1- I’m a bisexual woman dating a cis straight man. That doesn’t make me straight, and that doesn’t make my relationship a straight one. That doesn’t mean I belong less in the LGBT+ community than a gay person.
2- The fourth example was not a joke. I’m in a fandom where two genderless entities with a temporary human shape are paired together. I’ve seen artists get hate because they drew them “looking straight”. The characters are still non-binary, still in love, STILL NOT STRAIGHT. Do not allow this toxic rhetoric in your fandom. Protect artists.
**Note– Forgot I meant to add aro and ace in there, sorry, but this TOTALLY INCLUDES ARO AND ACE PEOPLE.
THERE IS NO HIERARCHY OF WHAT IS MORE ACCEPTABLE IN THE LGBT+ COMMUNITY.
griffin mcelroy created the most relatable and compelling villain of our generation, the embodiment of nihilism and the desire to burn the world in search of answers, and trusted his father to come up with a counter. the man delivered in an astoundingly simple but powerful way and this is a large part of what makes taz balance a great story. in this essay i will
y’all want a fucking essay? i’ll give you a fucking essay. it’s 1am and i haven’t used my best skill in a while. plus i just finished going through another bit of media with a very similar villain so i got my intro paragraph ready. let’s go
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Evil has many roots. Greed, bigotry, a sheer disregard for life, all can have disastrous consequences when taken to their logical extremes. It should be noted, however, that the search for knowledge at any cost can become an evil greater than any other. This has been addressed before, in other works, other feats of storytelling. “Why should I be punished for that? What’s wrong with craving knowledge?” the primary antagonist of Fullmetal Alchemist cries in the face of judgment. The answer to the latter question is, of course, “a great deal,” when said knowledge comes at the cost of millions of innocents. And yet, some molecular amount of sympathy is reserved for the mass murderer. His goal was to break the bonds which held him down, to surpass all limitations placed upon him by reality. Can you truly say that you have never raged against the universe? That, in a moment of weakness, you wouldn’t be tempted to sacrifice everything to simply understand what it all meant? This is a key desire of humanity, and is addressed thoroughly in the collaborative work known as The Adventure Zone: Balance.
“Subject to laws we did not make,” cry the spirits of the dead, echoing throughout their Crystal Kingdom. The fourth arc of Balance, while rife with elevator shenanigans and wacky robots, is the first to touch upon what develops into the primary theme of the story. The imprisoned dead, unleashed upon the world by a hapless scientist, seek to reclaim their lives on the physical plane. “Their time has passed,” you might respond. But who decided that? Why should souls, once born, be forced to give up the active influence they once had? There is at least some type of afterlife in the fantasy world of Balance, but it is not necessarily a kind one. It is no surprise that rebellion would spread among those who fail to see the justice in their situation. The Legion of ghosts is defeated, but it was merely foreshadowing of a greater enemy to come.
The man who became the Hunger was a gifted orator. When he spoke, everyone and everything listened, from the smallest blade of grass to the most powerful of gods. He united his whole planar system into a single being with the goal of tearing apart an unfair reality. He wished to understand everything, at the cost of everything. “Dissatisfaction,” he calls the collective, to a rather befuddled old dwarf missing his shirt. His argument is undeniably compelling, and standing against it is all but impossible. But no one said you had to stand on your own, or even that you needed to stand.
Falling prey to nihilism is far easier than resisting. Your existence is finite, your actions inconsequential. Against the will of the universe, what can you possibly do? Do you fight with everything you have, or do you stick your head in the sand? That was the question Griffin McElroy posed to his father, speaking as the Hunger to Merle Highchurch. The man’s answer was simply insufficient, on the surface. Choose joy? That’s a cheap line often used to annoy depressed people. That’s not a solution. The solution does not exist. So choose joy. Rebel by existing, with those you care about at your side. Take your revenge on an uncaring reality by living and finding pleasure in life. That is the answer, presented to us in over a hundred hours of D&D by three dorks and their father. It’s not enough, because it can never be enough. So let it be enough. We can’t pull some clever magic bullshit out of our collective asses and destroy the looming nihilistic threat. It will be with us until the day we die. So choose to live, to find joy, to help those you love find joy, and to create a world that will allow every living person on the planet to find joy.
If your joy leads you down the path of knowledge, if you wish to understand the universe and its workings, you must accept that you will never know everything. Don’t tear apart the world to find out what makes it tick. Seven morons in red coats might just ruin your day.
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ANYWAY it’s now 2:30am and this is pretty messy i kinda forgot what the theme of the essay was and had to shoehorn it back in near the end but hey. there you fucking go don’t ask me for anything ever again
we need HEALTHY and DIVERSE wlw representation in 20gayteen. we need sapphic romcoms, sapphic fantasy epics, sapphic action movies, sapphic sci fi movies. and not side characters, we need wlw MAIN CHARACTERS who have other personality traits IN ADDITION to being wlw. we need LESBIANS, BI women, PAN women, ACE and ARO wlw. we need NB wlw, TRANS wlw, DEMIGIRL wlw. we need RACIALLY DIVERSE sapphic characters from different backgrounds, sapphic characters with disabilities and mental and chronic illness. we need to see HEALTHY and LOVING wlw relationships as well as wlw characters who AREN’T in a relationship. we need REALISTIC and INCLUSIVE wlw representation in media and we need to give wlw writers, directors, producers, and actors EVERY OPPORTUNITY to tell those stories. we need
I was nine the first time I found it, the little circle amidst the towering trees. The mushrooms had seemed magical, nearly luminous in the muted light. There was a storm brewing, dark clouds muffling the world. But the forest was calling me.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known what it was when I found it. I’ve always loved Faerie stories, the kind that mother would tell me on dark nights when I couldn’t sleep or on foggy mornings when the air was cold. They had always set something inside of me alight.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known what it was when I stepped inside it. Maybe it was foolishness, but curiosity was always a weakness of mine, even as a child. The air was different inside of it, crackling with more than the coming storm.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known, but there was something more there, in the mushrooms, the air, the storm, that I craved. It called out to my bones, my blood, my body. Even as a child.
I’d like to get to know other writers, especially YA, and other editors. Like or reblog this and I’ll check you out. Or send me a message :)
My name is Sanne, 33yo, and I’m a newbie. I have been making up stories since before I could write – probably like so many of you – and I have been living in the world of books ever since. I studied literature, linguistics and editing at university and now I am a fulltime editor. It’s my dream job <3 In my spare time, I write and I have a (local, offline) writing club. And I read tons of books.
What I plan to do with this blog:
Share writing and editing tips;
Write about my WIP and my writing process. (I’m shy to talk about my own work, so I hope to be inspired by you all);
Gush about books I have read, have bought, or just want.
My WIP is a YA story (or maybe 12+) about a magical library. Because I am a sucker for magical library stories myself. Write what you love to read, right? I write in Dutch, my mother tongue.
- it’s a good idea to know how to flirt, but, of course, some of us are romantically inept
- it should flow nicely, but too nicely and perfectly set up isn’t realistic
- read as many flirting scenes, fanfics, bad pick up lines, and flirting tips as you can in however much research time you have for this
- seriously, if you try to get better at flirting, it will help you at writing and in real life
- some people are stutter-y and nervous, some people are overly confident and cocky, and some are in-between. it depends heavily on your set-up, characters, and how they react to each other
- characters will (usually) be more confident flirting with those who show mutual interest than a crush they get flustered over
- people also (usually) are more confident flirting with a stranger than a crush
- a lot of personality types and backgrounds can effect what type of flirt-er someone is. if a character is popular and generally accepted, he’ll be real cocky. if it’s a nerd or someone who is more of an outcast, he’ll tip-toe and be flustered due to fear of being rejected. look at personality types first
- flirting isn’t black and white. there’s different types of teasing, movements, and things to say that go into it. look at how your characters already interact and see what can fit them!!!
- i highly suggest googling stuff such as ‘flirting tips’ and reading wikihow articles on picking up chicks just to learn more, especially if you’re the romantically inept type, like a lot of us introverted, cranky writers are
I was nine the first time I found it, the little circle amidst the towering trees. The mushrooms had seemed magical, nearly luminous in the muted light. There was a storm brewing, dark clouds muffling the world. But the forest was calling me.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known what it was when I found it. I’ve always loved Faerie stories, the kind that mother would tell me on dark nights when I couldn’t sleep or on foggy mornings when the air was cold. They had always set something inside of me alight.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known what it was when I stepped inside it. Maybe it was foolishness, but curiosity was always a weakness of mine, even as a child. The air was different inside of it, crackling with more than the coming storm.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known, but there was something more there, in the mushrooms, the air, the storm, that I craved. It called out to my bones, my blood, my body. Even as a child.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known what he was, but I didn’t truly believe he was there. In the stillness before the sky opened, in the calm, in the depths of the forest’s magic, I had believed my mother when she said I had imagined him.
It wasn’t that I forgot about the ring or the storm or the Fae. No, I never forgot them, and the next time the forest called me I was fourteen.
There were no street signs that led me there, because street signs and traffic lights are not of the Wild, of the magic that lives in the trees and the ring and the storm and the Fae.
My jeans and running shoes were not of the Wild either, of the magic in the forest. But my body was. Is. My bones and blood and body are of the Wild, of the magic that lives in the stones and the leaves and the clouds and the Fae.
And the Wild called me. It swept me out of the house, past the little wooden fence and the neat rows of tame flowers. It brought me across the stream and through the trees, back to the ring and the storm and the Fae.
I had known him then as a being as solid as myself. He was no longer a dream or a ghost or my imagination. I knew him when he spoke.
“My name is Bryn.” He spoke and his voice was of the Wild. I knew, even then, that was not his name. “And yours?” He extended his hand, but I did not shy away.
“I will not tell you my name,” I said, “but you may call me Ainsel.”
“Clever child.” He had smiled then, drawing his hand back. “The storm will start soon.”
“It will always start soon here.” That part of the forest was always storming, far from the neat rows of tame flowers and the little wooden fence.
“So it will. Run along, clever child,” he smiled, “there are Faeries in these woods.”
I hadn’t been scared. The magic in him, of the Wild and the woods, flowed within me as well. Flows.
But I had run home, towards the neat rows of tame flowers and the little wooden fence. Towards the street signs and the traffic lights, the magic of Science and of cities.
I hadn’t told my mother then, of the Fae in the woods. I had known she would not believe me, and I had known that it was my secret to keep. It was my secret like the magic was my secret, the Wild places I found where no one else could follow.
It was my secret like the Fae’s land was his, and I would not share it with my mother.
The third time the forest called me I was sixteen. The Wild had been quiet of late, not stirring inside my bones or my blood or my body, smothered by the walls around me and the disquiet within me.
But still there were no street signs that led me there. No matter how long I had been away, the Wild was still not of street signs and traffic lights. And neither was I.
I was running away that night, from the little wooden fence and the neat rows of tame flowers. I was running, and the forest was there to harbor me, to welcome me back beside the ring and the storm and the Fae.
He wasn’t there when I arrived, but the ring was nearly glowing. I did not step into it, because no matter how Wild I felt, I knew that I was not Fae and I did not want to tempt them.
The storm was still gathering, so far from the sunshine and blue sky and swimming pool reflections of Science and of cities. I sat and looked up at the trees that seemed to stretch forever, reaching up into the sky.
He appeared soon after, standing in the ring as always.
“Bryn,” I said, looking up at him.
“Clever girl,” he grinned, “it’s about to storm.”
“I said you may call me Ainsel.” I hadn’t truly cared if he called me clever girl, but the storm felt like a threat. It felt like he wanted me gone.
“Clever girl suits you better.” He sat gracefully so that we were at eye level and I had looked at him for the first time, seen the sharp and delicate angles of his face, the way his ears were pointed at the ends like tiny knives. “Why are you here in the Wild?”
“It called me,” I said simply. I could have lied to him, told him any number of tales, but there was no need for dishonesty.
“You aren’t made to be here,” he said, “no matter how clever you are.”
My mother had told me stories of Fae who stole children, girls and boys who strayed into the Wild and the storm and the ring and the Fae. My mother had told me stories of Fae who tricked girls into coming with them to the Wild. But the Wild was where I wanted to be, and I knew what not to say.
“How do you know how I am made?”
“Humans are made the same,” he waved his hand, “small and young and fragile. You are made of the magic of Science and of cities, street signs and traffic lights. Go back to your little wooden fence and your neat rows of tame flowers.”
“No,” I said, “I am not made of those things.” Again, I told the truth. “I am made of the Wild as you are, the magic of the storm and the ring and the Fae.”
He laughed, a musical sound. “No, clever girl. You may feel the Wild, the storm and the ring and the Fae. But you are young and weak and foolish, no matter how clever and Wild you are.”
There was anger in me then, I remember it still. I had stood from the earth, looked down at him and the ring. “You’re wrong.”
“Of course I am, clever girl.” He grinned up at me, mischievous and smug. “Run home to your mother and her stories of the Wild, to your friends who will never find the storm or the ring or the Fae. Run home to the humans, clever girl.”
And I had. I had run back to the neat rows of tame flowers, to the little wooden fence, to the Science and the cities. To my mother who made jokes of my adventures in the Wild. But I did not tell her of the Fae, of his words. It was still a secret, like my name and my Wild.
The forest called me often, after that. I never followed street signs or traffic lights, leaving no trail as I found my way to the storm and the ring and the Fae.
Bryn was always there, unchanging. He told me stories, some days. On others, he mocked me. “You are not Wild, clever girl,” he would say. “You are Science and you are iron.”
On those days I left angry.
But he was always there when I returned, quick to smile and quick to jest. He asked for my name often. He would say, “clever girl, what is your name.”
I would always reply, “call me what you like, I will not speak my name for you,” because girls who give their names to Fae are not clever, they are not Wild.
“Clever, clever girl,” he would say. “Some day you will get careless.”
“And some day you will get tired,” I would say. But he never tired and I was never careless, and I spoke with him often.
My mother had asked me once, “where do you keep going, out into the Wild and the woods?”
I had told her honestly, “to speak to a friend,” because that was what Bryn had become.
He understood my Wild like no one else, the way it sang and thrummed. He was not of the street signs and the traffic lights, of the little wooden fence and the neat rows of tame flowers.
He was a Wild creature, made of storm and woods and ring, and I never forgot that.
“One day you will forget,” he had told me. “One day you will thank me, clever girl, tell me your name.”
“No,” I had said, “I will not.”
“One day you may love me,” he had grinned, “and love will make you careless.”
I had been eighteen then, and his words had made me angry.
I had left with anger, left the storm and the ring and the Fae. I had been angry with him as much as myself, because I knew his words were true.
My heart craved his understanding like it craved the Wild and the woods, the storm and the ring and the Fae. I had felt it before, a faint tug, a subtle shift. But hearing him speak it aloud was like a curse.
He was of the Wild, of the woods and the storm and the ring and the Fae. He could not know my name, could not have my heart.
I did not return for several days.
But I went back to him eventually, and still he smiled. “Ah, clever girl,” he had said, “I thought you wouldn’t come back.”
I had told myself I imagined the relief in his voice. “This is where I belong,” I had said, “with the Wild and the woods.”
I had expected him to laugh, to mock me as he was wont to do. Instead he grinned and said, “perhaps you are right, clever girl. Maybe you are of the Wild after all.”
And my heart had soared, soul singing with the hope that someone saw me, the Wild and the woods inside my soul, my blood, my bones, my body.
But he saw me too well. “Did I speak truth, clever girl?” he asked me. “Will you get careless now, thank me, give me your name?”
“Never,” I had snarled. “You may have spoken truth, but you call me clever girl for a reason.”
He had laughed, looking up at the storm still brewing above us. “That’s true. You’ve said I may call you whatever I like. How about love? Darling? Wonderful girl who has stolen my heart?”
His taunts had stung sharper that day, his mockery more painful. “You may not call me anything,” I had said as I rose to leave, “and you will not see me again.”
“Wait,” he had said, reaching for my hand.
I had not waited, I had not paused. I ran, back through the trees and the ring and the storm, back through the neat rows of tame flowers and the little wooden fence.
I had not returned for a long time. I had not wanted to see him. I had wanted to keep my promise, keep him from seeing me again.
But the Wild was still in me, and in the magic of Science and of cities, street signs and traffic lights, I withered. My mother could tell, after the first week. She had asked me, “what happened to your friend?” and I suspected that she knew the truth.
“Gone,” I had said. “I will not go out there again.”
But I was not made for Science or for cities, for street signs and traffic lights, for the little wooden fence and the neat rows of tame flowers. I was not made for anything but the Wild, and the forest called me once again.
He was not there when I arrived, not sitting or standing in the ring, among the trees, under the gathering storm clouds.
But he appeared soon after.
“Leave,” I had told him.
“Clever girl, I do not want to,” he had said.
“I will not thank you, love you, give you my name.”
“Why not?” He had smiled then, mischievous, but not smug.
“You know well enough.” My mother had told me stories of Fae who stole girls away, took them from Science and from cities, street signs and traffic lights. My mother had told me stories of Fae who stole girls like me from forests when they strayed from little wooden fences and neat rows of tame flowers.
“Ask me what I will do,” he had said, “if you give me your name.”
I had known he would not lie, not if I phrased it right. It was my chance at the truth, and I had hoped that knowing all the horrors he had in mind would stop whatever it was I felt.
“Bryn,” I began, for even if it was not his true name, it was name enough, “tell me everything and anything you would do if I gave you my name.”
“Clever girl,” he grinned, “I will tell you.”
He wove stories of adventure, me by his side as he traveled through the Fae’s land. He told me of plans, showing me wonders I could not fathom and things I could not comprehend. He described other things, too, things that I had thought of late at night but never dared to speak.
But the horrors never came. In all his words, he never spoke of things I did not wish for, things I did not want. He spoke of Wild and of woods, of storm and ring and Fae, with me beside him through it all.
“Tell me the rest,” I had said, “the horrors and the evil.”
“You bade me tell you all,” he had said, “I have told you all my truth, and I cannot tell you lies.”
I had not stopped to think as I rose, had not paused as I ran. He had spun me stories of my greatest wishes, but that could not be truth. Why would a creature of the Wild and the woods, the storm, the ring, the Fae, want those things as well?
I ran back through the neat rows of tame flowers, the little wooden fence, back to the Science and the cities and the streets signs and the traffic lights. I waited there for days, until my mother asked me, “darling, why haven’t you gone back to the Wild and the woods?”
Any lies I may have told her died on my tongue and the truth forced its way out of my throat. I told her of Bryn, of the Wild and the woods and the way my heart leapt at the though of it all. She did not tell me I was lying, then.
She had smiled a sad smile, nodded and looked out at the little wooden fence, the neat rows of tame flowers, and the Wild beyond it all. “I understand,” she had said.
“How?”
“Long ago, in different Wild and different woods, I had been like you. I was Wild, unfit for Science and for cities, street signs and traffic lights. I met a creature of that world. There was no storm, no ring, but he was of the Fae.”
“What did you do?” I had asked.
“What you have done. I fell in love with the Wild, the woods, the Fae. I fell in love with understanding.”
“And were you careless? Did you thank him?” There was no good end to a story such as that.
“I was not careless,” she shook her head, “and I did not thank him or give him my name. But I went with him, saw things beyond Science and things beyond cities, beyond street signs and traffic lights.”
“Why did you return?” There was no looking back for me. I had known, even then, that if I got the chance I would stay in the Wild and the woods, with the storm and the ring and the Fae.
She looked at me, through me, and I understood. “I had a daughter. She was a baby girl born of the Wild and the Science, both woods and cities, storm and street signs. I tried to warn her away from the ring, from the trees, from that world.”
I had understood then, why I felt the call, why there was Wild in me as it was in him.
“Go,” she had said, “trust in the Wild, in the woods, in the storm and the ring and the Fae. Return to me and cities when you wish,” tears had gathered in her eyes, “but be as you are.”
There were no street signs that led me back to the Wild, past the little wooden fence and the neat rows of tame flowers.
He had been waiting for me by the ring, in the woods, in the storm. “Clever girl,” he had said, “you came back.”
“This is where I belong,” I had said, and I spoke truth.
“Perhaps it is.” He had smiled, and I wished he would ask me again, ask me because I had an answer at last. “Clever girl, will you give me your name?”
“I will, Wild boy,” I had said, “if you give me yours.”
He took my hand, moved closer to me than he had ever been, and whispered it in my ear.
I had moved closer than we had ever been, close enough to whisper my name for him to hear.
“Clever girl,” he said, “with the Wild in her.”
“Wild boy,” I said, “with the woods in him.”
Now his mouth meets mine, soft and sweet with my name, light on his lips for the first time. He kisses me and it feels like the magic of the Wild, the forest and the ring and the Fae. He kisses me and I kiss back. He kisses me, and the storm that has been gathering breaks, rain falling heavy through the trees.
In his kiss, in the rain, in the ring, in the woods, in the Wild, I feel freedom at last.
*feels as if I’m working my ass off all the time
*feels as if I’m also a screw off with piss poor time management skills
*gets a fairly decent and acceptable level of various things accomplished
*is slightly above average in chosen hobbies/pastimes/specialized niches
*looks back on work feeling appropriately fulfilled
*fulfillment gone as I wonder how much more I’d be able to do if I just applied myself and stopped being a screw off for just a little bit
I love swords. Love them. Swords are to fantasy as walls to a castle. You need your swords to battle dragons, usurpers, knights and wizards. So lets go into the armory and learn about swords.
Anatomy of a typical sword
Crossguard: This is the part of the sword between the hilt and blade. This protects the hand.
Blade: The sharp end, duh
Hilt: This is the part you hold. Also called a grip.
Pommel: the end of the sword attached to the hilt. This can be decorated as you like.
Fuller: this is a hollow running up the sword. Debates go on whether it is made to reduce suction or make blood run off quicker or to make the sword more dynamic.
Edge: the sharpened sides of the blade. Can be singular or double.
The point: The pointy bit at the top. Stick them into the person (jon snow logic)
Types of Swords
Claymore: This is the Scottish Gaelic version of the Great Sword. It is a heavy sword with a long reach
Longsword: Medieval and Renaissance weapon commonly used with with two hands.
Bastard sword: refers to a sword of an uncertain origin. It may be a cross between a long sword and a great sword.
Gladius: an ancient Roman blade used by gladiators and then legionaires. There is no crossguard. It is also called a shortsword. Made for stabbing rather than slashing.
Xiphos: double-edged, single-handed sword used by ancient greeks. The blade is commonly leaf shaped made for slashing.
Sabre or Rapier: This is a slender blade used by fencers. This blade might not be able to hack a head but its light weight makes the blade an asset in speed.
Katana: The Japanese samurai sword. This is single-edged and the blade os hammer thin. Made for speed and deadly sharp.
Scimitar: a curved blade with a singled edge.
Sword Moves
Advance - to attack, going forward.
Deflect - engaging sword with your own and pushing it away
Empty Fade - jumping backwards as if to retreat then attacking.
Front Guard - the sword is held in front of your face.
Full Iron Gate Guard - the sword is halfway between your legs, angled right.
Half Iron Gate Guard - the sword is held before your left leg.
Lunge - leaping forwards while feet are in the same stance.
Pass Back - moving your front foot into the rear position.
Pass Forward - moving your rear foot into the front position.
Shed - to allow a sword to slide away off your sword.
Short Guard - the hilt is at your hip and the point is forward.
Step Across - Rotating 180 degrees, crossing feet and spinning.
Tail Guard - the hilt is at your hip and the sword is behind you.
Two Horn Guard - pommel is at your chest with the sword pointing out.
Window Guard - a guard where the hilt is at your ear and the sword points forwards
Things to remember about swords
1. When drawing your sword, the scabbard is on your opposite hip.
2. If a sword is two-handed, use two hands. Don’t try be cool. You will cut yourself.
3. Swords are sharpened using a whetstone and polished with oil clothes. Water rusts them. Look after your swords.
4. Swords can stick to to scabbard if the air is icy. To prevent it, you can line your scabbard with leather.
5. Practise with a blunted sword first. Blunt swords are used in tourneys.
6. Defense over Attack. Better to defend rather than attack.
7. Shields are your friend in defence but hamper your ability to attack.
8. Sword to size. Smaller and weaker swordsmen(women) can’t any wield heavier swords. Bulkier and stronger swordsmen(women) can wield heavier swords. Match sword type to body type.
