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macklin celebrini has autism
YOU ARE THE REASON
oozey mess
will byers stan first human second
Stranger Things
hello vonnie
noise dept.
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taylor price
Monterey Bay Aquarium
NASA
Origami Around
Fai_Ryy
art blog(derogatory)
trying on a metaphor
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
icyghini twinkie
EXPECTATIONS
$LAYYYTER
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@justassorted
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A multi-muse rp sideblog for an assortment of unaffiliated original characters. Adaptable to different settings and verses. Semi-selective.
Topics include science, magic, and making your way through the world when the paths that most people take for granted just don't quite work for you.
Follows from @justashadetalkative !
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Muses | Rules | Ask Memes | Art
turnaround figure commission for @krtart of Mila and her formal Oaxacan inspired outfit. com info
Team “not actually oblivious to flirting, just terrified of appearing presumptuous” represent.
“Yes, in the balance of consideration this person’s behaviour could certainly be interpreted as flirtatious, but it would be purest arrogance for me to just assume they actually meant what they said. I should gather more evidence. Forever.”
this is a terrible time to be alive *remembers the latter half of the 14th century* this is a not so good time to be alive
hey op how do you remember the latter half of the 14th century
not fondly. I do not recall it fondly.
Details: Ithadel
It’s always interesting to me to think of some of the changes Ithadel has lived through over the course of his 700-year life.
I’ve talked about medical developments and the shift in average heights before, but here’s one more — language! English is only one example, since Ithadel is a bit of a polyglot, but even just since the 1300s, accent/pronunciation, sentence construction, and many words have all shifted noticeably.
…okay, one more. :P
Details: Ithadel
It’s always interesting to me to think of some of the changes Ithadel has lived through over the course of his 700-year life.
I’ve talked about medical developments and the shift in average heights before, but here’s one more — language! English is only one example, since Ithadel is a bit of a polyglot, but even just since the 1300s, accent/pronunciation, sentence construction, and many words have all shifted noticeably.
Ingvar waited patiently for Ithadel's confirmation. As he stood there, touching his finger and seemingly enraptured, the giant's head slowly canted to one side. What, he wondered, was going through his mind at that moment...?
He stiffened, if even a mere iota, when Ithadel suddenly moved again, and looked way up to his face. His head currently blocked the sun, beams of light peering around the brown corners of his head of long hair like a crown. A pause. He blinked. And he blinked again. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he didn't feel entirely prepared for the moment the little fellow actually said yes; and, as such, was caught off-guard. He drew a deep, slow breath, and exhaled just as slowly. Then, a second. And he nodded.
His hands came down and around Ithadel without haste, and with a great dexterity and greater gentleness, he curled his fingers around his little body. Up he went, placed carefully upon the other, waiting and open hand, the fingers uncurled and left, and then the two hands cupped in an attempt to make as safe a manner of travel as possible — and as low a risk of falling as possible.
Next came the act of standing. Slowly, and steadily, his legs pushed himself up off the ground, out of his kneel and up, all the way up to his full height. And he took his first steps. The dull thumps of his footfalls may as well have been a million miles away.
It was hard to comprehend a touch so gentle yet strong enough to lift Ithadel’s full weight, or the warmth of those great hands cupped about him afterwards.
Abruptly, nonsensically, Ithadel’s eyes burned.
He ducked his head to hide his expression, betrayed nonetheless by the miserable downpin of his quills and ears. The change in altitude renewed the throbbing in his temples and some part of him felt it was well-deserved. The distant sound of the giant’s footfalls and the birdsong now surrounding him as nearby neighbor only served to drive home the sheer enormity of this encounter, and the life force thrumming through every point of contact sang in harmony: no inherent monster, this being, deadly or not. More a force of nature.
That any of Ithadel’s needs or misfortunes should divert Ingvar from his own purposes felt something very close to profane.
Worse still that it was his own damned fault. Ithadel hadn’t misjudged his own endurance so badly as to fail a shift to stoneform since he was a child. Now, with that mistake atop what felt like a mountain of others and with his fate rather literally out of his own hands, there were things which Ithadel had very little choice but to accept. And admit.
Ithadel took a steadying breath and, with an effort of will, sought for his voice.
“…I’m… truly sorry to have put you to this trouble,” he managed eventually. With another effort he straightened, free arm wrapped tightly about his knees, his cowardly gaze fixed out among the sun-kissed trees. Whatever Ingvar thought of him, he didn’t want to see hint of it. “And I’m grateful for your help. I don’t wish to… to test your hospitality, or… but I’m — I may need to camp, by the river, for… for as long as a week. I… hope that won’t be too disruptive?”
Mirian smiles in response to a wide variety of emotions, especially in social contexts.
There's something about characters whose stress response is to burst into laughter...idk there's something there. I <333 characters who can't stop themselves from laughing when shocked/stressed/afraid
Let's just say the lady isn't quite what Alex expected.
With that sort of energy, he can't help but wonder what the hell kind of program they're on. Are they rolling? Where's the camera?
She's barged in on him like a South Asian-localized Ms. Frizzle in a funny little Bill Nye bow tie, with promise to whisk him away on a magical science adventure. He's feeling a certain kinship with the kid in the glasses, as he sits there all jet-lagged and hung-over.
Mirian sniggered, at first, at Alex playing off of her ‘people mode’ phrasing, but her first thought for a response—that perhaps they were both in good company—died on her tongue as the sarcastic tone of his laugh sank in.
He wasn’t joking. He was jabbing.
Mirian’d had forty years to learn the difference.
She was caught off-guard by the startled discomfort that lanced through her chest—she’d outgrown this shit, damn it, and she was supposed to be professional right now besides, unfamiliar context and all.
But this one hit a little close to home, and the thing was, maybe she deserved it.
Miria stopped looking at Alex, abruptly deciding that even if his facial features were large enough for her to have a better chance at reading his expression she didn’t actually want that info right this moment, and scooted the roller chair over to the computer instead.
“Y’know, I always wanted to make that one work,” she said, mouth off and running as she waited for the government’s stupid checklist to load. “People’d ask “Where are you from?” and I’d lay the drawl on just a little extra thick and say “Georgia,” like they were stupid, because they were. But, well. 50/50 whether they believed me, and anyway, I knew I was born in India and that that’s what they were really asking, even if I couldn’t remember jack shit about the place. Kind of took the satisfaction out of it.”
She laughed at herself, derisive at the edges, because of course she was still babbling.
“Point is: sorry, for whatever it’s worth. I didn’t mean to ask where you’re from.” She still wasn’t entirely sure how she had, metaphorically or otherwise, but that was a problem for laying-up-at-night Mirian. On-the-clock Mirian didn’t get to have regrets; only course-corrections.
“I do have a whole slew of contractually-obligated questions to ask, though, so. Work mode it is!” She gave up on squinting at the computer, which had not been set to an enlarged UI like she requested and which was taking far too long to navigate, and turned to face Alex once more. She had his chart and some scratch paper and she could totally wing this. She had been studying.
“First off: how are you feeling today? Any concerns?”
"You are not being particularly well?" the giant parroted in a murmur. Concern creased the gap between his brows. If Ithadel was unwell, then it was likely he couldn't hoist himself up onto Ingvar's waiting hands, he thought. And if that were the case, then that meant —
He swallowed, now himself uneasy. The moisture whetted his words, readied them to come from his lips. But would they ever truly be ready, him saying something like this?
"... Then— I— shall be... picking you up, now, if— if that is being all-right, my friend. Do not be frightened; I... I shan't be hurting of you."
'My friend'. It had come out into the open air before he could pull it back and hide it back away in the confines of his mind. And as it lingered there, still heavy upon his thoughts, he moved quite gradually; his weight shifted from back to front of his upright boot, and he leaned down, and his arm straightened out, fingers outstretching and curled ever-so-slightly at their ends —
Mere feet before they could touch Ithadel, they stopped statue-still, and just hovered there, ready to grasp, but not doing so.
"You are prepared?" he asked, blinking. He imagined it rather nerve-wracking, the anticipation of being picked up, nevermind the act itself, especially given how the initial few moments of their encounter had gone. And so, he could not be too sure this was truly alright, now, could he?
Ithadel swallowed; nodded once, jerkily, as the giant proposed picking him up. Ingvar’s uncertainty was not misplaced; it was hard to banish second thoughts with that great hand approaching, no longer simply held down as a neutral, waiting platform.
My friend, the giant said. Meaningless, really, from a stranger, likely very much the same as those warm speakers who seemed unable to refrain from peppering their speech with terms of endearment such as “dear” and “honey,” but despite knowing better Ithadel found himself ever so slightly reassured. If nothing else, Ingvar seemed habituated to speaking kindly.
Ingvar hesitated, at the end. Ithadel swallowed again. “I… may I?” he asked. One hand lifted in a hesitant gesture, but he was already stepping forward. Ingvar had been the one to propose contact, after all.
He let out a breath, struck, as his hand came to rest on Ingvar’s fingertip. The sense of life that bloomed beneath his touch brought to mind sunlight on stoneskin and the incomprehensibly vast vitality of grounded Earth, of distant molten heat.
It called to the exhausted chill that lurked in his bones. For one selfish, unbearable moment, it was all Ithadel could do to keep from leaning his entire weight against the warmth of that strength.
Foolish, Ithadel chided himself, harsh, and dropped his hand.
At least the worst of his trepidation was banished. He looped his tail up and into the crook of one arm, stinger tucked safely in against his side; shuffled the fingertips of his wings until he was quite certain that their talons were folded down beneath the membrane. His face, as he tilted his head back up into the sun to meet Ingvar’s gaze, held the least fear that it had so far.
“I’m prepared. Yes. Thank you.”
It is proving to be An Endeavor but I will get a better handle on Mirian’s face and I will soon have more than two drawings of her to my name, dangit
In the mean time: have the doodle I’m happiest with so far + a self-indulgent Mirian-ified trace of Edna Mode :P
Character Playlists: Mirian
Obligatory disclaimer: The songs below do not necessarily reflect the mun’s views on mental health. They do reflect Mirian’s shifting views on (her own) mental health during different phases of her life. On that front, the songs are roughly chronological.
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Full playlist —>
Gasoline — Halsey
Hope of Morning — Icon for Hire
The Crow — Dessa
Spring Cleaning — Hi I’m Case
The Bullpen — Dessa
Writing Flails: Mirian
So a dash thing yesterday got me thinking about Mirian a bit. (Thank you, @giaunt!)
Specifically, it got me thinking about Mirian in historical and semi-historical-but-fantastical settings. Why is it, exactly, that I can often picture her as a child in those settings without much trouble, but find myself almost entirely unable to picture her as an adult?
And I think it might be because I suspect that without BOTH queer community AND the ability to live openly, fiercely, and independently as an Unattached Weird Woman in Science (an ability heavily informed by the modern era)…
Mirian hits the equivalent of her main verse crisis point with regard to familial and societal expectations, and she either dies to it or she decides “fuck ALL of this shit” and she starts living as a man.
So. Now I need to go read about historical trans men, and historical women-living-as-men, and all the wide blurry area between.
Details: Ithadel
I think one of the things Ithadel likes about the human guise is that it means his ears and quills aren’t there to telegraph his moods quite so clearly.
Which sounds vaguely reasonable to us as humans until you think that it’s kind of equivalent to saying that he likes when his eyebrows are paralyzed so that people have a harder time telling if he’s frowning. >_>
What is something about my portrayal[s] that sticks out?
Example being; my muses ticks they have, the way they talk, etcetera.
// Starter for @justassorted with Mirian:
Alex has a heart, kind of. He has lungs, sort of. When he's cut, he bleeds. Sure, it carries a tiny electric charge, enough to slap on a warning. But isn't it overkill to hire a private jet, a bodyguard escort, and a licensed xenobiologist just to bombard him with questions, scold him for smoking, and complain that he's overweight? It's a big annual waste of money and he has no choice but to play along. At least he's the one getting paid.
The doctor that enters is short, brown, middle-aged, and breaks into a grin the moment she lays eyes on Alex. She’s wearing thick bifocals and a bow-tie with a cartoonish microbe pattern above the collar of her lab coat, and the nystagmus that rocks her gaze is faint enough to give her an overeager rather than an unseeing air.
“Hi! I’m Doctor Kapoor, I’m gonna be taking over for your old doc,” she announces as she closes the door behind herself. “Which will probably be an adventure for the both of us.”
The woman grabs the chair near the exam bed — it’s a regular rolling office chair, further emphasizing the feeling that the room was not originally intended as an exam room — and collapses into it, sending it rolling a grudging half-foot backwards across the carpet. She steeples her hands in front of her face, eyebrows lifted high.
“For one thing, back when I was doing my PhDs and shit, xenobiology was still working on making the transition from ‘We know about extremophiles now and we’re looking for evidence of microbes somewhere out there’ over to, well, the world post-you, where it was something more like ‘Well it turns out aliens might be able to talk to us, that’s not just for the kooks and the government wackos anymore, but speaking of government wackos they’re not telling us squat.’ I’m sure you can imagine the chaos.” Her eyebrows lift, if possible, even higher; inviting Alex to laugh.
“Basically, I’ve got plenty of biology and physiology and medicine under my belt, but not so much actual med school. With the, y’know. Learning ye fabled ‘bedside manner’ and practicing how not to cuss in front of the patients and all. Sorry. In advance.”
She’s rambling. Mirian knows she’s rambling. In her defense: alien. Who can talk to her. Right there. But she had a point, she practiced saying the point, what was the point again…
“BUT. I’ll cut you a deal. I’m gonna slip into work mode for some of this, can’t escape that, but YOU, my friend, have my full and enthusiastic permission to remind me to turn my people mode back on at any point. Sound good?”
