Unfathomably Based

an unfinished poem that's been decomposing in my files for half a yeay

I've heard tell of a necklace for when things go wrong

For when you can't write the words, can't sing pretty songs

Gives you a clean slate, resets, your problems are gone

It takes your breath away, all you have to do is put it on

It's an accessory of misery for people like you

When you fail at everything and you don't know what to do.

It's the perfect jewelry for when you're not pretty enough

When you're too weak to be tough, when all you need is a hug

Forget hugs, this necklace, it never lets go,

And even if it leaves a scar on everybody you know

Scars can heal, you were the one who first made the cut, right? So the least you can do is put it on and make it all right.

Tired of making mistakes? Hurting the people you love? Tired of everybody saying that you're never enough? The necklace makes you prettier, just be sure that it's tightened,

And give in to your feelings, it's okay to be frightened.

A lot of people say the ones who wear the necklace are cowards

Until they find that everything they ever loved is devoured

Cuz we can never go back, the necklace brings us ahead,

By taking your head, by taking your breath, taking regrets

You done messed up too badly, don't get to be fixed or resolved

So put it on, all it takes is a twitch and a twitch and you're gone.

The Necklace ends all your problems at the source, at the ultimate cause

One step, one snap, one swing, like the wave of a wand.

I have a political thought experiment that I would like to share with you all that I call "Persuading the serial killer," which is really just about how you'd persuade someone who exists outside of your moral framework.

This is inspired by the fact that I watch too much true crime, but the thought experiment goes like this: If you were faced with a serial killer trying to kill you or someone else, how would you convince them not to? Serial killers do not conform to common morals like "killing is wrong," so arguing "You shouldn't kill me because killing is immoral!" is not going to help you. They don't recognize your moral system as real or valuable, so you cannot use it to persuade them. I, personally, would argue like so: "I have a very regular schedule, and people have already noticed that I'm missing. My mother and I talk almost constantly. She alone is probably already panicking that I'm gone and has called the police. I also have serious medical issues on record, so they won't wait the regular 24 hrs to start searching for me. You have a chance to get away now, but not if you spend time murdering me and hiding my body." Straight practical reasons why doing what they want to do will bring about something they absolutely don't want, i.e. if you waste time on murdering me, a high-priorty missing person, you'll get caught and never kill again.

The way this applies to politics is that you're gonna encounter people who do not completely overlap with your morals - probably not serial killers though. Like most Republicans and most Democrats would agree that unprovoked homicide is wrong and bad. No one is trying to pass a bill to get murder blanket-legalized. But obviously, conservatives have different moral views on things like abortion.

You cannot argue with a conservative that abortion isn't wrong. Your opinion that life does not begin at conception or that the right to choose should be in the pregnant person's hands no matter what exists outside of their moral framework just like "murder is wrong" exists outside the moral framework of a serial killer. So if I'm trying to argue against abortion legislation with someone I know is anti-abortion, I argue that abortion laws don't reduce abortions or abortion-related deaths. That the real way to reduce abortions is to make birth control over-the-counter and available to teenagers without parental permission like in the U.K. That if they think that is bad because it "promotes" premarital sex, they need to choose which is worse to them: teenagers having sex or abortions happening because teenagers are still going to have sex. That more support networks for pregnant people who want to keep the pregnancy but worry about their ability to financially support the child would do more good, and that there are several run by churches (but not enough, perhaps they should start one at their church)! That anti-abortion organizations in Europe who crusade against abortion in these ways are more successful at reducing abortion than any country with laws on the books to stop it.

You can apply this with a lot of things, but in short, when arguing with someone with different political views or morals that are mutually exclusive with yours, it's a bad bet to appeal to "but that's wrong! but that's bad! but that's immoral!" Jump straight to the practicalities, i.e. "That won't get you what you want, and here's why," not "You shouldn't want this." This won't always work (ex: you might run through all those abortion arguments, not satisfy the conservative you're arguing with, and in the process figure out that they really just want to legally punish people for premarital sex and don't actually care about abortion). However, leaving your morals out of an argument is your best bet at getting through to another person who may not share them.

*Updated to remove use of the term "psychopath" because I'm told that's an outdated concept.

The Ballad of the Two Travelers: Chapter Three

light content warning for this one, there's death, violence, and mild gore

Chapter Three: Cruelty

Rowan left the blacksmith's, a slight spring in his step in spite of the gloom of the late morning. His village seemed brighter, more upbeat, somehow more alive than usual, though that might have just been the added adrenaline. He didn't let himself get excited too often; life in the Misted Vales was too dangerous and unpredictable for that, but he figured he could let his guard down for the day.

Mr. Kade, the local blacksmith, had finally agreed to let Rowan begin serving as an apprentice, starting tomorrow. Rowan had been begging the old smith for a job since he was fifteen, and now he was finally going to learn to craft tools, armor, and – this is what excited him most – weapons. Finally, he'd be able to take an active stance in the war against the blight and the giants, and he'd be able to keep his mother and sisters safe.

The wind was cool against his face, a welcome sensation against the excited flush that had come over his cheeks. A group of children ran through the streets, caught up in a game of tag or hide and seek, and their shrieking giggles added to the oddly joyful feeling in the air. The scents of something warm and sweet floated from the bakery down the street, and it felt to Rowan as though nature itself was celebrating with him. He listened for a moment, feeling the breeze against his skin and hearing the light song of a bird somewhere nearby. He hadn't heard a bird in weeks!

He heard something else, a low rumbling like thunder in the distance. A storm? It was hard to tell, it was always cloudy around these parts, which made it more difficult to predict the weather. The only totally accurate way to do so was with the aid of a wizard, and seeing as most of them had been wiped out by the giants, that wasn't exactly viable.

Others had noticed the thunder too. The birdsong had stopped, as suddenly as it started, and Rowan noticed the small creature as it fluttered away, a few stray feathers floating to the ground. He saw a couple of heads turning the direction of the rumbling. Strange, it hadn't subsided, even after a few seconds. If anything it was getting louder, more rhythmic, almost like.....

Footsteps.

Rowan's breath caught in his chest, but before anything, he heard a cry go up from the western watchtower:

“Giants! Coming this way, from the Northwest!”

That was the push he needed. Rowan broke into a full sprint towards the tower, pushing past the chaos that had already broken out in the streets, as mothers called for their children, merchants tried to pack up their things in a haste, and the few warriors of the town rushed towards the edge of the village.

Finally, covered in a layer of sweat (whether from fear or exertion, Rowan couldn't tell), he reached the tower. No guard stood at the door, which let him fly up the winding stone staircase with no restriction. He reached the top, where Beren, the watchman, looked to the horizon with a hardened expression on his face. He held a massive warbow in his calloused hands, and his dark eyes were clouded with something, fear or acceptance or anticipation.

“Where?” was the only word from Rowan's mouth, when the dark-skinned man pointed in the distance. Rowan squinted for a moment, then he saw it.

They were a little over a mile away, and roughly fourteen in number; women standing around 100 feet tall and clad in armors of leather. They carried weapons so large that Rowan felt chills just looking at them; the smallest knife he could see was the length of a fully-grown man. They walked slowly, at a methodical pace and clustered together, but anyone could tell they were making a beeline straight towards the village. They'd be on top of them in a matter of minutes

“Rowan,” the watchman said in his deep, calming voice. He laid a hand on Rowan's shoulder, and he managed to keep his voice steady in spite of the approaching storm. “Find your family,” he said in a quiet voice. “We will endure this.”

Rowan nodded, though he felt deep down that the old watchman couldn't have been more wrong. He quickly turned, and ran.

“Mama! Jodi!”

Rowan's screams went unheard against the screams of the other villagers and the rumbling footsteps of the giants, which grew louder every second. The ground shook, and dust filled the air.

“Mama! Jodi! Please, where are you?”

He thought he heard someone call his name, he strained his ears trying to make it out, but he grew distracted by the sight of old Mr. Kade, towering over the cacophonous crowd and pushing through with a massive spear in his hands. He was going the opposite direction of the crowd, towards the giants, and the sight of the man drew many an eye.

At least, until the sight of the first giantess came into view at the edge of the village. Then everyone froze.

She was ruggedly beautiful, an athletic woman who stood level with the watchtower, with tan skin, short brown hair, and a scar over her left eye. In one hand she held a warhammer as long as she was tall, with a head big enough to crush a carthorse beneath it.

In the other hand was a figure, tall and muscular, arms pinned at either side of his body by the woman's fist.

Beren.

Rowan – and the crowd – could see the kind old watchman squirming and struggling. They could hear his yells of defiance as he cursed his captor, and they saw the cold expression on the giant woman's face as she considered the warrior in her hand.

The crowd watched, frozen in horrified fascination, as other giant women appeared at her sides, with their massive weapons in hand and the disgusted expressions on their faces as they looked over the people of Rowan's home. They could see the anticipation and hatred in the cruel brightness of their eyes, and in the way they flexed their fingers against their massive weapons (yet still not as large as the weapon of the first giantess), waiting for some kind of signal.

The giantess at the front, who held Beren like a child with her doll, was still for a moment. It was evident that she was the leader of the party, judging by the glances from her companions and the massive size of her weapon. All that could be heard now was Beren's strained screams and the low, deep breathing of the giants as they waited... waited... waited.

Then the leader calmly placed her thumb over Beren's face, and pressed down, tightening her fist.

There was a dull snap and crunch, and Beren's screams fell away. A few dark drops fell from that horrible fist, and there was a moment of tense, sickening silence.

Rowan had known Beren all his life. He told the village children stories, taught the boys to use a bow and the girls how to swing a sword. That limp, bloody thing, falling to the ground as the giantess opened her hand, couldn't have been Beren....

A hand gripped his shoulder from behind, and he heard the voice of his mother, shaky but determined;

“Time to go. Come on.” Rowan felt a quick birth of relief; at least his family was safe. There was still a chance they could make it out of this.

Of course, right at that moment, the giantess said something, and her kin surged forward. The screams of the crowd pierced the air, and Rowan felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach as he reached for his mother's hand, but was jostled back by the panicking crowd.

The next few minutes were a blur. Afterward Rowan would only barely recall the scent and sight of something burning, the squelching, crunching sound of his fellow villagers being crushed underfoot. He would somewhat remember a bolt of brilliant blue lightning, and an earsplitting bang followed by an scream that was nearly as loud. He would vaguely recall the leader of the giantesses calling out “You know the drill; kill the men, take the women,” along with the surreal sight of shadows like hands, hands big enough to hold even the largest of men with room to spare, reaching down and plucking people up from the ground.

He'd remember ducking and weaving, tears leaking from his face as he tried to stay calm and find his mother, and he could remember the terrifying sight of gargantuan feet ripping through houses like they were made of sand.

He wouldn't remember how he made it past the wreckage flying through the air, or how he got the massive cut on his forehead. In fact, of all the things that happened on that terrible day, he'd only remember three things as clear as day:

FIRST.

He'd remember the sight of his little sister getting plucked into the air by the back of her dress, her legs kicking frantically and her blond hair flying in the wind as she was dropped into the bag of a giantess dressed shoulders down in steel armor, and he'd remember his mother, coming up out of nowhere and pushing him into the flaming wreckage of a nearby building. Rowan would always remember how his mother met his eyes, an unspoken order to stay put upon her weathered face as a ironclad hand wrapped itself around her waist and jerked her from the ground. He would never forget the horrible minutes that passed, the sounds of screaming and crying slowly subsiding as the remaining townsfolk were either kidnapped or crushed underfoot like bugs. He'd never forget the scents of death in his nose as he crouched, shivering, in the remaining corner of the wrecked house.

He sat there holding back tears and sobs, the sounds of thunder-like footsteps and crackling houses ringing in his ears as the giantesses tore through the remaining buildings, each one searching for any humans who'd hid in their houses and either killing them on the spot, tossing them into her bag, or popping them into her mouth without hesitation. He saw it happen twice, through the gaping hole where the upper floor of the house had been, in ruined houses just beyond the one Rowan hid in, cowered in. Two people he'd known, little more than a bulge down a throat and a burp.

He sat there in silence, praying to all the gods that they wouldn't find him, that his mother and sister were still alive, that he'd make it out of this somehow.

SECOND.

He remembered how the air had left his lungs as a shadow passed over the spot where he hid, and how he'd begun to shake uncontrollably as the sound of breathing, low and yet loud, filled the air around him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed himself as far as he could into the corner, and covered his hand with his mouth, as the outline of a great head came into view just above him.

There was a moment of silence, and Rowan slowly opened his eyes, unsure of what was happening.

He nearly fainted when he saw.

She loomed above him, a dark-haired giantess on her knees as she peered down into the scraps of the house. She had a wild sort of beauty, despite her massive size, with full lips, a freckled face, and dark eyes that held such melancholy in them they almost made Rowan feel pity for her.

She looked straight down at him, her face unreadable, the only thing audible save for the rumblings in the background being the quiet sounds of her and Rowan's breathing, and the muffled sounds of struggling coming from the bag at her side. Rowan's heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew more shallow with every second. It was purely the adrenaline rushing through him that was preventing him from vomiting right in front of her. A small part of his brain thought, somewhat stupidly, that that would be embarrassing, to vomit in front of such a beautiful creature.

“Thalia,” a lilting, feminine voice said from somewhere behind them both. “We need to get movin', that lightning spear hurt Ryette pretty badly. You find any more of 'em?”

The dark-haired giantess – Thalia, her companion had said – was silent for a moment more. Then, to Rowan's utter surprise, she said, in a deep, almost soothing voice.

“No. Let's go.”

Without warning, the giantess moved. She stood up to her full height, towering over Rowan like a goddess from the stories of old. Rowan saw her glance in his direction for half a second, before she walked away, her footsteps shaking the ground and bringing Rowan dangerously close to losing his breakfast.

Slowly, the rumblings of the warband faded away, leaving the air eerily silent.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Rowan peeked his head around the corner, taking in the sight of the town.

It had been reduced to little more than rubble and scraps. Smoke rose from the few ruins still recognizable as buildings, the rest now piles of charred wood, stone, and ash. Dark stains, lumps, and smears were visible against the ground; Rowan didn't want to think about what they had used to be.

The village was empty and silent, save for the soft sound of Rowan's own footsteps as he trudged through the dust and destruction. His breathing was ragged, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he walked past the imprints of massive feet and hands in the dirt.

He came to the edge of the village, and froze.

There they were, far enough that he could barely even see the glint of their weapons. How did they feel, knowing they just altered dozens of lives and ended dozens more? How did they kill so casually, so effortlessly, almost carelessly?

Rowan fell to his knees, and vomited on the ground in front of him. He tried to hold back the tears, to maintain the steady attitude he'd cultivated since he was only eleven years old.

He failed.

THIRD.

Rowan sat there, weeping. He wept for everything he'd lost in mere minutes – his family, his home, his future. Emotions filled him like a dark miasma, like a weight too heavy for any boy of eighteen to carry. He felt loneliness, he felt despair, he felt the black pit of fear, and he felt something he'd never felt before in his life.

He felt hatred.

He looked at the figures in the distance, and he hated every last one of them. And it was that very hatred which filled him more than anything else.

He felt it spread through his limbs giving him strength to stand on shaky legs and curling his hands into rage-filled fists.

He felt it in his hot, angry tears and in his forced, ragged breathing. He felt hatred coursing through him with such power and vigor, and he swore that they would pay. All of giants, and anything else that dared to stop him. Everything would burn, so help him, as his own home burned.

That hatred, was what fueled him as he limped out of his village, across the lonely fields, and into the nearby woods. He took his hatred with him, but he also left a tiny piece of it behind at the ruined village.

That little piece of hatred sprouted and grew, like a thorn-covered flower wreathed in shadow, and it was that hatred which grew like it grew in that boy's heart.

The flower was darkly beautiful; but it looked out of place, wrong, almost, as it grew throughout the village, flourishing from the hatred of the giants and the boy they had harmed.

It grew twisted and warped, creeping into the cracks and crevices of the ruins, like a malicious corruption, an evil infection.....

The flower was, as Lyra and Tristan would discover, like a foul, shadow-borne, hate-fueled Blight.

I used to read dictionaries as a kid. And as a child who would casually leave social events to go read the books in a stranger's library, it was probably really funny to see me with the thickest, oldest looking dictionary I could find, so heavy I barely could even hold it, sitting with it in my lap as I read it from cover to cover

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

Yesssssss!!! I feel like people don't take advantage enough of the fact that different fantasy races are races, whole different species with different ethnic groups and cultures just like humans. Too often they're monocultural, and make the humans be the most interesting race purely because they don't all look the same. Even better when you start bringing conflict into the cultures, that's where the good stuff comes from

I don't think fantasy writers play enough with the concept of the different fantasy races having distinct ethnicities. Like imagine a group of mixed peoples, where the dwarves are all roasting each other like dwarves do, and one of them remarks that when he first saw one of the other dwarves in the group, he mistook her for a man. The other dwarves in the group blink in surprise - the closest that dwarves will go to an audible gasp of shock - and she pulls out a knife and tries to stab him.

Once the dwarves have been separated from each other and the situation has calmed, one of the humans asks another dwarf what that incident was about. Naturally a human woman would have been insulted too, but dwarves are so jovial about insulting each other, why was this matter different?

And the dwarf who was asked explains that there are things you can brutally insult another dwarf about, and there are things you simply do not touch. The dwarf-woman in question is from a completely different region of The Great Underground as the others, and her people have different norms about what kind of patterns men and women braid into their beards. The dwarf insulting her wasn't only insulting her appearance, he was being racist.

The human is surprised to learn that dwarves have different peoples, and the dwarf looks at them like at an idiot. Of course they do, they even look completely different from each other. And the human listens as the dwarf lists off various distinguishing clothing details too nuanced for a human to notice, and then how dwarves coming from different corners of the world have different physical traits, according to what kind of conditions their local stone types dictate.

The human spots a connection and goes oh! We have that too, though ours are not about rock types and tunnel air, but the weather aboveground. Humans' facial features vary by how hot, cold, arid or windy their ancestors' homelands were, and our skin tone varies by how much the sun shines in their native region.

The dwarf frowns at the last part, going "I thought you people just paint your skin and dye your hair for fun", and the human admits that yeah, we do that too, but not all the time, and not the whole skin. The dwarf asks, what of that tall woman the colour of dravite, her palms and the soles of her feet were lighter than the rest of her. Does that mean she paints herself dark to be more beautiful?

The human says no, that just happens naturally. Maybe it's because one's palms and feet aren't exposed to the sun as much, so they are paler.

The dwarf nods, still unsure whether this is actually legit or just the human habit of lying for fun, and proceeds to ask about the wild northman of their party. He is as pale as an olm, but the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are dark. Are they painted, or naturally that way?

No, the human answers. That guy just doesn't bathe.

seeing nerdcore fan in the depths of tumblr was not something I expected to see today but I'm not mad about it

fuck killing a victorian child by making them listen to hyperpop all you gotta do is make a white tumblr user listen to rap

Thinking about someone having ptsd after surviving a giant attack.

Like imagine having panic attacks whenever there's a thunderstorm approaching. Being totally fine until that first rumbling sound comes, and you're shaking and hyperventilating. Imagine the fear that comes from seeing a shadow pass over the sun, or being unable to kill roaches or spiders without feeling overwhelmingly guilty. What if you're sensitive to loud noises now. Or, whenever you're in wide open spaces, you stare into the horizon, refusing to sleep, refusing to let your guard down because you know something could appear at any moment, regardless of what everyone else says, regardless of what common sense says. Because you know what could happen if you relaxed for even a second.

Idk just ramblings while working on this next chapter (and a few other stories on the side)

What on earth is it with all these old men getting seduced by teenagers in souls games, if I get old and and a teenage girl starts flirting with me I'm either introducing her to my progeny or called her out as a witch on the spot

My husband’s job primarily employs adult men but there is one (1) teenage girl and my husband said originally he worried she might be a bit of an outcast but instead every man on the crew was like “huh guess I am a dad/older brother now.”

Christian Angel Artorias vs Manus, Starscourge Radahn, Ranni the Witch, Malenia Blade of Miquella, Queen Marika The Eternal, Base Serpent Messmer The Impaler, Rellana Twin Moon Knight