Presenting, for your listening pleasure, the Thunderdome Recaps podcast!
The worst thing about authors is that they don’t do enough navel gazing. To that end, a group of courageous and perhaps slightly masochistic TDers pooled their gumption and embarked on a venture to enumerate in audio format the plentiful sins of the dome.
The most current episode will always be available here.
For additional features, please see the Audio Recaps page on the archive! There are several extra features, including the ability to sort through episodes by weeks covered, plus extensive time stamps so you can skip forward to the exact moment we namedrop you.
Your recappers are:
Sitting Here: The idiot they convinced to run this goofball brigade.
Kaishai: The reason that anyone finds these episodes informative.
Ironic Twist: *Audible groan*
Djeser: Guy who knows a lot of names for penises
Bad Seafood: Sometimes he brings a Ukulele!
...And many more of your favorite domers!
Massive extra thank you to Kaishai for her continuing hard work on making the archive an amazing and comprehensive tool.
Credit to Sebmojo for the theme music.
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Jan 3, 2018 around 07:03
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 06:39|
|# ¿ Sep 25, 2018 13:01|
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 09:17|
Whelp, I knew that I'd get something wrong on my first try, I just didn't know I'd screw up that quickly . Oh well, it's one way to break the ice. Do we need to use the quote in our work as well?
It's just inspiration to get you thinking.
|# ¿ Jan 5, 2018 23:45|
It’s the morning of your first day in American public school and you’re feeling too sick to eat the Fruity Pebbles your mom bought specially for the occasion. She sets the cereal bowl down in front of you, muttering in Ukranian about the brightly colored livestock feed that Americans serve their children by the pound. You stare at the mosaic of rice bits until the cereal goes mushy and the colors start to bleed into the milk.
Your mother mistakes your reluctance for guilt and says, “Tsk, Anichka. Don’t listen to me. It’s fine to have a treat now and then. This is a special day.”
She kisses the top of your head and the camera behind your eyes flickers on. Now there are two layers to everything: the layer you see, and the layer you really, really see. You see every single dark, downy hair on your forearm. You see every swirl the faux-wood pattern of the formica breakfast table. The sense-memory of your mother’s kiss lingers, an almond-shaped impression of sensation on your scalp.
The worried knot in the pit of your stomach, conversely, becomes something distant and academic. You feel your hand lift and grasp the spoon and shovel the soft, nearly flavorless mash of colorful cereal into your mouth.
You’re on the verge of vomiting the whole ride to school.
“Have you ever met a Russian?”
“Did you ever see anyone die?”
“Does your mom work for the CIA?’
“Did your dad get killed by Russians?”
“Are you a spy?”
The next time the camera-eye opens, you are standing in the school yard, surrounded by a curious gaggle of kids. Their faces are so small and open, their questions so guileless and innocently cruel. Instead of saying anything, you tilt your head back and feel the prickle of morning drizzle on your face. The sensation evokes a double helix of confused, entangled emotions that starts in your throat and plunges downward to your root; happy and sad, longing and contentment, along with things your little mind and body aren’t ready to encompass, all braided together into something so tight and so powerful that all you can do is open your mouth and let fly a rainbow arc of half-digested rice pellets.
The other kids squeal and back away from you. The camera-eye closes. The drizzle is just drizzle again.
You get the nickname Fruitpukes and it follows you all the way to high school. Everyone misremembers your vomit as being comprised of Fruit Loops, but you don’t mind. Sometimes you correct them and say, “Actually, it was Fruity Pebbles.” Sometimes you overhear the other students correcting each other, as though the origins of your moniker are some fragment of historical trivia. You like having a history. It makes you feel grounded.
You need that groundedness. The older you get, the more often the camera-eye inhabits your body, imbuing the world with hyper-realness that leaves you feeling empty and dissociated whenever it recedes.
You are at your high school graduation. Your feet are moving you toward the podium, where the school principal is waiting with your diploma--
No, you think. There wasn’t a diploma. Those were mailed out later. They only gave us the diploma covers.
You stop mid-stride. One of your classmates bumps into you from behind. You can’t tear your eyes--all three of them--off the popup book rows of parents and underclassmen, all water-fat and docile, all of them too real to exist, so real that the reality of them mobius strips back around to unreal.
You remember not knowing why you froze up that day. You don’t understand how you are remembering the present. Someone, you know know/remember who, presses the diploma cover into your hands and gently guides you off the stage. You taste the memory of salt and Fruity Pebbles.
The camera-eye recedes, and takes you with it.
You open your eyes and see the rust-mottled bulkhead that abuts your small, sagging bun.
“Did you dream?” James asks. He’s somewhere behind you, likely perched on someone else’s bunk, nevermind how many times he’d been nearly pummeled for doing just that.
“Not really,” you say without rolling over.
“It looked like you were dreaming. Eyes were doing that REM poo poo. Saw your mouth move like you were talking a few times, too.”
“Do you really need to watch me sleep?”
There is a coarse fabric sound. James shrugging. “Guess I could get a hobby. Could brew toilet wine like Gut and her crew. Only that’d earn me a knife in the ribs. Could take up preemptive rib-knifing, but that’d earn me permanent residence in the brig.”
You smile in spite of yourself, roll over, and beckon him to your bunk. He obliges and slides under the thin, scratchy blanket with you. It’s not hard to fit both of your bodies on the narrow slab of wood and reluctant padding; you’ve been getting by on one ration pack per day, and your last hot meal was...well, long enough ago that you can’t properly remember.
You wonder if you can visit that day in your sleep.
For a moment, you simply enjoy the warmth of each other. James’ hip bones are sharp against your belly, but his body still retains a human softness that the rest of your world lacks. Outside of this huddled moment of heat, there is the ship--an ancient aircraft carrier that can barely chug out of the way of the monster storms that rip across Earth’s oceans--and beyond the hull of the ship, a world of dead continents and roiling skies, where hope drifts like so much flotsam on lifeless seas.
You and James are nose to nose. You cross your eyes so he looks like a cyclops.
“I love you, Fruitpukes,” he whispers.
You reach down between his legs. “I wish we could…” You give him a squeeze. Both of you are still perfectly capable of fooling around, but no. Not here, not now. Not worth the risk.
“We should’ve gone for it while we had the chance,” James says, rolling onto his back. “Kids, I mean. Before we knew it would all end like this. Now, I’m glad we didn’t bring anymore little buggers into the world. But then? We didn’t know. We could’ve had those early years, at least.”
You roll onto your back, too, and rest a hand on your lower abdomen. “We would’ve been lying to them. Told them they were going to go to school, get a job, have kids of their own.” Your voice catches in your throat, and you’re both quiet for a while.
“When do you think it was too late? To fix everything?” James asks after a while. “If we could go back in time and warn ourselves, how far back would we have to go?”
You close your eyes. You aren’t scheduled to work in the desalination lab for another three hours, and you sure as hell aren’t going to waste that time thinking.
“Doesn’t matter,” you say. You can feel sleep tugging you downward once more. “Let’s just be here for now.”
You sit cross legged on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. James is on his back, virtual reality headset obscuring the upper half of his face. Your respirators sit in a careless pile atop a box labeled “kitchen stuff”. You look around for your own headset, thinking to join James inside whatever game, give your sore muscles a rest.
Then the camera-eye opens and you recede. You feel the churn of that head-to-groin double helix of familiar, foreign emotions. It’s old hat, of course. This is something you’ve lived with your whole life. Your therapist thinks it’s dissociation related to some suppressed trauma sustained during your childhood in Ukraine, and you’re content to accept that explanation, though your mother swore until her dying day that nothing happened to you, she made sure of it.
You watch yourself abandon your search for the VR headset and crawl on all fours to curl up against James’ side. He flinches at the unexpected contact, then lifts the headset off of his face and looks down at you.
“Oh yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Right here? Now…?”
You watch yourself make love on the floor, a passenger in your own body. It’s not as if you don’t want it--you do--but you feel, in a strange way, like a cuckold or a voyeur.
Weeks later, you watch yourself sitting on the toilet, underwear around your ankles, pregnancy test in hand. It shouldn’t be positive. Your implant should protect you against that possibility for another three years. But the test is positive, and you’re not sure what you’re going to do about that. The you who occupies the spaces between the camera-eye’s intrusions is tentatively happy, already starting to imagine a future where you and James are family, not just partners. But the camera-eye opens with a fury that knocks you all the way back to the furthest recesses of your own mind, so far from your own ego that you feel as if you’re hardly there at all.
You and James are sitting on the couch when she--you--makes the appointment online. She doesn’t say a word. James is absorbed in some VR exploration game, oblivious to what is happening inside your mind and womb.
She keeps you in the back of your own mind for the whole week leading up to the termination.
You wake up just before the start of your shift at the desalination lab. For a moment, you’re confused; this isn’t where you went to bed. You went to bed at home, had fallen asleep early because you were so strung out after the--
James is spooning you, hip bones digging into the small of your back. One of his arms is draped over your side and his hand rests lightly against the concave plane of your stomach.
You roll over and kiss his forehead.
His eyes flutter open. “Did you dream?” he asks.
“I did,” you admit.
“Oh yeah? Hopefully about something more exciting than waste reclamation.”
You find you can’t meet his gaze. “Just--better times. You know, our first apartment. Fooling around surrounded by moving boxes full of our cheap-rear end stuff.”
“Wish I could’ve gone with you,” he says wistfully.
“You were cuter back then,” you say, and give James a sharp poke in the ribs. “Fat. Like a bab--” Your throat locks up around the word. It’s all so far away, and so fresh. You never understood why you never told him about the pregnancy, why you locked the truth up inside yourself and carried the guilt all the way to the apocalypse, your secret cross.
“Anichka? You okay?” James is sitting up now, though you didn’t notice him move.
“Yeah,” you say, blinking away tears of rage and betrayal. “Just. It’s hard. Thinking about what could’ve been.”
James gathers you up in the bony circle of his arms. You cry into his chest for a while, then wipe your tears away and set off to extract salt from sea water.
|# ¿ Jan 8, 2018 04:59|
|# ¿ Jan 8, 2018 06:51|
I'm in, gimme a song, Thran.
Let's get some more meat in the arena, all this namby-pamby thank you talk is nice but don't forget we're here for blood
|# ¿ Jan 10, 2018 04:04|
Oooh so the Empress would like to see some blood would she? Would the Empress like to sit on her throne and watch some newbies flail horribly at each other for her amusement, hmmm?
you have chosen a worthy blade to die on
|# ¿ Jan 10, 2018 05:44|
I'm fine with it
|# ¿ Jan 10, 2018 06:35|
Prompt: Bird on the Wire
There was, of course, a grand celebration after the defeat of the Unholy Host. The capital city still bore fresh wounds from that calamitous final battle, but for the first time in months, the lamps shown rosy along the streets and the air was braided thickly with the scents of flowers and confections.
The parade route was decorated with hanging lilacs and paper lanterns. People lined up by the thousands to hail their warrior queen, she who had put herself between kingdom and unspeakable evil.
Queen Tani Hir-Fahal rode astride her warhorse, surrounded on all sides by loyal friends and fellow veterans of the unholy war. Closest to her of all was Jureki, the trickster god himself. The people told each other stories of Jureki’s surprising bravery and loyalty to the queen; indeed, it was rumored that the two were lovers. The most famous tale to reach common ears described a key moment in the war, when Jureki pretended to defect to the enemy’s side, then brought down mayhem and disorder within their ranks using his godly powers.
“Looks like chaos is on our side now,” the people chuckled to one another.
With a grateful sigh, Tani freed herself from the tight red doublet and slipped out of her riding trousers. Jureki reclined on the bed, nude and looking as languid as a leopard resting in its tree.
The queen looked down at the trickster god. “There was a fire in the kitchen just before the feast. And the greatboar we were supposed to hunt in the games tomorrow has escaped.”
“If I stopped every little foible in the kingdom, I’d have no attention to lavish on you,” Jureki said.
Tani sat down on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands. “You know,” she said into her palms, “I almost hoped the war would go on, in a way.”
Jureki’s mirthful expression faded. He pushed himself up and sat cross-legged beside Tani. “Trickster gods don’t take kindly to being the butt of jests.”
“I don’t mean that. But I do. Just a little.” Tani took a deep, shuddering breath. When she spoke again, her words were even and measured, as though she’d rehearsed them. “My advisers tolerated you because they saw you as a weapon of war. But no politician wants a god walking among them, not really. Especially one who tends to instigate poetic justice.”
“A kitchen fire and a runaway pig are hardly--”
“I can’t tell you what to do, Jur-cha. You’re a god and I am merely a queen. But I cannot safeguard the stability of this kingdom with--” she took another shaky breath “--our present arrangement.”
Jureki was outside the city walls by dawn, the taste of their last kiss still on his lips. He carried nothing except the cold, heavy stone in his heart. It was a cruel nourishment, but it kept him moving ever further from the queen. He walked for days, deep into the indifferent wilds of the far north. The rocky slopes and dim forests embraced him, erased him from the world beyond.
For the first time in eons, he felt compelled to consider his own godhood. He knew the story of his birth well: his mothers had reached into the churning innards of the cosmos and pulled him forth. Before they breathed life into him, he’d been little more than raw, unrefined trickery, a cheeky, burdensome little stub of creation.
But why give life to something so unkind? Why deify that which was thoughtless and heartless by nature?
As the weeks passed, Jureki’s powers grew mutinous. With no one else to prey on, they turned on Jureki himself. Branches fell from trees and struck him on the head. Flash floods filled any ravine he tried to pass through. Once, he sat down on a grassy knoll, only to jump up again when a host of ants mounted an attack on his rump.
Better me than the kingdom, he told himself. He thought of the early eons of his life, how he’d delighted in tormenting the short-lived creatures who populated the mortal plane. Better me than any of them.
Seasons passed. Jureki’s powers grew bored and listless. They ceased abusing him and, somewhat sulkily, retreated into whatever part of his being housed his godhood. There was simply no fun in hounding an unresponsive victim.
Still, Jureki wandered. His mind was as placid and clear as a mountain pond, and this seemed a safe and just way for him to exist. Sometimes, he licked his lips and tasted the ghost of her, and each time it drove him to flee further into the harsh north.
It was after one such phantom taste that he wandered into the fractious tribal territories of the Hyr Allal, though if he smelled the smoke of burning villages, he was too dissociated from the world to notice it.
Then a little girl fell out of a tree and into his arms. It happened fast; there was a wooden crack, a high pitched squeal, and then his arms were out and the girl was in them. She struggled at first, growling threats in Hyrashi, but calmed considerably once Jureki set her gently on the ground.
“Why're you alone?” he croaked. It was the first time he’d used his voice in nearly two years.
“Mother said we had to run, and father would stay and hold the Hyr Agara warriors off, and we had a bag with enough food to get us to the capital, mother said, but just us, not dad,” the girl babbled. Her little hands clenched and unclenched of their own accord.
“Where is your mother?”
The girl looked up at him with eyes far too old for her cherubic face. “Wolves. I went up the tree to hide and wait and I called for mother but I know they got her.” She turned her head to the side and bared her teeth. “Other families died together.”
Jureki rubbed his jaw. He was coming back to himself. Embers of revelation glowed, then flared within him. Something had changed. This wasn’t happenstance, it wasn’t simply an encounter between child and god. This was...was…
“Tell me, child, what is the opposite of a trick?”
The girl stared at him for a moment, clearly bewildered out of whatever terrible memory she’d been reliving. “Being honest?”
“Yes, yes, very true, but I’m thinking of something more unexpected.”
“Father once surprised me by pretending to take me to gather horse dung but gave me a doll for my birthday instead,” the girl said. A small smile touched the corners of her lips.
“Surprise! Yes!” Jureki could feel it, a change in the flavor of his godhood. Something that had been tarnished and soiled and ugly now gleamed within him like polished silver in starlight. Malice had turned to benevolence, a godly imperative to incite joy where joy was least expected.
“I can’t bring your family back, and I won’t have you running off to join them,” he said to the girl. “But if you like, I can take you to the capital. I happen to be an old friend of the queen…”
|# ¿ Jan 15, 2018 05:04|
this is why interprompts were invented
200 words interprompt or shut up (unless you're saying thanks for the crits [and nothing else])
|# ¿ Jan 16, 2018 01:30|
|# ¿ Jan 20, 2018 04:20|
Asuga Confronts the Queen of Space
Asuga battled her way to the top of the mountain at the heart of the cosmos, into the colosseum of the Queen of Space. Now she lingered in an archway between two mammoth pillars that shone like mother of pearl, steadying herself for this final task.
The Queen sat at the center of the colosseum, presently in the shape of a giant, scintillating ovoid, like a marquise-cut diamond stood on end. Her many-faceted skin reflected the ambient light from the churning astral firmament around the mountaintop.
Asuga approached the queen and called out, “I swore I would carve my way through time and space to reach you, and here I am.” She did her best to make her voice sound even and powerful, like a hero. “So either give me the power to save my world, or smite me.”
Ripples agitated the Queen’s surface. A shape began to press outward from the center of the ovoid. It was abstract at first, but quickly resolved into a familiar humanoid arrangement of arms and legs and a head. The ovoid’s faceted flesh stretched like latex and then, at last, expelled the Queen’s avatar into the air. She floated there for a moment, then drifted down to the pearlescent floor and landed lightly on one pointed toe.
Asuga took a step back. Her astral saber crackled to life in her right hand, and she sank into a loose en-garde stance.
The queen cocked her head. “You would rather fight than hear what I have to say?”
Up close, her face was severe and mask-like. Her skin was the color of a cloudy sky viewed from the bottom of a murky pond and her eyes were just as Asuga had imagined: black and empty as the gaps between stars.
“You already know how this ends,” Asuga said. “Why draw it out?”
“You wish to save your world,” the Queen said. “Or rather, you wish to be the savior of your world.”
“If I wanted to feed my ego, I would’ve stayed in politics,” Asuga snapped. “The only person here who doesn’t know the ending of this story is me. So let’s poo poo or get off the pot.”
The Queen spread her hands as if conceding a point, then leapt back into the air.
As soon as she was aloft, a figure stepped through the archway opposite Asuga. It was humanoid, swathed from head to toe in featureless black. The thing’s shape was little consolation to Asuga; things that made themselves look human were usually hiding a much uglier side.
It strode across the colosseum on foot. The sight of a human shape doing something so mundane as walking across a floor caught Hishihana off guard. It had been so long since she’d seen something safe and ordinary like a house or a power line or a mailbox. She shook it off, adjusted her stance, and reaffirmed her grip on the crackling saber.
The black-swathed creature summoned its own saber, a darkly shining mockery of Asuga’s white-hot blade. It spat showers of indigo sparks onto the cream colored floor.
They circled each other, exchanged a few light, probing jabs.
Then Asuga lunged forward, thrust her blade in earnest. The creature twisted out of the way and swiped at her throat. Asuga threw her head back, felt the preternaturally cool kiss of dark astral energy brush the exposed skin of her neck. Without thinking, she launched herself backward, desperate to put distance between herself and the creature.
She recovered her footing just in time to deflect the creature’s blade away from her liver, but it used the opening to seize her by the throat. Asuga flailed, but the creature was inside her reach now, and she couldn’t get a good angle with her saber. It knocked the blade from her hand, then discarded its own. Asuga found herself being marched backward, toward the giant ovoid diamond that had birthed the queen’s avatar.
She slammed into the multifaceted surface hard enough to lose her wind. The ovoid was itchy and electric against her back, more like stationary lightning than a solid thing.
Then the creature began to press her into the ovoid. The air around them sparked and hissed. Asuga screamed. She was being folded into a live wire, swallowed by a thunderhead. It was too much. Screaming pressure built against her ears and eyes, a million nails on a thousand chalkboards, and then--
“Control,” her father said, “is what separates us from those who need to be governed. Self control. We have to be our own masters.”
They were standing on the Truman Balcony taking in the last of a smoggy spring evening. Asuga thought she could hear protest drums coming from the direction of the Washington Monument. It was the day before she would begin her journey to confront the Queen of Space.
Her father rested a hand on her shoulder and continued, “They don’t understand, what we do for them when we take on the burden of mastery. We have to remind ourselves to forgive them.”
Asuga felt her mouth curl upward into a smile. “They remind me of water. And we are the riverbed, guiding the direction of that water.”
A trio of armed security drones streaked by overhead, headed toward the Washington Monument. The sounds of protest were unignorable now, but Asuga wasn’t worried. They could smash cars and burn businesses, but at the end of the day, they were still pissing in their own pool.
No, she thought. That’s not what I said. That’s not how I felt.
“You’re going to be a formidable head of state,” her father said, giving her shoulder one last squeeze before letting go.
You would’ve been a great leader, whispered a soft, reasonable voice in her mind. You’ll be an even better leader if you go back now, with all the power of the astral at your disposal.
Asuga faltered. She saw herself return to the White House, having missed only a few seconds of Earth time. She saw herself seize power with astral blade in hand and astral beasts at her back, then reshape the world according to her own increasingly unfathomable will.
Her father’s face hung in the center of this hazy portent, smiling approval.
The healing of the world should belong to all the people of Earth, not just her.
Her father’s visage transformed into a reflection of her own face, distorted by the undulations of the Queen’s flesh. The creature, formerly clad in black, was now a perfect replica of Asuga, down to the light acne scarring on her cheeks and the drape of her long black hair. And she was pressing Asuga--the real one--deeper into the turbulent innards of the ovoid.
As she looked up at her more powerful self, Asuga realized that her twin was the terrible ruler she’d envisioned. That part of her would always win this fight, because it believed utterly in its own superiority. So she did the only thing she could.
She tumbled backward into the ovoid, into the very heart of the Queen of Space, and dissolved completely, dragging her twin in with her. As her fragments osmosed into the tesseract latticework within the Queen, a soft voice whispered to the very atoms of her:
The world is saved, was always going to be saved, because you were always going to make this sacrifice.
But that doesn’t make the choosing any less important.
The End, my fierce daughter. Rest well.
|# ¿ Jan 20, 2018 21:59|
That's my brawl post btw
|# ¿ Jan 20, 2018 23:20|
Inter prompt NEVER EAT ANYTHING LARGER THAN YOUR HEAD 200 words
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2018 02:23|
reminder that there is an ongoing writing goals thread if people want a little extra incentive to get words done in the month of February
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2018 23:24|
Oh yeah and flerp, you simpering dweeb, put your goddam wordfists up. I feel like having a brawl that you don't judge, for once.
based off of all the brawls of urs i had to read, this'll b a p easy win
your prompt is a quote I really like by one Don Van Vliet: "The way I keep in touch with the world is very gingerly, because the world touches too hard."
You should also find some way to pander to me, since I'm the one who has to read your spew. Crows. Fungus. Hiveminds. Dreams. Etcetera. You know the drill. You're not limited to that list, just use your judgment.
also you both suck and will invariably waste my time with drivel you come up with in the 15 minutes leading up to the deadline. SO. This brawl is going to have two deadlines.
11:59:59PM PST on Friday, February 9.
You must have a completed story that you can show to someone (not me). That person will confirm either to me or in the thread that you wrote a complete story. They should NOT offer critique, just confirmation that the story exists and is a complete first draft.
11:59:59PM PST on Wednesday, February 14.
this is important
This is the actual posting deadline. You MUST write a second draft, and there MUST be some sort of apparent editing between the two drafts. How will I know? You're going to post both of them in your submission post. So that means you need to keep a copy of your first draft intact.
Word count: 750
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Feb 3, 2018 around 01:23
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2018 00:53|
flerp i'm gonna need someone to vouch for your brawl real quick or your rear end is grass. Mojo was confirmed via irc
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2018 08:04|
ask muffin or jay friks or seafood, i showed all of 'em it during dnd yesterday
Yup, this has been confirmed. I'll see you and mojo on valentines day
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2018 16:21|
In honor of our esteemed head judge Antivehicular, I give to you your interprompt:
Cars are Bad and Dumb and You Look Silly Inside Them
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2018 23:29|
k let's move on
|# ¿ Feb 14, 2018 21:53|
no let's not
You sound like someone who wants to get brawled by me
e: for the brawl below
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Feb 20, 2018 around 04:38
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2018 09:10|
Seattle graciously accepts your challenge
but i'm not doing any of the other stuff until i know exactly who's brawling by my side
|# ¿ Feb 17, 2018 18:48|
hello and welcome to tab week, where we hit tab a bunch until it looks cool
jfc if i wasn't already in a region brawl with you, i'd brawl you
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 04:50|
Eh, I'm up now; let’s get this international megabrawl going!
in with the
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Feb 19, 2018 around 08:35
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 08:31|
k well i'm going to write about the akkorokamui so you can either go with it or rules lawyer me
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 08:47|
flerpmojo brawl results
So I'm going to say straight up: I liked both of these stories. I enjoyed comparing the drafts with the final products. In both cases, the first draft felt kind of thin and aimless. Both of you were clearly groping for some emotion or insight, but it was under realized. In both cases, the second draft managed to refine elements present in the first. So overall, I was very pleased to get a snapshot of your respective processes. I hope it was a helpful exercise.
That said, I do have to choose a winner. To be honest, I knew it was going to be a challenge since you both tend to write stories that are my poo poo. Which is why I requested the aid of my esteemed co-judge!
Right, let's get to some crits. These will address the final drafts only, since ideally that is the only version of the story your reader ever sees. I mean, I know it's you two, so your readers are accustomed to first draft slag, but for the moment we can at least pretend you have some modicum of diligence.
This is a story about a man named smebojo who meets an unfathomable femoid who, with her inscrutable mumblecore wisdom, attempts to drag him along through a deeply oceanic metaphor (plus a lot of oceanic similes)for his own aimlessness. The writing was fun and whimsical and generally pleasant to read--it always feel more like you're playing with the words rather than using them. I liked all the metaphorical stuff better than my co-judge, but the more I thought about it, the more it felt like a story I would've written a few years ago. Your metaphorscape is cool, the supporting character is cool, but the main character is kind of just a ragdoll for the physics of the story to throw around. But okay, this is about exploring this guy's drifty existence and the choices he makes and/or doesn't make. He proves that "sink or swim" is a false dichotomy because you can always just waft around in your personal rip tide.
What irks me is the ending. The dude predictably doesn't follow the lady. Fine. But she just walks off into the ocean, and we're left to sort of cinch up your metaphor in our own imaginations. I guess the mundane interpretation is that she swam off into the Sea of Not Dating Him Anymore Because He's Too Passive About Life. It's not like I'm confused as to your intention for the ending. It's just that like, "free, whimsical girlfriend farts off into the sea while humdrum man contemplates all the regret he's about to feel" is an ending I've seen too many times for comfort.
Exmond described this as crow TnA and I think he was absolutely right. I said pander, you pandered! I was sort of like, um wow, that was very direct but...then I thought back to all of the bird-related stories you've written. This would definitely fit in that anthology, if you were to make some sort of "dumb idiot writes about sad birds" anthology . This piece has less plot than sebmojo's , but its metaphor is more refined and creates a stronger throughline. I find it hard to put into words my interpretation of stories like this, but dammit i'll fumble my way through it. Crowbro has accepted its fate, but the human watching over it in its final moments can't accept it. The crow knows it's a bird, knows birds can fly, and so as long as it's a crow, it should never be able to forget how to fly, even in death. You get the sense that this is intensely lonely for the narrator; they feel powerful pain on behalf of a creature they can't even properly comfort or eulogize. I empathized with the helpless sorrow of the narrator, which gave me a strong connection to the piece.
As I said, I liked both pieces. My critique of mojo's bordered on snarky, but it was genuinely a pleasurable little brawl to judge. After talking it over with my co-judge, though, we agreed that the focused metaphor and emotional impact of flerp's story wins the day.
Thanks for playing!
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2018 05:17|
SittingSupreme brawl submission
Tear of Avalokitesvara
Princess Wisdom Moon’s childbed smelled of tears when the midwives finally coaxed her from the queen’s womb. As soon as Moon touched naked air, all the cries of the world filled her mind. Assailed by unfathomable suffering, she forgot to scream out her first breath.
By the time Moon was twelve, she’d learned to stuff the cries of the world into the back of her mind by mentally reciting arithmetic and excerpts from buddhist texts. The queen was pleased by her daughter’s diligence, and so Moon was allowed to linger at her mother's elbow and listen during audiences with her subjects.
Most supplicants were minor nobles in possession of petty complaints, and Moon thought they must be very brave or very strange to worry over small inconveniences when the whole world screamed in agony around them. After the nobles came the peasants, mud-caked and gaunt, huddled in warry knots. These brought news of famine and war, blight and disease.
The queen, in her benevolence, would wave a bejeweled hand and summon servants bearing bags of gold, which were distributed among the peasants to the applause of courtiers and nobles. Moon watched her mother give out many such boons, but the cries of the world never diminished in volume. She wondered, in a detached, innocent sort of way, why anyone bothered to have children at all when all it did was add to the screaming.
One day, a peasant came to the queen with news of a severe blight that had destroyed even the hardy millet. The queen raised her hand to summon the invariable sacks of gold, but the peasant said, “Hold, my queen! Your gold lines the pockets of bandits and innkeepers, but has done nothing to heal your land. It is said that you do not properly honor the Buddha, and so have consigned the whole realm to your karma!”
The queen stilled the court’s indignant murmurs with a look. “I make an offering to the Buddha each morning, as anyone in my household will confirm,” she said.
“Then you do not offer enough,” the peasant said gravely.
The cries of the world leapt up in response to the peasant’s words, an anxious dog rising to meet a long-awaited master. Wisdom Moon clapped her hands to her ears, helpless as the day of her birth.
“Make an offering of me, mother,” she heard herself cry.
The peasant looked between the queen and her daughter, mouth agape, clearly taken aback by Moon’s outburst.
“The Buddha doesn’t abide child sacrifice,” the queen said kindly, reaching out to stroke her daughter’s hair.
Wisdom Moon recoiled from her mother’s hand, clawed at her own ears, trying to dig out the noiseless screams that pressed out from within her. All the while, she wailed and begged her mother to give her as an offering, so the world might finally stop suffering.
Moon was locked away in a disused wing of the palace for many years. She could no longer block out the world’s screams with arithmetic or prayers as she had in her youth. In the first week of her captivity, guards had to hold her down while the servants hurriedly removed anything with an edge from her quarters, for Moon had been found trying to sacrifice chunks of her own flesh to the Buddha.
Tales of Moon’s desperate piety reached a group of ascetic monks, who traveled for months to reach the palace. When the queen finally admitted them to Moon’s chambers, they were chastened by the sight of the princess, deep in meditation and gaunt as a desiccated corpse.
The leader of the monks turned to the queen, who’d insisted on supervising the visitation, and said, “Wisdom Moon’s spirit is on the cusp of enlightenment, but her mind and body are not sufficient for the task.” He averted his eyes and continued, “We will pray that she is reborn a man, that she might attain Buddhahood.”
The queen opened her mouth to rebuke the sentiment, but Moon spoke first, her voice moth-eaten from disuse.
“Cowards,” the princess rasped. “You seek to edify yourselves through enlightenment, to stand apart from the suffering of the world.” She graced them with a stiff, dark smile. “I sit beside suffering. I am its companion, not its enemy. Perhaps this ability is unique to women.”
“Y-you are most noble,” the lead monk stammered. “I meant only that--”
“Hear me now,” Moon said. She raised her bony arms as if she were addressing all the subjects of the realm. “I will not be reborn as a man, not in the next life or any thereafter. I shall be the constant companion of suffering, until suffering is no more.”
The Moon’s eyes went wide, for as she spoke, the screaming of the world momentarily subsided, as though suffering itself had set aside its toil to listen to Moon’s proclamation.
Moon made good on her promise and stayed beside suffering until its dying day; when it finally passed away, she wept for grief and joy, and all the liberated beings of all worlds in all universes wept with her.
|# ¿ Feb 24, 2018 17:59|
PNW v. NZ brawl
Aka-Sama Stirs After Centuries of Inscrutable Silence
Let me tell you something about performing maintenance work on super-charged, ozone-producing conduits high above the surface of a mobile planetoid while a cephalopodian space monster silently hangs in the starry abyss above you: you get used to it after a while.
Let me tell you something about trying to do delicate, monster-adjacent work while your colleague, Daitaro, carries on about superstitious nonsense in your ear for hours: it’ll drive you mad. Only Daitaro’s expertise in artificial atmospherics saves him from a tragic fall to the planetoid’s surface.
“Auntie Aka’s got her eyes on you, Aguri,” he tells me. “Misfortune lurks in your shadow.”
“I’m sure the space monster has better things to do than give me hives, or whatever.” Normally I would ignore him and focus on my work, but I’m tired and irritable because our other colleague, Hori, is still recovering from a bad burn sustained on the job. I’ve been staring at readouts and ozone levels for fourteen hours and counting.
Of course, my skepticism only riles Daitaro. “It’s that clinical-mindedness that brought Aka upon our ancestors,” he said, pouting. “What’s so hard about showing a little reverence?”
“I don’t think Aka cares one bit about my reverence,” I say. “And anyway, that clinical-mindedness built this vessel and saved our asses.”
“Asses that wouldn’t have needed saving if our Earth-bound ancestors had shown more reverence for forces beyond their control,” Daitaro says. All the fight’s gone out of his voice, though. He’s tired too, having filled as many extra shifts as I have.
I pat him on the shoulder and say, “I’ll be careful. Anything happens to me, you have to keep atmo stable all by yourself and, well, I don’t think anyone wants to think about that scenario.”
We make our way down from the ozone conduits via a rickety elevator, which is comprised of little more than a platform and some railing. Dubious as the lift is, this view is half the reason I took the job as atmospheric technician. The oblong planetoid is lush with fungal meadows, stands of quaking aspen, and clusters of prosaic villages. All of this is encompassed in the huge, spherical mesh of highly charged conduits that provide our atmosphere and no end of headaches for me.
The view is great if you don’t look up at the space beyond the mesh. Space is Aka’s domain. She hangs out there like an angry red beard made of millions of tentacles, keeping pace with the colony ship so perfectly that she seems to not be moving at all. Sometimes she fades out, becomes transparent enough that we can pretend she’s gone away. Sometimes, like right now, she’s livid and red and so fiercely real that her presence aches in our foreheads and distracts us from our labors.
Supposedly, she started following the first generation of colonists after they left the Sol system. They named her Akkorokamui, after some sea beast from ancient lore. Now we call her Aka, for the red color of her huge, octopus-like body. There were many things we left behind when our progenitors left Earth, but Shintoism wasn’t one of them. Depending on who you ask, Aka is an amalgamation of angry ancestors, or a beast sent by angry ancestors to haunt our journey across the stars. Either way, she’s pissed, and chooses to express herself in the form of equipment malfunctions and minor illnesses.
I think Aka is just bored. Who can know the mind of a space monster?
As if in response to my quiet cynicism, an explosion rips through the ozone conduit directly overhead, where Daitaro and I had been moments before. The elevator groans, but continues its journey to the base of the support column as fire suppression systems kick in. White-hot flames issue from the generator in the trunk of the ozone conduit. The air smells unbearably bitter and electric.
Daitaro is hysterical, clutching at my arm and begging me to apologize to Aka, who’s now obscured behind the solar-bright conduit fire.
I shake myself free of his grip. “As soon as we touch down, one of us needs to get to the primary shut-off.” I have to raise my voice over the crackle of the conflagration. “This keeps going, we’re gonna lose atmo.”
The initial fire cascades into a series of explosions as aged equipment overloads, shorts, and fries. Wind stirs my hair as precious oxygen is sucked upward to feed the flames.
Daitaro is on his knees, begging his ancestors to intervene. The wind intensifies, an upward vortex that threatens to rip the breath from my lungs. I feel apocalypse pressing down on me, born not of ancestral malice but inevitability; our journey across the stars punctuates here, because here we’ve reached the limits of our equipment.
Something changes in the character of the flames. They’re thinning out, rising with the wind and peeling away from the charred conduits in brilliant braids, which snake harmlessly off into empty space.
And there, there is Aka among the flames, large as the thunderheads of Earth legend, her mad, red tentacles splayed out in a curtain of millions of writhing limbs. She’s moving them the way a symphony conductor moves their arms, directing the fire up and away from the planetoid by some unseen means.
By the time the flames have been starved to death, the air is thin. Klaxons echo all across the planetoid, but we are all still breathing.
And old Aka, she simply fades away, just like that. Not the way she usually does, where you can still see her if you squint up at the ozone conduits, but, just, blip. Gone. After so many generations, the stars look naked without her crimson bulk to occlude them.
I bow deeply to the empty space left behind, and Daitaro falls prostrate, wailing prayers for her return.
Who can know the mind of a space monster?
|# ¿ Mar 2, 2018 02:06|
both of these posts were edited, by the rules of this thread i declare this a MISBRAWL
You're both DQ'd from your own brawl gj
|# ¿ Mar 12, 2018 18:47|
Well, I guess it comes down to beefsupreme's tiebreaker judgment to bring this delightfully retarded episode of tdome history to a close
Pfft, getting disqualified due to Sebmojo editing my post.
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2018 03:09|
What the hell kind of nonsense is this now?
shut up and rear end your newts
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2018 14:34|
SITTING HERE v. SEBMOND/EXMOJO BRAWL SUBMISSION
The No One Girl and the Mouth of Hell
This was back before your March Madness, your Kobes and your LeBrons, back before anyone had to pay anyone to play ball. This was when concepts like steppe and sky had some real mythological meat on their bones, because the land and the sky were all anyone had for longer than a season.
This was back when a fifth daughter, named Khenbish, was left all alone after hungry demons ravaged the cluster of yurts that had housed her family. The demons dragged Khenbish’s whole world down into the belly of hell and feasted on the weeping souls of her father and mother and sisters and horses. Khenbish was left alive only because, as a frail fifth daughter born to an old woman, she was given an unfortunate name: no one. What self-respecting demon would bother to eat a girl called no one?
So there was the steppe, and the sky, and Khenbish--no one. And our girl Khenbish, she’d just received a big dose of this world is gonna do as it pleases, and sometimes that means everything you love is eaten by demons. For a while, she lay in the place where her family used to exist, wishing to dissolve down into the earth or drift up into the sky, wishing to be anyone but no one.
Khenbish laid on the frosty steppe until the earth sucked the heat from her bones, but as much as she wanted the despair to overcome her, it just wouldn’t. This is the story we love though, isn’t it? The perennial underdog who picks themselves up and makes the shot, scores the touchdown, gets their name in some hall of fame. The world will punish them for trying, but it’ll punish them that much harder if they don’t.
Khenbish got up. She narrowed her eyes and squinted against the low sun. There were no arena lights, no hushed crowd waiting for the big turnaround. There was just no one and the sky and the steppe and a strange, wavering mirage just above the horizon. When the wind blew from that direction, Khenbish smelled blood and metal.
This was back when the steppe was infinite, and so the things that dwelled there could grow to fill as much space as they pleased. Khenbish fixed her eyes on the charnel-scented mirage and walked toward the horizon. With each passing day, she grew bigger and bigger, and her legs grew stronger and stronger, and soon she was bounding toward the horizon via strides that would’ve made the tallest center in the NBA feel petite.
Now she could see an angry pucker in the earth, a craterish protrusion that issued air-withering gouts of heat. This was the source of the mirage on the horizon: the mouth of hell.
And Khenbish, without breaking her stride, reached up into the sky and drew the sun down through the firmament. It was too hot to carry, so she dribbled it in front of her, bouncing the luminous sphere off the steppe.
Hell heard her coming.
Lesser demons poured up and out of the hole, languorous from their feasting, and surged toward Khenbish in a gnashing, chitinous tide. But Khenbish was no one, and no one can out-feint demons. They snapped and clawed at her left thigh, so she pivoted to the right. They swarmed around her head like bats, so she duck and spun, always keeping the sun in motion, driving it ever closer to hell’s mouth.
A greater demon pulled itself out of the steaming pit with the strength of its one thousand arms. Had the sun still been in the sky, the beast’s limbish plumage would’ve blotted it out. Those parts of its body that didn’t sport mammoth arms featured gnashing mouths full of blood-blackened teeth. It placed itself between Khenbish and the mouth of hell, arms fanned out into a perfect defense. The lesser demons pulled back and jeered as their MVP took the field.
Khenbish had momentum on her side, though. She’d run too far to stop now. Her every footstep was like thunder.
She swept one of her great arms back, then hurled the sun toward the demon. Khenbish wasn't dumb; she knew there was no way she was going to get a throw over this guy. He had all the reach in the world. Instead, the sun streaked directly toward the center of the mass of arms and mouths, slammed into the demon with supernova force, and sent the whole ugly mass of it sprawling backward.
The sun rebounded up into the air and almost managed to escape back into the sky, but no one was there. She springboarded off of the greater demon’s toppled body and seized the molten ball before it could soar out of reach.
Still airborne, she raised the sun overhead with both hands and slammed it down into the mouth of hell.
The crowd went wild. Souls that had been screaming under the ministrations of demonic teeth used their last breath to let out an exultant cheer of release as celestial fire liberated them from their eternal torment. Fire swept through every last cave and bolthole, cleansing hell of sufferers and tormentors alike.
A huge gout of flame erupted from the mouth of hell, incinerating Khenbish, who’d fallen to the side in an exhausted heap. Her ashes spiraled up into the sky and spread out over the steppe, eventually drifting back down to form the mountains and trees and people.
Which brings us back to now. Don’t look for no one inside the Kobes and the LeBrons of the world. Look for her inside that one kid who’s out on that scuffed community center court, rain or shine, shooting hoop after hoop for no one but themselves.
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2018 02:42|
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2018 20:35|
on the one hand i can't advise anyone to dignify this concept by signing up.
on the other hand, in
|# ¿ Mar 27, 2018 19:54|
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2018 04:13|
so did you change your mind about the signup deadline, or
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2018 17:27|
I thought I would still have time to sign up.
submit anyway imo
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2018 02:26|
ATTENTION ARCHIVIST: SA IS CURRENTLY HAVING TROUBLE POSTING LONG POSTS, SO I'VE compiled these two entries in a pastebin for your copy/paste convenience.
~*~The Persistence of Narrative Within the Conceit~*~
Name: N30n Darknet
Nickname (if any): Neo (not the matrix), Kyle (mom only)
Age: 17 looks older maybe 30
Height: six feet four inches
Weight: 250 but not fat with big muscles
Hair color: black
Eye color: black!!!!
Preferred style of clothing: he like to wear long black jacket with jeans and a red tank top with bullets straps across
Piercings/tattoos/scars/etc: no he’s not a goth poser LOL he just liek black
Family (if any): he’s got a mom and dad who live far away, he keeps them safe by staying away from them
Spouse/significant other (if any): girlfriend named is Amy Ravenrose-Trinity she lives near his parents to keep her out of danger. She has pink hair and also dress like neo like in black but her tank top is pink. she’s kind of boring and annoying but neo likes her anyway because they look cool together in there black coats
Friends (if any): Trunks Briefs, hsi family is really rich and help Neo get to space to fight the machines, frieza, ect
Place of birth: um his mom
Current place of residence: he lives in Satan City but it’s a fake version made by machiens to trick N30n Darknet into turning to the dark side. but he knows
Favorite food: PIZZA
Least favorite food: peas!!!
Magical powers (if any): Neo can fly and move very fast, he can stop bullets and if they hit him they only take away some HP. neo also has can make energy blasts out of his hands after he learned from Trunks how to shoot ki blasts.
Number one wish: he wants to protect his family and girlfriend and Trunks and briefs family, he wants to make the world a safe place for all!!!!
Nickname (if any): Darkstalker, Blackheart, Demonflame
Age: 542 but he looks about 18
Height: 5’9, looks 6’1 in his shoes, which are platforms, because he is also a rockstar when he’s not stalking the night
Weight: 150lbs built like a whip
Hair color: he dyes it back, partly to help him not be seen at night, partly because girls like rockstars with back hair and he has to keep his cool so no one guesses his secrets.
Eye color: a natural reddish color that make people wonder about him...
Preferred style of clothing: he wears black with a lot of neon, very cyber asthetic (not goth)
Piercings/tattoos/scars/etc: he has a big tattoo on his back of a design of the secret elder god that grants him immortality and gives him magic
Family (if any): his father is a demon who impragnated his mother 542 years ago. His mother was an angel and before the demonic influences could take hold of him as a baby, she blessed him with divine power and gave him the elder god tattoo on his back. When his father realize that the mother did this and his son would not be a demon like him, he came back and killed the mother. Luckily she was an angel and went back to heaven, but it left NeOnDaRk alone on earth.
Spouse/significant other (if any): he does not have a girlfriend for two reasons, one is that when people get close to him they see his dark side. two is, his manager of his rockstar career says he shouldn’t have a girlfriend so that his female fans will fantasize about him.
Friends (if any): he moves around from place to place too much to have friends, between being a rockstar and a nighttime crime fighter.
Place of birth: an old cathedral on a stormy night when the angels screamed
Current place of residence: he lives in a tourbus but the inside is full of swords and knives and masks and midevil looking gear. He has a bed where his manager wants him to have s*x with groupies but he never does because he feels that he should wait for someone who can get close and not be scared away...
Favorite food: he wants to deny it but he loves the taste of blood, he’s not a vampire but he has some demonic aspects and he has to fight the desire to taste human flesh.
Least favorite food: blood
Magical powers (if any): NeOnDark looks skinny and weak but he doesn’t need muscles because of his angel/demon magic. He can fall from huge heights and not be hurt and he can lift a person over his head. And throw them. when he’s in big danger he can call on a holy god beam from the sky to burn his enemies but it hurts him to be around because of his demon half.
Number one wish: he wants to rid the world of darkness like him, and find someone he can be close to without scaring away. he truly believes there is a female out there who will save him from the demon inside.
Name: Dracusis Demonflame Blackthorne
Nickname (if any): His human name is Kyle, because he wants to be as boring as possible so other demonkin don’t come looking for him.
Age: Unknown, looks like a young human male but is much older.
Height: He is five feet, eight inches tall. This is a normal height for demonkin, but humans give him lots of poo poo for being short.
Weight: He doesn’t weigh himself very often but he likes to maintain a body shape that hides his true power. On the outside he looks like a chubby guy but few know the power he keeps within...
Hair color: In his Kyle form, it is boring brown. In his demon form, it is a long black mane that swirls around his body like a cape, but doesn’t get in the way while he fights.
Eye color: In Kyle form he also has boring brown eyes, they’re the color of a particularly brown puddle of mud. In demon form his eyes are black with red pinpricks in them. They re capable of showing great emotions as well, even though they look frightening to humans.
Preferred style of clothing: As Kyle he has trouble keeping a job or staying in a place to live because people sense the darkness inside him and stay away. So as a human he dresses in sweatpants, ratty jeans, whatever he can find. As a demon all his clothes mostly tear away except for around his groin.
Piercings/tattoos/scars/etc: As Kyle, he has numerous scars from cutting himself to hold off his demon form. If he sacrifices enough of his demonic blood between full moons, he’s able to resist transforming into a demon except for in instances of extreme rage, such as when he’s in a fight. In his demon form he is covered in ornate designs that represent his demonic magic.
Family (if any): Long ago his father, a demon, had an affair with an angel, his mother. As she was a descendent of the seraphim and had angelic blood, her son (dracusis/kyle) was half demon and an unknown percentage angel. This was just enough to prevent him from going full evil like his father. His father realized this one day and flew into a rage, destroying his mother’s earthly body and banishing her to the celestial realm. Kyle/Dracusis was left alone on Earth and there were many temptations by the dark side to lure him over becuase of his powerful angel/demon blood. He is trapped in the middle of his heritage.
Spouse/significant other (if any): Females seem to detect the demon darkness inside of him. A few have seen his demonic form and find it attractive but he cannot love them or enjoy them in that form because the demon rage takes over. As Kyle, he tries to get close to women, but they are unimpressed by his human disguise.
Friends (if any): he has one friend, Raven Lillithsdaughter. She is a demonkin like him and has to also cut herself to keep from going into a demon rage. Kyle/Dracusis thinks that Raven understands him better than any being in any world, but they’ve agreed they are too close friends to get romantic. And if they had kids they would probably make another demonkin which they both agree is immoral.
Place of birth: Unknown. His mother didn’t like to talk about it when she was on Earth.
Current place of residence: currently he is on the run from his father, so he has to move around a lot. His base of operations is usually Raven’s house where she lets him sleep on the couch. He likes staying at Raven’s house because she’s dark like him but they can sit up and talk about things all night. Sometimes they have breakfast in the morning. It’s generally a lot better than the other random places he has to crash. Most people don’t get him so they don’t let him stay around for long.
Favorite food: he considers such things trite.
Least favorite food: see above.
Magical powers (if any): Can transform into a powerful and physically appealing demon when threatened or when he hasn’t shed enough of his demon blood. His body is covered in intricate magical knotwork that enhances his strength, speed, and resilience. When he’s in deep peril, he can call on his mother to intercede from the celestial realm, but exposure to divine power causes him excruciating pain.
Number one wish: To get revenge on his father and find someone who can widthstand his darkness...
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2018 04:35|
Name: K. Sterling Dark
Nickname (if any): He mostly goes by Sterling, because his first name is boring.
Height: He is a stocky 5’8, but he carries it well, like a celtic warrior. People frequently assume he’s insecure about his height, which is a source of great comedy for Sterling.
Weight: About 230 pounds, a lot of which is muscle. He’s surprisingly agile for his size, but few are willing to overlook that he doesn’t have the obvious sixpack or biceps.
Hair color: He dyes it black, to make it less blond, like his mother’s. Anything that reminds him of her ticks him off big time.
Eye color: He wears boring brown contact lenses to cover up his intensely red eyes, which he got from his father. He’s not ashamed of his eyes, but they tend to make other feel uneasy.
Preferred style of clothing: Sterling despises the civilization that forces him to care about his appearance to the point of agonizing over which textiles to put on his body. He recognizes that most fashion and cosmetics are simply part of the mating dance between males and females. His peers tend to describe him as unfashionable, but he just quietly laughs at them and their conformity. What few preferences Sterling has about clothing mostly have to do with comfort and utility, so he spends a lot of time wearing cargo pants or sweatpants. He knows these aren’t the most attractive options, but he refuses to be part of the mindless humping and grinding of fashionable individuals.
Piercings/tattoos/scars/etc: Sterling has many scars. He used to feel a tremendous guilt for the circumstances of his brith and took it out on himself. The cutting made him feel like he was giving back to the world, somehow, with every crimson drop that spilled from his veins. He also has large swaths of hyperpigmentation from a condition he inherited from his mother, giving his body a mottled appearance. He thinks it looks sort of cool, but he’s had his whole life to get used to it. Usually he covered up the scars with long sleeve shirts, wrist bands, ect.
Family (if any): Family is a complicated subject for Sterling. For most of his life, he swore vengeance on his father for impregnating his mother and then abandoning them both. He lived with his grandparents for a while, but then his mother came and retrieved him and told him the story about his dad’s unfaithfulness. He believed this for a long time, until she disappeared and he was left in his father’s care. His father proceeded to tell him the truth, that his mother never wanted a baby but was using Sterling to try to entrap Sterling’s dad in a relationship. She left when she couldn’t get her way, then tried to come back and once again use Sterling as emotional leverage against his father. He spent the rest of his formative years learning how to hold his own in the world and how to avoid the wiles of manipulative females. His father has a heritage leading back to ancient pre-christian daemons, which is where they get their signature red eyes.
Spouse/significant other (if any): To put it simply, Sterling doesn’t trust his heart to a woman. He finds their bodies attractive, but few of them seem inclined to look past his darkness and exterior and see through to the loving parts of him. He believes they see men as sources of food, shelter, and babies.
Friends (if any): He once knew a girl called Raven, a descendent of daemons like himself. She came from a bad family, too, and was the only female Sterling thought was trustworthy. They would cut themselves together and talk about their family histories. Sterling would constantly throw his darkness in her face because he wanted her to keep reaching through and pulling him out of it. But eventually she got tired of always dealing with his dark side and left.
Place of birth: He doesn’t know because anything his mother told him is probably a lie.
Current place of residence: He currently resides in his father’s lair, where they get by on odd jobs. They have to lay low because Sterling doesn’t want his mom to try to reach out to him again and spread more of her lies. The lair is kind of a training ground for other daemon-types. Lots of men come there and drink and fight and generally do the sorts of things Sterling never felt his mother would let him do.
Favorite food: Food is for nourishment. He prefers whichever foods most adequately fuel him.
Least favorite food: Those foods whom are inefficient fuel.
Magical powers (if any): Sterling Dark lives in a time where magic is mostly dead. Because of his connection to the ancient daemons, he is able to manipulate small events, which makes him seem lucky in card and video games, as well as an exceptionally good driver. He’s also extremely good at being elusive, first from spending his youth trying to hide from his father, then spending his young adult years trying to shake off his mother.
Number one wish: To spread his darkness to those whom would inflict pain upon him...
Name: Ky Silverclaw
Nickname (if any): Ky, Sil, Silver
Age: 22 in human years
Gender: Omega (male pronouns)
Height: About 5 foot five--pretty tall for a quadruped standing on its hind legs!
Weight: He’s a big doggy, think more samoyed than chihuahua XD
Hair color: Primary fur color is black, with a silver stripe going down his back and silver tips on their his ears. His flanks are decorated with swirling patterns that he was born with. NOTE: asking him about the origin of his marks is a HUGE no-no. If you try to push him to talk about his past, the RP will be over and he’ll probably block you. Everything he’s willing to share is in the ‘family’ section below.
Eye color: Nearly black, but they glint slightly silver in sun and moonlight. Some people tell him his eyes are his best feature, but he brushes that off. He’s not into appearances, his own or other people’s. Mostly he just wishes people would keep thoughts about each other’s appearances to themselves.
Preferred style of clothing: He prefers to let his fur feel the brush of the wind, the gentle fingers of the bushes he bounds through when he’s in ‘feral’ mode. He has sex organs but does not see them as anything to be ashamed of, or indeed anything to be particularly excited about. He sees his genitals the way other people see their elbow. When he is within the hypocritical, purito-promiscuous bounds of society, he prefers loose sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. These things adequately cover his body while not making any accidental statement of sexual intention.
Piercings/tattoos/scars/etc: When he was a young pup, he would gnaw at his forelimbs until they bled. To this day, his fur is patchy there because of the scars.
Family (if any): Ky does not like to talk about his family, but here is what you may as well know about him so you don’t feel the need to ask: Ky’s mother (a celestial wolf) and father (an infernal coyote) had a brief, adulterous tryst which was never supposed to conceive a child. Ky’s father immediately regretted the tryst and attempted to sever from Ky’s mother. He succeeded until she discovered she was pregnant; she brought this news to him hoping that he would end his marriage and be with her. After attempting to make things work for a couple years, Ky’s parents abandoned him to be raised by his grandparents, then attempted to go back to their own lives. Eventually his mother, overcome by guilt, took him back in and tried to teach him the ways of celestial magic, but by then Ky’s heart had hardened to her. After a difficult few years, he left to go live with his father, who spun a very different version of events and enabled Ky’s hatred of his mother. Ky learned much of the infernal magics from his father, but in the end, decided he had to go his own way. To this day, his body bears the marks of his duel heritage, and every time he looks in the mirror, he sees the irresponsible people who brought him into the world.
Spouse/significant other (if any): Ky prefers platonic relationships where there is all of the emotional closeness and none of the physical. His ideal life partner would be someone who respected his boundaries but also understood his need to be impregnated in the tail-hole. For him, omega pregnancy is not a sexual thing; there is merely the satisfaction of using a unique part of his body for its unique purpose. Such couplings would be rare (by necessity XD ) and entirely non-erotic in nature. For these reasons, Ky generally has platonic friendships.
Friends (if any): Most of his friends are other omegas like him, people who understand the ins and outs of having a uniquely capable body. He has trouble trusting alphas, betas, and generally anyone who is non-omega. He once had a human female friend with whom he might’ve developed romantic feelings, but they were too good of friends and went through too much darkness together. She has since drifted away.
Place of birth: In between the realms of the celestial and infernal, suspended between good and evil...
Current place of residence: He lives in FoxSwap’s Omega Den and loves every minute of being able to commune with his fellow omegas. Alphas are strictly screened!
Favorite food: He doesn’t have any until he’s butt-preggo, then he loves seasalt-coated chickpeas and chocolates with chili powder on them. Or whatever weird flavor combo his brain comes up with XD
Least favorite food: Cooked peas. Mushy peas is pea abuse.
Magical powers (if any): He has all the benefits of being an omega (self-lube, mpreg, knot) BUT he actually doesn’t particularly enjoy or use them. More interesting are the opposing magics within his body--celestial and infernal. With these he can heal, commune with the dead, and do divination as well as shoot balls of energy-fire and weave spells of deception around his enemies. The healing magics help with his rare pregnancies.
Number one wish: To find someone who will lovingly and platonically put a baby in his tail-hole. Also, peace on Earth and good will to all
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2018 04:38|
|# ¿ Sep 25, 2018 13:01|
Just a reminder that the long walk thread is still going strong for anyone who wants to for writing goals.
|# ¿ Apr 3, 2018 23:22|