[renegaderadiation]

please stop processing my desserts

[sybilofthecamerata]

[It’s that time of year again! (Heh, it feels strange being able to say that-) but yes, it is the 20th of May, and I thought I’d like to celebrate the occasion by holding another giveaway. So–

Prize 1:

+ Artwork! Any canon character from any fandom, with a prompt/pose of your choice. (I will draw OCs provided they’re from the Transistor ‘verse– but please provide picture references.)

+ Prize 1 is open to everyone- you don’t need to be following me to win.

Prize 2:

+ A Red keychain as seen above- check out zetallis; she’s got tons of lovely artwork and merchandise for sale- but please note:

+ Prize 2 is open only to people who have followed me prior to this post. 

Rules:

One like and one reblog per person, and no giveaway blogs, please! Have your ask open, and if you happen to win the keychain, you’ll need to be comfortable with giving me your shipping address. (People below 18, get permission from your parents before you do so.) I’ll ship anywhere, by the way!

(Special note: if you entered and were in the anniversary chat, include your username and I’ll add you to the keychain count.)

I will pick a winner on June 3rd, and I’ll re-roll for a winner if there is no response within two days. Happy Transistor anniversary, everyone!]

[sybilofthecamerata]

It’s the 3rd of June! Winners are:

Prize 1: @val-entine

Prize 2: @neopolitanhelios

Congratulations! I’ll be sending each winner an ask. Thank you all for participating!

[sybilofthecamerata]

yet another playthrough! i’ve lost track of how many i’ve gone through, but:

+ got a little overzealous and, uh- decimated the Proxy along with two Men and their Haircuts. after that fight, i could still hear Royce talking, but the audio would cut in and out as i hopped from zone to zone.

+ the third screenshot is a little older, but it remains to-date one of my favorite scenes in Fairview: possibly a church? a place of worship? i always had a headcanon that it was of the Muse, or the creative aspect of Cloudbank and her artists- the braid on the front of the maiden’s dress always reminded me of Red’s own gown. 

a show of respect, or just coincidence? 

[venhediss]

the last screenshot is indeed a place of worship, at least that’s what I’ve gathered from other sources. It’s called “Fairview Sanctuary”, and it’s the only sanctuary that we get to go inside. Wave Tennegan is listed as having once been a sanctuary vicar, vicar being a position associated with churches. Furthermore, in the ticker crawl on some of the later OVC terminals there’s a line about local sanctuaries offering their services to those in need. It seems like the sanctuaries do serve as places of worship, or at least they’re heavily implied to. It is still a question what exactly they’re worshiping. I’d always thought it was a personification, either of the Country or of the City, or of the connection between them. I like your explanation too! It would also explain why the same pattern on the sanctuary glass is on the glass at the Empty Set.

[sybilofthecamerata]

the country explanation would be a good one too- the pattern could emulate the “braid” seen on wheat stalks, as well as the gold of red’s dress and the tint on the windows. it may be notable that the color of wave’s function card is also the yellowish-gold i’ve come to associate with the country.

as for the reason why i believe that the figure worshipped is some sort of figure for cloudbank’s artists, red sings of her disillusionment with cloudbank’s infrastructure in Signals. she seems rather critical of the society that puts so much emphasis on the freedom of the individual and the voting system that ultimately lends to the fleeting but glamorous impermanence of cloudbank-- and owing her talent to the Muse, or remembering her roots, seems like a mindset someone dissatisfied with cloudbank’s society would adopt. 

i’m not sure whether or not it’s actually established that the country exemplifies their idea of an afterlife in the religious sense, but i think there are also some wheat motifs seen in one of the signs around cloudbank meant for medical aid, or so i assumed because of the blue cross. would lend an edge to the stance that the figure does stand for the country, if i can confirm in another playthrough.

if red did honor the figure, whether it stands for the Muse, the City, or the Country, it’d also put the ending of the game into perspective: rather than going to the country for only boxer, she did it in remembrance of the city that she loved, which, despite their faults, would be nothing without her citizens.

[sybilofthecamerata]

yet another playthrough! i’ve lost track of how many i’ve gone through, but:

+ got a little overzealous and, uh- decimated the Proxy along with two Men and their Haircuts. after that fight, i could still hear Royce talking, but the audio would cut in and out as i hopped from zone to zone.

+ the third screenshot is a little older, but it remains to-date one of my favorite scenes in Fairview: possibly a church? a place of worship? i always had a headcanon that it was of the Muse, or the creative aspect of Cloudbank and her artists- the braid on the front of the maiden’s dress always reminded me of Red’s own gown. 

a show of respect, or just coincidence? 

[sybilofthecamerata]

✈ |  ✤

[an eye-opening memory |  a memory that involves romance/love]

[ for the record ]

"Royce," Sybil says, with an odd light in her dark-amber eyes, "listen."

So he does. He watches as Sybil strides across the room with a record sleeve in her hands, white and embossed with gold, and slips out the flat black disk from its protective sheath with a delicacy that borders on reverence. 

She's had her flights of fancy before, odd moods she admits to being subject to while she fawns over some artist or another. Royce supposes this is yet another singer out of the dozens that's caught her discerning eye. The admiration is a thin veneer for something calculating, something sly and wild that feeds an ever-burning fire within her. 

Sybil lowers the needle to the record, and sinks, childlike, into a seat across from Royce with something akin to breathless anticipation in her radiant features. 

"I see the lights

Dance on the bay..."

Ah. Royce turns his attention to the stylus and paper in his hands, mindful of the artist's vibrancy, the richness of the vocals. The tune is nice enough; he can see why Sybil is so taken. He is about to take up his pen and resume his work when hears a line that gives him pause.

"She will keep us in her sight.

We all lie beneath her light..."

Sybil is looking at him. "It's about our city," she says, softly, but he understands already, with the same immediacy with which he took to the idea of the Camerata. Royce understands the same wistful fondness that permeates the singer's voice, the aching love for their ever-watchful city. How could he not? He has helped shape her, has seen her stripped to the bone and rebuilt into their collective dreams. Despite the mercurial fluidity of her buildings and her bridges and her balconies, the ceaseless rise and fall at the cast of a vote-- this city will, and always has been, constant and patient at her core.

They sit together in the studio, listening to the singer-- her name is Red, Sybil whispers afterwards-- and her voice filling the room with an electric ambiance, a rich, dreamy atmosphere, and most compellingly, a lingering love for their city.

The next song begins. Royce slowly drums his fingers upon the table, and resumes his work.

But Sybil’s eyes linger upon the woman's face on the record sleeve, and she smiles.

[renegaderadiation]

she cracks the door open, letting in a warm sliver of light. “everything okay?”

“you should see the other guy,” the Boxer says, and smiles.

a giveaway prize for thisisfictional for transistor’s anniversary! the prompt was my interpretation of boxer, so here he is. for the record, i don’t actually think he has amber eyes, but you know. lighting shenanigans. thank you for entering, and i hope you like the finished product!

[sybilofthecamerata]

also! some logistics on that bastion!sybil outfit. below the cut.

1) your standard set of underthings, nothing special here.

2) pants! useful for keeping the outer skirt poofy. the fabric’s like sweatpant material-- incredibly soft, wicks well-- and can be paired with just a regular top for really hot days. the cuffs of the pants are tucked over her stockings and under her boots when she puts them on.

3) originally, the top of the main dress was going to be detachable, like a vest, but i figured it would ride up too much if she had to run. so it’s just one piece, sleeves and all! the skirt portion of the dress is made of slightly stiffer fabric, like canvas, while the sleeves and the vest are made of much lighter, wickable material to keep her from overheating. 

dress details: the entire outer edge (crimson) is actually a series of pockets that sybil can tuck her hands into, or whatever she’s inclined to fit in there. the gray triangles in the center open up via those little buttons you can see on the bottom for ease of washing the underlayer, which is the pale beige strip. the dress opens only from the front, so she pops those buttons and slips the dress on from there.

sybil can wear this casually without the rest of her attire. (4) onwards details how her armor works.

4) the belt piece and the lower half of the armor (the gray portion) goes over the dress. the yellow part of the belt is made of flexible material, while the red jewel in the middle is purely decorative. the leather flaps above and below the belt help clip the armor pieces in place.

the metal pieces on that skirt are laid over each other, and combined with the red covering, comprises of most of the weight in her outfit. the metal skirt and belt combination cannot be worn alone; she must have the upper portion of her armor to balance it out. otherwise, it slips when she’s actively moving around.

5) to be quite honest, i haven’t really figured out how the gear nor the yellow stripe would make any sense! it should belong on (4), but i’d say that this is part of some sort of pouch or strap that she keeps weapons hidden in.

6) boots, leather gauntlets, and the top half of her metal armor that protects her chest area and attaches to the top half of the belt. stays in place with the help of leather straps that go around her back and over her shoulders (not pictured).

[sybilofthecamerata]

Pantheon

[whatsleftundone]

The Calamity had brought a whole lot of things down when it occurred. What remained, however, seemed to remain in defiance of the whole thing.

Rucks knew as he tended the fire that the Bastion was holding on, once a shining beacon of Caelondia, now the only last remaining working vestige that the city even existed. It was meant to be the highest point in the city, now it simply floated along with everything else blasted into the sky. It put a lot of things into perspective, didn’t it?

Just a few days ago, Rucks was merely just helping to finish this crowning jewel of the city, working day in and day out, sometimes spending entire nights to make sure everything was in working order. That’s how much he cared about the Bastion. And now? It was a refuge for all those who managed to survive the Calamity, no matter who they were.

So when Rucks could see a path forming from the distance, leading towards the Bastion, he got curious. Kid was out there, finding cores and rebuilding the place. Was it another survivor? Must be, right?

With the help of his cane, the old man waited for whoever it was approaching. Place might not be too homey right now, but no doubt the Bastion could make room for another.

Though a voice like that, one that sounded hoarse and exhausted, no doubt this survivor must’ve gone a long way to get here. Rucks was surprised they managed to get here at all. Must’ve been something wrong with the skyway if they were walking this way. But a voice spoken out deserved a voice in return.

“Hey, you alright there?”

[sybilofthecamerata]

That voice. Red’s--

She hardly believed in chance. She barely believed in the gods, but at that very moment she nearly implored each and every one of them for it to not to be him--

--and when the owner of that voice rounded the center of this strange, wild place and came into view, a little of the lingering resentment and fear receded, replaced with relief barely concealed by the tiny intake of breath she took. 

Strange times, for Sybil to be so shaken by the mere memory of a voice. But as she looked upon the stranger, aged like Grant, Jallaford-- (another pang to the chest, remembering the people she led astray) with a cane clasped in his hands, Sybil could not think of a greater contrast between the Boxer and this man.

And as a little of that composure came back to her-- here’s me brushing back my hair, straightening my skirt: above all, take comfort in the fact that you’re still whole, Sybil came closer. Yes, his voice was the wrong pitch and there was a languid sort of drawl to it-- where, exactly, was she?-- and this place had a indelible spark to it, too wild and too broken to be the Country. 

“My manners,” Sybil began, with a small, apologetic sort of smile-- ten hundred shades removed from the cool, unassuming quirk to her mouth that her admirers so loved her for-- “forgive me. I’ve come a long way. A little worse for the wear, but nothing a brief moment of rest can’t fix.” Another pang of self-consciousness at her state of dress in contrast to this stranger’s primly-pressed collar; that walk hadn’t done anything good for the hem of her dress, but she wasn’t Cloudbank’s former most eminent organizer for naught. 

She extended a single hand-- noted the worn callouses on his, and the bright, friendly interest on his face, and decided that the myriad of questions she had about this place could wait. It was too much to explain, but if he asked, she’d answer-- answer to what, the fact that she was responsible for the destruction of a city?-- as best as she could. “Sybil Reisz,” she said. “Charmed.”

[sybilofthecamerata]

-lovely day for it, ms. reisz. 

-oh, you know me too well. i’d warrant that the huntin’ would go well even if it were rainin’ brimstone and fire so long as i’m here.

sybil in caelondian clothing. my clothing design process is basically ‘cram as many details on there as possible even if it no longer makes any sense’

the brusher’s pike is a nod to her processed form and that umbrella of hers, and the carbine’s what i would think sybil would actually wield. sharpshooting seems like her sort of thing.

[sybilofthecamerata]

Pantheon

ˈpan(t)-thē-ˌän, -ən: a building serving as the burial place of or containing memorials to the famous dead of a nation.  

There was little, very little, that Sybil Reisz considered herself incapable of when it came to people. 

Everyone, so she believed, had a capacity for envy. Thus born was her modus operandi: being that one particular someone who could get things done, who could offer things of worth to individuals unable to obtain them on their own, surely made her someone of worth as a consequence. 

Neat row by neat row, Sybil fashioned her plans. Cloudbank appreciated the effort; particularly lavished its attentions on beautiful, composed, capable little Sybil Reisz with her cool smile that cut quick to the heart; with her silvery voice, the crushing ease with which she carried out her business. Nobody doubted, of course, that she also had a wholehearted passion for what she did-- such was her talent with balancing the disimpassioned, businesslike demeanor and the ardor for her craft that she possessed. 

Then came a singer, and a tool with which she and three others thought they would fashion a new city from-- to save it, of course. Always everything, absolutely everything, for dear Cloudbank. She couldn’t bear to look her colleagues in the eyes when she departed the Bracket Towers, one last time, and said that she would fix what she had wronged.

Instead now she stands in what she thought was the Country with the phantom pain of the Transistor and its gold-teal edge burning through her chest, and even more strangely, the sight of a crumbling city overflowing with verdant green foliage and a patchwork-assortment of buildings. 

Step by tiny step, she makes her precarious way across a pathway-- that, to her astonishment, forms as she makes her way forward. The worn rubble smooths itself into a series of steps that she climbs up, withering ivy clinging to its sides, roots dangling off into a steep drop-- mustn't look down!-- and here she sets foot upon the Bastion.

After Cloudbank, with its ever-shifting landscape, and the lingering artificiality of it all, this place brings a sense of crushing nostalgia. The colors-- a splash of piercing blue gems next to a building made of wood that glows with an amber intensity, and a gentle breeze that sends her white dress billowing behind her, makes her marvel, if only for a bit. 

Her voice is scratchy from disuse-- thank the Muse, Sybil thinks, that it is not the processed, fractured facsimile that she spoke with when facing Red. “Hello?” she ventures, peering at the buildings around her, which burble quietly with various sounds; surely someone must have put them to work in order for there to be smoke from the chimneys- and steps forward. “Is there anyone here?”

[sybilofthecamerata]

Sybil, what is the best thing you've ever done for yourself?

Well, dear anonymous, let me preface this with a little bit of social commentary. 

All I am, everything I ever have contributed or created, belongs toCloudbank. None of it was every truly mine, though take that statement with a grain of salt, if you’d like. (You certainly know how I feel about Cloudbank as it is.) In the same way the best of ourtalents and our abilities are carefully nurtured and groomed from birth so thatwe may benefit our fair city, I see that pattern repeated even in our later years. 

Nothing guarantees our security. When every last drop of creativity has been wrung from us, we are celebrated and venerated as a bastion of our craft, perhaps honored by having a new plaza or building dedicated to us, and then promptly forgotten. Thank you for your service, we appreciate everything you’ve done, goodbye! Simple as that.

None of it is mine, anonymous. None of my actions were ever, or could havebeen, just for me. In a few years’ time, perhaps they might have immortalized me as a particularly attractive abstract sculpture created by some young, enterprising thing, or in celebration of a grand new remake of Goldwalk’s most popular viewing-gallery, but immortality in our society is fleeting. Thirty years, and then perhaps another ten or twelve more before I would be gently pressed to consider retirement. 

The best thing I ever did for myself was the Camerata. I’m free to regret, aren’t I? Then I’ll allow myself the luxury of thinking that what we did– what I did to contribute– was ultimately the best thing I could have done for myself; perhaps the only thing I’ve ever truly done for myself. I was presented with a choice. Age and retire gracefully like the socialite I was, or choose to be part of something revolutionary?

Why, anonymous, you know me. All of Cloudbank fancied they did.  

[sybilofthecamerata]

Hello! A week ago I saw you post about the raffle and saw some of the artwork you put up along with the post. I really loved the one of Red at the top and I am rather curious if you have a finished version of it. It's so pretty and I love the style! I can't link it, but I think you'll see which one it is. <3

[hi, anon! unfortunately, it’s still sitting in my WIPs folder, and will likely sit there for a while longer due to school, but when it’s finished, i’ll definitely post it up on my art blog and reblog it here. 

until then, here’s the WIP by itself!] 

[sybilofthecamerata]

✂

[prompt: a vivid memory.]

[nightmare]

These are the sort of things that Sybil dreams about: lying in a field of grass, the soil warm and slightly moist beneath her, and the smell of dust heavy and thick in a room where a solitary loom clacks and whirrs. Always in the back of her mind, a sight half-forgotten, a shadow in the corner of her eye. The people may have forgotten things like these, but Cloudbank remembers, and keeps their memories hidden not in Gilande’s precious archives, clumsy, noisy nodules of data that can be corrupted and lost, but hidden deep within her underbelly. 

It breathes, just like the rest of them do. She walks farther into that endless twilight, the ground beneath her feet falling away into an abyss that pulses with electric-blue snakes that twine in geometric shapes in the darkness. “Show me,” she says aloud, her eyes brimming with tears for the things that they have forgotten, things held captive by the bones of her city, poor dear beautiful Cloudbank flayed raw by the endless progression of their choices, I vote yes no yes no yes yes yes show me, Cloudbank, show me–

and Sybil knows that these aren’t her own memories.

She awakens on Royce’s couch choking on her own tears, her cheeks flushed feverish red. Sybil feels hot, feels the insurmountable press of Cloudbank all around her, and lays a single forearm across her eyes despite the darkness of his studio, broken up only by warm rays of orange and yellow and burnt gold. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him at his work station high above, and outlining the gentle curve of his shoulder, the fathomless sea-teal of the Transistor. 

She has dreamed such awful dreams these past few months, and deep in her gut, Sybil knows their cause. It’s not human, anything but– and Sybil marvels, will always marvel, with terrified awe, at how powerful her own emotions are, and wonder at whether or not their grand goals have taken away more than they meant to give.

Her breathing has calmed, and the cold sweat all along the back of her neck and back clings to her hair and to the thin fabric of her undershirt when she moves to sit up. 

The pain of waking is sharp and stark, always. The smell of burning ozone, of fried computer terminals, lingers– (in her mind or in the air around her, she can no longer tell) and Sybil plants both of her feet square on the freezing floor.

[xxmoved-blog]

Memory Meme

Past experiences help shape who we are currently, how we see the world. Send in a symbol and I’ll write a drabble of one of my muse’s memories. 

—

❥ - a childhood memory

♣ - a fading memory

✂ - a vivid memory

✖ - a repressed memory

✈ - an eye-opening memory

✤ - a memory that involves romance/love

☤ - a memory of death/loss

✍ - a memory of their mother

☽ - a memory of their father

♘ - a memory of their sibling(s)

✌ - a memory of a relative

↕ - a memory that may or may not have happened

♚ - a memory of something paranormal

✓ - a sexual memory

♬ - a friend/best friend memory

[renegaderadiation]

"royce, dear, some tea? or light, at the very least."

"i- would be much inclined if you didn’t. thank-you for the offer and the tea, but- later."

- - -

SO. this is most pathetically late present, I AM SO SORRY— but here is reisz-sybil’s- ah, christmas gift. cringes because look how long ago that was oh geez.

request was royce and sybil taking tea together. hope you like it!

[sybilofthecamerata]

... Your screen sure generates a lot of static electricity!

That aside, I'm not too sure if I want to divulge my hair care secrets. It does involve copious amounts of tears, I'll tell you that.

[sybilofthecamerata]

She gave me her hand. 

[for transistored; long overdue! so sorry for the wait. part 1/4.]