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[hacvek]

reminder to worldbuilders: don't get caught up in things that aren't important to the story you're writing, like plot and characters! instead, try to focus on what readers actually care about: detailed plate tectonics

[olyia-stories]

@dragonpyre any chance you could elaborate on this

[dragonpyre]

I grew up learning about land formations. Seeing fictional maps that don’t follow the logic and science of them makes me upset

[serinos-kitt]

What are the most common sins you’ve seen relating to this? I wanna know

[dragonpyre]

Mordor.

Why is the mountain range square. How did the mountain range form. Why is there one singular volcano in the center. Why does it act like a composite volcano but have magma that acts like it’s from a shield. If it’s hotspot based volcanic activity why is there only one volcano.

And then the misty mountains!!!! Why isn’t there a rain shadow!! And why is there a FOREST where the rain shadow should be!!!!!!!!

[serinos-kitt]

So what is a rain shadow?

[lethalbutterfly]

Wind blows clouds in from the sea, but mountains are so tall the clouds can't get past 'em, so you get deserts on the windward side of mountain ranges because clouds can't get there to water the land, or do so only very rarely.

[roach-works]

this is because, as clouds are forced upwards by rising land, they cool and dump their rain. so the side of the mountain facing the ocean (or an inland sea, or a great lake) gets all the rain as the clouds are squeezed out, and the opposite side gets nothing.

my favorite thing is the american great lake snowbelts! so, the 'flow' of weather across north america, in very general terms, blows from the northwest on down south and east to the gulf of mexico.

so the wind is blowing from west to east, and in the winter it's a dryer wind than in the summer because it's colder. but after blowing across a great lake for a hundred miles, the wind is wet again. and that wet turns into snow. so for all of these lakes, the big cities are on the west side, not the east sides, because the east sides absolutely suck to live on.

the sole exception is buffalo, NY, which literally has to be there because, unfortunately, that's where all the important canal stuff between lake ontario and lake erie is happening.

also this always strikes me as cool, check out where cleveland is:

it's right at the edge of that snowbelt. and you see way more cities west of it than east, too.

[beatrice-otter]

#but again. mordor looks like that becaue sauron made it#and he's an ass

On a Watsonian level, sure.

On a Doylistic level, Mordor looks like that because plate tectonics was a fringe, ludicrous, laughable theory that nobody outside serious geology nerds had ever heard of until scientists proved seafloor spreading in the early 1960s. The first edition of the LotR trilogy was published in 54-55. We literally did not know that plate tectonics was real until almost a decade after the book was published, so obviously, it was not something Tolkien could have been considering as he made his maps.

I don't know enough meteorological history to know when white people figured out about rain shadows and added it to geology classes, or what would have been taught about volcanoes and such. But any education Tolkien got on the subject would have been in childhood/adolescence; his college education focused on the liberal arts, not the sciences, and his professional study was linguistics and the middle ages. So anything Medieval and earlier European authors wrote about he had a pretty good chance of knowing about. But not much exposure to modern science. So his science knowledge was probably limited to "what English schools taught at the turn of the 20th Century."

[whetstonefires]

I mean, it's true he didn't know about plate tectonics, but he did know what mountains look like, and that it's not normally That. And it wasn't his style to break that kind of norm without cause.

LotR has recurring themes of the reckless imposition of one's will on the natural world creating ugliness, an order you thought was inherently an improvement that in fact is inferior to what you have displaced. (Typified by reckless tree-felling; a reflection of the despoiling of the English countryside and the world by Progress.)

Mordor is a rectangle because Sauron is an asshole.

[beatrice-otter]

#the rain shadow thing otoh was undoubtedly total ignorance#but those mountains were made as the fortress of a demigod#too steeped in evil to understand beauty#it's *supposed* to look like something that Shouldn't Exist#like quite often this is something that happens in worldbuilding yes#things are arranged Wrong because a person doesn't grasp the underlying logic#but mordor is a bad example for the same reason it's an obvious one#it's So Very Wrong because it was designed to be wrong#to give you a bad feeling with how much it shouldn't look like that#if he just wanted it unapproachable on all sides it could've been in a caldera formation it didn't *need* corners#the corners were a choice#tolkien's job involved lots of looking at maps and things okay#meanwhile people whose lives revolved around the weather generally knew where the rain happened#long before it was formalized into 'rain shadow effect'#people not having The Science doesn't mean they don't have eyes and brains

[maryellencarter]

I wrote an entire paper in college analyzing the geology of the Misty Mountains and to a lesser extent the White Mountains (the Misty Mountains are easier because we get a cross-section via Moria). One thing I discovered that still knocks me for a loop when I think about it is:

Moria is the only place in Middle-Earth where mithril is found, right? That's kind of a big deal. So, why? What makes that location so special? Is it just random?

I found a paper that had just been published *that year*, 2011 or 2012 as I was writing it, that studied the locations of precious-metals mines in the Pyrenees, the similarly long skinny mountain chain that divides Spain and France. This paper discovered that where there was a bend in the mountain chain, from one of the continental plates having an awkward corner in it that got subducted under the other plate, that had dug deeper into the mantle and caused precious-metal-bearing ores to flow up to the surface in ways they didn't do anywhere else in the Pyrenees.

There's a conversation in The Fellowship of the Ring where one of the hobbits -- I don't have my copy handy or I'd get the direct quote -- asks why they can see the Misty Mountains ahead of them at one point if they're still heading south from Rivendell, and it's explained that south of Caradhras (which you may recall is the surface mountain under which Moria runs) the mountain chain bends and runs southwest instead of due south for a while.

Tolkien had absolutely no way to know *why* this particular feature of a mountain range was associated with intrusions of rare and unique metal ores, but he had gone backpacking in mountains enough to know How Things Should Look.

(And as prev excellently points out, when Jirt made screwed-up geology it was very much on purpose. Mordor shouldn't be square! Mount Doom shouldn't be doing any of the things it does! A composite volcano shouldn't even have especially hot lava! Even the Gulf of Udun, the circular feature at the upper left corner of the square, shouldn't be like that -- perfectly round features should be impact craters or calderas, not The Mountains Just Do This In A Suspiciously Convenient Way. These are all the way they are because Sauron forced them to be, in defiance of the laws of nature. Remember, he's akin to Balrogs and was a Maia of Aulë -- he's a volcano spirit in many ways.)

[sunflowergardens-world]

Amazing work by the LoTR fandom, as always.

[mysteryteacup]

This also serves as an excellent example of why worldbuilding needs - more than realism - to be cohesive and work with the themes of your story.

[sometiktoksarevalid]

[elle-thereafter]

These are important things I have learned about writing fiction. I know these things, but sometimes I need a reminder. So I am writing them here, both as a reminder for myself, and as a reminder for all those who, like me, sometimes forget.

Characters must make choices.

Characters should often make bad choices before they make good choices.

Character choices should drive the vast majority of the plot. Characters reacting to having random stuff thrown at them is far less interesting than characters reacting to the stuff they've thrown after it's ricocheted around and comes bouncing back toward them.

If a character refuses to make a choice, there better be consequences for that too, and you better have a damn clear way of showing those consequences to the reader and the character.

Nearly every time I'm struggling with writing something, taking a step back and thinking about these 4 things usually helps get me unstuck.

[preservationofnormalcy]

I feel confident enough to post these now. A collection of all the existing posters after some edits from the other post that got 13k notes! These are full size/quality. Go nuts.

You may use them for wallpapers, tabletop campaigns, whatever. Consider tipping me or buying a print or sticker on ko-fi here! If you do use them, let me know what for, or send pictures!

[romanceyourdemons]

one-sided platonic feelings always hit me so hard. like. i want you to love me like a son, but to you i’m not much more than a servant. i swore our oath of brotherhood out of real devotion, and you swore it out of convenience. i want to go to the ends of the earth and the depths of hell for you and follow you until the end of time, and in your mind that’s no more than what i owe you

[chandra-telescope]

hope is a skill

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

hope is a weapon you are trained to wield

[chandra-telescope]

favourite additions

[chandra-telescope]

[tenaciouswritingdragon]

You cannot hide this in the tags, bestie. This is too lovely to keep a secret.

[wonderwyrm]

[technofeudalism]

Declassified CIA Guide to Sabotaging Fascism Is Suddenly Viral

The World War II-era "Simple Sabotage Field Manual" is full of steps that office workers can take to resist leadership.

A declassified World War II-era government guide to “simple sabotage” is currently one of the most popular open source books on the internet. The book, called “Simple Sabotage Field Manual,” was declassified in 2008 by the CIA and “describes ways to train normal people to be purposefully annoying telephone operators, dysfunctional train conductors, befuddling middle managers, blundering factory workers, unruly movie theater patrons, and so on. In other words, teaching people to do their jobs badly.”  Over the last week, the guide has surged to become the 5th-most-accessed book on Project Gutenberg, an open source repository of free and public domain ebooks. It is also the fifth most popular ebook on the site over the last 30 days, having been accessed nearly 60,000 times over the last month (just behind Romeo and Juliet). 

Link to the Guide at Project Gutenberg can be found here

A Wikisource entry can be found here.

Mirrors can be found here, here, here, here and here.

[kalikatze]

OP made the post unrebloggable but said it's fine to screenshot and I'm in love with this

[starblightbindery]

My personal goal is to try and make fanfic binding as accessible to everyone as possible, so here are some resources on how to make a fanfic hardcover for under $25.

This is a barebones bind for the broke college students and such. Happy to field questions, too!

Here's a proposed budget breakdown:

Loosely organized thoughts:

Fanfic bookbinders often share typesets amongst each other. Never pay for a typeset for a fanfic.

You'll hear a lot about grain direction for your printer paper, but as a newbie on a budget without your own printer, settle for some nice 92 bright paper. If you like the hobby, splurge after but expect to pay at least 2-3x more for short grain paper.

Printing is a pain because some copy shops won't let you print intellectual property smut, and it's very expensive. You are better off bartering instead or looking for a free printer on Buy Nothing.

You know the thick paper wrapping that comes with online orders? It's a good weight for endpapers if you need to scrounge. Paper grocery bags or gift bags (birthday presents) might work, too.

Ask your local library to give you covers from books they are throwing out. Ask for outdated textbooks (those covers are built like tanks) or three-ring binders that are too busted to be binders anymore.

Obtain a used book that was mass produced (so your destruction of it does not impede anyone's access) and maybe even become a little vindictive with it.

If you can afford it, I recommend the Olfa SVR knife (~$10)

If you can afford it, upgrade your ruler to a t-square.

I really hope this resource is helpful! I want to stress how possible this is and encourage people to cherish what they love through art.

If you are interested in fanfic binding and have a little more disposable income, I have an affordable Fan Fiction Bookbinding Starter Pack that I carry on my site. I pack them myself and drop them 1x/month on the 15th.

[nawilla]

Reblogging so I can go back to this.

[writing-prompt-s]

You are an old and merciless supernatural deity who's job is to specifically make sure that all prophecies thrown out into the world are fullfilled. Recently, a child has imagined themselves a prophet, and now most of your days is spent around a little town, helping children fulfill destinies like "finding a big tree" or "learning to ride a bike".

[dycefic]

Another ancient god awakens.

I am ancient, and I am known only by my actions. My temples are few, and most of my devotees hate me for what I do. I am a god of prophecy, and I cause that which is predicted to come to pass. Not as intended, perhaps, but it comes to pass.

Not for liars, of course. Those who pretend, who lie, who give false witness. And I do not prey on those who, in madness or suffering, speak of what they fear. But any prophecy made in honesty, by those who have the gift, or who think they do, or who simply see the pattern of events before others do… those prophecies, as often as I can, I bring about.

It has been a long time, since there was a true prophet, or even one who really believed they had the gift. I drift on the winds of other planes of reality, waiting…

Then I hear the voice. “Don’t worry,” it says, high and piercing, the voice of a young child. “You’ll find him.”

And this child believes, truly believes, that this prophecy will come true.

It’s a small town, in a hot and dusty land, and I wreath around a tree and watch without eyes as he pats another child on the back. The other child is crying. “I’ve looked everywhere!”

“But you will find him, I know you will.” He’s a small boy, dark-eyed and dark-haired, tiny and fragile and utterly confident. “I have a good feeling, and my good feelings are always right.”

Reaching into the threads of history, I find a couple of lucky guesses and a slightly precocious ability to identify patterns of behaviour. But now he believes. It’s been a long time since anyone, even a child, truly believed.

The ‘him’ is a lost puppy. I find it, injured and lost, but not yet dead. Good. It takes little manipulation to guide another dog to find it, while out walking, and encourage the owner to take it to a vet. Within a day, it is returned to the child and my new prophet proudly declares that he knew it would happen.

Two days later, he predicts that a classmate will find ‘a really interesting animal’ to do a project about. It takes me three attempts… it seems that the definitions of ‘really interesting’ have changed. But the boy accidentally presses the channel-changer too many times, and happens on a documentary about the grasshopper mouse, a tiny, ferocious predator. I watch, over his shoulder. It really is an interesting animal. I admire its courage.

My prophet’s name is Noah. He is a good-hearted child, and his prophecies are small, simple things. That a friend will learn how to whistle, or ride a bicycle. That a new tooth will grow in straight. That a worried child’s mother will return safely from a routine surgery. That one did require intervention, but not very much. An infection slain while it was only a few cells, and the thing was done. Many require no intervention at all.

It never seems to occur to Noah to try to benefit from his ‘good feelings’. He rarely spends them on himself, and never asks for so much as a cookie in return for them. Thanks to him, the town is a little happier, a little more peaceful, a little luckier than it might have been, but no one knows why, and he’s left in peace.

As he gets older, starts school, he becomes more cautious. Some dim awareness forms in him that it’s not wise to know too much, to stand out, to draw attention. But he doesn’t lose faith in his own gift. When he says something will happen, it does happen. He chooses his words carefully, after one playground incident. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

I would do harm if he wanted me to. It’s my nature to harm, in truth, for I am the warning against careless words and curses, and many a prophecy has been turned bitter by my interpretation. But I find myself pleased that Noah chooses not to use his gift to harm, or even to gain influence among the others. He keeps his prophecies to small, simple things, that he can disguise as words of encouragement or simple optimism. A promise that a test will be passed, or a friendship restored, or a garden grow.

The gift of true prophecy is one I can bestow, though I rarely do. When Noah is eight, his father leaves. Distraught, he tries over and over to find a ‘good feeling’ that will help him, his sister and his mother, but in his grief there is nothing. He almost prophesies his father’s death, but bites back the words while I watch him. He does not wish that, even now.

After a week of suffering, of doubt, I grant him the gift before he loses his faith. It’s been so long since there was a real prophet. I find I want to keep this one.

That night, he dreams a dream and wakes relieved. When he tells his mother and sister that all will be well, he believes it. And he is right. I have brought down emperors and poisoned churches. It takes little effort to ensure that one woman finds a good job, that one girl qualifies for a scholarship, that a boy-child no longer has to fear losing his home.

But I can’t take the gift I gave him back. He is a true prophet now, and he will not only see what is good and kind.

He’s nine when he drags two children away from a bus, telling them they’ll get hurt if they go on it. It’s his good fortune that one of them knows him, knows he’s never wrong when he speaks with that certainty. When the bus crashes, twenty minutes later, something changes in him. He’s never predicted harm before. It frightens him, but he knows he saved lives. It makes him more cautious, but more certain too.

A season later, he wakes his mother in the middle of the night. “Mom! Mom, you have to drive to Aunt Lisa’s house now. There’s a fire.”

It doesn’t occur to her then to ask how he knows. She just leaps out of bed and runs to her car, breaks speed limits and runs red lights to get there, expecting fire engines and licking flames, only to find… nothing. A quiet house, no sign of danger.

She’s sitting in the car, cursing herself for not asking how he knew, for not realizing it was just a dream, when she sees the wisps of smoke issuing from the garage, silver in the moonlight.

The fire doesn’t take the house, and the smoke doesn’t kill, because she was there. Because she was already getting into the car when the oily rags burst into flame. She doesn’t understand, but she knows he’s always had ‘feelings’, and wants to believe that this was another one. His sister reads up on psychic gifts and suggests he go on television.

He doesn’t want that. He’s never craved notoriety, and wise instinct still tells him not to stand out too much.

But he can’t refuse to help, either. Not content to predict, he tries to prevent, to ameliorate, to save. At nine years old, he has already learned what many prophets never do, that there is a place between the knowing and the telling, that what he speaks *will* happen, but he need not speak exactly what he sees. He has learned to choose his words carefully, to leave openings for escape.

Sooner or later, he was bound to warn the wrong person. I am with him when he approaches a substitute teacher, warning the man to be careful on the road on the way home.

The next day, the man approaches him in the playground, asking how he knew about the fallen tree, and we are both unsettled by the strange look in the man’s eyes. He starts asking questions - not only of Noah, but of others, children who know no better than to answer. Soon he knows that Noah has ‘feelings’ that are always right. That if Noah says something will happen, it will.

Noah is a clever child, but he’s only a child. He doesn’t know how to stay out of the traps the man sets, and over the next weeks, the man gets the proof he wants. He believes, *knows*, that my prophet has the gift, and approaches the mother. He says he wants Noah to use his gift to help people, but greed stands out in spikes all over him, and I know he wants to gain from it. He would poison the gift if allowed to, until my boy was just another charlatan preying on those in pain and need.

The mother is wary, and rightfully so. She, too, has learned to believe, but it seems that she is the one who taught her son not to stand out, not to draw too much attention, not to open himself to suspicion. She denies, and refuses, and at last orders the man out of her home.

I don’t know if Noah is responding to my anger, which fills the house like smoke, or to his mother’s carefully-hidden fear. All I know is that as the mother urges the man towards the door, Noah walks over to stare at him for a long time. “If you don’t leave me alone,” he says clearly, “you are going to regret it.”

The only thing that keeps me from dropping a tree in front of the car, killing him as he should have died weeks ago, is that it would upset my prophet. Instead, I drop it just behind him, leaving him an inch from death and sweatingly aware of it. The next day, he almost chokes on his meal, and is saved only by another teacher. The day after that - I am learning modern ways - he is the victim of another greedy man, his bank accounts drained by a predator on the internet.

He never comes near the school again.

And a few days later, when he’s had time to think, Noah sits up in bed when everyone else is asleep, and stares into the darkness. “I will find out why I have this power,” he tells the darkness. “I will know.”

Oh, that’s cheating!

I’m indignant, but I’m trapped by my own nature. He’s spoken a prophecy, and I must make it come true. I almost take a fearsome form, to frighten him, but… he’s a good child. He’s been kind. I’ve always returned good for good and evil for evil, even if he’s being annoying.

I have no true shape, not a physical one. My shape is the shape of words spoken, of looming fate. But there are forms which have long been associated with prophecy, and those are the easiest to assume for the god of prophecy fulfilled. So I take one of them, and a great raven, twice as large as any natural bird, forms out of the darkness of the room, perched on the end of his bed.

He looks frightened, but determined too. “I want to know why I know things before they happen,” he says, his small hands clenched tightly on his blanket. “Why the things that I say will happen always do.”

“Because I gave you the… gift… of true prophecy,” I tell him, in the raven’s croaking voice.

“Why did you give it to me?”

I could lie. But I have no mastery of the art of lying. I can warp words, and twist them, but I am a creature in the service of truth, when all is said. “Because you have always believed you had it,” I told him. “For half of your lifetime, I have watched you, and ensured that your prophecies came to pass.”

“Why?”

“Because that is my nature. It is my purpose. I am the god of prophecy, and of prophecy fulfilled.”

He frowned, then, his smooth forehead creasing. “So why did you give me the gift, if I already thought I had it, and you were making sure what I said happened anyway?”

“When your father left,” I said, and he flinched, “you were losing your faith. You were beginning to doubt. Without the gift, you would have abandoned your faith and, in time, forgotten that you once had a childish belief in foretelling the future.”

“And you wanted me to keep believing? Why?”

He always has been an insightful child. This is not a question I wanted to answer, but I must, having once begun with the truth. “Because you are the only one who does.”

He frowned again. “I’ve seen lots of people who believe in foretelling the future.”

“Yes… and no.” I cock my bird’s head, considering how to explain. “There are many who believe in their own ability, or that of others, to glimpse what is hidden or what is to come. There are those who believe in a god, or gods. But they do not believe in prophecy, not in the old way, not anymore. They do not believe in the power of words spoken, in fate and in fortune, in as it is written, so shall it come to pass. But you did. You believed that the words spoken would prove true, so they did.”

He nods very slowly. “I remember,” he says after a long moment’s silence. “I remember my Mom reading me a story, that had a prophecy, which came true a way nobody expected. I remember thinking about it a lot. About how it said exactly what it meant, but everyone misunderstood. About how the words mattered.”

I nod too, and click my beak softly. “This form, this shape, is not real,” I tell him, remembering that for all his intelligence, he was only a child. “My true shape is like the shape of a word, or a whisper, or a promise. As it is written, so mote it be, they used to say, and I am the formless mote that made it be, for I am the weight of the words, and I bring prophecies to pass because the words are written, or spoken, and so I make them true.”

I truly do not know how much he understands, but he nods again. “Words,” he says thoughtfully, “matter. And it’s important to remember that they can mean more than one thing.”

“Yes. It is always important to remember that.”

He crawls down to the bed, and touches my head gently. I find that I don’t mind it at all.

Six years later, when he visits his father in a distant city, I travel with him. I ride on his shoulder, a small raven visible only to him, and we read together. He has long debated what career to choose, and has decided that he can do the most good by studying engineering and construction and becoming one of those who inspect buildings and other structures for flaws. Who better to judge future safety than one with the gift of foresight, after all? He knows what disasters can be caused by the collapse of a building, or a bridge, or the risks of fire or earthquake, and how many lives he could save with a timely word. And if it is his trade to predict faults, no-one will question too closely when he does so. So we are already studying, learning the patterns to look for.

We get off the bus, and walk down a crowded street. As always, I look where he looks, and when he stops suddenly in mid-step to stare, I am already staring too.

There is a girl, about his age, sitting with her back against a large stone. Coiled around the stone, and around her, its huge head resting on her lap, a serpent marked in white and yellow and crimson dozes, and her hand rests on its head while she reads.

“It seems,” I tell him, and the raven’s voice feels like my own after all these years, “that you are not the only child with the gift of belief in old gods.”

“That is an old god?”

“Oh, yes. No-one else would see what we see. Just a girl, reading. But it is old, perhaps even older than I am, and she is its priestess.” I shift my phantom weight, gripping his shoulder with feet that are always careful not to hurt, even now. “What do you say, prophet? Will we meet this priestess, and her god?”

I feel him reach into the futures, with the ease of long practice now, and then he smiles. “Yes,” he says, and his words have the weight of truth. “We will.”

He walks over to her, and when she looks up her eyes widen just as he did when she sees me. “Hi,” he says, and he smiles. “I’m Noah.”

She smiles back, at me as well as at him, and the serpent raises its head to gaze at us with interest. “I’m Allie.”

“I think we have a lot to talk about.”

She tilted her head, and dark eyes met dark eyes in perfect mutual understanding. “I think we do. All of us.”

---

Allie’s story can be found here.

[prokopetz]

The real reason your sapient dragon character needs a "rider":

Dragons on the wing are vulnerable to being mobbed by smaller, more agile flyers, particularly in your large rear blind spot, like a bird of prey being mobbed by crows. Having a human armed with a long spear perched on your back helps to dissuade anyone from getting any funny ideas.

Breath weapons are impressive enough on the ground, but in flight they're really only good for strafing stationary targets; trying to use your breath weapon in an aerial dogfight is a good way to get fire up your nose. A real fight calls for sterner measures – and, concomitantly, a crew to aim and reload the cannons.

In today's competitive world, it's not enough to devour a flock of sheep and call it a day if you want to keep your edge. You're accompanied at all times by a qualified personal alchemist tasked with carefully regulating your internal furnace to ensure peak performance, and sometimes you even listen to them.

No dragon of any quality would be caught dead without their valet. It's not as though you can announce your numerous long-winded titles yourself when introductions are called for, can you? You suppose next you'll be expected to pick up the spoils of your conquests yourself, like a common brigand. Perish the thought!

[mikkeneko]

[writersisland]

Assassin Character Quirks

obsessed with cleaning because they are used to not leaving any traces behind

sneaking up on people without meaning to because they move silently

very light and short sleep, meaning they are a lot more tired and nap whenever possible

having a ridiculous amount of weapons on them at all times

instinctively shielding face from any and all security cameras

also, generally hating having pictures of them taken and especially uploaded

scars in odd places, especially hands and arms from training

holding their breath and pressing to the wall whenever someone enters, even if it is a friend or loved one who already knows they are there

wildly uncomfortable with attention from many people

quiet in conversations with a group because they are used to listening, not participating

[grinnersmiler]

I love it when grieving characters start adopting the features of a person who has died, wearing their keepsakes, adopting their mannerisms, speaking like they did. letting the dead live through them as if they never left, as if they never died. Plus points if they start losing who they are in the process, one life for another, in a way.

[ellipsus-writes]

Shoutout to everyone who’s been valiantly escaping the AI-riddled hellworlds of Google Docs and Microsoft Word, hauling hundreds of thousands of docs over to Ellipsus with Markdown import (or good ol’ copypaste).

But now, you can make your exit from the LLM-industrial-productivity-complex a lot faster.

Introducing…

.docx import and export!

Import your your docs quickly (one by one, or a bunch at once!), or export your Ellipsus docs to .docx whenever you want. Keep your formatting and images as they are! (Note: Tables won’t carry over yet; stay tuned for that!)

Keep on writing like humans!! <3 - the Ellipsus Team xo

(Tell Copilot where to stick it. 🚫)

[writing-prompt-s]

You're a Demon Hunter. A rather good one. Unfortunately, a demon has possessed your husband's body. You know it's your duty to kill the demon and free him. But he's way sweeter and kinder than your annoying pos of a husband. He loves cooking and he actually likes your hobbies. Don't fall in love!

[writing-prompt-s]

"You fools, my sword is forged from hate! None of you soft weaklings could wield it, there is no hate in your-" The villain and heroes could only gawp as the quietest and kindest of the hero's party stepped up, grabbed the sword, and the blade suddenly expanded to five times the old size.