Reddit Account: u/Thenn_Applicant
Discord Tag: Garin
Name and House: Dorian Merryweather
Age: 49
Cultural Group: Reachman
Appearance: Dorian's chestnut brown hair has been greying for quite a while, however is short beard retains more color, including a few stray red hairs peppered throughout it. While his features have softened and gained some pudge as he aged past his prime, he remains in overall good shape. This is partly due to his great love of gardening and crop cultivation, which have left his hands and nails rather rough.
Trait: Numerate
Skills: Avaricious (e), Architect, Administrator, Investor
Talents: Language (High Valyrian) Cooking, Gardening
Negative Trait: N/A
Starting Title: Lord of Longtable
Starting Location: Opening Event
Biography:
It has been said; men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing, sooner than war. As such, it begs the question, what does a man have left when he finally tires of war? In pursuit of an answer, of any answer, one half of Dorian Merryweather’s life was spent. He was the second son of Lord Arthor Merryweather of Longtable. Like many others born in a place of natural abundance, he longed for more, for something greater than a mere provincial estate. The tourneys of Highgarden, the hunts of Horn Hill and the books of Oldtown all called to him, and so he could never ride past his father’s mild and verdant fields fast enough. Dorian counted himself lucky not to be the heir, for that meant he could pick where his future lay, unchained from the uninspiring home of his childhood. Instead it was his older brother, Bennard, who envied his free-flying lifestyle, contriving any excuse to join him on his escapades and agurk lessons and ceremonies he ought to have attended.
Lord Arthor was fairly permissive of this deriliction of duties, as the friendships forced on such journeys were worth more than lessons that could be repeated later, or tasks that could be handed off to lowborn stewards. The boys attended tourneys, balls, hunts and feasts, living the life the bards extolled as the height of reachman’s chivalry. The one time they did not shirk their duties was when their father had the honor of hosting King Mern and his court for a tourney on the Warrior’s day. The Merryweather sons would present the king and his family with silver bowls of dilligrout, a most exquisite stew of capons, white wine and almond milk. They had the joy of tasting it once the Gardeners had their fill, a taste they would never forget. On the tournament field three days later, Mern knighted them both, though Dorian was only sixteen at the time, green as a knight could ever be.
Five years later, as news of Aegon Targaryen and his early conquests spread, the lords of the Reach were summoned to Goldengrove, where they found a veritable forest of Westermen’s banners being planted beside their own. The fall of the Storm Kings had led to a whirlwind of diplomacy between the houses of Gardener and Lannister. The plan was presented to the lords with the two kings sitting beside one another on the dais as though they were brothers. They held up Aegon’s letter of demands, scornfully reading it aloud and then proceeded to tear it up to a roaring acclamation from the hall. Standing there before the hall, Mern could hardly be called the Warrior incarnate. There stood a man well past his prime, old enough to be a grandfather and with no great victories to his name, in battle or on the tourney field. All the same, this man, whom they called their king, always seemed to know exactly what to say to win someone over. If he’d declared war on hell itself that evening, the Merryweather brothers would probably still have marched off with him when the next morning dawned. Bennard and Dorian shouted as loud as anyone, death to the foreign upstart. That evening were betrothed to westerwomen they’d never met before, made plans for a real battle, which they had never fought in before, and drank, ate and sang as though the night would last forever. House Merryweather was not able to secure a command, yet King Mern remembered his stay at Longtable fondly. He gave Bennard and Dorian a place in the vanguard, and even adorned Bennard with a brooch of the order of the green hand the morning before the army Goldengrove, a momentous honor which Bennard would cherish for the remainder of his days. He did not have many left, as it turned out. The Field of Fire began like a dream, as the two brothers rode off at the break of dawn, two out of five thousand sets of gleaming armor atop proud warhorses. By the end of the day it had become a nightmare. Caught up in the maelstrom of battle, Dorian did not see the moment when their loss was assured, but the Gods know he could hear it, the creeping, hungry flames that descended on the reachmen like an army of its own. As hundreds were broiled inside their steel plate and thousands more choked on the inferno’s horrible vanguard of black smoke, Bennard and Dorian broke and fled. They were not far behind the retreating Loren Lannister in their escape, but half a minute made all the difference. The lines of fire fanned out, hunting more living things to devour, and engulfed the two brothers. Dorian could feel how the flames spread from his surcoat to his undershirt, all the way down to the hairs on his chest, beginning to sear his skin. In a desperate act he threw himself in the Blackwater, and would have perished if not for the shoddy work of his squire that morning, which left him able to tear off his plate before he could sink. With bloodied, burn-marked fingers, he clung to the roots of a tree by the riverside, water up to his chest. He was retrieved after some time, how long he could not say. For the next two moons his mind was adrift, distracted from his pains by milk of the poppy. The next two were far worse, as he grew more lucid and realized the extent of the damage. A burn-mark stretched from his right thigh, all the way up his chest and left bicep to the apple of his neck. Many times over, flakes of dead or dying skin had to be peeled off by the maester as the scabs kept bursting with blood and clear liquid. By the end of that year he was able to walk again, though the burn mark would leave a feverish red mark across the front of his body, his new skin settling into twisted lines.
Bennard was far worse for wear, alive yet burned all the way to his face and crippled from a fall off his horse. His nose and ear-lobes had to be cut off, too burned to save, and even his eyelids were permanently scarred, unable to sprout new lashes. The more lucid Bennard became, the deeper his sorrow. Eventually he began refusing food. The new lord of Longtable would not eat anything his cooks set in front of him. In spite of his ever present pains, Dorian began going to the kitchens, reprimanding the cooks for their failings. He knew his brother well and knew his palette, and began ordering them to make his brother’s favorites. When he felt they were making mistakes, he interrupted their work himself. He was a stranger to the kitchen, yet would criticize how things were cut too roughly, spiced too little or too much. He was a terror to the cooks, yet they could not refuse him.
His attempts to intervene were however hampered by a newfound aversion to heat. The sound of the hearth, of boiling and searing, the general sense of warmth around him made him nauseous and caused his movements to seize up. Still, he went to his brother’s bedside every day, and afterwards he forced himself back to the kitchens. His sister, Lydia, tried to stop him at first, but soon found her protes fell on deaf ears, and so joined him, if only to leash him in when he went too far. Finally, there was only one dish they hadn’t tried; the dilligrout they’d once served to the late King Mern. Every time it was made, it came out wrong. It soon turned out the cook who had served them that evening six years ago had since retired, and his exact method had never been recorded or taught to anyone else. Dorian would first invite the man to Longtable, then summon him with armed knights when invitations were refused.
Theomar, the man who appeared before him, was a sorry sight, looking frightened and confused as he was taken to his old workplace. It was explained by his sons that he’d been growing senile even six years ago, often snapping at the kitchen maids under him when his memory failed him. Since then he’d gotten worse, seldom eating, let alone cooking. Something in the old man’s eyes did seem to brighten for a moment when the sounds and smells of his old kitchen surrounded him, and Dorian ordered him to make dilligrout. Before long that faint spark had been drowned out by tears. He would start boiling capon or crushing almonds, only to leave the job half-done whenever he had to fetch something new. Serving maids were put at his disposal to bring him ingredients, yet an ingredient ordered would be met with a reprimand as he seemed to forget which dish he was making every few minutes. Finally Dorian snapped at the man, grabbing him by his collar and shouting accusations of treason against House Merryweather. By the time Lydia could restrain him and try to apologize, the man was a wreck on the floor. After watching it for a while, waiting for the man to get up and continue his work, even Dorian was overcome by pity and shame for what he’d done. The old cook was praying to the gods, begging forgiveness for his failings. Dorian began to realize he’d broken a great man down and would himself beg forgiveness. He offered the man his old cook’s quarters back for the rest of his life, and promised his sons that his maester would tend to the man in his old age, that he would be fed from Longtable’s stores.
At this point, he resolved to make the dilligrout himself. Through it all, Bennard was barely clinging to life, or rather being tethered to it by the will of others. He could only be fed when drugged down by the milk of the poppy, and the more often it was used, the less effective it became. Every day Dorian braved the kitchens, yet he could not recreate the flavor of that wonderful night. It was by the grace of the gods, perhaps with Theomar as their vessel, that Dorian would even come close. The old man could no longer cook, but over time he began to wander into the kitchens and sit down on a chair. At first Dorian thought the man only sought the warmth of the hearth for his weary bones, yet he discovered it to be more than that. Theomar’s eyes were like clouded glass, yet they brightened every now and then, hearing almonds being ground, smelling capons searing in fat, as though it was stirring the kitchenmaster of yore back to life. Eventually Dorian began to walk up to the old cook with his ingredients, bidding him to smell or taste small portions. Sometimes he got simple instructions out of it, ‘too coarse’, ‘too sour’, ‘underdone’. Som times a mere nod or frown was all Theomar managed. Over the course of a couple of days, Dorian put together one final attempt to get the dish made rightWhen he arrived in Bennard’s chamber, he was met with a look which brought forth discomfort that no flame could produce in Dorian. Plainly, raspingly, his brother asked him why he wouldn’t let him die. It was easy, Bennard reasoned. All Dorian needed to do was wait and become lord. The words almost made Dorian throw the dilligrout on the floor. Almost. He placed two bowls on Bennard’s table, the dilligrout and one brimming with milk of the poppy. Dorian told his brother to make his choice. If he sought death, Dorian would let him, but he would not hear that it was an easy thing, watching his brother die. That evening, the milk of the poppy was carried away by the maester, the empty bowl of stew taken to be washed in the kitchens. From then on, Bennard ate what his brother brought him without complaint. He lasted just into the new year, dying on its tenth day. In the predawn gloom of the twelfth, Theomar died in his sleep
Dorian took up his lordly task joylessly. His old wanderlust returned, spurred by the horrible memories that now stained Longtable and the reach itself in his mind. The final straw came when their new Tyrell overlords, insisted on him marrying a lady from a dornish house. His previous betrothal had fallen through, as the parents of his western bride had not wished to draw the ire of the Targaryens by maintaining an old alliance meant to oppose them. Instead of obliging, he boarded a ship from Oldtown going east. It stopped only briefly in Planky Town before going to Tyrosh. Noting him to be a nobleman, a few of the city’s wealthy men would host him for a while, though they quickly lost interest when his lack of knowledge of trade became apparent. After that, he spent time in the markets and squares where the common people lived. His old curiosity was piqued, and he decided to embark on a quest of learning, fashioning himself another Lomas Longstrider. He moved on to Myr, and the experience was much the same in broad strokes, a few rich men showed interest and quickly lost it. As he’d visited the dye markets he went to see the city’s famous artisans at work. One thing was notably different, he met a Tyroshi woman with green-dyed hair, going by the name Maryah. She was a trader, and the two had taken the same ship to Myr. She had been to Myr before and showed him many of its secrets. They spent an entire day in one of the vast delicacy markets so she could show him the many tastes of the city. Having no plans in advance, he asked where she was headed next.
Without a second thought he would join her on a journey to Lys. He soon understood it to be a test. It was not long before she teased him, speculating he’d only joined her for a chance to see the famous pleasure houses. Evening after evening they stayed in the city and Maryah would tease and test him over the matter. Finally he told her he’d renounce his betrothal for her, that there was no one else in his eye. She laughed, replying he would not have to. The next morning, Dorian awoke to find that she was already up, the green washed from her black curls. Maryah had in fact been Joanna Dayne, his dornish bride to be, having traveled the same route as him ever since his ship stopped at Planky Town to refill its food and water. She was already quite familiar with the three closest free cities, having served as a dornish envoy on behalf of its spice traders. As they planned their return to Westeros, Joanna asked him what else in the world he wanted to see. Within a few moons of being wed, they left Westeros, not to return for three years.The journey was what his mind needed, away from the Reach, its knights and tapestries, hunts and tourneys. Ultimately, the lords and knights of his homeland, for all their songs and poetry, lived every day in preparation for war, frivolous though the preparations were. Joanna showed him a different world, the remnants of Old Valyria. War was to be sure inescapable. Wherever they went, there were soldiers, tapestries, contests of arms, and yet the cities housed something else as well, a boundless potential for creation, commerce and growth.
Thanks to Joanna Dayne’s knowledge their stays became far better planned, and they could enjoy the hospitality of wealthy locals far longer. She knew how to talk about the spice trade and similar matters, and Dorian began to pick up on it. On their second stay in Myr, he procured a great deal of fine parchment and began taking notes, everything from negotiation tactics and the prices of cloves or red peppers to court customs, as well as more eclectic pieces of knowledge, details of running an eastern estate, descriptions of technological marvels he had never seen in Westeros, and ingredients in the local food. By the time they neared Qarth he had quite the list of recipes, among other things. There he was even able to learn a few all the way from Yi Ti, as some local cooks catered to merchants from the Golden Empire. On their journey home they’d end up taking the opportunity to see the newly made port of King’s Landing. By that time, a third member had joined their journey, their infant daughter Florys. Having left Longtable in the care of his sister and steward for three years, Dorian finally accepted the responsibility of running his ancestral home.
Longtable was considered to rule over some of the best lands in the Reach, ideally situated along the river with abundant soil which could provide two grain harvests in a year. Having seen the estates which supplied the great cities of the east, Dorian was all too aware of its comparative shortcomings. He found that the abundance of the land had a counterproductive effect, breeding complacency and carelessness. From his grandiose tour of the east, he went on a painstaking tour of his own lands, trying to get an overview of everything he ruled over. He paid the citadel a fee to send him half a dozen maesters in training for a season. These young men, literate and numerate, would serve his own maester in conducting a survey of the land, giving Dorian account of all resources at his disposal as lord. The results were quite varied.
Some peasants were found to have remarkable agricultural insights which they had no way of writing down, entirely reliant on passing the knowledge to their children. Knowing the risks of such a method of transferring knowledge, Dorian ordered such insights recorded. In other places there were farmers and communities who were unwittingly exhausting their soil. Instances of lack of fallow land, excessive grazing by cows and lack of crop rotation were also made note of, followed by edicts against such heedless practices. Septons, sheriffs and tax collectors were given written copies and were obliged to read them to the peasantry wherever it was deemed necessary. It also became part of the obligations of farmers to plant a set amount of clover in their fields and pastures, a practice some had taken up on their own but which had already become a standardized law among the estates belonging to Myr and Volantis. Irrigation was expanded and land inheritance was reformed to prevent the splitting of fields past a certain threshold.
Lord Dorian was not always successful. Some eastern ideas had been useful innovations which improved conditions across the board. In time he learned that the peculiarities of the westerosi system were sometimes necessary for the sake of stability, not merely the misshapen fruits of ignorance. His attempt to enclose part of the common lands proved abortive, as it nearly caused a peasant rebellion. A procession of aggrieved smallfolk headed for Longtable had to be dispersed by knights, armed with wooden clubs to prevent needless bloodshed.Two men were hanged and five sent to the wall, but the reform was thereafter abandoned, leading the populace to calm down. Dorian was not much of a military leader and had not wielded weapons since the Field of Fire. He became aware of his need to bolster his forces, a notion reinforced by the establishment of the Black Roses not long after his return, and again with the Kingswood Catastrophe
In the meantime, he and Joanna raised a family together. Three more daughters would be born healthy, with a couple of miscarriages and a stillbirth in between, also a daughter. Their travels did not entirely come to an end. In 13 AC they would tour the northern free cities of Norvos, Qohor, Pentos, Braavos and Lorath, which they had missed on their original journey. The lion’s share of 17 AC was spent on a journey to the Summer Islands. At other times they would make shorter journeys around the Seven Kingdoms, where they felt more secure in bringing their older children along. Whether it was visiting Joanna’s family in Dorne, tourneys and feasts in the Reach and West or even one trip to see the wall, a nameday wish by Florys, they were often on the move. Like most of their peers, they frequented Oldtown and Highgarden
The growing rift between the two queens and their children was a situation Dorian would watch with dread in his heart, remembering keenly how a generation of young men had been brought to the field of fire. To his mind, the Targaryen rule ought not go to waste. Like Valyria of old, it had begun with fire and blood, yet similarly peace and prosperity had followed in its wake. If only the dragons could stand united, perhaps another long peace like the one the Freehold once enjoyed could again be established. If not, another century of blood was upon them. Under Dorian, Longtable became a place where he sought to bring together people from across the kingdoms and forge unity over the dinner table, an attitude which somewhat vexed and confounded his more militaristic daughter and heiress, Lady Florys. Even amid her questioning of the viability of his peaceful ways when surrounded by those who would make war, a terrible sight would steel his resolve, watching the Mander burning green, every bit as terrible as the flames from twenty one years prior. That night he made a simple vow, never again.
The League of the Cornucopia, he would name his little group, a gallery of lords and ladies whose acquaintances he’d made over the years. With these fellow gourmets he would share the culinary knowledge he’d gleaned from his journeys in the east and west. Most unusual for a lord of his rank, Dorian came to spend a great deal of time in his kitchens, testing out recipes himself. On occasion, the dishes he served to his guests for these small, intimate gatherings would be the work of his own hands. The membership did vary from time to time, both based on who could make it and who he sought to bring together. Rather than a fully closed circle, the League is more like a form of feasting, only it’s done for a much smaller crowd, without the public spectacle. Such occasions allowed for more refined foods which did not need to be served to hundreds and kept constantly warm over the course of hours like some common tavern stew. It also opened up an arena of more intimate diplomacy and negotiation for those who sought it, hosted on neutral ground by a lordly mediator, free from prying eyes.
Timeline:
25BC: Dorian is born, second in line to Longtable
24BC: His sister Lydia is born
9BC: House Merryweather hosts House Gardener for a tourney and feast. Dorian and his older brother Bennard serve the dish of honor to King Mern Gardener and his family. During the subsequent tourney, Mern knights both boys, despite their inexperience and lack of victory in the tourney
9BC-2BC: Dorian spends much time travelling the reach, attending events
1BC: Dorian and Bennard fight in the vanguard at the Field of Fire. Both are burned, Bennard far more severely than Dorian. Lord Merryweather is killed. Traumatized by the battle and his new maimed body, Bennard starts refusing food. Dorian desperately tries to re-create the dish they served King Mern eight years ago. The cook who made it has since gone senile, but eventually manages to help Dorian re-create it. He is given a place at court as apology for his mistreatment at Dorian's hands before this occurred.
1AC: Lord Bennard dies at the beginning of the year, leaving Dorian as lord of Longtable. His sister Lydia fulfills her betrothal to House Tarly, becoming lady of Horn Hill. At the prospect of marrying a Dornishwoman on the King's orders, Dorian decides to leave Westeros to put off his marriage. In Myr, he meets a woman calling herself Maryah, claiming to be a Tyroshi merchant. They fall in love and travel to Lys together. There Dorian promises to set aside his betrothal for her, whereupon she reveals herself as Joanna Dayne, his dornish betrothed.
1AC-4AC: Dorian and Joanna wed at Longtable, then depart on a new journey of the east. They reach as far as Qarth before turning back home. In 3AC, on the way back, their first child, Florys, is born while the couple are in Volantis, on the way home. They return via the newly built port of King's Landing.
4AC-8AC: Using knowledge from the east, Lord Dorian embarks on a project of rationalizing the agriculture of Longtable
5AC: Dorian and Joanna have their second child, a girl named Ellyn
8AC: Their third daughter, Desmera, is born
13AC: Dorian and Joanna spend a year travelling the northern free cities
14AC: Their fourth and final daughter, Gwin, is born
17AC: Dorian and Joanna undertake a journey to the Summer Islands with their children
23AC: The aftermath of the battle of Stonebridge brings back memories of the Field of Fire, as the Merryweathers watch burning slag run down the Mander
25AC: The Merryweathers travel to the celebration of the maturity of Aegon's sons
Family Tree:
Arthor Merryweather (father, d.1BC)
Cerelle Merryweather (pending family connection) (mother, d.20AC)
Rhea Merryweather (sister b.27BC)
Bennard Merryweather (brother, d.1AC)
Lydia Merryweather (sister, b.24BC)
Glendon Merryweather (uncle, d.1BC)
Myrcella Pommingham (aunt, d.22AC)
Leo Merryweather (cousin, b.13AC)
Joanna Dayne (wife, b.26AC)
Florys Merryweather (daughter, b.3AC)
Ellyn Merryweather (daughter, b.5AC)
Desmera Merryweather (daughter, b.8AC)
Gwin Merryweather (daughter, b.13AC)
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Auxiliary Character:
Name and House: Florys Merryweather
Age: 23
Cultural Group: Reachman
Appearance: [A short, muscular woman with wavy black hair, normally worn in a bun. She has high cheekbones and a proud demeanor. Her rigid strength stands in contrast to the more relaxed nature of the Merryweather court, one she finds overly lax and casual](0_0.png (896×1344) (discordapp.com))
Trait: Hale
Skills: Swords (e), Essosi Blademaster
Talents: Dancing, Fishing, Cooking
Negative Traits: N/A
Starting Title: Heir to Longtable
Starting Location: Opening Event
Timeline:
3AC: Florys is born in Volantis, while her parents are on their way home from Essos
10AC: Florys starts training under Saathos Trevelyan, her father's Master at Arms
13 AC: She joins her parents on a tour of Pentos, Braavos, Norvos and Qohor
17AC: She travels with her parents to the Summer Islands
19AC-23AC: As she comes of age, Florys becomes more critical of her father's desire for peace, viewing it as increasingly far-fetched amid the increasingly controversial regency and the impending succession dispute. She resolves to make the kinds of connections her father seems unwilling to, in case of war
25AC: She accompanies her family to the celebrations
NPCS:
Ser Leo Merryweather (Age: 37, Archetype: Magnate) Lord Merryweather's first cousin, he has become an indispensable agent in the daily running of Longtable. Despite his foppish demeanor and aparent laziness, he is highly capable and loyal in his task of increasing his family's fortune. He remains happily unwed
Saathos Tevelyan: (Age:48, Archetype: Master at Arms) The son of a Lysene father and a Myrish mother, Saathos initially sought a career in amongst Myr's military officers, however his family's relatively low status proved an impediment to further promotion, later compounded by a dispute with a superior. He met Lord Merryweather in 3AC and eventually travelled West to offer his services five years later, finding his career progress stonewalled in his home city. Well into middle age, he still looks firm and imposing as profesisonal a soldier ought to

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.
The Bran that appears to Jon-Ghost in the vision in ACOK is also likely the lingering soul of a non-contemporary Bran, contained in the weirwoods and communicating from the future.

The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.
He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
"Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this." And the tree reached down and touched him.

Jon, ACOK
There is more information about this in the Time Traveling Bran series. Briefly, the version of Bran in this vision does not appear to be contemporaneous because likes the dark, is able to open Jon's third eye, smells of death, etc. (This is well outside of the scope of this theory however.)

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children has previously been discussed at length in the community in separate posts.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection or transfer of a soul from one body into another. The process of projecting or transferring souls to either animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.
The Bran that appears to Jon-Ghost in the vision in ACOK is also likely the lingering soul of a non-contemporary Bran, contained in the weirwoods and communicating from the future.

The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.
He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
"Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this." And the tree reached down and touched him.

Jon, ACOK
There is more information about this in the Time Traveling Bran series. Briefly, the version of Bran in this vision does not appear to be contemporaneous because likes the dark, is able to open Jon's third eye, smells of death, etc. (This is well outside of the scope of this theory however.)

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is specifically described as having the shape Stannis supporting this. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
This type of exchange is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King provided by Old Nan:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically. The description of his flesh turning to ash in this vision is representative also supports this interpretation.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of so-called blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.) which were already in place. It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual meaningfully contributed to their deaths.
The creation of the shadows is said by Melisandre to have required part of Stannis' "life-fire" or soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described in the community as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the text:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. "Fire consumes and in the end there's nothing left."

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows and likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable magical cost for these "kisses of life," at least at first glance. Thoros later tells us that he breathed part of his "flames" or soul into Beric:

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair.
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" as above although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he does not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Later he describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn and not transferred.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest in which they are introduced is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" or "ice zombies" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children is linked in a separate post here.) "Fire consumes, but cold preserves."
This would explain several of the unusual characteristics of the Others described by Tormund:

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this information is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which would also supports the idea that they are ghosts:

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory attempts to reconcile several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed using fire magic to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

Link to original nosleep post:
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/1bml3v0/i_found_a_set_of_blank_cassette_tapes_at_the_junk/
The journey to discovering the first body was even more exhausting than I anticipated. And according to the tapes that I'd found in the junk store, there were still seven more out there... somewhere in the marsh.
Who knows how far we'll have to go, just to find the next one? I wondered, as I waited for the second cassette's audio to begin playing.
"If you're listening to this, you found the first body in the marsh. To find the second, simply take five steps north." The narrator began, his voice playing back from the cassette player and into my headphones.
But upon waiting for further instructions, I only heard silence.
Wait... What? I thought to myself, before the man continued.
"You're probably wondering how that could be possible. Well, the truth is, the body that you just found... is part of a pair. A couple, to be precise. In this case, a very old couple, guilty of buying into a false dream. That, of lifelong companionship. An illusion of eternal love, knowing full well, that we're all born alone... and die alone. When you're ready to find the next body, switch over to the third tape."
CLICK.
I pressed pause on the cassette player. There are two bodies here?
That's when I remembered that Jess and Mike were still digging in the mud, a few feet from where we found the first body, in an attempt to find its clue, and completely unaware that there was another corpse beneath their feet.
"Wait! Stop!" I called out to them.
But it was too late.
Seeing the remains of the second body, Jess screamed and stumbled back, while Mike, having just pulled a small wooden box out of the ground, suddenly dropped it and closed his eyes.
"Another one?" He yelled out to me.
"Yeah. According to the tapes, it was a couple." I explained.
"Well thanks for warning us!" Jess added.
"I just played it now!"I replied.
"Well did it say their names?" Mike asked.
"Their names? No. But it said they were very old."
"Ah, okay."
"Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Mike replied, defensively.
"So what was the clue?" Jess interjected.
Mike picked up the wooden box that he had just unearthed from the burial site, opened it, and revealed a piece of paper, with nothing but the letter "J" written on it.
"What do you think it means?" I asked.
"It's just one clue, idiot." Mike scoffed. "It's too soon to say. More the reason we get to finding the others. What are the next instructions?"
I switched tape "2" for tape "3" and pressed play.
CLICK.
"You've made it to tape three. Which means you've discovered the first two bodies. To find the next one, keep heading in the same direction you've been walking, and don't stop until you find the wreckage of an old boat, lodged in the mud. Not far from it, you'll find the third body. When you do, switch to tape four."
CLICK.
—
We'd been trudging through the marsh, navigating the fog with just a single flashlight, for what must have been another twenty minutes or so, when Jess and Mike's banter began to wear on me.
"You know, with the election coming up in just a few days, I really wish I could vote." Jess said to Mike.
"Why?" He asked.
"'Cause then I could help change the world."
"That's not how it works. You'd vote for Clinton in an already blue state, so it would basically mean nothing."
"You're both wrong!" I interrupted. "The world doesn't change overnight, and her vote would matter. But none of us are old enough to vote anyway, so can we just drop-"
But before I could continue, Jess interjected, calling back to Mike and I from up ahead.
"Hey guys..."
We both looked over, to find her pointing to, of all things, a thick mist that was enveloping everything ahead of us, and rapidly closing in.
"Maybe we should head back after all." Jess backtracked.
"Yeah, you already found a second body, Mike. Now can we just go home?" I insisted.
But Mike wasn't having it.
"Sorry losers. We gotta keep going. A vote's a vote. But we're almost there. And don't worry, a little fog's not gonna hurt nobody."
That's when it hit me.
"Mike, back at the last couple we found. You had asked me if the tape had said their names?"
"Yeah. So what?" He replied.
"Why is that?"
"I told you. No reason."
"Just be honest."
"Alright fine..." He said, before pausing for a moment, and then looking me in the eyes. "...I thought that maybe my dad was one of them."
"I knew it!" I exclaimed, frantically pacing around the grass. "Mike, are you kidding me? That's why you're dragging us along with you?"
"Now that I know there are all these missing people out here, it just got me thinking... Maybe that's where he ended up." He replied.
"Dude," I began, "Hate to break it ya, but your dad was a drunk, who went to the packie one day, and never came back. I don't know where he is. But one thing I do know is... he sure as heck ain't out here."
"What did you just say, Tyler?" Mike growled, his face growing red with anger, as he stormed over to me.
But Jess jumped between us. "Hey, stop!"
"Fine. You know what. I don't need you guys. I'll find the rest of the bodies myself." Mike said defiantly, as he turned around and walked away.
"But what about the mist? We only have one flashlight." I yelled out to him.
"Keep it! I don't need it!" He called back to us, without looking back, as he disappeared into the fog.
—
Jess and I must have been walking in circles for a good thirty minutes, disoriented by the mist, before we finally got our bearings, and continued on our way back home.
"It's just funny is all. Pahk the cah." Jess said, doing her best impression of a Boston accent, while careful not to trip in the grass.
"That's your impression of me?" I asked, my boots splashing in the mud.
"Yeah, is it wicked pissah, kid?" She answered playfully.
"Good one." I replied. "Easy for you transplants to joke about our accents, after you move to our town, with your fancy homes, your fancy cars, and your Long Island accents. Well, you know what? Maybe I find your accent funny too."
"Do you now?"
I paused for a moment.
"Nah, it's cute." I replied.
"Cute?" Jess asked.
"Oh, I mean uh... totally not cute at all, I swear."
She stopped and gave me a cheeky smile.
"Tyler, are you flirting with me?"
"No..." I said, as she took a step closer.
"'Cause you know, out here in the marsh, surrounded by a sinister fog and all these dead corpses, might be..."
"An inappropriate time?" I interjected, my face beginning to blush.
Jess leaned in even closer, her face just an inch from mine, and smiled. "...Romantic."
As she was about to kiss me, I saw her close her eyes, but couldn't seem to close mine, completely in shock that this moment was finally happening.
But just before her lips touched mine, I felt my boots sinking into the mud, and tilted my head down, leaving her hanging there, confused.
"What's wrong?" Jess asked, opening her eyes, a look of disappointment washing over her face.
"Um... We have a bit of a problem." I said, gesturing to the ground, where both of our legs were now almost completely submerged in the mud.
"Oh no!" Jess said, before attempting to pull herself out of the ground, and realizing that she was stuck. I followed suit, also to no avail.
Then we looked at each other, and both began to laugh at the awkward situation we'd gotten ourselves into... until we continued to sink deeper and deeper into the mud.
Jess' eyes suddenly turned from jovial to concerned, and she began yelling, "Help! Help!"
I joined in, but after a few minutes of shouting, began to lose hope, accepting our inevitable demise, and the irony of two more bodies being added to the marshy graveyard.
But just when the mud reached our necks, as we each shot each other one last look of affection, suddenly someone came stomping over, and ripped us out of the ground.
"What on earth are you two kids doing out here at this hour?" Our rescuer exclaimed, as he dropped us onto a more stable patch of grassy marshland a few feet away.
He was an old man with a white beard, wearing a pair of rubber wading pants, that were completely covered in mud.
The serial killer! I thought to myself, before realizing that his voice sounded nothing like the tape's narrator, and that he could have easily killed us when we were stuck in the marsh, but didn't.
"We got lost." I replied, careful not to offer up too much information.
"Thanks for saving us." Jess added.
"You two are lucky I was out here."
"What were you doing out here?" I asked, suspicious of his why someone, besides us, would be out here in the marsh so late at night.
"Clammin.'" He replied.
"Clammin'?" Jess asked.
"I'm a clammer. Ain't nothin in the world that brings me as much solace as searching for clams at night. But anyways, you two better be getting back. I saw the man out there earlier."
"The man?" I asked.
"Yes, the man in the marsh." He replied.
"Who's... that?" Jess added.
"Us clammers and fishermen see him all the time, out there in the marsh. Always at night. And always digging away in the mud. Legend has it, he's the captain of that submerged boat out there, forever trying to free it."
Jess and I both looked at each other, our eyes wide with fear.
"Anyways, I'd better be getting back. Low tide's upon us and there's clams to be clammed. You kids get home safe now."
And like that, he was gone, disappearing into the fog like a ghost in the night.
But Jess and I were much more concerned with what he'd told us, than with the old man himself.
"We've gotta find Mike!" Jess said frantically, as she turned to me, a look of panic in her eyes.
"Are you serious?" I replied. "But we agreed to head back. Mike made his choice to stay."
"You heard the old man. There's someone else out there. We've gotta save him."
"But-" I began to say, before Jess grabbed me by the collar and interrupted.
"No buts, Tyler! These tapes found their way to you, not us. They chose you. You were the one who was meant to get us into this mess, and you are the one who's meant to get us out of it. So please, for crying out loud, put on your big boy pants, turn around, and be a hero for once in your life."
I didn't know whether to feel hurt or flattered. All I knew was that she was right. I'd never really had much of a purpose in life before finding the tapes, and in a weird way, they gave me one. So I dusted off the dried mud from my clothes, took Jess by the hand, and set off into the foggy marshland.
—
When we finally arrived at the wreckage of the old boat, we found the nearby burial site completely excavated, the tape's third body protruding from the ground, and a box with what presumably was the next clue lying beside it.
And not far away, just lying there in the grass...
...Was Mike. Half alive, his body caught in an old bear trap, its rusty jaws clamping down into his torso, blood pouring out everywhere.
"I found the body." He mumbled to Jess and I, as he noticed us approaching, blood dripping from his mouth.
"Mike!" Jess screamed, as she started to run towards him, before I stopped her and crouched down to help him.
But no matter how hard I tried and tried... no matter how much force I put into it... the trap wouldn't release Mike from its grip.
Eventually, I stood up and took a few steps back, knowing that my friend would soon die from his wounds, as my own blood was now pouring from my arm.
Jess and I both knelt down by his side.
"I'm sorry... For what I said." I whispered to him, as a tear rolled down my cheek.
"I'm sorry too." He replied.
"Did someone do this to you?" Jess asked.
"No." Mike replied. "I had just found the body, but couldn't see well, and accidentally stepped in the trap. But then a little while later, I did see him."
"Who?" Jess asked.
"The man from the tapes. He walked by and stood there for a minute, right where you were just standing. He looked at me for a moment, then just walked away and left me here to die."
"The man in the marsh." Jess said.
"Tell me something, Tyler." Mike began, gesturing to the body. "Is it him? Is it my dad?"
I sat there for a minute, not sure what to say, then moved the headphones from around my neck to my head, switched tape "3" for tape "4" and pressed play.
CLICK.
"If you're listening to this, you've found the third body. A widow, guilty of investing her entire life in that of another. Her husband, who, after sharing her life, her time, and her memories with, simply passed away one day. She should have known, as we've learned from the first two bodies, that love is not forever. And investing in it, a fool's errand. When you're ready for the directions to the next bodies, switch to the fifth tape."
CLICK.
I looked at Mike as he lay there, dying in the grass, a hopeful look in his eye.
"It was him. It was your dad, Mike." I said, unable to tell him the truth, and hoping the lie would bring him some sense of closure, some sense of solace, in his final moments.
He probably knew I was lying, but nevertheless... it brought a smile to his face.
"Thank you." He mumbled, before his eyes eventually closed, and he passed on from this life.
Jess and I both began to cry our eyes out, as we sat there in the mud, our warm embrace counterpoint to the cold body that lay beside us.
"Maybe we should go back... and get help." Jess said, sniffling, a sense of defeat in her voice.
"No," I replied, wiping the tears from my face. "It's too late. We've gotta keep going. We've gotta find the bodies, and make this guy pay for what he's done."
Jess reached over and helped me wrap my plaid shirt around my arm, in an effort to clot the wound, as I stared down at the ground, still processing what had just happened.
"Mike hated this shirt." I said, unable to stop myself from letting out a laugh.
"He really did." Jess replied, fighting a tearful chuckle of her own.
That's when I remembered the wooden box that I'd seen earlier, its structure identical to the one we'd found by the first two bodies.
I picked it up and opened it, revealing a piece of paper, with nothing but the letter "A" written on it.
"Another letter. "A."" I said.
"'J" and "A"." Jess replied, "What do you think it's spelling?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, we'd better find the next one then."
As the mist began to clear, and Jess looked out at the immense stretch of marshland that still lay before us, I switched tape "4" for tape "5" and pressed play.
CLICK.

I've always had strong facial hair growth but have kept clean shaven because I always give up 2 weeks in when it gets itchy. Thinking about going all the way and changing up the look with a five o clock shadow and a moustache. Any tips on how long to let stubble grow out? How to make it not look messy? Should I use beard oil? Should I shave my neck? Thanks :)

Post a picture of your beard or moustache and win our weekly beard care giveaway based, on rules of pinned post, and by having the largest number of upvotes. May the best Beard or Stache win!

Very curious to hear people's opinions about this! Instinctually I used to keep my body hair and leg hair really short because it didn't feel... Me 😂 I then went the other side of it and because of so many comments about how girly it looked and having it questioned (I didn't know a lot about myself then but it's always interesting realising in hindsight) I ended up letting it grow and making myself more comfortable to it. So it kinda had me landed between two camps.
Well of course now your boy is now a femboy and I've come full circle to shaving/smoothing 😆 But it made me wonder about what others actually like! I'd be curious to hear opinions on if anyone thinks any leg/torso/facial hair is attractive or the opposite!
I am naturally pretty hairy on my legs and my chest, and my beard grows quickly, as I've been making my steps into comfortability of identity I am starting to play around with what I love but always like an outside opinion on all this as well!!
Natural second question for anyone still around too! What do you use to manage those pesky hairs, I otherwise need to be shaving twice-three times a week and I am happy to do it to commit bit oml surely there is an easier way 😆
Thank you all in advance 😊

 This happened in 2015. I've had a pretty strange dream that day and it impacted me so much that I think about it even now... The dream starts with me in the backseat of a cab. Someone is driving the car and we are in a beautiful plain right before sunset. The landscape is gorgeous in the light of the sun at that hour and I have the feeling that I know this road since my childhood, as if I went down that road many times in the past. I also have a strong feeling that this is important and that I am going to a special place that I was inveted to; it is a spiritual feeling. Suddenly I am already in the place. Its something like a resort, with swimming pools and showers and the people there are different. They are all nice and greet mee as they pass by me. Also they use colourful chothes and hair, but it is all simple colours like blue, green, yellow. I arrive at a place were some women are sitting at the floor like if they were in a campfire and there are some other people doing barbecue. Then a waitress comes with a tray and say "you will play some tarot for those women, ok?" I agree and he shows me the tarot deck in the tray. I choose one card and it is a transparent plastic card with silver drawings. In the card there is an old bearded man and the word Neptune. The waitress says "it means Saturn. Do you know what it means" I say yes. After that I am in a small room with a bed and there I know I will sleep and I will a have an important dream, like a spiritual message. The dream within the dream starts... I am now in the same "resort" place but now its morning and there is a guy cleaning one of the swiming pools. I look to the sky and there are three clouds in the strange shape of cups or hourglasses... now I am in an old hall, it look like the hall from a theater from the 70's. There is a group of old men in suits in a table near me and they seem to be talking some secrets. They note my presence but don't mind so much, but they also whisper so I can't hear what they talk about.I have the feeling that a presentation will happen in the thater soon... suddenly I am outside the room and I am in front of a strange plant like a smal palm tree. Under it a creature that is like a giant psychadelic colourful centipede running in circles around the small tree. The creature is really big like 2 meters long and 1 meter tall... Then I am again inside the theater and there is a man on the stage, I think he is talking about a alien fetus and he is gonna show a picture of it but I am not sure (this is my thought in the dream). Again things change and now I am in a car leaving the place. I'm again in the backseat but there are two people in the front seats. I know them but I can't tell if they are friends or family, just know they are close to me. I start to feel there is something in my mouth and for a moment I think if I should take it off or not. I decide to go for it and when I do it's egg shells... a lot of them... after I take all of it from my mouth some flashes of yellow and red light starts to appear alternatimg between the two colours and it is going faster it time... 

The car stops, I go out and there is a strong wind in the road. I look to my left and there is a big white tornado in a field close to me. The tornado has this white colour and I can feel the strong winds but the strange thing about it is that it's rotation is not natural. It's spin is bugged like a lagged game... finnally I wake up scared...

I know it sounds just like a crazy dream but it was so vivid and I can remember so much of it. Also the feeling and thoughts I had in the dream were something really different from usual. 

What do you think? Can you make something of it? Is there some more deep meaning there? Anxious to read your thoughts!

Trying to be as unbiased as possible, and looking at it from both Eastern and Western Asian perspectives, I find that while facial hair can enhance overall attractiveness for those who can grow it, but I find that most of them already look attractive or even better without it.
And as someone who struggles to grow facial hair (patchy) and has contemplated growing a beard using minoxidil, I wonder if this is influenced by Westernization. I ask myself if I'm simply trying to fit in. Because I remember when I was living in Asia, it was the opposite.
Even when I ask my parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents about attractive Asian guys or their celebrity crushes from their generation (before the influence of anime, K-pop, K-drama, or heavy Hollywood influence), all of them mention clean-shaven. They can hardly name anyone with facial hair or prefer version of them without facial hair.
So I'm starting to see a pattern here, and honestly, everyone says I look better clean-shaven. I'm thinking of laser hair removal since it makes sense in the long run, I won't have to worry about ingrown hair, spending time shaving every day, or replacing razors. But then I ask myself, will I regret this twenty years from now? Looking at the historical pattern, it seems like it shouldn't be an issue. But I wonder if I'm overlooking any potential disadvantages of not having facial hair as an Asian when I'm 50 or so.
Thoughts on going all in and getting it removed versus having weak facial hair now that I need to shave every day? It looks like this for reference https://www.reddit.com/Moustache/comments/ys3y1u/asian_26_goatee_thoughts_will_the_stache_eve but I can grow full sideburns. I'm 26 BTW

Hey guys, what better place to come for advice than the one and only moustache aha, so I have always lacked the ability to grow a proper moustache it can get long but thin and blonde so it just looks like I’ve shaved my arm pits and stuck it to my upper lip, the rest of my face is a full beard but I was wondering if anyone ever had this issue just powered through and one day it came in or they have a solution thanks men!

Hello gentlemen, I’m a 17 year old from Belgium and I have some questions about my facial/body hair. I seem to be able to grow side burns in the same shade of color as the hair on my head. (Brown) On my cheeks the hair is very sparse still and there are these blonde/colorless hairs joined with the normal brown hairs. My moustache looks dark but I keep it shaved because when I tried to grow it out last year it came out blonde. The hairs on my chin are dark but right above them are these white/blonde hairs and the hairs that come down from te outer ends of my lips that connect it with my chin are blonde and fine as well. My arm hair is very short still and very blonde/white ish. My leg hair is primarily dark but the shorter hair are this blonde/white color just as the hairs on my knees. the hairs right above my knee are very short and blonde/ white as well. My snail trail is black and my eyebrows are dark brown yet the short hairs growing on my body are this white ish color. The hairs on my nipples are black as well. I’m just hoping i will be able to grow out a beard that matches the hair on my sideburns/ head. And that my body hair gets this color as well. I was also born with white hair but have had brown hair ever since I was about 7 years old. Thank you for your help

There isn't anyone who is blonde in my family. I don't smoke and I'm fairly young. What might be the reason?

Hey, this will be my 2nd time posting on here. I have been on all the dating apps and having no luck finding anyone. Some say they are lookin for the same as me but turns out they not and I want someone who really looking for a relationship so l will give this a shot. I am friendly, accepting, I can be shy at first but once I get to know u l open up a lot and super loyal I don't have many hobbies and I hope that changes but some of the things I like are movies, tv shows. Anime, listening to music playing video and board games. And going bowling. I get excited at times when it comes to the stuff I love
I can be a homebody and would be happy staying in with a dinner and movie but I would love someone to take me out my comfort zone. Would love to go out with someone who likes to explore and find new places to go. I also would like to travel one day and would like someone by my side
If you like to know any more about me feel free to DM me I like to think I'm an open book. I'm 5'8, slightly husky, black hair (I like to change my hair color sometimes), brown eyes, and have a moustache and beard. I do have selfies if you're interested I strongly prefer 21-33 and someone in Jersey also or close to Jersey

Gus the donkey.
Adventurers often obtain donkeys to carry extra gear or loot. Strong and sturdy, these beasts of burden are also remarkably efficient, able to forage almost anywhere, and needing only straw or hay and a little grass now and then when on the farm or in town. These un-sung heroes need a little love. Here's a d100 list of Donkey Details (I suppose you could use most of these for mules, too):

1. Laughing Donkey. This donkey's hee-haw sounds remarkably similar to human laughter. Makes this particular sound only when PC's do something stupid or risky.
2. Scared of open fire -- torches, campfire, etc; runs away. Can tolerate lanterns (but kinda iffy).
3. Practical Joker Donkey. Takes one step to the side when anyone tries to load anything onto it and the loader is not looking.
4. Union Donkey. If ever loaded over 3/4 normal carrying capacity, goes on strike, will only walk in circles until it gets a long rest.
5. Back-Peddling Donkey. When spooked, always tries to back up 60 feet, no matter what's back there.
6. Depressed. Need to talk to it and pet it for 10 minutes after each long rest (and on cloudy days) to get it moving.
7. Battle Donkey. This one loves battle and always charges straight toward any battle noises it hears. No holding it back. Ooh-rah!
8. Passenger Donkey. Happy to carry riders (bareback, without a saddle), but doesn't want anything tied / cinched around it (will try to scrape items off against a tree, wall, the ground, etc.).
9. Allergies. Donkey has allergies in spring and fall. Sneezing fit 2-in-6 chance each hour. Drops stuff.
10. Lie-Detector Donkey. This donkey can sense when a humanoid is lying. Likely via some sort of pheromone cue (?). Farts if a lie is told within 10 feet of it.
11. Marathon Donkey. This donkey has incredible endurance and can travel twice as far between long rests.
12. Will carry sacks, corpses, or other floppy things, but not wooden boxes or other things with sharp edges.
13. Scared of crowds. Simply WILL NOT enter a village / town / city.
14. Has tapeworms, must feed twice the normal rations until diagnosed and healed. Poop can give tapeworms to any humanoid. Heads up.
15. Streetwise Donkey. Grew up in a city, pulling a delivery cart. Knows all the streets of the city, how to get anywhere. You tell it where you want to go, it will slowly, at a plodding pace, lead you there. It can't talk or understand any commands other than place names in that one city.
16. Vagabond Donkey. This donkey will occasionally wander away from the group and stay gone a few days, but then it always returns. Where does it go? Why? No one knows.
17. Mother-bucker. Will attempt to buck any female humanoid who attempts to ride.
18. Nauseated, 2-in-6 chance of throwing up in a big way every 10 minutes for a day
19. Scared of its own shadow. On sunny days, freaks out every now and then.
20. Large Donkey. This donkey is a freak of nature and is twice the normal size. It can carry four times the normal load and requires four times the normal feed/rations. It won't fit in most stable stalls, through most doorways, etc. Commoner strangers are usually freaked out by it; they are often intimidated by it (2-in-6 chance), or try to kill it (1-in-6 chance) because they think it is a bad omen, enchanted, cursed, undead, etc.
21. Stealthy Donkey. This donkey walks in a way that is completely silent, even on cobblestones, and shifts its weight as needed to eliminate the sounds of any clanking gear it carries. Instinctively hides itself behind/inside/undearound any available cover, at all. You turn around, there it suddenly is, looking at you in the eye. Can freak a dude out.
22. Loves butterflies. Chases every one it sees.
23. Counting Donkey. Point at a group of objects and say "Count." Donkey will tap its front right hoof a number of times equal to the number of objects in the group. Counts about one item per second. Can't spell worth a damn, though.
24. Aqua-donkey. This donkey loves playing in streams/rivers/ponds/rivers. Runs to them. Likes to splash everyone else. Thinks it's funny.
25. Catches a parasite disease and will die in 3 days unless healed
26. Chip-On-Shoulder Donkey. If there are other donkeys / horses around, hates them, always picking a fight.
27. Blessed Donkey. This donkey enters the scene carrying a religious messiah, or so they say.
28. Talking Donkey. Amazing! But, a bit finicky, only talks 1-in-4 times you ask it to, and at other random times as DM deems appropriate. Also, only knows a few words/phrases: yep, nope, hungry, tired, idiot, run away.
29. Hates the heat. Half movement and half carrying capacity on hot days > 80F. Needs double water rations.
30. Ate some weird mushrooms along the way. Temporarily blind for 1d4 days
31. Hates elves, they're too self-absorbed and snooty, always making you walk through trackless forests, getting you stuck in the underbrush.
32. Prudent Donkey. Has 1-in-6 chance of perceiving a trap within 30 feet. Will look at the trigger mechanism, hee-haw loudly, and not take a step toward it. No matter what.
33. Mystical Donkey. Has some kind of weird ancestral donkey mind-meld with a caster in the group, constantly complaining (mentally) that "this s**t is too heavy, dude," "can't you give a donkey a break?," "how about carrying some of this s**t yourself, tough guy," etc. You can't concentrate.
34. Lucky Donkey. When within 10 feet of this donkey, you can re-roll one roll per day.
35. Somehow, loves smelly green ogres who sing. Tries to run off with any such ogres encountered.
36. Hates humans, they make you work too hard, usually in larger towns or cities where the cobblestones hurt your feet.
37. Needs a bath, smells very bad. Indescribable, really. No surprising any foe while this donkey is around until it gets a bath.
38. Shy Donkey. Always tries to move behind you when you encounter anyone new.
39. Keen smell. Can smell most enemies within 100 feet and will hee-haw loudly to warn you. False alarm 1-in-4.
40. Sprint Donkey. This donkey can run at twice the normal movement rate, but only for one minute between long rests.
41. Drunk Donkey. Will only work when slightly inebriated. Must feed it a wee flask of ale, wine or whisky to get any work out of it.
42. Has one very short leg. Walks unevenly. Kinda funny, but only 1/2 normal movement rate.
43. Beautiful Donkey. This donkey is a very fine specimen of a donkey. Highly desired by donkey ranchers to breed other donkeys. Sells for double the normal price. Bit of a prima donna. Must be fed one apple or pear per day, or refuses to work. Resents you.
44. Hates the cold. Half movement and half carrying capacity on hot days < 50F. Needs double saddle blankets.
45. Sneaky. When you're not looking, has 1-in-2 chance each day of pick-pocketing something off the back of a random PC. Might drop it, might eat it, might fling it to the side of the road, might just hold it in it's mouth. Hard to say with donkeys.
46. Scared of snakes. Snake within 30' causes total donkey freak out.
47. Always tries to eat/gnaw whatever it is carrying (especially food) whenever you're not looking, ruins stuff.
48. Freaked out by undead. If it sees undead, or smells them (can smell 60' away), RUNS in the opposite direction.
49. Narcoleptic Donkey. Falls asleep, often.
50. Critic Donkey. When others aren't looking, looks at you and rolls its eyes. You swear.
51. Foraging Donkey. Grew up in the wild. If there is any vegetation around, at all, it can find it, find enough edible material for a meal, and feed itself, no rations required.
52. Shoe-Throwing Donkey. One-in-four chance of losing a horse shoe each day, won't walk until found or replaced.
53. Small Donkey. Can only carry half normal carrying capacity. But has a scrappy attitude and is NOT SCARED OF ANYTHING (immune to fear and intimidation).
54. Repressed anger. Tries to bite (for real) anyone within 5' who is not its owner (considers only one person its owner).
55. Back-Row Donkey. If there are multiple four-legged animals in the group, this one must be the last, in the back, or it won't go/work at all.
56. Vertigo Donkey. Always dizzy, walks in circles unless carefully guided constantly by hand.
57. Hates carts, wagons, etc. Will not pull a cart or other wheeled vehicle.
58. Wallowing Donkey. Enjoys a good roll in a mudhole/puddle. Every mudhole/puddle.
59. Deaf. You bought/raised a deaf donkey. Should have checked. Anyway, can't hear any commands. Won't respond to visual commands. Must touch the donkey to give it a command.
60. Musical Donkey. Gets indigestion often, becomes VERY flatulent.
61. Flying Donkey. This donkey has been magically enchanted to fly, only once in its life, for one minute. The wranglemaster must speak the command word: "Esel-burro"
62. Addle-Headed Donkey. Once per day, has a 1-in-4 chance of running in a random direction for 1 minute.
63. Hates the rain. Won't work in the rain. *OR* Hates the wind. Won't work in the wind.
64. Say-My-Name Donkey. You must call it by name to get it to do anything. It answers with a loud bray each time.
65. Hates dwarves, always making you work underground in the mines, and their beards are (somehow) scary.
66. Often gets a leg cramp, limping for 10 minutes, 1/4 movement rate.
67. Smoking habit. Will work only if you let it smoke lit cigarette or pipe while on duty.
68. Smart and independent. Anticipates and does exactly what you want 5-in-6 of the time, but disagrees and argues 1-in-6 of the time.
69. Lover Donkey. Wants to make baby donkeys, runs after opposite gender donkey (or horse) every time it gets the chance.
70. Has a drinking problem. Will always rush toward any water source to take a drink.
71. Is a hot head, always immediately charges and attacks any foe encountered. No holding him back.
72. Pregnant Donkey. This donkey is about to have a baby. 2-in-6 chance each day until baby is born.
73. Loves flowers. To eat. Will only do any work if given one bouquet to eat per day.
74. Pious. Has 1-in-6 chance each hour of stopping for 10 minutes, kneeling on front two legs, and praying to the donkey god "No Cargo Bob"
75. Death Wish Donkey. Is reckless, doesn't look where it's going, always running into things, chance of falling off cliffs, etc.
76. Dead pan smile. At the most dangerous / awkward moments, turns to a party member and gives the most ridiculous, hilarious donkey smile you have every seen. PC must make DC 10 Const saving throw or bust out laughing for 30 seconds.
77. Nervous Tick Donkey. This donkey kicks its left leg backwards randomly, every now and then. If anything/anyone is standing behind this donkey, there is a 1-in-6 chance that it kicks.
78. Cargo Donkey. Happy to carry items/supplies tied or cinched around it, but won't carry humanoid riders (bucks them off).
79. Homesick, always tries to run away and go back home (or to the place where you bought / found / raised him) every chance he gets
80. Perceptive Donkey. Has 1-in-6 chance of perceiving a secret door within 30 feet. Will walk up to it and put its nose on it.
81. Scared of water, won't cross a creek/rivepond/lake, etc. Definitely not getting on a boat.
82. Front-Row Donkey. If there are multiple four-legged animals in the group, this one must be the leader, in front, or it won't go/work at all.
83. Pacifist Donkey. Refuses to carry any weapons or ammo.
84. Glowing Donkey. This donkey glows faintly in the dark. Very dim light. No one knows why.
85. War Veteran Donkey. Missing one leg at the knee (maybe has peg leg). Opposite ear slashed off. Wears an eyepatch. Lots of scars. Can only carry half normal weight, but its kick does +2 damage.
86. Vagabond Donkey. This donkey will occasionally wander away from the group and stay gone a few days, but then it always returns. Where does it go? Why? No one knows.
87. Alert Donkey. This donkey has a 1-in-6 chance, on its own, independent of PC checks, of noticing an impending ambush. It will hee-haw loudly if an ambush is about to occur.
88. Ate some bad food / weeds, now has diarrhea, big diarrhea, 1-in-4 chance every hour for a day.
89. Expressive Donkey. Often has ideas and wants to share, "hee-haws" very loudly for 30 seconds. Sometimes indicates something important, sometimes not.
90. Large Donkey. This donkey is a freak of nature and is twice the normal size. It can carry four times the normal load and requires four times the normal feed/rations. It won't fit in most stable stalls, through most doorways, etc. Commoner strangers are usually freaked out by it; they are often intimidated by it (2-in-6 chance), or try to kill it (1-in-6 chance) because they think it is a bad omen, enchanted, cursed, undead, etc.
91. Hates halflings, their barn doors are too low and their generally cheery attitude is annoying.
92. Super-donkey. Can carry three times normal carrying capacity, but for only one-third the normal time between long rests.
93. Easily distracted by various things along the road ("Squirrel!"), constantly stopping to sniff / check out something.
94. Really thirsty today, requires twice the normal water ration for one day. Pees a lot. (I mean a lot.)
95. Wrong-way Donkey. Will only walk backwards. Half movement rate.
96. Ugly Donkey. This donkey is bow-legged, has a saggy back, missing teeth, ugly hair, warts, boils, is missing large patches of hair due to mange, somehow is always dirty, has flies, ticks, lice, etc. Nose usually runny. Eyes too. BUT, this donkey can Misty Step.
97. Shell-shocked Donkey. Scared of battle noises. Runs away from battle noises. Like, a quarter-mile away.
98. Hates strangers. When within 15 feet of an unknown/new humanoid, hee-haws loudly for 5 minutes. So embarrassing.
99. Picky eater, only eats store-bought straw/hay/whatever. Won't forage along the road/trail.
100. Loyal Donkey. Will not leave its humanoid wranglemaster unprotected. Will defend wranglemaster to the end. Will take an arrow or battle ax blow to defend wranglemaster. There to the end, no matter what.

https://professorbumblefingers.blogspot.com/
[edit: corrected a redundancy]

There's something up here with me.
Since I returned to the world of the living, I've been doing my best to become an active member of society again and to try and earn my ticket to heaven in the meantime.
Even though I can't afford this luxury right now, I always donate a portion of my salary to charity, do volunteer work on weekends, and help out at a community kitchen on Thursdays after work.
All of this is to avoid going back there.
But I don't know how well this can work, nor do I know if by gaining this new life, I also received a new chance.
There's something I haven't told you.
If none of this makes sense to you, it´s good to take a look at my first post.
If you missed the last update, I recommend reading it before continuing.
The truth is that my torment hasn't completely stopped. Since I returned from the dead, my nights are filled with agony and terror.
The nightmares are terrible, but when I wake up shrouded in the darkness of my room, I can sometimes discern things in the shadows.
Arachnid-like forms with dozens of eyes and mouths that sing profanities.
Throughout the day, I can still see them, in the corner of my eye almost like a permanent silhouette, a reminder that they're watching me, just waiting for my last breath to take me back via the VIP express lane.
I think Samael didn't like being deceived one bit.
Now, however, it's not the time to recount my escape. There are still many dangers I've yet to warn you about.
And if after your death you find yourselves wandering through the infernal circles, surely at some point you'll come across the Silver City.
The last vestige of community in hell.
Gehenna is like a living structure, a fabric composed of buildings, streets, and alleys that stretches vertically through the 9 circles that compose the abyss.
When I died, I arose just like many others in Lust, the third circle of Hell, contrary to what Alighieri claimed.
The real order of the circles would be: Limbo, Greed, Lust, Wrath, Gluttony, Heresy, Violence, Treachery, and finally, Pride.
The goal of the Collectors was set like a jewel in the center of Limbo.
It's funny, in Dante's work, the city is portrayed as a paradise away from heaven for those with good hearts who never accepted Jesus into their lives. Their only punishment would be to never glimpse the face of God.
Damn, I wish it were like that.
I woke up with the mettalic taste of blood still on my mouth.
A gentle voice was saying something, but with my ears ringing, I couldn't make out anything. I could tell there was something in front of me, the smell was good, my stomach reminded me I was yet to eat anything.
Without much choice, I accepted the charity and ate. The taste was surprisingly good, if I were to describe it, it's something close to pork.
I spent some time just eating and recovering. I was also given a canteen of warm water; it tasted weird, but It was not like I was gonna complain.
As my senses returned, I could understand what the young man in front of me was saying.
I still remember his face, without any bruises,shallow beard and a glimmer of hope that didn't match that place at all.
"Feeling better now ?"
" I guess.. where are we now, Is that thing still here ? "
I tried sitting but a sharp pain on my chest stopped me from moving.
"Hey take it easy now. You're so skinny you look like a twig. When was the last time you ate?"
"About 10 seconds ago "
He smiled a bit.
"Well at least now you´re good enough to enjoy the ride"
With that, I felt prompted to look around, and finally noticed that we were on the back of a strange pickup truck.
Not only that, some sort of locomotive seemed to form around us. In total, there were four vehicles.
Our pickup stood at the center, with metal plaques around its frame and sharp grates on the ends confining us.
On our left, an old mustang suffered to keep itself close traveling on such uneven terrain.
On our right I could see Mice on top of an old motocicle gigling to himself, I silently wished he crashed.
Leading the group ahead, I could see the rear of a black van, and finally, following behind, I saw what appeared to be a Honda with smashed windows and covered in dents.
"Where are they taking us?"
"I have no idea, but anything must be better than these fucking fields."
Recalling Mice's delusions, I wasn't so sure about that.
"Who are you? Are you with them too?"
"I think we're in the same boat, buddy."
"The last guy who called me 'buddy' tied me up and dragged me into the clutches of a monster."
"I don't like them one bit, but from what I saw when we arrived, he was trying to protect you."
"So you really are one of them!"
"I already said we're in the same shit-hole. I got caught by the masked one while trying to hunt dinner." he said, pointing out the window towards the driver of the pickup, a tall, muscular man wearing a strange wooden mask.
"Sorry, the past few days have been so... God If you only knew what I've been through."
The young man chuckled sincerely. "Friend, I'm sure whatever you've been through, I've lived it dozens of times already. The name's John, nice to meet you."
"Well, John, you can call me Nate. I would shake your hand, but..." I nudged towards the wires on my hands. "
"Could be worse" He gestured towards his feet.
They where chopped off.
"Holy shit! I´m sorry John, these guys are insane!"
"Don´t be, They will be back once I die, but I have a feeling they will not let that happen so soon."
We could already see the spire slowly coming into view on the horizon.
"You sound used to all of this."
"Don't tell me, you're new?"
" I...still can´t believe this is all real"
"You better come to terms with it fast; this place doesn't take pity on the weak."
We didn't feel like chatting after that.
I wanted to ask about what I was given to eat, but something told me I would be better off not knowing. We traveled far towards the Spire, Gehenna slowly embracing us again with its dark skies.
From up close, I was able to see an opening in the base of the Spire.
The twisted terrain of the fields gave way to broken roads and dusted buildings, screams of despair found their way back to my ears as we passed near the tar pits.
Haunted by memories of my arrival, I couldn't help but search for the beasts that mauled me in the confusing streets of the city. I don't know if it was because of the sound of the engines or the size of our group, but I didn't see them among the wreckage and alleyways.
As we approached the Spire, a strange icy breeze embraced us. The shock was so intense that I lost my breath, trembling as I noticed a thin layer of ice forming rapidly on the pickup truck.
"Try to control your breathing, it'll pass soon."
"What is this now?"
"Specters."
As we finally reached the center of Lust, I realized we were not alone.
The base of the Spire held an immense arched opening, from which a dark interior was barely visible. Above the entrance, crucified on the wall, I saw a man; the slight movement of his head and his blue eyes made my stomach churn.
The culprits for the sudden cold gathered below the man in desperation. There were dozens of them, humanoid beings emitting a faint glow and seeming to levitate; their cries echoed through the city, spreading along with their icy presence.
The man only watched them, one by one, but said nothing.
He seemed to be judging them.
The engines shut off, and one by one the collectors descended from the vehicles.
Mice was the first to approach; the specters recoiled from him like cockroaches fleeing from light.
He then looked the man in the eyes, bowed, and said:
"Oh Aeacus! King of Aegina, my heart is not pure for rest, my eyes are blind to injustice, and my fists only weigh for my desires. From dust I came and to dust I return, my soul judged to forever burn, so I beg you to open the doors to my torment."
The Man's eyes locked onto Mice for a moment, then his lips whispered something in an elaborate tongue, and the darkness of the entrance turned into a scarlet mass.
I didn't knew about the kings back then. Aeacus is the easiest to convince; he oversees the higher circles. They say if you're under Minos's gaze, however, I hope you enjoy the lower circles because he's unlikely to grant you passage. And if you're a special kind of unlucky, I suggest you don't even try to approach Rhadamantus unless you want a one-way ticket to Pride.
The collectors then pulled us out of the cars, displaying us like trophies in an organized line. I had to support John on my shoulders; otherwise, they would have made him crawl the rest of the way.
From the other cars, a few more people emerged, other unfortunate souls with the same destination as mine. I saw a beautiful woman with short red hair and brown eyes; she was injured with several cuts on her back. The collector taking her out of the van seemed pleased; I tried not to dwell on it too much. She stared at me intensely, looking scared.
A man had to be forcibly removed from the Honda by two collectors. He was big and strong, dark-skinned with furious eyes, long braids cascading from his head to the middle of his back, a terrible scar showing on his left arm.
To this day, I have no idea how they managed to capture that bastard; later, he would tell me that they didn't got him until after he'd taken down some of them.
Finally, an old man with a band over his eyes was pushed into line; he looked so worn down that I thought I would see him turning to dust at any moment.
Mice then made his way to the entrance and was swallowed by the mass.
The collectors forced us to enter, one by one I saw everyone being pushed into the unknown, looking around I tried to think of something, some escape route.
"Don't do anything stupid," John whispered in my ear. "It won't work."
I thought about throwing him at them and running for my life. I didn't know him, didn't know a damn thing about him except his name. A glance at the collectors' weapons made me change my mind; I wouldn't get far even if I did find an opening.
Finally, my turn came. With the weight of John still on my shoulders, I walked to the entrance with my heart pounding in fear.
The mass that filled it seemed to react to me, stretching to cover my body, the scarlet glow blinding me as the collectors urged me to hurry.
I reached out my hand and felt a slight resistance, almost like touching cold gelatin. I felt it pulling me, and before my head was completely swallowed, I held my breath.
My body was warm; it was like being bathed in soup, every exposed inch of my skin burning, but the agony was only beginning.
I felt that strange mass invading me, entering through my nose, ears, eyes.
It hurt.
I tried to scream but my lungs were filled with the alien substance that forced its way through my organs; I felt like I was about to lose consciousness.
A shockwave ran through my body; I felt as if I was being torn into a thousand pieces and reformed, my consciousness used as a child's toy.
And then I was spat out.
I barfed on the gray grass that solemnly clung to me; John lay beside me, eyes rolled back, red fluid still trickling from his mouth.
I didn't have time to worry about him.
Before me, proudly stood what can only be described as a monument of sin.
Far from the light of hope it once was, now taken and calloused, abused and defiled by the filthy ideals of the damned scum.
Its golden streets don't shine.
Its security only harbors hate.
Its cracked walls don't protect, they only confine.
Even though I didn't knew much about hell, didn't knew its history or care about its purpose, I could see in that moment that I was looking at the greatest disrespect to the sacred that could exist.
An empire built with blood and erected by desire.
The Silver City opened its gates to me.
With the intention of never letting me go again.
The other collectors arrived, and one by one we were introduced to the next 40 years of our lives.
The memories of this city are painful. I tried to ditch this shit given the purpose of it all, but a drag is necessary if I'm really going to recall the decades I spent under that tyrant's rule.
Passing through the rusty gates, the lower city is the first thing you see. Jack leaves this region of the Silver City for his merchants to sell their findings in the lower circles, where everywhere you look, prostitutes and slaves accompany the more fortunate. Jack's personal guard takes advantage of his authority to get everything they want without spending a penny, of course.
Linked to the lower city by a rudimentary elevator, the Pleasure Zone casts its glow over those below, a neighborhood where the best drinks, drugs, and alterations can easily be found. Hunters and collectors usually walk around there, spending their earnings to calm their vices and complaining about their King's insane demands.
But by far, the most striking sight is a castle covered in soot, built at the highest level of the city, where only Jack's personal circle can tread without being summoned.
That's exactly where we were being taken.
John was still unconscious, being carried by our captors.
As we walked under the guns, naked and defenseless, the malicious glares of the vendors assessed us as new merchandise.
My feet ached, full of blisters; I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Looking at a toothless man being pulled by a chain around his neck, I wondered if that would be my fate.
Desperation was beginning to consume me.
We ascended to the Pleasure Zone by elevator, the same one powered by the brute force of several slaves harnessed to the wall, their hands raw from continuous and repetitive effort.
The hallucinogenic fumes from the laboratories filled the street of the neighborhood. I felt my heart race, my skin tingle, and a sweet smell invading my mind. The woman accompanying us seemed to recognize the substance as she lunged towards the source of the vapors. Mice kicked her in the stomach, making her kneel, grabbed her by the hair, and laughed.
"You fucking addict! You've used this shit before, haven't you? Look at the way you're trembling, hahaha! If they don't send you to the brothel, I might have an idea of what to do with you!"
She didn't seem to understand, or care, drooling from her mouth and experiencing small spasms as the drug filled her lungs.
Wish I could say I avoided it, but this shit is strong; within a few minutes, I was almost as high as when the Succubus attacked.
We then walked through the alleyways towards a staircase carved in marble; a sinner was overdosing against the steps.
Mice shot him in the head and threw him aside.
One moment he was alive, and the next, the remnants of his brain adorned the ground.
I gasped for air, my vision darkening; I meant nothing to them, they could dispose of me whenever they wanted.
I felt like I was going to die. I felt like I was going back to the tar pits, seeing myself suffering and being devoured for ages, running only to be captured, no rest, no warning.
What kind of being would create such a rotten place? Why did he have the right to read my soul and throw me towards this flaming lake? It's not fair, it's sick.
As I climbed the stairs, stepping on the remnants of the sinner's mind, I wondered if God was watching me at that moment.
Maybe he was having fun.
The biblical hell holds a king.
It shelters demons and powerful beings born from darkness itself.
And as you already know, beings made by the Creator's own hand.
It wouldn't be at that moment that I would meet Samael, but alongside the self-proclaimed human King, I met his right-hand beast.
When the doors of the castle opened, I fell to my knees on the ground.
An angelic figure, with the aura of pure evil.
A feminine body, dressed in white adorned with jade, three pairs of long and golden wings kept her hovering a few meters above the ground.
On her face, a twisted helmet, with an eternal black flame at its peak, portraying what was, what is, and what will come.
The base of her helmet completely covers her eyes, squeezing them with such force that blood constantly drips to the ground. Her face constantly changes—a slender young woman, a frightened child, an irritated elder, a black goat, a hungry tarantula, an unnamed beast, an indescribable void.
In her hands, a chain hangs a clock, which constantly moves, which moves constantly. It tries to guess the hour, the hour that only He knows, constantly wrong, corrects itself, recoils, recalculates, wrong, corrects itself, recoils, recalculates, wrong.
Such a beautiful creature, fell alongside the morning star, with a third of the stars, to forever hate us, to extinguish everything and everyone.
Who was I compared to such perfection?
Who was I compared to such obscenity?
I felt broken.
I felt complete.
Terrified.
Emancipated.
A thousand mouths sang in a thousand languages in my mind, all equally correct, all equally wrong.
The duality that leads to madness.
In my heart, he introduced himself, Astaroth, the Grand Duke of Hell.
With a flick of his hand, he disappeared, but I still felt him watching us, assessing us.
Seated on a broken throne, there was the face of control.
Almost as tall and robust as my captured companion, a short, defined beard adorned a ruthless face marked by battles.
Gray hair and a leather cloak, a silver medallion around his neck, and a shining red ring on his left hand, eating grapes like a Greek emperor.
Jack graced us with his presence.
Mice once again took the initiative.
"My lord, we have found fresh meat of the highest quality to expand your empire, mostly young and strong, and the old one is wise and knows the ancient rituals."
Jack looked at us as if we were worms, evaluating us like a spoiled child receiving gifts at Christmas.
"You bring me trash and expect gratitude. If this is what you consider good quality, perhaps it's time to revoke your position."
Jack's ring began to glow, and I felt Astaroth's strong presence growing. Mice quickly knelt and spoke again.
"My king! One of them appears to be marked." Mice then looked at me with a malicious smile, sending a shiver down my spine.
Jack observed me, the disdain in his eyes palpable.
He seemed to notice something at that moment, scratched his beard, and smiled.
"Mice! I can always count on you to keep me entertained. Take him to the pit, send the others to the dungeon. There may be something useful in this batch after all.
Before I could protest, I was struck on the head with the butt of a gun, and I lost consciousness.
Sorry, I need a moment. Just remembering the terrible nights I spent in that place makes me feel sick.
Man, I hope smoking doesn't count as too big of a sin.
When I woke up, I was chained to a wooden pillar by the neck, with several other sinners chained around me.
The place was poorly lit, and I could smell feces and urine. They didn't even release us to go to the bathroom.
In front of me, Jack stood with two guards.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I'm sorry to disturb your rest, but I have some questions, and if you cooperate, you may find yourself involved in something much bigger and more important than your miserable afterlife."
"Screw you! I've seen the things your people do, you're all crazy. I don't want anything to do with you!"
Jack's ring began to glow, and Astaroth's silhouette became visible even in the deep darkness.
"For your own good, I hope you learn to have good manners. Now tell me, where is he?"
"What?"
The ring glowed, and Astaroth entered my mind.
The concept of emptiness is terrifying.
Non-existence is dreadful.
Emptiness occupied existence before everything existed; in the beginning, there was nothing, and then there was God.
My consciousness faded away, I felt the void corrupting my flesh prison; it's not a lack of senses, it's Nothing.
Sounds didn't vanish; they turned into nothingness. Along with sensations, memories, my existence.
I was completely devoured. I wanted to scream, but there was no voice, no will.
I wanted to exist, but there was never an "I."
I vanished completely, and then I was catapulted back into existence, where I could feel everything.
The infinite, it destroys.
Through Astaroth's eyes, I saw, I understood, not even in a thousand and one lives could I touch one percent of the truth.
My brain burned, flooded with everything that was, everything that would come. I cried, I screamed, agony drove me to madness; time made no sense anymore.
And then everything stopped. In despair, I screamed, I cried like a child. Jack embraced me with the tenderness of a mother as I collapsed into his chest. He gently stroked my head while speaking softly.
"Poor thing, so much suffering, so much lamentation. Pain is a choice, and I don't want it for you. I love you; I love all my possessions from the bottom of my heart. I only want what's best for you, but for that, I need your help. I want your pain to stop, help me make it stop! You just need to tell me, Where. is. he?"
I didn't want to return to nothingness; I didn't want to suffer with knowledge. Desperately, I lied; I said I knew where whoever he was looking for was, I would show him, he just had to let me go.
Jack acquired a sad expression, gently lifted my face, and said.
"Oh, child, why do you lie to me?"
With the scarlet glow of the ring, once again, I ceased to exist, catapulted between two extremes, blood streaming from my ears, I laughed, cried, begged.
All to make it stop, for him to remove that being from the room, I just wanted peace.
I felt my cells giving up, exploding and restructuring; memories were erased and returned, lived a thousand times per second.
My wife, my daughter, the drugs, the betrayal, the accident, the body, the hospital, the fall.
Once again, everything stopped.
I spat blood on Jack's cloak, who asked me again.
"Where is he, come on, damn it, just tell me! He marked you, he touched you, come on, where the hell is Samael, tell me and I'll leave you alone!"
I pleaded, I tried to tell him that I didn't know who he was talking about, I promised obedience, my life, anything for mercy.
Once again, he sent me to the void. For countless nights, the cycle repeated itself, I have no idea how long I was tortured in that place.
Eventually, Jack began to use me in other ways.
My days were divided between slave labor in the lower city and nights of torment in Jack's palace.
At the time, I didn't understand how he couldn't see that he was wrong; clearly, there was nothing special about me, I couldn't lead him to Samael, I was just a damned soul who could barely endure the first days in the abyss.
I just hadn't realized that Jack already had the certainty that I was different. After all, how could I be a nobody if Astaroth couldn't extract the "truth" from me, and they had to resort to torture?
Hope vanished from my chest; I didn't know if I would ever escape from there, if I would see John again before my soul was corrupted by the Grand Duke.
The years dragged on, and Jack's fury only grew.
Fortunately for me, in my fourth year in the Silver City, I gained a new cellmate, the old man who had been brought in the same group as me.
Little did I know that he would be my first clue to the way out of there.
I'm tired of remembering those horrible years, so I think I will stop here for today.
Clinging to hope in hell is as useless as using petrol to put out a fire; you'll only end up dying either way. But in the realm of insanity, it might not be all that crazy to think there might be a way out of the suffering.

The sheer amount of time spent waiting for you to launch a rocket or fire even once at a cave leech nibbling on my beard as opposed to circling a random point and daydreaming about Doretta's massive drill drives me up walls even special powder couldn't make me scale. That is all.

(im just gonna use she/her in case im wrong)
my friend always, always talks about how she wishes she were a guy — specifically having a moustache and a beard and being super strong and stuff. she’s basically obsessed with the idea of becoming one, and constantly laments about the fact that it’s not possible for her. she always presents masculinely in real life and gets super excited when i say she looks completely like a guy.
she doesnt know much about trans stuff, though shes supportive — it seems like she hasnt looked into it because she assumes shes not “one of them”. she doesnt know what testosterone does or anything, she probably has no idea about top surgery or anything.
we’re currently in school right now, and it seems like her main priority is studying and getting good grades. i dont really wanna dump a massive revelation on her to distract her or strain her relationship with her parents (and besides, im not sure if its even my place to tell her about this), but being trans myself im literally itching to tell her any time she talks about how she’d love to have facial hair.
so, what do i do? should i have a conversation with her about this? im worried that i might be wrong or she’ll get pushed further back into denial. she doesnt seem too unhappy at the moment, so maybe it might not matter. should i wait until we graduate to fully bring it up? or should i drop hints?
edit: im aware the title is weird now, lmao. i think i was just rushing in the moment and i didnt rlly think it through. im not going to assume her thoughts, and i wasnt trying to, but i see how i came off that way
about me being trans — im actually not sure if she knows, tbh. im not stealth, but im pretty open with my masculinity (when possible within a christian girl school environment), though it never really comes up. now that i think about it, ive never really talked about it, or brushed it off whenever topics about trans people came up, since she used to be a little conservative due to the views of her parents, but now that i know shes fine with trans people i should probablyyy properly come out when i find the opportunity
ill probably casually mention what testosterone/minoxidil can do whenever i can, and (if possible) explain my own experience with finding out that im trans. in the environment we’re both in, theres no way either of us can physically transition in any way until we graduate, so im just playing the waiting game rn lol. i definitely wont be telling her that i think shes trans, ofc, i do agree that its best to let her come to her own conclusions.

As I get older, I get more paranoid that I’m sprouting off-putting hair (from my nose and ears primarily). So I keep some touch up razors, electric trimmer, etc. to make last-minute checks in the visor mirror.
Also, the lockdown and isolation and full time work from home since then has made me very unaccustomed to regular human interactions. Before lockdown I shaved every morning and wore a suit to work. (Well, those don’t fit me any more.) But I don’t have that routine any more and I might forget something before going out.
As an introvert in the first place, I want to make sure I have the supplies necessary for a last minute check.
And as long as I have that stuff, I also keep with it some moustache and beard grooming stuff, in case I want to touch up.
Anyone else do this?