eventually reconciled.[nb 104]

Enrique was extremely controlling towards Ricardo, saddling him with expectations that he would have a military career like his own father and grandfather.[nb 105] Ricardo was difficult to discipline, thus the violence was worse against him, which he is more reluctant to admit to Sidestep about than Julia.[nb 95] Had Enrique survived, it is doubtful they would ever have reconciled.[nb 104] Ricardo grew his mustache as he got older to less resemble his father,[nb 49] which Enrique would have hated.[nb 26]

And this is where it gets interesting.

I have been chewing on the differences between both Ortega for some time now (on and off), because for as much as they are the same character, they do feel different. And that's because they are! And they are different, specifically, in a very gendered way. The wiki goes into it as follows:

Julia is slightly more in touch with her personal baggage than Ricardo,[nb 63] sometimes perceived as more aggressive than him[nb 95] Others tend to perceive her as more aggressive, violent,[nb 32] and less authoritative than compared to Ricardo, who by contrast is slightly goofier.[nb 96]

To sum up, Julia is:

1. Slightly more aware of her issues (and slightly more comfortable with her bisexuality, as stated in the paragraph below the quote above) 2. Perceived as more aggressive and violent

While Ricardo is:

1. Perceived as more authoritative 2. Slightly goofier

Julia being perceived as more aggressive and Ricardo being perceived as more authoritative is, on one hand, clearly just misogyny at work. Forceful woman boohoo scary, while forceful man oh so manly and determined and let's all listen to him. But misogyny and gendered dynamics are very real forces in the world, and they do shape personalities. We need to look no further than at Julia herself:

Julia was initially more tomboyish growing up, and embraced being masculine because of her height and training, perceiving that it gave her more respect, power and freedom.

It is pretty much spelled out: as a child, Julia leaned into her more masculine characteristics because she felt that she was treated better if she did so. However, as a trade-off, people also perceived her as more aggressive and violent. Case closed, so far. But what really interests me about this statement is that she got that power and freedom. In contrast to Ricardo. Who is, and I quote, goofier.

Let me explain. Ricardo was more heavily physically abused and had intense expectations placed on him. Expectations that, it has to be noted, he did eventually conform to! In a different way than Enrique would have wanted to, but conform he did. He works for the US. government in the business of violence; he is, essentially and in some ways practically, military. Let's do a quick aside and acknowledge that that must suck. Unless, of course, you keep yourself blind to it.

Meanwhile, Julia had no grand plans heaved upon her. Because she was a girl. And girls don't go on to become soldiers. She also suffered less physical punishment, probably in part because, since there was less pressure placed on her, she acted out less, but also and I suspect primarily because she was a girl, and men don't hit girls. Enrique García seems like the kind of guy to abide by that (mostly).

What kind of picture does this paint? We have a girl, who is abused, and whose father doesn't know what to do with. And we have a boy, who is abused, and whose father has a very clear idea of what he wants the boy to do. So he subjects the boy to all the control he is capable of to make sure that his son follows his footsteps, and his grandfather's footsteps. Meanwhile the girl gets away with much more! No expectations means less control, because nobody is trying to make her do anything (and if they are trying to control her, it's probably to keep her from doing something. This difference is important). The girl has some room to move and develope. The boy? Decidedly less so.

What I want to propose with this little essay is that Ortega's gender, in the ways it shapes their childhood experience, directly influences them to develope the traits listed above. Julia lives in an environment that physically abuses her, but punishes only unruly behavior. If she wanted to, for example, paint, she could (and would maybe be encouraged to do so). Now a physically abusive environment is not a comfortable one, and being molded by force to be more agreeable than you are does not feel good either. So she acts out. She actively searches for more power, respect and freedom; these things are attainable to her, and she knows it. She is viewed as somewhat aggressive and violent for it (and probably punished for that, which makes her act out more, etc). But the point is that she has an avenue for escape, and she has the ability to accrue a modicum of power in her life. Julia's childhood might therefore be understood as a run for agency, a run away from home.

Ricardo, meanwhile, retreats. He does not have Julia's avenue of escape, because in his case, it is not only unruly behavior that is punished; it is any undesirable behavior that is, because for him, there is a plan. So he might very well not be allowed to paint. Because that's girly. Where Julia sees power, respect and freedom as accessible to her, Ricardo instead retreats more behind jokes. Since his situation is inescapable, his father insurmountably powerful physically and socially, his relief comes from making light of the situation. He is goofier; the hitting doesn't hurt as much if he laughs about it. Ricardo's childhood may thus be understood as a shielding, and, consequently, as a hiding.

However, in the process, both Ortegas have to leave something behind, sacrifice something to their continued survival. It seems to me that in Ricardo's case, that something may have been being in touch with himself. Denying his own feelings and putting on a jester's mask for the world to see may have slightly limited his capacity for introspection. After all, he's smiling! Nothing hurts, see? And maybe this is why Julia is (slightly) more aware of her baggage. She has been able to afford to notice it more.

Now, on the other side of the coin, what did Julia leave behind? This is what really keeps me up at night, because I have not figured her out (yet). Nothing in the text or the wiki has yet helped me determine this, but I have two theories:

A) She left exactly the same thing behind as Ricardo (her introspection), but in a different way. Her flight seems to have been a flight outside, into the world, into sports, into activity and adrenaline. Adrenaline will quieten your thoughts just as well as any joking facade would, but it does fade once the high subsides. It would explain why Julia is a little (but only a little!) more aware of her baggage. It might also explain her being perceived as more aggressive and violent (aside from good old misogyny); she might genuinely just be more physical, and maybe a bit more of an adrenaline junkie than Ricardo.

B) She left home (metaphorically), so she has nowhere to go. A logical hypothesis might be that Julia left her sense of belonging and/or her ability to form connections with people a little behind. She may be a bit more awkward than Ricardo (even if she might not come across as such). She may often feel like she is too much, or too loud, all feedback she probably got from the adults in her childhood. It is fun for me to imagine her relationship with her mother might be a little more strained than Ricardo's (but this one is definitely not supported in the text and even contradicts it). If she is continuing to lean into masculine traits for that feeling of power, freedom, respect, she may also be more quick to throw a punch, just to show that she can, which will not help her image or her self image of being better at a fight than with words. She may be a bit more conscious of the fact that she is a weapon; she may suppress the thought that this weapon will be used by hands others than her own more readily than Ricardo, who has more memories attached to being controlled by Enrique.

And this is my grand old thesis. If you have made it this far, I am begging for you to let me know what you think, because I have been chewing on this for months and it intrigues me to no end. You may also have been able to tell that I am maybe a bit more focused on Julia? The simple truth is, I haven't finished a playthrough with him yet (much less one where I romance him. I still have to see if Stephanie is only going to play with her food or actually eat it too). But none of this is by any means meant to be a slight against Ricardo. I love him, he's great, I just have spent most of my time going insane about his non-sister and her obsession with Sidestep. That's all

Oh! But I do hate to end on a too abrupt note, so here are some more headcanons that were part of the conversation but that I couldn't fit into the text above:

Ricardo is more secretive than Julia because he got subjected to violence and scrutiny more. Julia is more hungry for attention because her father did not know how to engage with her

Ricardo more suspicious when somebody asks him too many questions. Julia a little flattered and eager to make use of the opportunity

Ricardo more reactive and aggressive when somebody criticises his choices. Julia much less defensive, but more willing to confront the critic and, if necessary, pick a fight

Last but not least, thank you so much @autistic-sidestep and everyone else who helps out with the wiki for the enormous amount of work you do and for having such a well-organized and detailed database on the Fallen Hero verse. You guys are awesome!

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

This covers so much and wonderfully so! I think it would also factor into Ortega being Charge

For Julia if there was no grand plan her father could see it as Rising up to meet a grand purpose and to be tied to the US military even if he doesn't like the hero aspect. Charge started their career for a military subcontractor before going the federal Marsahl systems. Shes not an extension of the army and her perceived masculinity is serving a Purpose.

As opposed to Ricardo which failed at his grand plan and is not settling for only being an extension woth the subcontractor and federal system.

Not to mention their later oversexualization (racial tinged i would say even though Argent is subjexted to similar treatment wrt dating herald) with Machismo culture for Ricardo vs Julia and the way culture elevates one and damns the other

Like im sure Julia's tabloids would be less flattering than Ricardos but both ate Latinos being scrutinized and sexualized by media AND fans.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Source Code: Lex Covali

For a space dnd campaign im in. A background npc whi became 3 other major news and a pc. Iykyk Great dark 2 and please leave my blog besties

Dangerous and experimental went without any explanation and barely scratched the surface. If they had more time to do tests, to fine-tune the process, they could do so much more.

But they had none left. 

Lex had already run test simulations on other mocked-up minds and the occasional test scans.

Had tested slivers of consciousness, backed up partial AI shells and ghost threads, built scaffolds inside scaffolds not unlike a cathedral of systems.

Had rewritten the lab’s own onboard VI so many times Kymil began to call it their “Galatea.”

And yet, no one stopped them.

Maybe because no one understood what they were doing.

Maybe because deep down, the universe wanted to see if Lex could cheat death.

And yet, Lex didn’t just want immortality.

They wanted freedom.

From mortality, yes, but more importantly from pain, from fear. From that crawling, unbearable helplessness of a body that refused to obey a mind that had just as much right to live as every average fleshbag who walked around unknowingly blessed with a normal lifespan despite mediocrity. 

In fact, they deserved more; they didn't want to settle for mediocrity when greatness was within reach.

But they'd settle, giving everything up for immortality; it was the far better trade; only an idiot would disagree with having more life, more time.

And yet, even as they smiled internally, even as they barked orders and carved out miracles or heresies in code, they knew.

They knew their time was nearly up.

And yet, still they worked.

Still, they laughed, scoffing and fondly sharp when Aggie muttered something absurd.

Still, they snapped, eviscerating junior officers and techs to tears for sloppy or disappointing reports. Spines and brains wasted on undeserving meat.

Still, they fought with the last fraying threads of their will to make something that could live.

A version of them. A seed. A soul. A spark tucked behind the firewalls and beneath the winding miles of code.

An echo.

A ghost.

A second chance.

And yet, they knew better than to call it Lex Covali. Not truly. Not entirely.

The code would drift. Memories might slip. Emotions degrade; the hardware still couldn't hold all of them with anything short of a full station.

But something would remain.

It would be enough.

They would remain.

Or so they hoped.

As they lay there on the modified slab, the scans and magnetic force amplified with direct magic: force, of course, to work like a ‘morbid deli slicer’ as some had called it when they thought Lex wasn’t listening.

Extra thin slices of Covali, fresh and uploaded to capture their essence along with the soul the moment it started.

It wasn't a suicide (if they believed in the gods to have any mercy, they might have prayed to someone) or so they hoped. Just a leap of faith, the more fantastical element to their personal fable. 

If Voss didn't stick to the plan, left them behind with no form or body…

Well, Lex already promised to haunt him if that happened, and surely Kymil wouldn't want them stuck in his head.

So they had timed it perfectly, albeit dramatically.

Warnings of a solar storm, interference expected and delays in communication along the base, orders to lock down as a precaution, no communications.

They just had to time it before the zenith, try to slip out before anyone could notice right away that one of the Leads was decaying in exam room 2B5 and not notice the missing black box, and the missing pilot cadet. 

They took as deep a breath as possible and put all their strength into squeezing the trigger.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Im a genius at naming and finding files

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Late af to @payloadofgeckos WIP weekends (sounds so fun!) and actually trying to chew away at "Different Direction." (AKA au where sidestep ends up going from farm to ranch, and everyone suffers) now that 'two to tango' is done plaguing me atm Cyrus trying to chill enough to have an adjacent-to-normal conversation with Ortega now that he has his emotional support Snowball It hard when you're in a nightmare, and the other person is seeing a ghost who came back wrong

Trying not to lean on him, to not touch him. You were all too aware of the exposed neon patterns on your arm, fluorescent warning signs, the baggy T-shirt not even making an effort to hide them.

You knew he knew what they meant: what you were, what you weren’t. 

Never have you wished more to be able to dive into his head, through the static and buzz, to know what Ricardo was thinking, planning- to cut it him/you open with scalpels and clamps - No, no, no, not you holding the blade, not him on the table- focus and turn the lock and close the box-

[askboxmemes]

I wanna know what people assume about me because of my tumblr.

Put an assumption in my ask. I’ll confirm or dispute it. I’m not gonna be mean or anything, I’m just very interested.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Roles

Imagine you are the Warrior.

You are determined to pull yourself out of the dust of your family's station, not content with your prescribed lot in life on the margins of history.

The priests say the dragons burned the surface; they say your G-d has spared and defended your people, they say you all should be grateful.

But even your god, the Drowner of Dragons and the Crashing of Waves, could not stop the acid rains and your people stagnating and fading like bones on the shore.

There is nothing a nomad can do about that besides keep his own weapons sharp and his eyes wary of predators in dark waters.

You lead a warband, and under your leadership you are eventually known as One Who Maims Kraken, respected among your own kind.

Not highborn or citybred with a vaunted enumerated lineage in one of the once magnificent, now merely grand temple cities, but you decide that has never stopped you before. 

As you hear about a chance to prove that a nomad is sharper than any polished highborn and seize it with both hands like a dragnet with great prey.

You win the hand of the new High Priestess, beautiful and dangerous as lightning through waves, you swear vows to love, to defend, to belong to the city and her, to serve by her side.

You are happy, so you tell yourself, you will seize happiness and a legacy by her side.

Imagine you are the High Priestess

Far too young for your station, just past the cusp over 3 decades old, and having youth and family taken from you as you accept blessings meant for those with wisdom and experience you have not had the chance to earn.

Ha’Gilganaut: the Great Serpents of the Depths and Unknowable Fathoms could not stop the disease and changing tides that have claimed your family, so many of your people in the wake of scorched lands, and plunging temperatures. Skies and rivers thick with soot, dead coastlines thick with rot and sludge as disease and harsh waters took your mothers and so many others from this world in the decades that have followed the great enemy's war.

You are anointed in your temple with no true family by your side, distant cousins and other temple kohenim ( But none of the others challenge you for position. Who would? Challenge the beautiful, clever and grieving summoner of lightning and storms? None of the temple priests are that foolish or that open), and made to be paired off to secure the lineage to someone who will claim to be worthy of you; or made worthy.  

You care not for noble false chayalim who vie for your hand out of entitlement and rank, believing their lineage will buoy them to your side, to the temple’s side. 

Polished hollow shells.

A leader of a warband with no great lineage and no great charm, but he is honest and strong and pleasing to look at.  And what more could match you, what more could you desire by your side? A strong arm, an honest heart.

You swear oaths, make vows, and you do not lie or bear false witness, but neither are you fully forthcoming as you clasp hands under the chuppah.

But the Great Serpent of the Changing Tides has a wicked sense of humor. And your beloved firstborn is born small, born with patchy scales and fluttering gills, and not fully of the ocean.

You love the child instantly; how could you not? Even as small and frail as it is, it is wholly of your heart, of your very marrow.

Even as your husband leaves in a swirl of sand, silent anger, and bitter rage.

You love your Aluf Gadol as Kohenet Gadolah; you love your husband as a wife. You love your child as a mother. You see no reason to choose but to keep it all.

Fin’rod claims the child, although there is no joy, as eyes say what no one dares to whisper before you.

Your head is unbowed, as befitting your rank.

Imagine you are the bastard heir.

No one calls you such to your face, but you see it clearly in polished mirrors in your mother's vanity. You have none of your father's colors, none of his shape, or any of his affections. 

You feel judgment you can not name from guards, attendants, and scholars in the temple, as if you breathe wrong, as if you are wrong. The wrong shape, the wrong color and hue, too tall, too patchy, too other.

Your mother loves you; she tells you every day as you study by her side, her prodigal scholar. You are her future, the temple’s future, even as you feel marked by a past you don't fully understand.

So you study; you will make her proud, you will show the city and temple that you deserve to be her heir, to one day be their Kohen, even if you are not Gadol in your own mind.

You do not need to be loved like she is, because she loves you. 

And one day you’ll prove that you deserve it.

Imagine you are the perfect child, the second born.

You know only praise, only success, and adoration.

From your mother, from your father, and your peers.

From your brother, who every chayal tells you not to trust.

People whisper he is jealous, he is undeserving, he is flawed, and arrogant in his coldness, buried in scrolls and mysticism and prayer.

Your father never smiles at him as he does at you. The temple children of guards and scholars who flock to your side do not pay a passing glance towards him when he passes through the halls.

He never lowers his gaze, even to adults.

They tell you that the temple would be better served if you were firstborn, if you were your mother's heir, if he were to step aside or no longer pose a hurdle.

You are many things: a priest in making, you are not; a covetous sibling you are not, a eel in the reefs you are not. You have no head for ‘drash or rituals and prayers, nor his mind for spellcraft, or your mother's natural charm over storms and magic that glows from under her scales. You prefer the heft of a trident in your hand, the clean surety of your aim, and the approval of your father during training. You do not aspire to anything more than what the waters have laid out before you. But you have missed your brother during his apprenticeship in cold northern waters, and follow him when no one is looking, all too busy with Jubilee preparations. And as you breach the cold whipping winds of the surface, the last thing you see is Fa’aron reaching out and calling to you in panic.

Before the world explodes.

Imagine you made a mistake. You were busy, you were distracted, it was a mistake oh Most Wise. You placed your circlet on your brother's head, heir for a day, you had joked

Please, Most High, it was only a joke.

 Blessed are You who show mercy to the unknowing. Blessed are you who shows grace to the faulty. You were doing old magic, an esoteric, primordial version of a storm spell, something that you knew you were smart enough to control, to show off for the Jubilee, your Jubilee, for your teachers, your mother, all the gathered clergy and assembled pilgrims. How arrogant! You thought you were smart enough. G-d, why did you think you were ever smart enough? Did you believe you were quicker than the bolt? How would you outwit lightning? Why does he have to pay for your mistake? You didn't see him. Why didn't you see him!

G-d and serpent of waters deep and far please let him wake up! Imagine you are a father Sitting by your son’s bedside. The healers say he may never see again; your wife is- The people can not see their high priestess cry; they most certainly can not hear her wail and mourn or shock anyone who tells her who was to blame, with wild emotions fueling her storm no matter how much she might wish to do so. She is not the storm now; she must always be Kohenet Gadolah before she is a mother, before she is a wife. Imagine you are a father, holding your son’s hand, your maimed joy and soul. Imagine if you are denied your justice, as the coward flees. Anger can not put your son together again, but reason never could stop you. As you sit by his bedside, holding his hand.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Squishy

Shafril felt something, or rather someone, tugging on her sleeve. It was a polite tugging, very mindful and gentle as she turned to see her first born, trying very hard to keep his feet on the ground like a mature child (the compromise they made when he insisted very seriously a few days ago that he ‘wasn’t a baby anymore Ima’ as she nodded very thoughtfully at his points while trying not to laugh at his puffed cheeks as he read down a scroll of his points). 

“Sweetheart?” She ran a hand over his stray hairs that escaped his ponytail, even as it made his little brows furrow more. “Ima,” he whispered conspiratorially, looking around to see if anyone was watching them as the festival began in full after the blessing at the temple courtyards. Always so serious about everything, this little one; she swears he was born old. “Ima, can I buy something?” She crouched down beside him, straightening his robes, a new outfit for the high holiday as befitting their station. “Well, that depends, darling, what do you want to buy?” If it were any of the other children she saw darting around like maniacs, she would trust it to be something like a shiny, overpriced bauble that was making the merchants rich for the season, or an overpriced treat, but her eldest was...odd and not for the reasons everyone else whispered about that they thought she didn’t hear. “I wanna-” he looked down as he scuffed his sandal on the lip of the stone path as he corrected himself, “I want to buy a friend.” It was all she could do to keep from pinching his little cheeks as he tried to be so serious and proper “Oh sweetheart, you don’t have to worry about that for a few years, we can have some of the attendants and other families bring some of their children- or you can go to the children services instead of staying with me on the bimah, any decent family would love to be invited over I’m sure-” “Ima, I don't want those friends.” His nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought. “They're loud and rude and stare and-and are stupid,” he made it sound like a grave offense that his fellow 5-year-olds weren’t all little dour scholars like him, happy to be quietly trying to read scrolls and occasionally asking for help with difficult words or winding them up to the proper segment. She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up that he wanted to be social. Fine, it was fine, she had time to work on that, to put some shine on his scales. 

As she sighed and brushed imaginary debris from his shoulders, “Fa’aron, darling, light of my life, what sort of friend do you mean?” He beamed up and grabbed her hand, “I’ll show you!” as he dragged her through the crowds, as the People parted for them.. Reverent, properly awed, and respectful faces as they saw her in her temple finery, and then twisted to confused faces or derision as they looked at her eldest, tugging at her hand. 

She felt defensive, wanting to snap a spark of lightning under an upturned nose. How dare they look down at her child: the Gadolah’s heir? Fa’aron was just a little more delicate, a bit paler and scarcer in scale, but just as Triton as any of them, as her heart twisted as she turned her attention away from them. Finally, Fa’aron had stopped in front of a striped tent, gills fluttering as he tried to get breath. “See Ima! There, look!” He pointed to the various orbs on display on the various racks set up inside under the netted roof. Ah, her child wanted a pet. Well, she was going to have to teach him about heartbreak eventually, as she began to think of what her own mothers told her once when she wanted a very ornate crown at a festival when she was about his age: about responsibility, sanctity, and propriety, temple rules and expectations, and other things that seemed very unimportant as a child and yet sadly important as Kohenet Gadolah. “Fa’aron sweetheart-” she had to slowly phase her ‘no’, so that he understood why, so mature for his age, very calm and steady, surely he’ll understand- “No, Ima, you really have to look; there's a really, really pretty one, and I promise I’ll be so, so responsible,” as he tugged her hand to go into the tent, as she sighed, sure she wasn't the only parent the tent owner had seen in this position. From the look on their face, she might be the first High Priestess, however. “Kohenet! What an honor! For you to visit here, in this tent.” The yetziron seems to remember their manners, to bow their head, sneaking glances at Fa’aron, and trying to gesture for him to do the same as Fa’aron went up to the shelves, still mindful of the ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ sign. “Look at how pretty this one is!” Fa’aron pointed at a small orb, where a small octopus she couldn't quite see was working on devouring what appeared to be a piece of whitefish. “Kid, This is the Kohenet G’dolah. G-Get down,” The trader harshly whispered as they attempted to grab Fa’aron’s sleeve and tug him down with no avail. “Get-get” “Ima look, look.” Fa’aron was fully floating now off the ground, and ignoring the merchant as she came over to see which pet she would have to break his heart over. “Fa’aron, my treasure, sweet-” She looked at the small thing that was gnawing at the pressed fish stick. Narrowing her eyes as she saw the flashes of blue on the small creature, “It’s poisonous.” “No! It's venomous Ima.” he only smiled more, all his little pointed teeth on display as he corrected her, “I saw it in one of the scrolls, about animals listed in the Pentateuch!” he muttered, “ones we are not supposed to eat,”. Shafril, in front of the assembly of her city and the Gilganuat, baruch shemo, would not deny her eldest was odd; she would be the last to make such a claim, but it was an endearing sort of oddity in her mind, which was the official stance of the temple and thus the city as far as she was concerned.

 Too bad that it didn’t make the rules any less important, any less binding for them in this regard. “Bni,” she put a hand on his shoulder to turn him around, sparing a glance to shoo away the merchant who was still bowing at her, “Darling, you can’t have a pet, especially a venomous one”. “But they’re so smart and pretty, and I promise I’ll be so responsible and-and teach it Torah, and I’ll make sure Nasif doesn't try to eat it like everything else.” his eyes were so wide and bright as he pleaded with her.

If it were any other child, she’d find it funny, so dramatic and for such low stakes to be pleading over, but instead it twisted something in her chest, feelings she didn't like to ponder or analyze: like sadness or guilt.

And then his words hit as she paused, deeply confused for a moment, “What do you mean you would teach it torah?” “Well, it has eight arms; I can teach it to hold a yad and recognize letters-” He started painting a very clear and yet bizarre picture as she imagined the octopus wearing a scholar's kippah before focusing again on the issue (and not the possible theological questions she can throw at the young kohenim to chew on when she needs to distract them.) “No, darling, it's just… There are rules. About cleanliness, sanctity. That's all the temple has to follow, especially our family, and that means no mortal pets, no animals besides sacrifices to the Gilganaut in the temple.” She could already hear the little waver in his voice as he tried to get words out that he had stuck in his throat. “But but, Imaaaaa,” he drew out the last vowel as if that was an argument in itself. “You let the other children in, and they're sticky and dirty and-and loud, and they don’t listen at all, and they don’t want to do things I like, and they only play with each other, and Nasif is a babyyyy. Please Imaaaaaa.” Well, now she was just going to have to order those children to have fun with her little heir, or rather, order the children's parents to make them have fun. 

It was far easier and less degrading to order adults into doing what she wanted as opposed to children, but she had to focus here on gently crushing her child’s hope. 

As she held his face gently, only slightly squishing those puffed cheeks, “I'm sure those kids are just...shy.” She’s sure it didn't count as lying if it's to one’s own child; that wasn't ruled out; she’s pretty sure otherwise parenting would be an insurmountable task. 

And the Gilganaut would not try parents in such a terrible way, of that she’s sure. He fixed her with a watery, wavery look as he pouted. She had to give him something to hold on to; he would get so attached to ideas, something impossible and challenging, so that he would lose focus on this uncharacteristic fuss. “You know, darling,” she brushed back his hair, to comfort her or him, she didn’t know. “The rules say no mortal pets. You could try to learn to summon one.” 

It was above the cantrips that most of the unordained or unapprenticed children could learn; he would probably not succeed for years until he began official lessons. 

But it could belay this rare tantrum; he rarely wanted anything outside the temple libraries, so it was new tides for her as a parent to navigate. “Y-you promise?” he tried to see if she was lying, tricking him. Unfortunately for him, she regularly had to deal with city, military, and temple politics, and he was 5 and trusted her implicitly, so it wasn’t difficult to make him believe her. She hummed and nodded serenely, “Absolutely, sweetheart, if you study really hard, I'm sure you can summon one. And then it can never leave or get sick, and you’ll have a friend forever.” She was so sure he’d forget about this in a day or maybe a week; it's not like he could actually cast a spell yet- far too young and hadn’t had any actual spell practice yet, just his scroll lessons and sparks and very minor mendings when she had time for private lessons in their quarters with him. 

She held his hand after she straightened out his slightly ruffled robes and gave a sharp nod and flick of her wrist to dismiss the still-bowing merchant as they left and headed back home to the temple. Trying to get him to cheer up and marvel at the shows being put on instead of that focused, serious pout he wore. 

Part of her felt bad at the small deception, but the other part was just glad that so far neither of her children had shown signs of her innate talent at magic, life was simpler that way for now.

To her utter surprise, only a few weeks later this peace was smashed like a wedding plate. As she heard Nasif screeching in laughter and giggling with Faaron whining and telling his younger sibling they weren't allowed to touch something, she darted into their rooms like any sane parent. 

As she saw Nasif trying to reach a small floating octopus just out of reach, babbling toddler nonsense as it had floated away and vanished in a flash. “Ima, Ima look!” Faaron turned to her, so proud and beaming as he repeated the same motions and words, and the flash of magic as a small hovering octopus appeared again in his hands, and renewed babbling and grabbing hands from Nasif. Shafril forced a pleasant smile on her face as she stared at that little spell construct bobbing above Fa'aron's head in disbelief. “How… wonderful, darling! How did you-” “I studied really hard, as you said, and I read the apprentice's scroll they left on the library tables, and I practiced really hard, and now I have a friend, as you said! I even named it!” Faaron beamed as the octopus curled around his wrist, and she narrowed her eyes at the blue rings on its flesh, gently flashing in spellworked smugness; of course the summon was smug. “Darling, what did you name your...little pet?” She would have to talk to the other priest about ensuring proper storage of study materials for the apprentices, lest her children learn a more dangerous spell by accident. Today, a familiar; tomorrow she’d find Faaron freezing dinner if she was lucky. “I named him Squishy!”

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Old scrolls

Some background on my dnd wizard Fa'aron

"Observations from the outer pools and inner hallways, gathered without any malice for our dear readers, a gathering of speculations of Faaron, bar Shafril v’ Finrod of Temple T’zohar on a most auspicious eve.”- Scribed by Apprentice Shrimp’el Beit Tides v’ Songs 

Column of Shrimp’el beit Tides v’ Songs, a semi-popular anonymous scribe in T’zohar with ‘The Tide’s Whisper’, a gossip-monger's scroll, carved and pressed on now worn and dried seaweed, curled up amidst the miscellaneous belongings of the caravan.

Dated the eve of Faaron’s (bar Shafril v’ Finrod) bar mitzvah and acceptance of an apprenticeship in the temple of Qa’rach, a triton city to the north. 15th of Sivan Year 182 Post Drowning. Baruch atah Gilganaut echad.

What a delightful cusp T’zohar finds itself upon this morning!

Our temple's own Priest Presumptive Fa’aron: malk, scholar, novice sermon weaver. T’zohar’s own junior champion of sandy wisdom, algae’d scrolls, and withering teenage looks, is preparing for his apprenticeship. An honored coming of age and sentencing, or should we say opportunity to study in the famed glacial spires of Qa'rach. 

The waters' temperatures: rumored only to be challenged by the ice in the veins of their citizens. Malkhonim whose glares are so withering they freeze kelp in place, yetzironim made of the same ice they carve, and Chayilonim who shatter bones like icicles. Lovely place we’re sure, especially with those selkies swimming about in hunting pods and lounging on the blinding surface ice.

And so we here at the Tide’s Whispers do as all good gossipmongers do, and dig up what we can find from the past as we consider the future and what it may hold.

The surface is the easiest layer to peel back, and our dear presumptive heir has never quite looked the part, has he? Oh, he walks like one of them, speaks like one of them, wears his mother’s lineage and robes like he was swaddled in temple silk since his first gilled breath, and he very well may have been.

 But…

And dear readers, there is a but…

But where’s the Pearl’s shadow, the blade behind the hymns, hmm?

Let’s not pretend T’zohar doesn’t whisper. You can hear it even in the wave-worn corners of the northern coral alleys, and it drips off the kelp-vendors’ tongues like oil rising to the surface. The boys at the wrestling rings say it straight if albeit crude:

“Looks like the High Priestess spat him out whole.” And truly, between those wide bright eyes (oft narrowed in distrust we will admit), dark hair, and the scales that do appear, he’s got the Kohenet G’dolah's bearing, her colors, and we'll wager her height in a few years, if perhaps not her charm, warmth or dignity.

Aluf Gadol Finrod bar Yam (of no known or claimed family), kraken-slayer, trench-diver, eel-spearer, leader of warbands in his youth, a man whose very presence sends ripples through the current. Whose markings shine like the sunset on the waves, and whose frown has haunted many of the warriors under his command.

Not a hint of that weathered thunder in our young kohen-to-be. Not the tilt of his brow (although our heir tries so hard to master the disapproving looks of the Aluf Gadol at only fourteen years of age), the set of his shoulders, or the shine of his scales, so unlike his younger sibling Nasif, who on his rare outings has been noted as the temple leaders’ perfect blend in all ways at just twelve years of age.

And yes, oh, yes, yes, the temple scribes insist: “The heir of the temple was born soon after the wedding. A blessing from Elohinu shel ma'arbolot gdolot, truly.” And isn’t that convenient, isn't that just like a romance scroll, so sweet and wonderful? The happy couple being blessed so swiftly in their union, barely 9 months in from their wedding. The Kohenet’s heir born blessed by the great coiling one themself, she declared. Perhaps the heir smiled more as an infant to his mother, or had the air of being particularly blessed in the thoughtless way of babes.

Meanwhile, others in hushed tones, under the shadows of current carved arches, say "he was the price of a storm stilled too early."

The Kohenet G’dolah’s early ascendancy to her position, following the untimely and tragic deaths of her parents, the former Kohenet G’dolah Nefira and her Yoterzah wife A’arum of the temple line is well known (may their memories be a blessing). And many of her generation and older may remember her prodigal success at her trials and studies in our sister city in the western reefs, the tropical dazzling city of Mayimah.

Now I, the ever humble, disarmingly charming, chronically curious and underfoot scribe that I am, make no accusations that may bring undue scrutiny on my head. But I do keep my ears open and my stylus ready; I of course bring no judgment or slander from my lowly station, but only offer others' opinions. And here’s what the tides whisper across our dear city:

Now, I like Fa’aron, Gilganaut preserve this poor junior scribe, but I do, perhaps due to our similar ages (Dear readers, a yetziron should never be asked their age, but suffice to say I am merely a skilled junior apprentice to T’zohar’s finest scribes and gossip-slingers) and otherwise lack of anything else in common. Yes, we divinely inspired creators: the far fairer genders, are the spice of life and parties. But sometimes those spices must be balanced with blander, more stable ingredients and not overcrowd the palette lest we turn and overwhelm each other with wit and circles of wild insinuations. 

- A midwife, retired and overseeing her school of grandchildren, once claimed he was silent when born. Not gurgling, not wailing and fussing, so still they thought he might have been born incomplete with too few scales. Things which she waves off with a nervous laugh, calling it an old saltwife's superstitions.

- An ever-present cousin of a cousin of an attendant swore that Shafril refused the company of her aides often in the weeks leading up to her wedding. “Too many eyes, too many whispers,” she said as she dismissed her regular staff for a time, assigning them to other duties in the interim. Some said they even caught glimpses of her leaving the gardens at night, although none will swear to this, and most chalked it up to pre-wedding nerves and the mourning of her mothers in the wake of her betrothal.

- And what of Finrod, the stoic Aluf Gadol and beloved consort to our Kohenet, the allegedly proud chayal? Rumors have it that he left for the trenches not one turn after the birth, and didn’t return until scales peeled from new battle wounds on his flesh. And since then, silence has settled like stone between them when the conversation involves the temple’s firstborn.

So I will say this about the temple’s firstborn: his lectures to the youths are long and winding in the way of apprentices who do not know how to edit decisively, his hands not half as clever as his eyes, he reads too much too deeply and sleeps too little, or so the rumors go. All the traits that make any scribe giddy in anticipation of gossip or history, to see the young malk thrive or perish under the weight of scrutiny and presumptions. 

But I also watch and wait as well as comment, and when a son carries so much of his mother in him that people can forget he even has a father…well, that’s not just gossip. That’s theater in the making.

As the High Priestess, our beloved Pearl of T’zohar and heir-mother? Oh, she says nothing on the matter, not a word muttered nor creased brow, just a smile as sharp as lionfish spines and a faint taste of blood in one’s mouth. But the way her attendants bristle and puff up when questions drift too close to bloodlines and resemblances? Their shells are not quite as polished.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe power is thicker than blood, and ambition gleams brighter than scales. Or maybe it's the crack in the foundation underneath the surface waiting to split open like a volcanic vent.

My theory? Born of passion. Or defiance. Or whatever it is that makes temple elders uncomfortable during tea. Something unspoken. Something deep. Something that rustles through coral reefs and temple walls at night like a crustacean one can't fully chase out.

We will all watch as this young kohen-to-be grows into his own and either lives up to his lineage or breaks under its weight like ice collapsing into the waves. We will all wave goodbye (some more eagerly than others, to be sure)  to the eldest son for a time and wait for his return. May he return from the icy waters of Qa’rach and icier care of Kohanon Gedolon Miriyam and be worth the effort of this scribe.

PS- to considerate and kind readers: If Kohenet Gadolah Shafril ever saw this scroll, I’d be peeled like my namesake and fed to the trenches. Best hide this page behind something boring. Census records, perhaps. No one sane reads those for too long.

– Shrimp’el, with their signature hand-carved sigil of a shrimp around a stylus 

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Twins, pt 2 draft snippets

“I said what I said; this isn't a debate, Ricardo. You’re having the surgeries.” Mr. Garcia was not a man used to hearing the word no.

Even if Ricardo thought his father should be used to it by now. ”You can’t make me into your little soldier; that's Julia’s job, Sir”

“For once, learn to accept my help. I’m your father, Ricardo. I just want what's best for you, for your future.”

It felt hard to keep that hate when the room refused to stay level. The same old speech helped; ‘his future’ meant the military, not happy with just one, but making the set fall in line.

The nurses explained, in slow, small words like he was a child, head trauma and vertigo and all the other things that he couldn't recall, along with his fucked spine and the twitching in his limp legs and side. “Is your favorite getting this offer too? Or am I your guinea pig now too? Sir”

He hadn’t seen her after the first few days, after he was moved to a different ward after his…episodes showed no signs of stopping, only worsening. “My daughter knows her responsibilities; she knows how to face consequences for her actions. Maybe if I hadn’t been so soft on you-”

“Is that what you're calling it now? Soft?” Maybe his father was too scared of the optics of striking his son in a hospital bed. "Maybe you should be talking to your perfect daughter then."

“Ricardo, listen to me: you are not well. This is a courtesy to explain to you that this is for your own good.”

“Fuck you- I have papers, alright, and they don’t list you as my POA.” he made sure, if anything happened on any jump or stunt, Enrique would never have that control again. Marek had the copies; he should have been here by now, should have shown up with the others and- and he had the proof that Enrique wasn’t supposed to make these calls for him as an adult

Not that it stopped the doctors and nurses from listening to his father over him; he wasn’t incompetent; they couldn’t just do this to him; it wasn't right; he had papers, and he was still able to think for himself, and if not his mother, she was supposed to make these calls, not him, never him-

“Ricardo, no one wants to force you into this but it's for your own benefit, it's to fix you, to make you better.” so patient so fucking patient like Ricardo would just fall in line “You’re sister is having her own surgeries after her recovery, after risking herself to help you, risking her own future for you, why can’t you see that.”

“She didn’t have to jump in! She just wanted to be the big fucking hero.” his voice cracked as he felt the pressure again, a vise squeezing his head like a lemon- “She just wanted to show me how I fucked up again, how much better she is than me-” and he couldn’t stop it.

Blood in his mouth and pressure cracking his head as he lost control. His left side was twitching and spasming as his jaw locked and stuttered. The only thing he had fully under his power. Gone now. As he was trapped and aware of all of it.

“Ricardo” was soft, almost gentle, as if the man knew how to care for him.

He hated this more than the fucked up head and broken spine, more than the seizures that made him a prisoner in his own body. The pity.

“This isn't a debate, I’m telling you, we’re going to fix this, and you can hate me as much as you want, when you can walk again.”

Enrique hadn't cared about him in years, gave up on him when he had his decent kid right there. Not until he could play the savior, be the good guy, the hero.

Like father, like daughter. ------------------------------------------------ Julia hated being doted on by her mother, hated not seeing Ricardo after they moved him, hated how the nurses and staff talked about him when they thought no one was listening. Like he would have been better off dead, the unlucky survivor. She was lucky, always the lucky one. Lucky to still move her legs, lucky to not be choking on her words and nearly biting her tongue off like her twin. 

If everything went well she needed was some basic mods, the cord was still intact, the military doctors assured her it would be top of the line, some new science they had been working on to fine tune the responses, not like she needed a total nerve reconnect, just…support and some improvements she glazed over and nodded through as she signed. 

Her father had been…upset, to say the least. He told her everything she already knew as he saw her laid up, IV’s and monitors all around her. She was supposed to know better, be better. To think before she leaped- that was her role in this family: to be the stable one, the responsible one, to look out for Ricardo; he didn’t know better, but she should have never let him drag her down.

And she knew it was her fault. If she had told him before they went, told Ricardo it was time to stop the daredevil tricks and stunts, none of this would have happened.

Julia knew, and her father saw that, and that was the worst part, being the disappointment, the failure.

She had nearly lost everything: her future, her enlistment, and had let her brother nearly kill himself for what- some stupid videos for people who never did anything meaningful with their lives, wannabes and has-beens. If it wasn't for the military, she would never be useful again; she knew enough to be grateful for her luck.

But her mom. Her mother was useless like this, fussing over her with shaky hands, tears, and prayers interrupting her sleep, bringing food she couldn’t eat before surgeries would fix anything.

At least their mother was letting their father handle Ricardo; he could stay focused, he could fix Ricardo, he told her as much. He promised her that he would fix this, fix them.

And she could still serve; once she got better, she didn’t want to be a mod, but it was better than the alternative. Better than being another disappointment to the family.

Could be worse. She could be in Ricardo’s place.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

clearing the board to start new

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

Funhouse mirror

a lightly unedited still piece from 2019 era still not totally in love with it and will not be posting to ao3 atm

When Julia (Esperanza Maria García) Ortega was born, the universe lined up, the perfect mix of daring and luck, with just enough common sense to be a success and a dash of looks for good measure.

 When her twin brother Ricardo was born minutes later, the universe twisted in on itself and became a parody of logic and collectively decided his life would be some long inside joke it had with the stars.

Or at least that's how he felt sometimes.

While he was the cause of many of his mother's grey hairs and his father’s wrinkles, Julia was the cause of their smiles and beaming looks of joy. 

Or at least for their father, and considering he was a joyless bastard half the time, he figured it made Julia a valid candidate for canonization. 

Julia was always the better child, more responsible, pulling her younger brother out of the fire when his antics caught up to him, the perfect older sister in comparison to him, at least in the eyes of their father. He personally thought he was still their mom’s favorite child and clung to that belief out of sheer shielding arrogance.

But despite everything, or maybe because of it she was also his best friend. Someone to help cover for him when he snuck away, to distract their father or mother when he slunk back in just like he would do for her. And someone to join him on his death-defying stunts with his friends. Especially if it was their last one.

“Julia, you have to come along. You're shipping out soon; come on one last jump.” ok her enlisting wasn’t any surprise to him, but it still stung, especially when he found out. Their father had ‘made an announcement’ at the last big family dinner. 

His eldest child, his pride and joy, was following in his footsteps. Her burning face and embarrassment almost made up for it, but the dinner tasted like ash in his mouth the whole night. The unsaid things heard loud and clear, not his son, not Ricardo

“It’s not like that, flaco.” She snapped a rubber band over her wrapped-up braid, safer than using pins for a bun. “There’ll be leaves and training before I ship out” “All I'm hearing is whining. Come on, this is Hollywood Hill. Aka The Jump of the decade. And who better than the Ortega Twins to make history?”- before there weren't any more Twins doing jumps and stunts up and down the west.

 A final hurrah for them, before she left.

“Fine, stop trying to manipulate me. You’re terrible at it.” She smiled at him as they drove out to meet Marek and the others,

Maybe this would be a nice memory, secure them their five minutes of fame on the web, something to look back on years later.

Till it all went sideways.

“I didn’t ask you to save me!” “That's what older sisters do Ricardo!”

Their mother had thanked god they didn’t die, but as Ricardo laid in the hospital bed, he almost wished that he did. And he’s sure as hell wished Julia didn’t jump after him. What did she even hope to accomplish, cushion his fall, have them both die together. Try to prove she could save him one last time. Bullshit.

His spine was hanging on by a thread, her bones smashed, both fucked up, brain damaged. Dragging her down with him, just like their father always said he would. Not that he said a word to Ricardo since then, since he woke up and he said he would handle it. He still wasnt sure if their father was speaking to both of them, or just Julia.

C-571.890 and C-306.875 were special, even in the program. One embryo, split into two, grown together in the same cocktails of drugs at every stage; they even took their first breaths together when they first got decanted. 

Two perfect mirror images of cuckoos that survived the experiments and the training; truly, the odds were astronomical. And were connected in ways beyond normal twins. An innate telepathic connection, sensory and cognizant as the drugs morphed their brains in development.

 Something even the dampeners couldn't fully block: some of the scientists thought it was maybe not telepathy but a double boost, replication perhaps. Although this was disproven through exacting tests and means to see which was the original. And while it meant they were never truly alone, it was both their greatest weakness and strength.

If one didn’t comply, you could punish the other, the perfect team and collateral for obedience on the field.

A leash that couldn’t be slipped.

But they did differ in small, minute ways that could almost be called a personality if their handlers ever mistakenly viewed them as human.

 CB-571.890 was less subtle than C-306.875, far more daring, bold, and painfully obvious, while CB-306.875 was far more gentle, soft, a weakness that couldn’t be trained out of her despite the Farm’s best efforts. 

It was always a risk to send them on the same mission; they were more effective, but far more volatile, independent of handlers. 

And when things inevitably went wrong, a sudden aneurysm of CB-571.890’s handler just as they were packing up, leaving them with a chance as CB-571.890 dragged her clone, her twin, with her through the maze of streets and people to disappear in the Human masses. The gun helped clear the other Handler.

As they camped out in an abandoned gas station, with magazines from before The Big One coated in dust and a few shared cans of tinned fruit, some old beer, and a small fire as they danced and felt sheer joy to cover the fear of the unknown.

They needed new names, to go with their new lives, true lives to be who they want to be. C-306.875 and C-571.890 were gone. Only Cyrus and Cybele now. What better place to hide your inhumanity than in the city of Devils.

[halfwaytowritingbullshit]

AO3 Profile link

Idk how you kids do this nowadays, but my ao3. I won't be posting my already published stuff back up, but going forward, new chapters, drafts, and snippets will be tagged for what work or characters it pertains to. Still unsure if I will post my dnd work for various OCs (probably just my current ones), but let me know. Also, I love comments but am terrified of responding, but they always fill me with joy. If you want to talk, hit me up in the FHR Patreon server or here! archiveofourown.org/users/Halfwaywrongway07