Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.

I just came across this subreddit while desperately googling my various pains and I am so hopeful someone will have an answer for anything I'm going through! I feel weird about posting pictures of my feet (lol) so I'll do my best with anatomical descriptions - I work in vet med so sorry if my terms are slightly off...
To preface, I am 33F, super active until recently (distance running, bouldering, hiking, lifting for strength training) and I work 50ish hours a week on my feet. So I use those bad boys a lot and I have never once in my life had a foot, ankle or knee issue. Do I warm up enough? No. Do I cool down enough? No. Do I let myself rest enough? Absolutely not. Am I going to change my ways? YES. I swear it!
About 2 months ago I suddenly woke up with a "sprained" left ankle. I'd run about eight miles the previous day but did not twist or jolt anything. Just suddenly a swollen, slightly bruised, very painful left ankle ~18 hours later. I treated it like a sprain (RICE) and it literally got better over the course of the day. Great, I thought. Next morning it was suddenly sore again - but less so. I continued to ice it in the mornings and took ibuprofen and it resolved over about two weeks. Then one morning it hit the right ankle, just the same, happened overnight. Possibly because I was using my feet differently due to ankle pain, I began to have pain along my Achilles as well as some pain in the arches of my feet.
I went to the doctor at this point thinking something must be wrong. I'd just had a yearly physical with normal bloodwork a couple months before so she didn't rerun basic labs but sent out a panel looking for autoimmune stuff (RA, lupus, etc) just to be safe - all within normal limits. The pain was getting worse though. Still primarily ankles - some mornings just sore, other mornings feel straight up sprained. The foot pain (arches mainly) is worse after working, which makes sense, that's 12+ hours on my feet (but I could do that pain-free 2 months ago...). I used to retire a pair of running shoes fof work shoes (I usually run in Hoka Arahis) but bought a pair of cushy Asics thinking maybe I just needed more support. It might have helped a little I guess.
My GP sent me to an orthopedist who did rads and found nothing exciting. Since ibuprofen wasn't touching my pain anymore and naproxen was helpful but can't be taken long-term I guess, he put me on meloxicam for a month and told me to come back if pain isn't resolved by then and we'll go for MRI. And if that shows nothing they want to send me to rheumatology. Ugh!!!
So as of right now (tl/dr-ish): Been on meloxicam for 1 week, it helps I guess but gives me headaches. Pain is felt in both ankles, but now right worse than left (I DO have an old hip flexor injury to the right hip that I think mayyybe makes me walk a little different on that side. Never had gait analyzed.) The pain is mainly on ankle rotation and I feel it when I go side to side, not up and down. I still feel slight Achilles pain on flexion (R > L). Some heel pain in the mornings only. Furthermore, I have swelling and bruising above the metatarsaophalangeal joints on my middle three toes on the left side only; it hurts to press on it or to flex these toes. I honestly cannot tell you when that happened! Noticed it about 3 weeks ago. It's not resolving.
And finally this all hurts SO bad in the mornings, and by the evenings is like, okay. Periods of inactivity make it hurt more. But I can tell being on my feet all the time isn't good for me. I didn't stop running or lifting or climbing until like, a month into all this pain... so I probably hurt myself worse. But also I'm a little worried maybe I do have something autoimmune or something scary (but no joints are affected above my ankles!!)
Anyway. Sorry that was a lot but if anyone has ANY insight please let me know. I feel like I got so lucky for years not having pain... not being able to run especially is making me go crazy, but I promise I'll be nicer to myself if anyone can just tell me how to get started! Doctors seem focused on treating the pain, but I want to treat the problem first.

Some background. When I (26F) was in college I did a summer program where I got to perform with other students ages 16-22ish. The program was not affiliated with any school. I was 18 the first summer and I became really close with the guy ("Gus" 39M) who was in charge of teaching me and my peers. I took a summer off to do some service work for a church and went back the year after, where Gus was still in charge of teaching students. While I was gone, Gus and I communicated frequently via email and FB, with him giving me lots of support because it was hard being away from home. Over time, as I leaned on him for support, he began to do the same.
The summer I went back, Gus and I remained very close. While he would be teaching me and my peers, we would also still be exchanging messages and joking around. Outside of the program, we would hang out and get food, he would give me rides (he said physical touch was his love language and would often give me long hugs or put his hand on my knee). He would always pay, saying he knew I was tight on money because of college. I didn't realize at the time that this was weird or not right for someone in a teaching position to do with a student, even an adult one. When people started asking me if Gus and I were dating, I let Gus know that people thinking that made me uncomfortable and we should reevaluate how we act because I wasn't interested in that. We were just friends. It seemed like he understood, but over those next months, he would get upset with me when I had more free time to give to my boyfriend (now husband "Shaun") than I did Gus.
Shaun and I got engaged and Gus was upset I didn't tell him directly (we told our siblings and parents and then made a FB post for everyone else). It really soured my excitement. At our wedding, Gus sat a table the whole time and didn't come to the dance floor where I was the whole night. He was then upset that he didn't get a picture with me in my wedding dress before I changed.
Over the next few years this same pattern continued where Gus would be upset when I didn't spend more time with him, he'd get upset if I wasn't texting him every day, but he didn't want to hang out with me and Shaun together because "he didn't know Shaun that well". I tried to set boundaries multiple times and tried to explain to Gus that I was feeling like he was using me as a fill in SO, but he wouldn't ever finish talking through it, would say he understood or had questions, things would cool for a few months and then he'd start complaining about the lack of time we spent together again. I was still teaching at this school with him. My husband started teaching there as well and Gus complained saying "this was the last thing we had that was just us". I had started feeling anxious having to spend any time with Gus.
When I started working with the summer program, Gus was still there as well. I had to do a training for safety with minors in order to work there and that's when I started to realize Gus had developed a weird, unhealthy emotional attachment to me and had been ignoring the rules teachers are meant to follow concerning students (even adult students). He had been love bombing me, gaslighting me and emotionally abusing me for years. And I had no clue what to do with this realization. My heart sank. I loved being friends with Gus but he had abused me, my trust and my friendship. I decided I would just start cutting him out and leave it at that.
The following summer, I had a friend who had also been a student in the program who was now working with the program ask me how I got Gus to leave me alone. Apparently, she'd been feeling uncomfortable around him as well for similar reasons (though she was older and smarter than I was when he started pushing on her). I told her I hadn't, really, I just stopped talking to him.
This past year, I got a more permanent position with that same school. I had thought that Gus was no longer working there much, so I thought it would be okay. I work directly with someone who I'd known for years, and had known Gus for decades. Gus and him hang out every Sunday and they had worked together for just as many years. Like I said, I thought Gus wasn't working in that same role anymore, so I took the job and thought nothing of him. I was wrong. And I had a breakdown knowing I'd have to work directly with Gus now. My boss had no clue any of this was a thing and I hadn't previously mentioned any of to anyone besides my husband. After realizing I'd be working with Gus, I broke down to my boss who encouraged me to let the program coordinator of the summer program know about what had happened. I was worried at this point because it was clear it wasn't just me - if it had been, I would've suffered in silence. So, I let the coordinator know. I also texted Gus one last time to let him know I could not and would not be involved in this sick twisted friendship any longer. I would work with him, but that was it.
Gus was asked to resign from his position as a result and he was informed that I was the individual who had made the report. I still think it was wrong for whoever to betray my anonymity but I haven't done anything about it.
Now onto the problem as a result of all of this. The school we all 3 work with has no clue that Gus was asked to resign his position working with students because of an inappropriate relationship with a student. Gus and my boss exclude me from major decisions, even though Gus is hired as a para professional and I am hired as an Assistant Coach. On paper, Gus and I should at least be on the same level, if not me above him, but he has years of tenure.
I kept asking my boss why I wasn't being included, and he kept giving me bullshit excuses about how I wasn't intentionally being excluded, Gus and him just hang out a lot and end up talking about work at the same time. Things finally came to a head a few days ago when I was excluded from our staff FB chat group for the past few months until that day. I confronted my boss on why I had been excluded, telling him it wasn't really about the chat, it was about everything else leading up to it. I asked him again why I had been excluded from major decisions and he finally told me it was because Gus was uncomfortable being around me. To say I was shocked and angry was an understatement. I was already crying from frustration before he admitted this.
I reminded my boss that I was the victim, not Gus. He told me "well he's not NOT the victim, his whole life is different now because of your report". I reminded him that he encouraged me to bring it forward and he said "don't turn this on me, you chose to do it" completely ignoring that I had told him I was unsure what to do but just wanted him to know because Gus and I would be working together. He has no concept for the idea that he's shaming me as the victim. He told me he was trying to "mitigate" the situation and every time he had suggested bringing me in on things, he "could just see Gus tense up and get comfortable" and so he decided to leave me out, instead. My boss is choosing his best friend over me. I asked my boss what my future here could possibly be if he was going to choose Gus over me, and he went off on how he values me, but if I feel I need to leave, then that's my choice.
I'm just so angry that I'm getting punished for something Gus did. I'm losing out on opportunities because I was emotionally abused. And no one else on the staff has any clue and they all use love Gus. It feels like no one knows or cares that I'm getting pushed out of my dream job because an older man got the hots for one of his students and couldn't control himself. I don't even know how to bring this up to the administration, because I clearly can't work in these conditions and they need to know if I leave it's because my boss is siding with my emotional abuser on all of this.

Use this thread to promote yourself and/or your work!
(Descriptions of fictional crimes investigated by the story's main Character Max.)
Detective's Fate
It's august of 2008.....
Max is a detective living in Chicago He checks his pistol and puts on his police badge as he walks out his front door.
He has been searching for a serial killer known as the Caller for years and always been one step behind due to the red tape.....
More importantly the chief's lazy attitude towards getting search warrants and actions approved by the courts for raids. Twice Max had good intel on the suspect's locations and photo evidence showing him at the sites.
The department needs more vigilant, caring officers and leaders but no one steps up to do it, instead they just complain about the slow progress and officers. And hinder investigations.
Now Max has decided that it might be time to stop playing by the rules and catch this scumbag.... .... ....
Starting his car Max sets his GPS to the address that "The Caller" was last seen and pulls out of his driveway as the 50 miles of directions pop up.
The killer's nickname being for his signature of calling in as he is committing the crime.
As he drives he remembers his first case, five years ago now..... ..... .....
A woman, Joane Taylor, was found dead in an alleyway after going out for the night. She showed no signs of struggle leading the police to believe she had drank to much and expired from alcohol poisoning.... ...
The death was written off as a "party gone wrong".... That is until several more were found and the coroner decided on a whim to test for other substances.
Once it came out that the deaths were possible murders...
The calls started coming in, almost like the suspect wanted credit before revealing himself....
Then ways of the deaths began changing as the Serial Killer explored his twisted desires searching for his preferred method.
The last case being a young woman found stuffed in a dumpster after the killer apparently got scared off.... Max will never forget it.... .... ....
The GPS finishes and the car beeps its final direction, taking an exit off the highway. Ramps out here are always confusing... Which is funny since he has driven this one for five years now...
The chief says he should sit this one out but he can't... The latest victim 3 months ago.
Marie Spelner, a waitress out on her smoke break talking to her spouse on the phone.
Survived by her husband, no children or living relatives. ....
Max Spelner turns into the driveway of the house he was directed to... Stepping out of the car he walks up and knocks on the door. Looking at the house he knows the family must be doing well if they live here.... Raising his hand to knock again he hears a scream from inside....
A second later the door is answered by a middle aged butler holding a tray with wine glasses on it... "Hello Sir, I'm sorry but this house does not wish to partake in any offers at this time..."
Max calmly says. "I'm not selling anything."
The butler looks confused for a moment before his eyes dart over Max's shoulder seeing his unmarked cruiser and he nods.
Looking past the butler Max sees that a woman is cleaning up after their dog.
"Have you seen this man?" Says Max holds up a picture of the one suspected of being the killer.
The butler gives it a once over before replying. "I'm sorry sir, no I have not." His tone sounds like he is lying... ....
"Are you sure?" The detective asks.
"I would not lie about something like that, sir." He states, his eyes not meeting Max's.
The woman calls from inside "Fletcher, who are you talking too?"
"Some man asking about a killer" he calls back.
"The killer is an inside job!" The woman quickly states.
"What?!" Max says.
"The Killer, it's an inside job." She says again, louder this time. In the same Max also hears a child begin to cry in another room.
"We should start from the beginning, it will be easier to explain trust me." The woman says.
'She seems to know what is going on....
"How do I know your story holds water?" He asks out loud.
"Oh I wouldn't lie. I have been following the case myself and it seems like an inside job to me." She states, somehow sounding hurt.
"Is there anyone else in the house besides you two and the baby?" He asks noticing the baby isn't crying anymore.
"Just Fletcher and I live here, the baby is my cousins but he just stays the night sometimes." She replies.
Max draws his gun and enters the house upon reasonable suspicion of an emergency in progress or suspect on the premisses as the man seems to be deceiving.
While the woman still seems unconcerned that the child is now silent.
He pushes past the butler and rushes towards the area he heard the crying. passes the entryway, the dinning room, and a kitchen before finally finding a child in a playpen.
"There there..." He says in a sing song voice picking up the child. "I'm officer Max, do you know where your mommy is?"
The child just cries louder.
Then he sees the man from the photo walk out of the bathroom, upon seeing him he bolts for the door and Max sets the child down gently then gives chase.
He runs through the house, following the man as he can hear the woman screaming at him to stop but he doesn't."
"Stop or I'll shoot." The man doesn't even break stride.
Instead he runs out of the front door and jumps into his car.
Furious that the man might escape he fires at the car as it drives away.
The back window shatters and he hopes he got his tire, but he doesn't wait to find out as he runs to his car and initiates a pursuit....
He flips on his concealed lights in his cruiser as he reverses down the drive and into the street.
The suspects car is fast but he manages to keep up with it weaving in and out of traffic as people move over for the siren.
As they approach a red light there is heavy traffic in the intersection..... ....
The suspect slams on his brakes and Max's cruiser only just stops short of hitting it. Jumping out the Detective points his firearm at the vehicle running up beside seeing heavily tinted windows.
"Get out of the car and on the ground now!!" He shouts as he moves to the driver's side door.
After seeing no response....
Max throws open the door and the driver is gone with the passenger side open.
He quickly runs to the other side catching the man trying to sneak off tackling him to the ground and then takes his arms putting them behind his back.
Max grabs his radio and calls it in as the man cries.
As he is waiting he hears a noise that sounds like static.....
"Wrong guy moron.. Did you ever stop to think I wanted you close for this one. That I planned everything...Even framing the pothead..... I almost lost interest until you pulled in the driveway... The attic is kinda cramped tho... I think I'll go carve some meat. Maybe graduate to other things to. I'm not sure yet. Lets see if you can catch me before......" A familiar voice says over the radio then cuts off... ...
Max looks at the man on the ground. "Why did you run from me?" He asks.
"Cause I have like 19 grams of marijuana in my pocket." He replies...
"Do you know how stupid that is?! I don't care about that I'm looking for a killer."
Before he can answer Max hears the woman from the house screaming for her life and a child's cries on his radio.
Then from below Max. "He's in the house, he's in the house! My mom and the baby!" The man on the ground says crying.
Max uncuffs him and runs to his car heading back to the house as he lays down rubber on the road... ... ...
As he approaches and pulls into the driveway he notices the front door is open.
"Hold on I'm coming!" Max screams jumping out of his cruiser...
He runs into the house finding the woman's body arriving too late. Moving over to her he checks for a pulse but she is gone, a large gash in her neck.
As he stands up he slips in a fluid but gains his balance and tries not to think about what it is....
He rushes to the room the baby was in finding the play pen empty. He leaves the room searching the rest of the house and still doesn't find the child.
"Where are you!!!" He calls out....
"This is the Callers first kidnapping and the media would eat up the fact I failed to stop the man." He thinks as he blames himself.
Sirens begin to blare in the distance as backup is about to arrive... ... ...
"There's a woman dead and a baby missing! The woman is in the dinning room straight ahead of the front door, Hurry!" He yells into his radio...
Looking over at the mother seeing a piece of paper on the floor.
He walks over to it seeing writing.
"So close... Looks like I'm a kidnapper now.... Good luck finding me.... And... I so enjoyed killing that sweet wife of yours. Might do it that way again. Not to the kid tho....later Max. Ps. This game is so fun.." It says.
"He was here..." Is all he can muster as the team enters.
"He was right in this house and I missed it because her son freaked over weed and ran..." He says as another officer speaks to him gently.
"Don't beat yourself up Detective, it's not your fault. He must have hid before you got her and left after you arrived." The words do little to comfort him "First day back on the job and the killer escaped taking a child..." He says as he walks away.
The chief arrives in his new lexus with a screeching of rubber as he lurches to a halt.
He quickly exits and leaves his door hanging open as he rushes into Max's face....
"I told you to stay away from this case MAX!!!!....(takes a breath)...
"If I catch any flak from my superiors, I won't suspend you.... That'd be to easy. Desk duty and an entry level demotion. The new guy will have a higher rank than you if things go my way.... Now get outta my sight...". "(Sighs)...
"This job is gonna be the death of me..." He says walking away from Max and towards the Coroner's van..... ..... .....
On the way home the detective stops by the store close to his house which is unlike him because he usually follows the same routine.
He nears the front door and he hears a kitchen timer ding loudly from behind him as his car explodes throwing him through the storefront windows as they are blown out..... .....
Alarms around the lot and others nearby create a cacophony of noise. His head pounding as his body aches, Max pushes himself up and collapses as the store manager runs over to him telling him not to move as he dials 911.... .... ....
Waking in the hospital Max recalls the feeling of the Shockwave as he flinches in phantom pain.
"Who woulda thought its like holding a ringing metal bat that hurts your hands but all over and way more intense." He thinks.
He suddenly feels tired and falls asleep.... .... .... ....
The next time he wakes, he sees a breaking news story that Jane Saltani is reporting on....
"Young toddler Accidently Shoots Serial killekidnapper ending his life and Alerting residents in the Area." The news anchor says.
Sighing to himself Max thinks about how crazy that is and laughs.
Tho he really wanted to bring the guy in. He closes his eyes to get some much needed sleep as his door opens.
Max looks up to see a man with a silenced pistol pointed at him.
"Hm. Now they think I'm dead. Funny how they just assume they got the right guy. Just like.... You did Detect... ....." Max hears but then hears no more as his end comes at just over the speed of sound....
The Caller leaves the hair of another intelligent convicted murderer that he obtained in a spot that's believable and quickly leaves.....
He disables the surveillance system and sends a virus out to any device that has received video data from the hospital.
Erasing and corrupting the systems. Leaving a master hackers finger prints on a glass from his home....
"Sorry, no witnesses." He says to the security guard as he fires... ..... ..... .... ....

I often think about Celebrimbor, and I simply can’t get over the obvious visual parallel with St. Sebastian. This is St Sebastian’s martyrdom: by Reni), and Mantegna).
Celebrimbor died thus: “In black anger [Sauron] turned back to battle; and bearing as a banner Celebrimbor’s body hung upon a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, he turned upon the forces of Elrond.” (UT, p. 307–308)
The iconography (see drawings by peet, and Kaaile) is the same.
And this led me to wondering about what made Tolkien, a Catholic, decide to give his Elf who fell to Sauron’s manipulations a famous Christian martyrdom, and why St Sebastian in particular?
I don’t know enough about St Sebastian or Tolkien to do more than speculate.
First, as a hint of Celebrimbor’s feelings for fair Annatar. St. Sebastian has a strong gay association. This was so even at the turn of the 20th century: Oscar Wilde clearly loved St Sebastian and the associated iconography. Here he refers specifically to Guido Reni’s wonderful painting of St Sebastian. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, St Sebastian is highlighted in Chapter XI, the chapter about Dorian’s personal (and generally rather decadent) passions. St Sebastian also appears in Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig(Zweites Kapitel). I can see the whole thing as being a hint at Celebrimbor falling for Sauron in more ways than one, particularly given what we know of his seduction (the term used in LOTR, p. 1083) by Annatar in his “fair form” (Sil, Index of Names, entry Annatar; UT, p. 328). Sauron is said to have “used all his arts upon Celebrimbor and his fellow-smiths” (UT, p. 306). “All his arts” would include this: “Yet such was the cunning of his mind and mouth, and the strength of his hidden will, that ere three years had passed he had become closest to the secret counsels of the King; for flattery sweet as honey was ever on his tongue, and knowledge he had of many things yet unrevealed to Men. And seeing the favour that he had of their lord all the councillors began to fawn upon him, save one alone” (Sil, Akallabêth). To me, this passage sounds distinctly sexual, and also like something that Oscar Wilde could have written, with this imagery.
(I admit that having Celebrimbor fall in love with Annatar makes the eventual betrayal even worse. I also am aware that in one of the many different versions presented in The History of Galadriel and Celeborn, it is said that Celebrimbor loved Galadriel (UT, p. 324–325), but according to Christopher Tolkien, this “Celebrimbor is here again a jewel-smith of Gondolin, rather than one of the Fëanorians” (UT, p. 325), which is why I tend to take his characterisation here with a pinch of salt.)
The other thought I had is quite dark: rape. It’s an association that I personally feel imposes itself, in a way. “The arrow is a highly phallic image” (source) already, and there’s the image of Cupid’s two arrows, causing uncontrollable desire in one victim, and revulsion in the other. The result for the person who was shot by the second arrow was rape—or death (or transformation into a tree if your father happened to be (1) a god, and (2) nearby: Daphne). I’m not the first person to connect the iconography of St Sebastian with rape: see this (NSFW, nudity and violence) blogpost. This could be a very Tolkienian hint of what Celebrimbor suffered in his “torment” (UT, p. 307) at the hands of Sauron before his death—subtle, “clean”, deniable, but intriguing.
We know that Morgoth wanted to rape Lúthien (“Then Morgoth looking upon her beauty conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart since he fled from Valinor. Thus he was beguiled by his own malice, for he watched her, leaving her free for awhile, and taking secret pleasure in his thought.” (Sil, QS, ch. 19)) and that, while the above passage implies that Morgoth only ever wanted to rape Lúthien and no other, that is not true: he also attempted to rape Arien, the Maia of the Sun, in order specifically to break her: “though he attempted to ravish Arien, this was to destroy and ‘distain’ her, not to beget fiery offspring” (HoME X, p. 405, fn omitted).
Sauron, meanwhile, is described thus: “Sauron was become now a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled, lord of werewolves; his dominion was torment.” (Sil, QS, ch. 18) I do not think that it would be either out-of-character for Sauron or “out-of-world” for the Legendarium (especially as Sauron used to be Morgoth’s second-in-command in Angband) to assume that Sauron raped Celebrimbor in order to break him or just because he’s an obvious sadist who would enjoy every last second of it, or had others rape Celebrimbor as grisly a method of torture—and then turned him into his banner to show the Elves what he’d done, and dishonour Celebrimbor even further in death.
(Note that it is a common misconception that Elves die when raped. As per HoME X, p. 228 (a text likely from the late 1950s: HoME X, p. 199), this only applies to married Elves raped by someone who is not their spouse: “there is no record of any among the Elves that took another’s spouse by force; for this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos.” (Emphasis mine) This is confirmed by the fact that in a later (from 1959–1960: HoME XI, p. 359–360) text, Eöl rapes unmarried Aredhel and Aredhel survives: “Eöl found Irith, the sister of King Turgon, astray in the wild near his dwelling, and he took her to wife by force: a very wicked deed in the eyes of the Eldar.” (HoME XI, p. 409, fn omitted, emphasis mine) Note the same expression used to describe a rape.)
This post turned out longer than I planned. I’ve speculated on two possible associations that the imagery of St Sebastian and the character and story of Celebrimbor invite. Do you have other ideas? Why do you think that Tolkien chose this imagery?
Sources:

• Unfinished Tales of Númenor & Middle-earth, JRR Tolkien, ed Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2014 (softcover) [cited as: UT].
• The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien, HarperCollins 2007 (softcover) [cited as: LOTR].
• The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, ed Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins, ebook edition February 2011, version 2019-01-09 [cited as: Sil].
• Morgoth’s Ring, JRR Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2015 (softcover) [cited as: HoME X].
• The War of the Jewels, JRR Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2015 (softcover) [cited as: HoME XI].

Ladies and gentlemen, buckle up and prepare for the rollercoaster of your academic lives! Today, we're diving headfirst into the geometric rabbit hole of perspective in art history, from the Renaissance to the digital delirium of modern design. This ride will be like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while bungee jumping—exhilarating, slightly terrifying, and probably mind-bending.
Let's kick things off with a nod to our Renaissance homie, Leonardo da Vinci. Picture him: a guy so ahead of his time, he made Michelangelo look like he was doodling with crayons. Da Vinci was the OG of perspective, using geometry to turn flat surfaces into mind-blowing 3D spaces. Imagine the Mona Lisa stepping out of her frame and doing the moonwalk—thanks to Leo's genius, it's almost believable.
Now, perspective in art is all about fooling your eyeballs. You know that feeling when you stare at an optical illusion, and your brain starts doing somersaults? That’s the magic of geometry at work. The Renaissance artists were like the original tricksters, using vanishing points and linear perspective to create depth. It's like the difference between watching a Kardashian reality show in 2D and diving into a VR Fortnite match where buildings, landscapes, and llamas pop out at you from every angle.
So, what's the big deal with these vanishing points? Picture this: you're standing in the middle of a road that stretches out into the horizon. As you look ahead, the road seems to narrow and finally disappear at a single point. That's the vanishing point. Leonardo and his pals used this concept to make their paintings look realistic. They turned canvases into windows, showing scenes that seemed to stretch out infinitely.
Now, imagine you’re in a room designed by M.C. Escher, the grandmaster of mind-melting perspective. His works are like the architectural equivalent of a fever dream after binge-watching too much Rick and Morty. Escher took the rules of perspective and twisted them like a pretzel, creating impossible staircases that go nowhere and everywhere all at once. His art is like a visual version of trying to understand quantum mechanics while riding a merry-go-round.
But let's not get too lost in the trippy world of Escher. We need to understand the basics before we can start bending reality. So, grab your pencils and energy drinks, because it's time to create our own perspective drawings. Start with a simple one-point perspective. Draw a horizon line, place a single vanishing point, and sketch some basic shapes receding into the distance. It's like playing Minecraft, but on paper—minus the Creepers and Endermen.
Once you’ve mastered the one-point perspective, crank up the difficulty like you’re switching from Tetris to Dark Souls. Try your hand at two-point perspective. This time, you’ve got two vanishing points on the horizon line. It’s like juggling two flaming swords while riding a unicycle—challenging but ridiculously cool once you get the hang of it. Use it to draw buildings and streets that look like they could be straight out of a Batman comic book.
Ready for the final boss level? Three-point perspective is where things get seriously intense. Add a third vanishing point above or below the horizon line, and boom—you’ve got skyscrapers that soar into the sky or plunge into the depths. Think Gotham City meets Blade Runner, with a dash of Doctor Strange’s Inception-style cityscapes. Your drawings will have that dramatic flair that makes people go, “Whoa, did you just bend the fabric of reality?”
Speaking of bending reality, let’s talk about modern design. Today’s artists and designers are like the tech-savvy offspring of Da Vinci and Escher, using digital tools to create stunning 3D visuals. From video games to virtual reality, perspective geometry is everywhere. Take Fortnite, for instance—a game where players build structures with an uncanny sense of depth and realism. The designers use the same principles of perspective that Leonardo used, but with the added benefit of 21st-century tech.
Let’s not forget the architects who create real-world buildings that make you feel like you’ve stepped into a sci-fi movie. They use advanced geometry to design structures that defy gravity and common sense. Imagine walking through a building that twists and turns like a Rubik’s Cube, with each step revealing new perspectives. These architects are like modern-day wizards, conjuring spaces that boggle the mind and delight the senses.
In the realm of learning science with art, perspective geometry is the ultimate crossover episode. It’s where math and creativity meet, shake hands, and throw a rager. Understanding perspective not only makes you a better artist but also sharpens your spatial awareness and problem-solving skills. It’s like unlocking a secret level in your brain, where you can visualize complex concepts and bring them to life.
Now, here’s a challenge for all you budding artists out there: create your own perspective drawing, starting with the basics and moving on to more complex designs. Start with a simple street scene, then add buildings, trees, and maybe even a superhero or two soaring through the sky. Push your limits and try incorporating three-point perspective to create a cityscape that would make even Escher jealous.
Remember, the key to mastering perspective is practice and a healthy dose of imagination. Don’t be afraid to experiment and make mistakes—after all, even Da Vinci probably had his share of doodles that didn’t quite make the cut. Embrace the chaos, channel your inner mad scientist, and let the geometry of perspective guide you to new artistic heights.
So, there you have it, folks! The wild, wacky world of perspective geometry, from the Renaissance to Fortnite. Keep those pencils sharp, those energy drinks flowing, and always remember: art is the ultimate playground for your imagination. Now go forth and conquer the canvas like the brilliant, slightly caffeinated geniuses you are!

Went to a coffee shop(which I absolutely loved btw), and they wouldn’t make us, or anyone, a cappuccino. Their reasoning is that the definition of cappuccino has gotten so loose or twisted that they couldn’t make everyone happy and had too many remakes. Seems reasonable enough but couldn’t help but picture the soup Nazi in my head.
I ordered a cortado either way and my partner got an 8 oz latte which was perfect. We way too often get served GIANT mugs with way too much milk when we order cappuccinos typically so the 8 oz was perfect and the cortado was delicious as well. I went back for more and heard them have to explain the cappuccino thing to almost everyone in line. They were nice about it for the most part but wouldn’t it just be easier to do a quick explanation of what exactly their cap is rather than just be like nah? Please discuss. ☕️

The Old Machine

By Angel Arevalo
The first time I saw the old machine was as Benny’s father closed his study door to us. It was already a relic then, a heap of beige plastic from a bygone era. The monitor was a beige box with a screen made of thick glass. It must have weighed a ton. It sat odious on the rectangular beige case that contained its thinking guts. Peripherals included a keyboard, a mouse, and a phone.
The phone was not a flat screened supercomputer the way the phones of today are. It was a simple speaker and receiver, with a rotating dial instead of buttons. Technically it was capable of making calls from a connected landline, but this was not its true purpose. Its true purpose was to make communication between the internet and the old machine possible. It did this through the magic of sound. According to Benny, who heard it from his father, the data from the internet came in the form of audible sound. Once it was called, the phone could be placed on a stand from which the old machine could “hear” the signals and translate them back into binary code.
My imagination stirred at the idea of “hearing” the internet. I could put something tangible to the invisible force that allowed me to watch endless streams of videos, or chat with friends from around the world. Benny probably more than me. He lived with the damn thing. However it was off limits.
As much as we wanted to hear the internet, Benny’s father would not have it. His study was entirely forbidden to us, and on the few occasions when he had allowed us entry to give us a word of sage advice or to admonish us for childish antics, he would use himself as a physical barrier between us and the old machine. His physical language was such that neither Benny or I had ever thought to ask for permission. Neither of us believed he would even consider the idea, and the most likely outcome would be that he would make it all that much harder to do so behind his back.
So we waited. Bided our time. As children, this was all that was afforded to us.
This forced patience paid off.
There came a very unusual day in Benny’s house. Often it was Benny’s mother who was charged with the daily maintenance of the household, but outstanding circumstances meant that she was forced to take the day off. If I remember correctly it was to do with Benny’s grandmother, but that is neither here nor there. The important thing is that Benny’s father had to take over the daily run of the house. Part of that was buying the groceries for that night's dinner, so here was a rare moment where the house and the study would be left completely unattended.
The moment we heard his father’s car leave the driveway, we were on it.
The door to his father’s study, where the old machine was kept, was locked, but we accounted for this. Benny had been practicing opening the locks around his house, and they were all the same make and model. Benny stuck the finer end of a hairpin into the keyhole and opened the lock as quickly as if he had the key.
The door swung open, and perched on the desk, was the old machine, in all its pristine beige glory.
It was a comically frightful thing, that heap of beige plastic. It sat there, decades old at least, and yet the casing showed no sign of yellowing. The screen, which showed that it was turned off, was a yawning black abyss; and the deadly silence of the room was disturbed by something that was not quite tangible, but an almost physical mental pressure, like gentle psychic breathing. The pressure was such that you could feel it in the base of your skull, and much more lightly, around your head and in your ears. It made one feel as if they were in the presence of a great monster, and not, in fact, an old beige box of outdated electronics.
“C’mon,” said Benny, stepping into the room. Evidently I had been stuck in place for some time. Benny on the other hand seemed much less wary than me. He scampered forward, smiling as he pulled back his fathers study chair so he could stand on it and reach the strange phone with its rotating dial.
Not nearly as brave, and suddenly three times more cautious, I stood back as he picked up the phone to “listen” to the internet. Depending on how you view it, the phone was luckily, or rather “unluckily”, in its translation stand, meaning that it was at that time communicating with the internet. Benny’s face twisted uncomfortably before breaking into a giddy smile.
“Ooh!” he said, smiling. “That’s creepy!”
He held it to his ear like that for a minute or so, wrinkling his nose from time to time before smiling again and throwing me a conspiratorial smirk. His giddy enthusiasm, despite the sound being what he called “creepy” seemed to calm me down some. Benny always had a way of doing that to me. Suddenly I was excited. He saw this, and offered me his place on his father’s seat.
“Here,” he said, still smirking. “It’s terrible!”
I took his place on the seat, and picked up the phone. It was heavier than I expected. Heavier than any smart phone I had ever held. It was like picking up the lighter end of an animal’s meaty tail. I felt a sudden hesitation, but Benny was still brimming with joy, goading me to have a listen.
I put the phone to my ear, and heard whispers. Surprised, I let the phone slip out of my hands to clatter to the floor.
They had been quiet whispers, barely audible, but audible they were. The whispers painted a picture for me. A sticky red room. A friend, here but not here. I saw the old machine in a new home, and with a new keeper, a willing thrall.
I think Benny would have laughed at me if he had not also been struck stupid in that same moment. Standing in the doorway of his study was his father.
It is difficult to speak ill of the dead, which is funny, because it’s not like they care, but that’s just the way of things. Benny’s father had always been a kind man. If not a kind man then certainly a dutiful father. He was always there for Benny, always there to give a word of wisdom or a consoling hug, but on occasion there was a glint of something sinister behind his eyes. It appeared sporadically, mostly during conversations with other adults. Somewhere in the middle of a conversation between the tragic loss of a child in another state or several towns over, or in discussing the statistic and calculus of death such as a mass shooting, that furtive sparkle behind his eye would manifest, and he would become, for a fraction of a second, someone else. That spark was there now, and it was aimed at me.
Benny’s father saw that I had the phone in my hand. He saw his boy beside me, and that spark behind his eye turned into a barely controlled flame. There was so much hate there.
“Benjamin,” he said in a deathly calm voice, in a heavily restrained voice. “Please tell me you didn’t let your friend here talk you into picking up that phone.”
“He didn’t, dad, he didn’t,” answered Benny.
“Did you pick up the phone too?”
“Of course not dad,” Benny lied.
Relief washed over his father’s face. He ran past the threshold of the study and knelt down to wrap his arms around his boy. He then looked at me.
“Get out,” he said quietly, nearly on the verge of tears. Then again, louder, “GET OUT!”
I was still too stunned to move, even after the second shout, but then Benny’s father rose– with Benny still in his hands. The menace I felt. I bolted from the study, running past Benny and his father.
I learned from Benny at school the next day that we weren’t allowed to play together anymore. Benny’s father didn’t even want to see me anywhere near him. It was ridiculous. We were neighbors for crying out loud! Benny was my best friend, who else was I going to play with? And for what? But it didn’t matter. Benny’s father had made his decree, and Benny had to abide. At least we still had school. Benny’s father couldn’t dictate who he spoke to there.
Benny and I sulked for that whole school day, unable to enjoy the little time we were going to have together. We sulked like that together at school for ages. And in this way, the strange whispers that we heard in the phone were almost forgotten, overshadowed by our forced separation.
Every day after school I hoped and prayed that my exile from Benny’s home would end, and in a roundabout and terrible way, my prayers were answered.
A year later, Benny was pulled from class, after which he disappeared for a week. His home, which was next to mine, sat dark and empty. For a whole week I heard nothing from him, not any social platform or messaging medium. When I finally did hear from him, it was no longer Benny. It was the shell of a person that had once been a child. It was Benny, aged eons.
The broken shell that had been Benny stumbled into class. He said nothing, and looked at no one. It wasn’t until lunch period that I finally got anything out of him, and when I did, I don’t think I could ever have been ready to hear it.
That day that Benny had been pulled out of class was the day that his mother had been arrested for the murder of his father. She was found in his study, and according to police, was basically mid act. How the police were alerted so quickly as to show up with the crime in progress was never fully revealed to Benny personally, but news coverage afterwards revealed that an anonymous tip had arrived at the police station.
Benny’s mother would stand by her innocence until the very end, but the fact that she was witnessed by police in the middle of committing the act made it indefensible. Her trajectory to the lethal injection room was one of the swiftest the state had ever seen.
It was tragic. Benny was out both parents, and it was all the more tragic because Benny didn’t have any other family. His last grandparent had passed the year prior. He was due to go into foster care, but God bless my parents, because they took him in. Benny got to stay in town, with a family that loved him nearly as much as his own had.
Benny stayed in my life, it was the reverse of what had happened the year prior when his father had found us listening to the internet on the old machine. Now Benny was in my life more than ever, but also not.
Physically he was there. Benny and I shared a room, and we hung out all the time. Mentally, or perhaps even spiritually, Benny just wasn’t with me anymore. His soul was in some godsforsaken elsewhere. His inner self was closed off to me. My mind didn’t have the words or wisdom to say what was wrong, only that despite being around him nearly 24 hours a day, he felt absent.
It wasn’t until later, much later, years later really, when Benny and I were well into our teens that I felt like I saw the real him again. His home, and everything in it, the things that had once been his father’s, were his. He’d never cared much about that. He’d never even mentioned his not exactly meager inheritance beyond the vague idea that he supposed he would move into his old home once he became an adult. Other than that he made no mention of his old home, which sat dim and forgotten next to mine. He hadn’t so much as stepped inside of it since he left for school on the day of the murder.
But one day, on the porch, while the sun was beginning to die on the horizon, Benny asked me if I would go into his old house with him. We were pushing seventeen, and college bound so I supposed at the time that he was seeking a kind of closure. Despite the vast chasm that Benny’s depression had carved between us, I wanted to be there for my best friend, so I agreed to go along with him.
Once we were at his old doorstep, Benny produced a small, unopened, envelope. He tore it open, and produced a key that he used to open the door to his old home. I watched him do this and felt a pang in my heart that was something more than sadness. I didn’t have a name for it. I just knew that it was coming from Benny. The straw that broke the camel’s back was Benny looking behind him to see me, and flashing me the barest hint of a smile that was filled with the same sadness that panged in my chest a moment ago. It was the tiniest crease on the corner of his mouth, but it broke me. That crease was the most genuine thing I’d gotten from him in years.
I wish I had been brave enough to cry, but I swallowed those tears. Drowned out all emotion, because I thought that was what the burgeoning man I wanted to become would have done.
We entered the house, which was dark and smelled awful. There was a rot in there that had settled into the very foundation.
“Augh,” I let out, “what is that?”
“I– Uhm… I don’t now.” That’s what he said, but something told me that he did know. He just didn’t want to say it out loud for some reason.
In my role as supportive best friend, I still hadn’t asked why Benny had wanted to come back here. So I decided to do that then, but as he ascended up the stairs I knew there was only one destination he had in mind. His father’s study. The old machine.
I kept my mouth shut, but I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have started protesting. I wonder if maybe I should have dragged Benny back out the door, kicking and screaming, but those are just what ifs and meaningless regrets. Even if I dragged him out then and there, so what? He would just come back without me. If I had barred him in any way he would just choose a different time and place, and he would be doing it alone. No. I had no choice. It was inevitable. There’s no stopping the inevitable. So I did nothing.
We ascended up the stairs together. The smell of deep seeded rot grew heavier. It was in the stairs, in the walls, in wood and the furniture. Apart from the smell, everything looked normal, as if frozen in time. I could practically envision us running down the hallway playing tag.
That changed in the study.
Benny and I reached the door. Yellow police tape from when this was an active crime scene was still there. The rot was strongest here. Had the site of the murder never been cleaned?
As Benny turned the knob I swallowed back some anxious energy, and stowed it away in the same place that I threw that soul breaking pang in my heart.
Inside we found the desk, the books shelves, his father’s office chair. All of it was as it once was, except that now every inch of it was covered in a film of something that was muddy red. The sticky red room.
There was only one part of the study that was disturbingly clean of the muddy red source of the rot. The old machine.
It sat perched on the desk, slumbering and waiting. It was pristine. Its comically mundane beige casing was clean, and every piece and peripheral like the keyboard and attached phone were in mint condition. It was alien, how clean it was compared to everything else in the room.
Benny took a heavy breath, and stepped forward. He approached the old machine, examining it in the dying light of the sun.
“I’m going to need your help carrying this back home,” he said.
This would have been my second opportunity to say “no”. I should have, but again, why? All it would mean was another trip or two for him on his lonesome, and then I would just be the friend that bailed out on him halfway through something that seemed very important for him. So I said “okay.”
We gathered up the odd ends of the old machine. Benny carried the monitor, and I carried the thinking guts, and between us we shared the weight of the peripherals.
Once we were home, Benny got to work putting the thing back together. He seemed to fly into a manic fugue state. He worked rapidly to put the old machine together, connecting every odd end, beginning to sweat as he did so. His eyes became deranged, and then suddenly, with only the power cord left to plug in, he stopped.
He stared into the black abyss of the old machine’s monitor, and did nothing for a long minute that stretched out into eternity. Benny put the power cord down and shoved it into a box. I didn’t question this. If anything I was relieved. I hadn’t realized it until just then, but as Benny was putting the thing together I had started to feel a deadly pressure building in the back of my skull. I didn’t dare ask why he stopped, worried that I might accidentally reignite his resolve.
Together we chose to forget the old machine. Or so I thought.
The last few months of our senior year passed, and they were the best months I’d had with Benny in a long long while. I think collecting that beige heap of plastic, that old machine, it had brought something to a close for him. Whether it was simple catharsis or something more I’ll never know, but I’ll cherish those last few months for the rest of my life. It was the last I’d ever see of Benny again.
With college came real distance, and although we kept in touch through video and text, we never met in person, the times just never lined up. Benny was his own man, and although it brought a small amount of heartbreak to my parents that their adoptive son never seemed to find the time to visit them, they were more than anything glad to see that he at least seemed to be enjoying life. That was definitely the facade he sold on social media.
It was at the start of my second year at college that I got the first wisp that something was wrong with Benny. He sent me something, a file that I couldn’t open, in a format that I didn’t recognize. I thought it must be some kind of obscure meme, but when I couldn’t decipher it, I got a pit in my stomach and I sent him a brisk “wtf?”
He never replied.
It was the last of anything I would ever get from Benny personally. A few weeks later my parents contacted me to tell me that Benny had killed himself.
What followed was a rapid procession of life. That I somehow managed to continue to turn in my school work for the next week or so, was a fact. That I then used the following fall break to attend Benny’s funeral was also true. Mixed in there was a meeting with a lawyer that let me know that I was the sole inheritor of Benny’s estate. This all happened, and I have a very superficial recollection of it all. But in truth I was half a ghost myself. My body– no –my soul, had gone into a form of catatonia. I became an unchanging statue, a rock in the ever flowing stream of life. Things happened, but they seemed to flow past me in a ceaseless stream of almost memories.
On the last day of the fall semester, in a fit of pique depression, looking for something to occupy the void of my soul, I remembered the message that Benny had sent me. I redoubled my efforts to decipher the unknown file type, and scoured the internet for a decoder or playback device that would be able to read it for me. Eventually I stumbled on the answer. It was a type of sound file. With that information it was surprisingly simple to find an app to play it back.
I brought the file over to my phone, and loaded it into the app, and hit play. What came out were whispers. I dropped my phone like it was made of hot iron. The phone clattered to the floor, but kept playing the whispers, which remained just at the edge of audibility no matter how far away I retreated from them.
When it finished playing I was relieved. I also realized I had understood none of it. Unlike the whispers I had heard in my childhood, these had been unintelligible. I tried them again, but although I could hear something I could make out nothing. But I knew a way that I could. The old machine.
The next opportunity I got, I went home. I went back up to my room to look for the old machine, but of course it wasn’t there. It hadn’t been there for a long time. Benny had taken it with him when he went his own way during college. I had to ask my parents to help me find it, and they directed me to the garage, where boxes of Benny’s old things were piled up. Things he had taken with him and things that he had acquired while he was away at college. The old machine was packed into one of those boxes, with a sticky note on the screen. A phone number, possibly left there by Benny himself.
I took the box up to my old room and got to work putting the old machine back together. Slowly it came alive, and bit by bit I felt that dreadful pressure building in the base of my skull. As I connected the monitor to the thinking guts I felt a spark of awareness, as if I was suddenly in danger or being watched. As I connected the peripherals, the pressure around my skull grew heavier and I began to sweat. The feeling only intensified as I plugged the thing into the power, and it came to a pique when I finally connected the strange phone stand to the internet. It’s alive! Gods of all faith and creed, help me! It’s alive!
I turned it on.
The screen lit up, and I noticed that I’d forgotten to remove the sticky note that had been placed there. I ripped it off and crumpled it in my palm as I watched the old machine finish its startup sequence.
I’m not sure what I expected. I certainly hadn’t expected it to feel so normal, or look so mundane. The operating system was definitely proprietary but other than that it felt no more alien than Windows, or Apple. Navigating it felt as natural as anything.
I found the program that would allow me to interpret the whisper recording on my phone. It was the same one that would normally connect to the internet, except this time instead of letting the translator hear the bulky beige phone, I would put my smartphone up to the translator while the recording played. I did this, and for a few tense moments nothing seemed to happen, and then I noticed that something had been downloaded onto the desktop.
The file was called “Dad(1)” and for a moment I felt like an idiot. The “(1)” appearing after the word “Dad” suggested that a version of this file was already downloaded, and of course it would be, this was probably where Benny had sent me the file from. I checked the now translated file and saw that it was a video. The thumbnail showed a man sitting at his desk.
Benny’s dad.
My hand trembled as it reached for the mouse, and clicked on the video.
The video was a top down perspective of the study, and it started at 100, there was no buildup or context to what was happening on the screen. Benny’s father was skinning himself alive. The footage of it was grainy, and was twice as disturbing for it, because the more skin that Benny’s father peeled off the more grainy red pixels appeared on screen.
It was difficult to tell how much of this Benny’s father was doing of his own volition. Heavily pixelated expressions of agony played on his face. He twisted and squirmed, he writhed in pain and appeared to yell into the ceiling as he striped reels of flesh from his arm, and then his legs, and then his chest, and on and on. I couldn’t look away. As much as I wanted to look away I couldn’t, I was forced to watch by my own horribly morbid fascination. God help me. No. God forgive me. I. could. Not. Look. Away.
It was Benny’s father’s twisted and pained flailing that covered the study in blood, leaving the room red and sticky. How he produced so much blood, and in fact, how he had been able to remain conscious this whole time was a mystery to anyone. The act didn’t stop until a light appeared from offscreen, and then suddenly Benny’s mother barged into the study to see her screaming husband. He tried to skin her alive as well, but she fought back. They began to wrestle each other, slipping in the wet puddle of his blood. Soon the blood itself stopped being the worst thing on display, as the father’s viscera began to spill out of him, the membrane that had held it together inside his abdomen splitting open in the tussle. It was an awful scene, and still, I couldn’t look away.
The fight continued like that for some time. With the two of them on the ground, fighting for control of the knife that the father had used to skin himself alive. Even with half the father spilt and spread around the room it was a hard won victory for Benny’s mother. She finally managed to wrestle the knife away from the dying man, and plunged it into his chest, just as shadows appeared from the direction of the doorway. The mother broke down as police aimed their guns at her, and then the video ended.
“Did you like it?” appeared in text over the end of the video.
“What the fuck?” I remember saying out loud.
Why hadn’t Benny turned this in? I thought. His mom was dead, sure, but why not clear her name? Why hadn’t he told me straight away what he’d found? Why had he– I didn’t let myself ask that last question. Instead I unclenched my palm, and looked at the crumpled sticky note. If there was a logical answer to any of this, then maybe it was on the other end of that number. That’s what I told myself anyway.
I put my phone away, and picked up the phone attached to the old machine. It took a few tries to get the method of dialing correct– I’d never used a rotary style phone before, and I didn’t know how to spin the wheel to “dial” the number that I needed, but I managed it. The phone rang for a bit, and then the whispers started to erupt from whatever black beyond I called.
I placed the phone on the translator, and on the monitor, the desktop came alive. The old machine’s proprietary web browser opened and landed on a bare bones white webpage. It reminded me somewhat of a dark web directory.
The dark web isn’t as difficult to navigate as you might think. The difference between a dark web site and a regular one is that dark web sites are unlisted, meaning they don’t show up on search engines, and often they require special browsers and specific URLs. Those URLs are usually kept on some kind of surface web directory. This looked a lot like that. A list of URLs ran down the bare bones page in a ladder of blue.
They were hyperlinks, all of them, and one of them stood out to me immediately.
“Do you want to see how he did it?” It read.
It shouldn’t have freaked me out. There was no way that link could be talking about Benny, which is where my mind went first. There was simply no way.
So I clicked it. And I guess… there was. Somehow there was a way.
I won’t say what I saw. It wasn’t nearly as graphic as his father’s death. In that sense it wasn’t nearly as “interesting”, but even still I can’t bring myself to recount it. It’s too personal. In that way it was much much worse, so much worse. The look in his eyes… despair. There was something almost beautiful about it.
No.
There was something beautiful about it.
At the end of the video, a familiar message popped up.
“Did you like it?”
A box beneath the video asked for a reply. I typed one in.
“Do you want to see more?”
Another box. Another reply.
I saw more.

Stream of consciousness during a long road trip:
Do you know of anyone who buys painted minis rather than painting them? I think it'd be fun to have a go at selling painted minis but I've never met anyone who's bought painted minis. Sometimes they'll have a couple that a friend painted but that's about it. But there have to be a section of the community who don't want to deal with the hobby side, or don't want to get too attached to the soldiers they're about to sacrifice.
I've taken a few commissions from people at work, mostly printed busts and statues. So far with positive reviews. I'd love to be able to keep refining my skills at painting Guardsman, especially basing and be able to fund my hobby through my hobby.
How do you test the waters of if people will buy your stuff? My idea so far is: Just setup shop online like Etsy, Ebay, etc. Take commissions on fivr and try to cross advertise with the online shop, Post pictures of painted 3d prints onto a 3d printing site and link it all together, make a YouTube Chanel and record myself painting and then link everything through there.
What supplies does this entail? Halo lamps, camera and tripod, microphone, gotta have a clean/snazy workspace, do I go on camera? How do I present myself? (For reference I try to rock Bob Ross vibes).
That's all for production, but what about the actual "business"? Do I need an LLC? I'm gonna need a whole bunch of packaging supplies such as bubble wrap, boxes, postage. Gotta figure out pricing, I think my work should be fairly cheap but how cheap is too cheap and how pricey is overpriced?
I work a full time job, recently adopted a puppy, and I support my wife through college so the free time isn't really there. But I manage to slowly paint my own army so how many minis would I really need to produce per month to make the whole thing worth it? (The goal is to fund the hobby with my hobby so I gotta cover my $100/mo hobby budget plus recoup startup fees and o going costs). Maybe I should recruit a friend or make a new one so no feelings get hurt if it goes belly up? But then scheduling is even harder because we gotta work out between two people's time.
It feels like in today's day and age I can't really fail so long as I commit but there are gonna be a lot of twists thrown my way. What are your thoughts?

[SPOILERS FOR INFERNO (2021) AND HELLFIRE GALA (2023)]
Apologies in advance as this is going to be a long one
I remember seeing a thread on this sub a while ago about character assassination in which Moira MacTaggert was mentioned prominently. Now I've only gotten into comics recently and didn't know Moira at all prior to House of X, but was initially struggling to imagine what the complaints might be. Right from the start or HoX I was fascinated by the character of Moira as presented there, this woman embittered by nine lives of war and disappointment who seems determined to try one last time to get it right. I didnt have too much of an issue with her writing in Inferno either (apart from the stupid reveal about her cure plan - see below); her visceral hatred for Destiny had been established in HoX and her feeling of betrayal and abandonment by Xavier and Magneto was believable, so her attempted murder of Destiny feels natural.
However, I began to have issues when she decided to join Orchis. Yes she wants revenge on Xavier and Destiny, but she's spent nine hundred years fighting against everything Orchis represents, and you would think she would have some residual loyalty to the other mutants she'd surely have grown to love in her previous lives (see pictures 1-2). Her going 'fuck it, 'm going to throw in my lot with the genocidal maniacs and wipe out everyone not just Charles" just didn't feel believable. It's only gotten worse since then: by the 2023 lellfire Gala the writers seem to have entirely abandoned the nuance that made her so compelling in HoX/PoX and reduced her to a literal cackling villain (see pictures 3-5, post-flanderization).
Also, regarding the cure twist in Inferno (which was revealed so offhandedly that it actually went over my head the first time): I don't know where to begin with the number of things wrong with this. First of all, how? How exactly was Moira planning to re-develop nanufacture and distribute her mutant cure under the Quiet Council's noses, with the scant resources she had at hand? Secondly even if this had stopped any more mutants being born in the rest of the world, there is no way that the Krakoans wouldn't work to reverse this among their own population, and with Forge's expertise and Sinister's genetic database it seems unlikely that they would fail. Thirdly, she knows from her previous lives that Nimrod always turns on his creators after dealing with the mutants, so once he came online, why would she continue thinking that the end of mutantdom would prevent the rise of the machines?
Sorry for the rant but I have definitely come around to the view that Moira has been done dirty since Inferno. I don't object to her becoming a villain in and of itself, but the groundwork to make her betrayal believable just hasn't been done, and then her subsequent writing feels entirely perfunctory (much as I love Kieron Gillen's stuff otherwise). Am I being fair? What do you think?
Note: haven't read Fall of the House of X/Rise of the Powers of X yet so no spoilers for them please

When I was looking through the finished chapter folder today, one was missing, and I got worried that I deleted it on accident. Turns out it was at the top of the folder instead of the bottom, because I put a space in the title that wasn't supposed to be there. So, crisis averted, I guess.
Many thanks to u/SpacePaladin15 for the universe.
Enjoy.
Prev - First - Next
------------------------------------
Chapter 14: Hydrophobic
- Memory Transcription Subject: Meba, Venlil Computer Scientist
Date [Standardized Human Time]: October 20th, 2136
It was comfy.
I wasn’t sure about the whole ‘scarf’ thing, but after finishing it, and putting it on, I actually liked it quite a bit. Finishing it wasn’t even hard, all I had to do was bring the end of the yarn through the last loop and weave in the end, which was a breeze with a little help from Arlene.
She helped me put it on. Apparently, there was a nearly infinite number of ways to wear the garment. Anything from braids, to knots, to wraps, to simply dangling from the neck. It was truly amazing how many ways humans managed to use a simple strip of fabric.
She showed me several different ways to tie it. First only draping it around my neck, then showing me how to do the ‘once around’, next tying a ‘Parisian’ knot, and finally showing me a braided one that was really just a modified version of the Parisian, where instead of bringing both ends through the loop, you only put one through, and then give it a half turn, put the other end in, and repeat until the ends are completely integrated into the braid.
Arlene made a weird squealing noise. “Okay hold on, I need to take a picture of this.” She pulled out her phone and took shots of me from several angles, even pulling the camera right up to my snout at one point, and causing me to flinch.
She turned the phone around to reveal an extremely distorted, and equally unflattering close up of my face. “Everybody loves a fish eye filter.”
I didn’t know what to say. The disrespect was palpable.
“Oh, let me show you a trick.” She undid the braid, taking the scarf and wrapping it around front to back, and bringing the ends back around and down through the loop at the front. Then she took the back part, and brought it over the back of my head in a hood, having a bit of trouble getting it past my wool, and pressing my ears down towards the front of my face. I liked the Parisian better.
“This is really uncomfortable.” My voice sounded muffled with the hood flattening my ears.
“Okay, okay. Just let me get one picture.” She pointed the phone at me again.
Once she was done with her ‘photoshoot’, I took off the scarf. “Is this really that enjoyable for you?”
“Extremely. You have no idea how cute this is. I’ll make one with ear holes for you so you can wear the hood comfortably next time.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever need that much insulation.”
“You never know. What if you go to the night for some reason?”
“Despite my heritage, I don’t have much of a thing for freezing temperatures.”
“Well, it’s up to you. Do you like it?”
I folded up the scarf and put it into my bag. “It’s comfy. Like a hug.”
She smiled. “It looks good on you too.”
My tail wagged of its own accord. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Hold on, let’s get one more picture.” She pulled out her phone again, and crouched next to me to match my height, pointing the camera towards us both. “Smile!”
Flustered, I struggled to make the foreign expression. Arlene put her arm around my shoulder, and took the picture.
“There we go, Dad’s gonna get a kick out of that… once I actually get a way to send it to him.” She tapped away at the screen for a moment. “How much time do we have before we need to leave for dinner?”
“A quarter claw or so.”
“Okay, perfect. Since we have some time…” She smiled. “You wanna learn how to spin thread?”
“Sure.”
Her smile deepened. “Okay okay, come on, let me show you how.” She nearly sprinted over to the spinning wheel.
I followed, though not nearly as eager.
“Sit down.” She ordered, bringing up a chair next to the contraption.
I obliged. Arlene loomed over me, looking even larger while I sat in the wooden seat. A pointless shiver went up my spine.
She brought a little bag of rolags next to the wheel, placing it on the ground, then turning to the wheel.
“It’s already set up, but I’ll redo it so you can see how.” She removed the bobbin from its spot. “Before you start, you need a bit of yarn to start off, so you can attach the new fibers to it.” She tied a loop in the end of the yarn, and slotted the bobbin back in with a clack. “It goes in like this. Then we set the tension, which is how much the bobbin will pull on your side of the yarn. You change it using this little knob down here.” She twisted the knob back and forth a few times for effect. “It should be fine for you, just tell me if it’s pulling too hard.”
I flicked an ear.
“Okay, so we bring the yarn along the hooks here, towards this hole, which is called the orifice. I have a little hook here to pull the yarn through.” She stuck it in, then pulled the yarn back through, and handed it to me.
The yarn was fine; a single strand of wool, though I knew it was actually a tangle of several. As I slid my paw pad along the yarn, it felt slightly fuzzy in my paws, with a few errant hairs struggling to escape.
“Don’t grab it so hard. Try to be firm, but gentle.”
I adjusted my grip. “Better?”
“I wont really know for sure until you start. Let’s try the treadle. You play an instrument?”
“No, why?”
What would music have to do with this?
“Well, just pretend that you do. You need to keep a steady beat so the speed stays constant. Put your foot on the treadle and give it a try.” She smiled.
“Okay then.” I put my paw down, and gave it a push. As the wheel turned, my paw was soon lifted back up from the floor, then reaching the apex of the turn. Instinctively, I pushed down again, and the wheel gained yet more speed. Then, I misplaced my next push, and sent the wheel turning the other way.
A pat on my shoulder. I didn’t realize I was so tense. “Relax, it’s hard at first. Just keep trying. You gotta be gentle with it; you don’t want it to go too fast. You had the right idea before, just let it move your foot, and give it a little tap when needed… oh, and be careful not to let go of the yarn.”
“Uh huh… thanks.” I tried again, paying more attention to my timing now. Keeping the speed consistent was harder than it looked. However, while I didn’t think of myself as more coordinated than the average venlil, I think I was getting the hang of it.
“There ya’ go. That’s pretty good. Can you try changing directions?”
How the brahk am I supposed to do that?
I looked up at her, then back to the wheel, when my concentration faltered.
“Just push down before it goes over the top of the spin. It’s basically what you’re doing now, but in reverse.”
Just keeping it spinning was hard enough. Turning it around? Nope, that wasn’t gonna happen.
“Come on, you can do it.”
Ugh.
I attempted to get it to turn in the other way, to no avail; when I pushed down, it still went over the apex of the turn, and I didn’t take the pressure off fast enough, so it sped up way more than before, throwing me off beat.
“Brahk.” I spat, claws from my free paw digging into my thigh. My face burned with bloom.
The wheel slowed to a crawl, then a stop, lifeless. My eyes fixed on it like hooks to meat.
“Hey, don’t worry, just give it another shot.”
“Y-yeah.” I gave it another push, repeating until it was up to speed. The machine made a gentle whirring as it turned.
I watched the treadle, and the plank that attached it to the wheel. After a few more rotations, I gave it a big push in the other direction, and it slowed greatly. The next rotation, I gave it another push, and it turned around.
“Woo! You did it!”
Arlene’s yelling startled me, and I stopped.
“Let’s get you spinning some thread now.” She gave me a big teeth bearing grin.
I tried not to look at her mouth too hard. “Okay.”
She grabbed a rolag from the pile. “It’s probably best if I just show you.”
“Alright.”
Arlene roughed up the end of the rolag, then she grabbed the yarn from my hand, and looped the fibers around the loop. “Could you start it up again?”
“Yeah.”
Once the wheel was spinning, she slid her fingers down the rolag; the whole thing constricted into a length of yarn, due to the twist.
After it twisted up, she fed it into the orifice, which promptly swallowed it up, and then she repeated the process: thinning out the rolag a bit, sliding the twist in, and feeding it into the machine. She did this 6 times before she ran out of fiber. But that didn’t stop her; she just grabbed another rolag and pressed the feathery end into the yarn, and continued. Three more times, and she stopped.
She motioned for me to stop pedaling. “You get all that?”
I blinked. “It doesn’t look too hard.”
“Let’s get to it then.” She handed me the fibers, and stood back, a thumb pointing up to the sky.
I took them in my paws, and held them in a firm grip, so they wouldn’t come out of my hands when I started pedaling. The wheel came up to speed, blurring slightly. My vision narrowed to the singular point in front of me: the fiber. Heartbeats felt like footsteps in my chest, my breathing slow. I felt the fiber; how it pulled against my paws, the roughness of the strands, the texture of the wool. Drafting a bit of the fibers out, I slid my paw pads along the fiber, to let a little twist into it. It strangled into a single line of yarn. Slowly, carefully, I fed it into the orifice, all while keeping the wheel turning at a reasonable speed. There were bits where the yarn was thicker, and thinner, where I failed to keep the fibers consistent. Particles of dust played in the corner of my vision.
Repeat.
The bumps slid against my paw pads like thorns, though I tried to squish them down. I didn’t know how you were supposed to get rid of them. I pulled along the fiber, feeling the twist rub against me. Another length into the bobbin.
Repeat.
My claws slid along the fibers, twist came in, I fed it into the orifice. Repeat. I drafted more fiber, slid along it, and fed it into the orifice. Repeat. I struggled to pull apart the fibers, so I slowed down the wheel’s speed. Repeat. When I untwisted part of the yarn in my paws, the fiber came apart easier. Repeat. Every now and then, I would grab more yarn from the pile, and attach it to the yarn. My leg burned from the constant motion. Repeat.
Repeat, repeat, repeat,
Instead of hitting wool, my paw struck air. I was out. I sopped pedaling, and the wheel came to a stop.
Arlene struck her hands together in a rhythmic motion. “Good job!” She had moved to the other side of the machine from her original place beside me, and I didn’t even notice. “I was going to show you how to feed the yarn evenly onto the bobbin, but you were so focused I just decided to change the hooks for you. Seriously, you’re a natural; I’ve never seen someone get it so fast.”
My mouth was dry from thirst. How long had I been spinning? I glanced around the room. “W-what time is it?”
Arlene grabbed the end of the fibers from my paws and tied it around an extrusion on the machine. “I think you started about forty minutes ago.” She scratched at her head. “Sorry, that’s uh…”
“So not long?” I asked. My perception of time was completely off. It felt like I had just sat down, though that was obviously not the case.
“Yeah.” She replied. “Wanna take a look at your yarn?”
An ear flick later, and she was humming some Earth tune while removing the bobbing from the spinning wheel, tying off the end of the fiber in an overhand knot to keep it from unraveling. After a moment of inspection, she passed the bobbin to me.
“It’s damn good work for your first time.” She said bluntly.
I ran a paw along the bundled yarn. “There’s a bunch of bumps.”
“Come on, I didn’t even show you how to control the thickness yet. You should be proud.” Arlene ordered, with a slap on the back that struck a cough out of me.
She was just being nice, I knew. Arlene was like that; she would probably praise me even if I somehow managed to destroy the wheel. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit happy about it. I made this. I was holding it in my own two paws.
“Thanks.” I tried to smile.
“Aw, you’re welcome.” Arlene smiled back. It was warm.
“We should get going, or we’ll be late.” I said, handing her the bobbin back.
“Sure, give me a sec.” She replied, grabbing a pocket umbrella from the other room. I considered the claim that humans could smell rain before it started dubious at best. Though, it might have been a good idea to check the weather report.
---
I should have listened.
So much rain, and that’s not even mentioning the wind. Anything that wasn’t blown away was pummeled, including us. We huddled under the singular human umbrella, which was wholly insufficient to shield us from the raindrops. We were shuffling towards the restaurant at a painfully slow pace, Arlene unbuttoning her coat to drape its hydrophobic veil around the both of us. From the outside, we probably looked like a horrid chimera of venlil and human, with tough stitched skin, stretching under powerful muscles. It’s a good thing we didn’t have to worry about other pedestrians. It was too late to go back now.
Arlene said something, but I couldn’t hear it over the rain and the wind.
“What?!” I asked.
“I said! Are we close!?” She yelled in response.
“What?!”
She brought the coat around our heads to shield from the wind. “Are we almost there?!”
“Almost!” I said, throat scratchy.
On the horizon—no, it wasn’t the horizon, it was just the edge of our vision in the wet hell we were trapped in—a spattering of warm neon lights shot through the endless layers of water like a photon cannon, while each speck of liquid reflected the shiny oasis, beckoning us closer with promises of warmth and comfort. Arlene slipped on a puddle, her boots caked thick with mud, the rubber treads no longer providing traction. I helped her to steady herself, and almost fell myself.
I saw movement in the window of the establishment, the details of which I couldn’t place. A drop of rain charged straight into my eye, and I lost focus.
There was a small awning above the door, but it didn’t do much to help against the rain, completely useless against the nearly sideways path of the water. Though, at least we weren’t completely soaked. Arlene’s coat was a boon I couldn’t have predicted. I was beginning to see the appeal of human apparel; I couldn’t imagine traveling through such weather with just my wool, or, stars forbid, nothing but skin. Though, that wouldn’t stop my brain from trying.
The rain like gunfire, wind stinging like nettles, piercing right through your insignificant form. Bones rattling with imminent death, breath frozen in the lungs.
We both wiped our feet on the doormat, which was as soaked as everything else. Arlene heaved the door open with excessive force, completely void of concern for the reaction of those inside the building, which was… sub-optimal, to say the least.
I had not yet noticed what an expensive place it was, but as soon as I spotted the two waitstaff near the entrance, I couldn’t help but say a prayer for my wallet, and our survival. Both of them nearly jumped out of their wool as soon as we entered, and almost immediately after, the more confident of the two stepped forward to shove us right back out the doors.
“Get out, get out! You’ll scare the patrons!” He hissed, below the chatter of the dining area.
“We’re not going back into the storm.” Arlene informed him.
“Oh yes you are, human.” The waitstaff corrected.
“We do not serve predators in this establishment.” The second educated further.
You’re not going to let them speak to her like that, are you?
I flicked my tail in disgust, and my voice bounded forth with unprecedented spirit. “Are you brahking dense? You can’t refuse service because she’s human.”
“What a farce. Do you seriously expect the exterminators to comply with that drivel?” The first questioned.
“Who in their right mind would let a blood thirsty animal into a place for eating? Do you want to get someone killed? Or are you just as mad?” Reiterated the second.
“What the fuck did you just say?” I inquired calmly.
Arlene grabbed me by the shoulders. “Hey, calm down. They’re just doing their jobs.”
Jobs? What do jobs have to do with this?
“You must be some sort of mad if you think we’re going back into that storm.” I explained.
The first waitstaff sighed. “Do you even have a reservation?”
“Of course we do!” I pulled my datapad out from its pocket. It wouldn’t turn on.
“What’s wrong?” Arlene asked.
“The rain killed it.” I replied.
“No reservation? I figured.” Said the first waitstaff, with an extremely punchable look on his face. “Then, if you please. Get. Out.”
“Now hold on just a second,” Arlene said, with palms raised in some sort of odd threat display. “it’s murder out there. Won’t you let us stay at least until the rain lets up?”
“Most certainly not.” Said the first.
“Not a chance.” Echoed the second.
“Look, I’m sorry about my friend, he’s on edge because of the storm. We won’t be long, just until it’s safe to leave.” She pleaded.
Some of the people dining noticed the commotion at the door, and more than a few shot sidelong glances at us. Gusts of wind blew against the door, shaking it against the little foyer we were standing in.
As the waitstaff were about to give their rebuttal, I spotted a familiar coat near the back of the dining room, ducking out from behind a covered booth. A small figure, with sandy fur, and a look of endless confidence on his face: Gram. He made his way towards the entrance, stopped a few paces from the foyer, rubbed his eyes, pinched himself, rubbed his eyes again, and then hid a deranged snicker behind his paw.
“H-hey Meba.” He let out a muffled giggle. “Doormen giving you trouble?”
I rolled my eyes.
Gram addressed the waitstaff. “Don’t worry, he’s with me.”

I have an old Sony 5.1 home theatre system but the cables for it are too short and have proprietary connections that connect the speakers to the sub/amp. Is it possible to extend i these and if so what am I doing wrong?
I’ve bought a standard length of speaker cable. I’ve twisted the red (positive) to the green (positive) and the black (negative) to the grey (negative) as pictured and connected the other end to the speaker but it’s not working.
Obviously it doesn’t look pretty right now but I wanted to test it to make sure it works first.

A brief recap. In the opening episode, the Fireman had a sit-down with a man who at least looked like Cooper. Telling he was "far away", the Fireman made him flicker and disappear. Next, we may have found the man as a remote control in Mitchum brothers' house in P10, in line with "far away" being another kind of "remote", like in a dream where our memories get wildly different meanings and grow into unexpected stories.
After observing Candie's bloody entry to the story in P10, this "remote" character seems to have sought the headless version of Cooper, appearing again as a remote control and guiding him to electrocute himself in P15. In line with hearing, "Get Gordon Cole" in television, the remote would have done just that and got to Cole, once more showing up as a remote control in P3 when Tammy presented Cole and Albert a picture of a blurry figure inside the New York glass box. The figure seems to have been none other than Candie hunting the fly, connecting her seemingly harmless character to the reason why Cole was needed.
This third appearance might have been the remote's last, at least as a remote control. Tammy left it on the conference room table. As usual, there was no special fanfare about that, and Lynch left it for us to figure out what was important to understand his story.
Framed in front of the remote, there was a cup of coffee and a picture of a little boy wearing a uniform. Earlier in the scene, the picture was literally given to us as a clue to the "identity of the killer". Let's treat it as a clue, then, together with the coffee cup right behind it.
This cup with a uniform had once been remote.
The word "cup" sounds the same as "cop". Adding that to a boy in a uniform, we'd get to P9 when Betty shared some details of the past with Twin Peaks deputies the ranks of which now included her son, Bobby.

Betty: "Bobby, when your father told me this, you were a very long way from where you are today."

In other words, Bobby had been in a faraway place. That is to say, he had been remote, now possibly true in more than one meaning of the word. While the scene superficially gave us an emotional moment between the mother and her son, the ever-trolling Lynch would actually have been telling us that it was Bobby who had been the mysterious remote control.
In a possible throwback to the coffee cup next to the remote, the scene wrapped up when Betty turned to his son.

Betty: "Well, fellas, let's have that coffee."

As everyone burst to laughter, that typically indicated we just got some especially absurd twist in the story.
No backstory was offered how Bobby had become a deputy. Everyone at least acted like he indeed was one, but unlike other named characters working at the Sheriff's station, we didn't ever see if he had an office or a desk there. He was always walking in the corridors, entering rooms and hanging around with others.
This was also how we first met Bobby in P4, walking in the corridor. He had just went past the station's conference room - or perhaps he had come out of the room. There was nothing else in the direction he was coming from, and he didn't come from the other end of the corridor that led to the back office where Maggie and others worked.
The remote left the conference room.
Bobby stopped when the Sheriff called him. When the Sheriff walked past the open conference room door, we could see it was dark. No one was there. Yet, Hawk was supposed to be in the conference room looking for "something" that was missing, like seen next when the Sheriff and others joined him.
When glitches like this broke the continuity of the story, that seems to have been done to draw our attention to something important, in this case then to the conference room that was where the remote control was last seen and where Bobby might have come out of when the Sheriff spotted him.
In related developments, Bobby seems to have been the nameless "contact" that Ray told in P2 he had found to help Mr C get some "information" while Ray himself would have appeared as Sheriff Frank Truman, entering this dreamlike Twin Peaks storyline to manipulate Bobby so as to get the coveted information from Betty.
If you are a Ray, you need a remote for contact.
Reflecting these ideas to the remote control, we would get another absurd abstraction. There were repeated shots of people pointing televisions with a remote control - in P3, P10 and P15. This was possibly done to not only draw our attention to the device itself but also to remind us that the contact between the remote and the television happens through an infrared ray, another play with the name of a character, now with that of Ray Monroe.
Due to the infrared ray needing to point directly at the television, a remote control spends a lot of time towards the screen, literally checking every channel that has something to see. This appeared to be what Bobby had been up to when he reported to the Sheriff in P4.

Sheriff Truman: "Anything on your surveillance cameras?" Bobby: "Uh, elk, deer, raccoon, squirrel and a bear. If they're coming down from Canada in our area, I would've seen them."

Whatever we thought that would have been about, the story didn't get back to any of it. Instead, we probably got another complicated throwback to a previous scene with a remote control, again a good tad more suggestive than what we might be looking for.
The list of animals and the lone article "a" used for the bear would produce letters EDRSAB which is an anagram for BREADS. In P15, when Cooper clicked the remote control and froze Sunset Boulevard, there was Cecil B DeMille on screen, playing himself, of which we got some needless dialog.

DeMille: "Good-bye, dear." Norma: "Good-bye, Mr DeMille."

See Mr Miller to get some flour for your breads.
Nothing seems to go waste in Return but everything is in the service of the absurdly rich story. DeMille's last name is French and means a miller, one who makes flour. You need flour first, if you want to make breads next. Thus, after seeing the "miller" on one screen - then as a remote - Bobby would have got BREADS on the next one - now as a deputy.
This would get a further meaning because it was also breads that Bobby's daughter Becky delivered to RR Diner in P5, riding Steven's "another old car", the 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, where both of them snorted another kind of white flour. Ultimately, this probably was all about Bobby keeping an eye on his daughter who used drugs.

I honestly don't know where to start. My dad has never been a good person for as long as I can remember. I (18) have 3 siblings. 24,23 and 4. Growing up me and my siblings were always abused. We would get thrown into walls, beat until we were bloody and weak. Handcuffed to our beds and couldn't get up unless we screamed out and asked. We couldn't get water unless we asked. We couldn't use the bathroom unless we screamed and begged. Even then my dad would stand outside the bathroom and if we were there linger than 5 minutes he would open the door or even rip us out the bathroom. It was worse for both my siblings. I was my dad's favourite. I wish I wasn't. But it made things easier. I experienced what they went through but less. My brother used to wake up with my dad beating on him. Sometimes for things he didn't even do. My dad would fight us at the ripe age of 7. I dint mean whoop our ass either. I mean actually beat us. Chase us around the house, pull our hair punch us in the rips. Make holes in the walls from our body. And my mom stood by, watching. She too was afraid. Some days we were forced to get naked. He would bring people over like his friends or his family and they would watch him beat us in our underwear. We were kids. We were girls. Girls getting beat in front of grown men. Screaming and crying begging to stop and let us go. Nobody helped us. They just watched. They sat by and just fucking watched. Some came back and were still around my father but most left. They couldn't be friends with a man like him. I wish I could describe what that man had done to my brother but my sibling won't tell me. It's been years since my brother moved out, he's left that life behind him and I'm so thankful for it. My brother is happy. Living with his girlfriend and making music now. My sister's however, we all live with our parents. And every day, I see my mother in agony. He beats her. He Screams in her face. He throws knifes at hern and when she says she's gonna leave he throws himself in our garage and tells her he's going to kill himself. So she fights for him to stay alive. Because she still loves him even though she's being mistreated. Even though he's mistreated us. Her children. He cheated on her with his friend. (Let's call her B)
B had a child of her own, she came into our lives when I was in about 6th grade. She was horrible. She clearly wanted my father. She made up things about me and told them to my dad so I would get in trouble. She misconstrued my words till I was grounded for being disrespectful or thrown at my mother. My mom knew everything that went on. She saw her. B would push me into the walls and on the floor. They forced me to call her daughter my sister. Throughout my protests, they never stopped. I would actually get beat for saying she wasn't. She called my dad, daddy even though she HAD a dad. This is the woman my dad first started cheating on my mom with. My mom would coom and clean. Take care of him financially . Let this woman into our house. Into our lives only for her to turn around and fuck it up. One day I went to walk my dog and when I got back my father was in handcuffs. How funny. It wasn't me anymore. It wasn't us being Handcuffed. In some twisted fate there he was. Sitting in our lawn. 10 police cars all over my street. So many officers guarding the house and him. I cried. Maybe he was gone forever. I don't care about what he did. I care about how long he's going to be gone. My mother informed me that his mistress b scratched his face in an argument and he abused the fuck outta her in front of her child. Then took her phone and left. I prayed that day. I prayed he would be gone forever. I prayed he would never make it back home. And yet he did. My mom begged me and my sister's for bail money. And it's my mom. As much as I hate that man. I love my mom. I would do anything for her. I tried to tell her I didn't want to. He wasn't good for us but she cried into my arms. She didn't want my little sister to grow up without a dad. She was financially dependent on him even tho he didn't have a job at the time. I'm guessing he got a check because he was ex military but I'm not sure. He came back the night before thanks giving. Next morning he disappeared. Told my mom he was gonna kill himself then went silent. Mom begged me to talk to him. SHE said he was only willing to talk to me. She begged and begged " please baby, please I don't want to lose him" I couldn't say no. So I sat outside by the ring camera. Alone. At the age of 14 I talked my dad out of killing himself. By. Myself.
Now years later, B hasn't been in out lives and he's cheating again. My mother despises him. If he drops dead today she wouldn't care. She just wants to be a person. She's told us to pack a bag in case he goes crazy she's ready to leave. He's cheating on her with a woman from him new job. She found pictures of her nudes on his watch. I pray for my mommas safety. I will fight for her. I'm old enough now to understand that my mom was afraid too. I'm old enough to understand that sometimes you just need to put down a man if he hurts your family. He isn't my dad and he's not a real man. I wouldn't normally wish death. But he may deserve it.
(Sorry if there's typos I literally broke the right hand side of my screen so I can't see anything n I don't have money or a car to go fix it ) <3

I often think about Celebrimbor, and I simply can’t get over the obvious visual parallel with St. Sebastian. This is St Sebastian’s martyrdom: by Reni), and Mantegna).
Celebrimbor died thus: “In black anger [Sauron] turned back to battle; and bearing as a banner Celebrimbor’s body hung upon a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, he turned upon the forces of Elrond.” (UT, p. 307–308)
The iconography (see drawings by peet, and Kaaile) is the same.
And this led me to wondering about what made Tolkien, a Catholic, decide to give his Elf who fell to Sauron’s manipulations a famous Christian martyrdom, and why St Sebastian in particular?
I don’t know enough about St Sebastian or Tolkien to do more than speculate.
First, as a hint of Celebrimbor’s feelings for fair Annatar. St. Sebastian has a strong gay association. This was so even at the turn of the 20th century: Oscar Wilde clearly loved St Sebastian and the associated iconography. Here he refers specifically to Guido Reni’s wonderful painting of St Sebastian. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, St Sebastian is highlighted in Chapter XI, the chapter about Dorian’s personal (and generally rather decadent) passions. St Sebastian also appears in Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig(Zweites Kapitel). I can see the whole thing as being a hint at Celebrimbor falling for Sauron in more ways than one, particularly given what we know of his seduction (the term used in LOTR, p. 1083) by Annatar in his “fair form” (Sil, Index of Names, entry Annatar; UT, p. 328). Sauron is said to have “used all his arts upon Celebrimbor and his fellow-smiths” (UT, p. 306). “All his arts” would include this: “Yet such was the cunning of his mind and mouth, and the strength of his hidden will, that ere three years had passed he had become closest to the secret counsels of the King; for flattery sweet as honey was ever on his tongue, and knowledge he had of many things yet unrevealed to Men. And seeing the favour that he had of their lord all the councillors began to fawn upon him, save one alone” (Sil, Akallabêth). To me, this passage sounds distinctly sexual, and also like something that Oscar Wilde could have written, with this imagery.
(I admit that having Celebrimbor fall in love with Annatar makes the eventual betrayal even worse. I also am aware that in one of the many different versions presented in The History of Galadriel and Celeborn, it is said that Celebrimbor loved Galadriel (UT, p. 324–325), but according to Christopher Tolkien, this “Celebrimbor is here again a jewel-smith of Gondolin, rather than one of the Fëanorians” (UT, p. 325), which is why I tend to take his characterisation here with a pinch of salt.)
The other thought I had is quite dark: rape. It’s an association that I personally feel imposes itself, in a way. “The arrow is a highly phallic image” (source) already, and there’s the image of Cupid’s two arrows, causing uncontrollable desire in one victim, and revulsion in the other. The result for the person who was shot by the second arrow was rape—or death (or transformation into a tree if your father happened to be (1) a god, and (2) nearby: Daphne). I’m not the first person to connect the iconography of St Sebastian with rape: see this (NSFW, nudity and violence) blogpost. This could be a very Tolkienian hint of what Celebrimbor suffered in his “torment” (UT, p. 307) at the hands of Sauron before his death—subtle, “clean”, deniable, but intriguing.
We know that Morgoth wanted to rape Lúthien (“Then Morgoth looking upon her beauty conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart since he fled from Valinor. Thus he was beguiled by his own malice, for he watched her, leaving her free for awhile, and taking secret pleasure in his thought.” (Sil, QS, ch. 19)) and that, while the above passage implies that Morgoth only ever wanted to rape Lúthien and no other, that is not true: he also attempted to rape Arien, the Maia of the Sun, in order specifically to break her: “though he attempted to ravish Arien, this was to destroy and ‘distain’ her, not to beget fiery offspring” (HoME X, p. 405, fn omitted).
Sauron, meanwhile, is described thus: “Sauron was become now a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled, lord of werewolves; his dominion was torment.” (Sil, QS, ch. 18) I do not think that it would be either out-of-character for Sauron or “out-of-world” for the Legendarium (especially as Sauron used to be Morgoth’s second-in-command in Angband) to assume that Sauron raped Celebrimbor in order to break him or just because he’s an obvious sadist who would enjoy every last second of it, or had others rape Celebrimbor as grisly a method of torture—and then turned him into his banner to show the Elves what he’d done, and dishonour Celebrimbor even further in death.
(Note that it is a common misconception that Elves die when raped. As per HoME X, p. 228 (a text likely from the late 1950s: HoME X, p. 199), this only applies to married Elves raped by someone who is not their spouse: “there is no record of any among the Elves that took another’s spouse by force; for this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos.” (Emphasis mine) This is confirmed by the fact that in a later (from 1959–1960: HoME XI, p. 359–360) text, Eöl rapes unmarried Aredhel and Aredhel survives: “Eöl found Irith, the sister of King Turgon, astray in the wild near his dwelling, and he took her to wife by force: a very wicked deed in the eyes of the Eldar.” (HoME XI, p. 409, fn omitted, emphasis mine) Note the same expression used to describe a rape.)
This post turned out longer than I planned. I’ve speculated on two possible associations that the imagery of St Sebastian and the character and story of Celebrimbor invite. Do you have other ideas? Why do you think that Tolkien chose this imagery?
Sources:

• Unfinished Tales of Númenor & Middle-earth, JRR Tolkien, ed Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2014 (softcover) [cited as: UT].
• The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien, HarperCollins 2007 (softcover) [cited as: LOTR].
• The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, ed Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins, ebook edition February 2011, version 2019-01-09 [cited as: Sil].
• Morgoth’s Ring, JRR Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2015 (softcover) [cited as: HoME X].
• The War of the Jewels, JRR Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins 2015 (softcover) [cited as: HoME XI].

So, I (20f) had a pretty rough childhood. My mother was kind of a pos and cheated on my dad all the time which led to their divorce when I was 2, and she got with the man she was having her latest affair with and it stuck. He came with two kids, a son and a younger daughter. When I was around 6, this older step brother, let's call him O (11) started to molest and rape me. He set up really weird sick and twisted games that all four of us, me, my brother, his sister and himself, would play, truth or dare type games. He was the oldest at 11 at this point, my brother G and step sister E were around 8 or 9 and I was the youngest at 6. He'd set G and E up together to go do naughty things, and himself with me. These "games" didn't last long, but he never let me out of his clutches. He even bragged about it to his friends when he was a few years older and they felt inclined to get in on the action, one even threatened me with a knife at one point when I was 8 or so. My mother is an awful person, she cares only for appearances and loves herself more than you cab imagine, I'm sure she only wanted children as future maids and cashcows, but for some reason she was particularly interested in living vicariously through me. I was quite the rough house tomboy as a child, and didn't care for typical girly things, when I was tearing up a tree or across a playground I was very shy and awkward and always avoided eyecontact and hid behind my massive poof of hair, my mother really didn't like this. She had always tried to brainwash me into being a charming, seductive feminine woman from a very young age, and seemed to punish me by throwing all the chores at me and verbally belittling me or even physically overpowering me from a very young age. My mother had witnessed O during one of his acts towards me. I was naked, had bruises and fresh bleeding scratches and was crying, she bust the door open while his mouth was suckering onto my chest at 8. She saw the scene, and closed her eyes and sighed at the floor, composed herself and said what she came to say, and left. I was gutted. I thought finally someone might help me, between the bullying at school and abuse at home I thought at least my mother would correct one of her children being "unsightly". In hindsight I suppose she put her marriage first and didn't want to cause any issues, but that was not the last time she'd catch him doing things to me, and she'd ignore them every time. There was even a point where O and one of his friends, let's call him A, same age, had a rivalry on who's sex toy I was, and would openly do things to me in front of the other to assert dominance and rile each other up. One of these times, O went home to tell my mother, at which she called me home and scolded me harshly for my behaviour. At the time I knew she wanted to say something but didn't, as I got older I realised it was "whore". I was 9 and A was 14. Now, amongst all of this, my brother was aware of what was going on, at the time I didn't think much of it other than it was terrifying to be home and I'd rather attempt to run away for the hundredth time, I thought it was normal and what I was meant for, to absorb the abuse and violence, but as I grew older I realised more and more about the world and realised it wasn't right, and I could chose to live with my dad. When my parents divorced we were 50/50 split custody, I'd be at my mom's for 2 weeks then 2 weeks at dad's. At 14 I simply decided one day to just ask to be picked up for my dad's again, no planning or packing, no plan in mind, just after being dropped off on my last day at my dad's for that week and asking "can you pick me up again after school? I don't want to go to moms". My mother threw a fit about it of course, she called up my dad spouting about how I was just being a spoiled brat and throwing a tantrum for not getting what I want, I never asked for anything ever even on birthdays or Christmas, so I have no idea what made up demands of mine she was referring to, but as the weeks passed by and I continued to stay at my dad, she got pretty furious. She'd cry to all our extended family members about how her dear daughter that she loved so much turned her back on her and left for her "richer" dad (neither parent was well off, but my mother blew most of her pay on jewellery, dresses, shoes and makeup) and turned my extended family against me. Now, somewhere when I was 14, just before leaving, I broke down to someone at school, I wasn't really friends with them, if anything they were more of a bully, and i told them about what my step brother and his friends had been doing to me, with the words I now knew to describe it, "rape" "molest" "grooming" and "sexual abuse". She had no reaction at the time, and didn't even seem to register it. A few months after I had moved out of my mother's, my anxiety disorder reared its ugly head, and I began being unable to even attend my highschool, and after being pretty much 100% absent for a year or so, police came knocking at my door. Turns out, the girl from before had gotten concerned for me and told the teachers, who in turn told the police, which ended up at this. I was quite unhappy about it, I told them the bare minimum information, I told them I didn't want them to even be here or involved at all, they told me they'd need to question my mother, step dad, step brother, brother, and step sister. I didn't really care and didn't think anything would come of it. A few years later, and almost 2 years ago now, at age 19, I'd all but forgotten about the police, I was still, and remain, thoroughly traumatised from my childhood and still struggle to leave the house without someone else and my headset to drown out everything. my golden child brother showed up. Now, I know this is a first mention of him being a golden child, but it's always been a stark difference between how we were treated, at my mother's, and at my dad's with my aunt and grandma (dad's side) as well. To give you a picture, on my brothers 18th birthday, he got a 3 tier home made cake, a slow roasted dinner that had been on for 12 hours, my dad, aunt and grandma sat at the table with him loudly congratulating him and celebrating his "first" beer, he was gifted a motorcycle and many presents. For my 18th birthday, the only one I was looking forward to, I got 5 minutes of attention when I opened everyone's gifts which was basically just sweets and chocolates, and then they all disappeared to clamour around my brother, G. I sobbed in my bedroom with my boyfriend, after a while the only family member I was holding out hope for, my grandma, came knocking at my door, I quickly composed myself and went to see her, at which she led me to the bathroom to tell me off for not giving my brother any attention. On my 18th birthday. Kinda lost it there lol and shouted at her. I got no cake, not even store brought, and no dinner, but when G was hungry of course the ordered him Chinese and didn't even ask me if I wanted anything. Anyway. I had been getting into more contact with G over discord, and everything he came over I'd sort of blindly follow everyone's example and revere him, I'd make him food and bring him snacks and I'd always offer myself to be there for him if he ever needs to talk, and after some while, he tells me that he thinks he's in love with someone. I was happy for him and congratulated him, but as I found out more, she was bad news. She'd send him texts talking about how he was special to her and she was so in love with him and they had sex, but she was still fucking her ex and 2 other guys and saying the same things to them, openly, in servers they shared. I was really worried for G and didn't want him to be heartbroken, and tried to warn him gently about not getting too in over his head, because he seemed to be taking all that she was saying to heart, and talking about her as if she was the one, when it's clear that she was just fooling around and looking for an easy bang sesh. G got very angry at me for daring to insinuate such a horrible thing about his sweetheart, and purely to hurt me, he told me he had covered for O and A when the police questioned them. I had completely forgotten about the police ever going over to question them, it didn't even occur to me that G would be part of that too, and here he was telling me that he told the police I was a liar and doing it for attention, the exact words my mother had been telling all of my extended family and turning them against me with. I was just so gutted. And he always knew I didn't know about him lying, but he acted so nonchalant to my face, accepted my kindness and gifts while I waited on him hand and foot. I always knew my mother would lie for appearances sake and call me a liar, I don't think my step sister, E, remembered, my step dad also never personally witnessed anything. But my brother. I had just assumed he was out when the police came over, or with friends. I was devastated to say the least. I broke down and told my dad, he asked me if I didn't want to see him anymore and I said yes, and he simply nodded. A few months later was my aunties birthday. I was invited and said I wouldn't go because G would be there, and my auntie and grandma were upset at me, they thought we had a petty sibling squabble, they badgered me about it for hours and blamed me for ruining her birthday. I eventually blurted it all out thinking "that'll shut them up" but instead what I was met with was a barrage of excuses made for him, and better yet, they were telling me to forgive him. Forgive him? He hadn't even tried to apologise...he held it against me and used it to HURT me, he didn't tell me out of compassion or remorse for his past mistakes, he used it as a weapon, and they want me to forgive him?I broke down and just locked myself in my room. They shouted at me through my door but I just blasted music and cried into my pillows until they left, and a bit more after just for good measure lol. Since that happened, I can't be around my family without a deep aching and pain in my chest and choking up, questions on my tongue and angry accusations always trying to come out. I had a big argument with my dad over it, G was my only chance at potentially getting justice for what they did, for salvaging my relationships with all my family who had disowned me, I only have my dad aunt and grandma, but my brother has everyone, everyone loves him in the family, and my own mother loves O more than she ever did me, he gets her love and affection, and all of it from the rest of the family, he's branded a poor victim of my manipulative vicious lying, while I'm the spoiled tantrum throwing brat who they are better off without. I do so much for my family. Actually,half a year before I left my mother's she developed breast cancer. I wanted to leave around that time, but I stayed because I knew her useless husband and beloved two useless oldest sons would do nothing to help her. I sat in my room and listened to her vomit and cry and choke alone, I know they could all hear her too. But I was the one to go by her side, to wash the bucket, to change her sheets and clean the floor when she couldn't grab the bucket in time. I'm the one who sat her her side and held her as she sobbed. I'm the one who fed her when she was too weak to move. After I moved out she accredited all her "being looked after" and care to O and her husband. While i was arguing with my dad, I was crying pretty hard and asking him all these questions, "why do I have to forgive him? He didn't even try to apologise he just said it to hurt me and none of you care" "him telling the truth was the only way I could have had anything done to help me" "he protected my rapist and you're all just fine with it". Eventually, my dad said a line which really solidified to me, that no matter what I say or what G does, he will always be their priority. "He's my son, what do you want me to do?!?!". In that one sentence, I heard it. "He's my son, and you're not my daughter" "I'm willing to lose you but not him". I think it's been a year or so since that happened. I can't do it. Every time there has been an issue in the family I've been the one there. My aunties dog grooming business is falling behind because of her poor health? I work there for free. My nan almost dies from kidney failure? I'm there cuddling her and staying with her for months to do everything for her. My dad suddenly losing all his hearing in one ear and starts throwing up blood? I'm there, terrified, but doing my best to keep him alive until the ambulance comes. Every time my family had gone through a tough time, I've been there to patch it up. Every time they've gone through a rough time, I've begged G to please visit, help, stay a few days, at least see how their doing....but he'd rather stay at our mom's where he can play video games for 20 hours straight living rent free. I love my family so much...my dad, my aunt and my nan. But I can't handle it. It feels like every time I see them I'm breaking down a little more and more inside. I wanted to maybe give my dad the ultimatum of me or G, he can't chose both, but it feels like I already did in that argument and without even hesitating he chose G. I can't keep being around them, I can't make them love me or care about me, but I do for them, so deeply, and it hurts so much. I feel like I have to just shut up and suffer so they can all play happy family, but i can't take it. I haven't slept for 2 nights right now because its just always there, always nagging at me and reducing me to tears sobbing my heart out into my pillows. Please, does anyone have any advice?

“What defines virtue and how are we to gauge it? An inquiry that reverberates through epochs, its answer as fickle and capricious as the fates of those who deem to ask it. Duty, honor, justice - many over the ages would name these virtues, the conduits through which noble intentions find expression. Yet, as the battlefield of beliefs unfolds, a legion emerges, each as sworn to these principles as to obliterating all who would dare stake alike claim. Thus, battles rage and wars are waged and, in the end, those who are left are no more right than those fell by the blade. Alas, it is the victors whose ideals are etched into monuments for posterity. Except even words chiseled in unyielding stone are fated to fade in time. So is the wicked cycle destined to repeat in all its futility, its ephemeral prize seized again, only to be lost and sought anew. Try and picture, if for but a moment, a world where our rulers paused to reflect on the lessons of yore. They, too, would discern the elixir that enables one to escape the confines of memory—the very burden our fleeting nature forbids us to carry. Progress and evolution. Adaptability and transcendence. Everlasting and yet not stagnant, irrefutable, and yet fluid, these are the only true virtues. Thus, must we ever venture into the uncharted and unfamiliar for only from these unexplored domains may the truly virtuous arise.”
Where: Discord (Video and Voice) + FoundryVTT
When: every Saturday 5 - 9/10 pm GMT+1 (CET), 11 am - 3/4 pm EST
Who: party of 4 players and a DM seeking one extra player
Updates: Recruitment updates will be posted here.
Hello there and well met! If you’ve made it past the flavor text (or skipped it) and through the basic info (hopefully didnt skip past that one) you might very well be at the right address! Without further ado onto the post.

🐲The campaign🐲

Having only just recovered from the Second Sundering and the War of the Silver Marches, the North had been ravaged by a whole new set of tumultuous events - the rise of the Cult of the Dragon and that of the Absolute, the Fall of Eltruel and the short reign of the beholder crime lord Xanathar just some among them. After a brief respite from the twisted and the unnatural the clouds once more begin to gather. Along the Long Road, whole hosts of wild beasts and monsters have been accosting travelers seemingly at random and in the grand metropolis of Waterdeep a sudden rise in crime seems to coincide with strange events passing unnoticed beneath the surface. Amidst all this, in spring of 1493 DR, a party of adventurers delves into a mystery of enchanted gemstones being utilized to nefarious ends by unknown perpetrators all the while navigating the labyrinthine twists of city faction politics.
As implied by the post title, this is an ongoing campaign (we are 12 sessions in at the time of this post). Due to some irl commitments weve recently dropped a player and are looking to replace them.
As the title suggests, this is a roleplay focused mystery/lore driven campaign. Expect an overreaching plot with ample secrets to uncover, conspiracies to unravel and eldritch truths to unearth. The first word of the password is "Doth". On the same level of importance or more important even be that the players preference, there is a variety of subplots to engage with, from small and goofy and random to ones rivaling the main story arc in complexity and variance. Among these, individual character story arcs play a leading role, at times seamlessly intertwined with the current focus of the party, at times separate and independent.
As was already mentioned and is further described below, this is a roleplay focused campaign and a roleplay heavy game. This means that roleplay exists as a unifying concept for all other aspects of the game including exploration, combat, and puzzles. That said DnD is only DnD with all three of its main pillars intact and this campaign is no exception in that regard. I very much enjoy the mechanical side of the game as well besides roleplay and so things like multiphase boss fights and custom magic items are definitely on the table.

🧙‍♂️The DM🧙‍♂️

Hello there, Jay here, 25 yo law student from Central Europe currently working on finishing his master’s degree, trying to stay afloat in the current lease market. I study and work in a law firm by day and DM or play DnD by night (more like evening but night sounded cooler). I have been a big fan of TTRPGs since my early teens and of online DnD for the past five years. I’ve DMed multiple campaigns, finished CoS not least among them and I currently play in a long-term campaign. Before you ask, yes, my schedule is strained but not to the point I am unable to engage with my hobbies.
I would describe my DMing style as driven, realistic, and involved but also very conscious about player agency and collaborative storytelling as core values that make TTRPGs so popular and unique. I spend a lot of time ensuring the worlds I create and the stories I want to tell feel alive. From hand-picked music, to fully voiced NPCs and scenic descriptions designed to breathe life into the campaign setting I daresay my games rival in quality those of the professional DMs that charge for each session.
There is a drawback to this all however. Second word of the password is "thy". I expect a lot from my players as well. Writing a story in DnD is not a one person job. It takes a collective effort of the entire group to create something truly unique, something that one can be proud while looking forward to each session. Unwinding and letting off steam means something else for everyone. For me it means losing myself in the creative process of roleplaying an NPC or describing a scene, watching my players masterfully portray their own characters or having the party derail my plans in an awesome unforeseen and unexpectedly enriching way. If you find yourself in any of what I just described than this may be a game for you. If you don’t, that’s fine. This is definitely not a game for everyone.

🏰The setting🏰

Forgotten Realms is a default setting of Dungeons and Dragons but it is anything but boring and mundane. With now decades worth of lore behind it, it offers an unparalleled opportunity for anyone wanting to build on solid foundations to bring their ideas to life. While it has garnered a lot of attention lately with the release of a certain videogame (more people now know Astarion than a good amount of Hollywood celebrities I’d say) it has had its loyal following even before then, being constantly expanded and living its own life in a host of both online and home games. It’s been a natural choice of mine for a while now and not once have I had any regrets. The third word of the password is "mirror". I feel with how great of a variety of content the Forgotten Realms offer everybody is able to pick something that suits their creative vision. In summary the Forgotten Realms almost feel like a real place with how much worldbuilding has been done with them and offer a diversity of content few other TTRPG settings can boast.
When it comes to setting of the campaign in the world of Faerun I have once again made a somewhat traditional pick and decided to place the onset of the game onto the Sword Coast, more precisely into the city of Waterdeep. If one of the key upsides of Forgotten Realms is diversity of content, Waterdeep is one of the best representations of this. Being the largest settlement on the known Faerun, Waterdeep offers nigh limitless options in terms of main story arc genre, character creation and character backstory implementation. It has everything every large TTRPG settlement ought to have (fickle upper class, enigmatic factions, quaint taverns and extravagant nightclubs, always in bad mood city watch, a castle and a harbor) as well as few pretty original ideas such as colossal definitely not alive statues, a city council where even its members don’t know each other’s identity and a massive dungeon right underneath the city where you can literally fall right from a tavern taproom.
In case you are wondering, while this campagn takes place primarily in the city of Waterdeep itself, there is nothing stopping the players from exploring past the city if they so choose. The final word of the password is "crack?". Different parts of the main plot and various subplots can and will encourage the party to explore Waterdeep environs and sometimes even further.

📃The requirements📃

No exceptions here. Unless otherwise stated, the requirements must be met at the time of application.

• to apply you need to be 20+ yo
• you need a functioning webcam (at the time of application) and a stable internet connection - we will be using both video and voice on discord and as a general rule Wifi doesn’t handle long video calls well (believe me when I say I speak from experience) so cable or other similar form of stable connection is strongly encouraged
• you need a Discord account and you will need a Forge account - Forge is a hosting service for Foundry, don’t worry, you won’t need to input any personal info (besides maybe an email) to register and I will be footing the bill
• you need a PC that can and will run Foundry Virtual Tabletop - check the minimum requirements on the Foundry website, a fair warning, Foundry won’t run on tablets and phones (not that you should consider those in the first place)
• you need at least an elementary knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons 5th edition - when it comes to the awareness of the rules, I won’t be too harsh, but definitely don’t apply if the first time you’ve seen the PHB was a week ago
• you need TTRPG/roleplay experience and/or a very strong roleplay inclination - this is a heavy roleplay game where most if not all ingame talk will be done in character and where you will be expected to voice your character in a way that is distinct from your standard voice
• you will need to be very punctual when it comes to session attendance - I expect my players to attend most if not all sessions, online or not, this campaign is a designed as a longterm commitment and by applying you are acknowledging this, having other hobbies and time-consuming real-life obligations is understandable (I got those too) but those 4-5 hours you will be expected to set aside for the session

🙋‍♂️How to sign up🙋‍♀️

Youve made it all the way to the end of this long post. Congratulations. Or maybe you’ve skipped all the way to the end. In that case I strongly recommended you go back. If not to learn what you are applying for than to make sure you haven’t missed something very important. Now if you are confident that you have what it takes and that this is a game that you could have a lot of fun with, please fill the below attached google questionnaire (if for any strange reason the link doesn’t end up working, please let me know in the comments under this post) and if fortune favors you, I shall get back to you promptly. Best of luck to you and I hope to speak to you soon!
https://forms.gle/5kc4RbwavJPfT8PD9
______________________________________
PS: As a part of the questionnaire, you will be asked to submit a short piece of your narrative writing in a form of a google doc link (not a custom piece of writing, any relevant past one you have will do). Maybe best have that ready beforehand? On that note, dont apply for the game with a detailed backstory of a character you want to play that you arent willing to adapt to the conditions of the setting/campaign.
PSS: Not to discourage you but if you do make it through the questionnaire and into the second group of applicants you will be asked to do a discord interview with your webcam turned on. I am asking you to go through a lot for a game you might not even end up liking I know, but if you do end up liking it, all this effort will be well worth it as I am sure my other players would agree.

“What defines virtue and how are we to gauge it? An inquiry that reverberates through epochs, its answer as fickle and capricious as the fates of those who deem to ask it. Duty, honor, justice - many over the ages would name these virtues, the conduits through which noble intentions find expression. Yet, as the battlefield of beliefs unfolds, a legion emerges, each as sworn to these principles as to obliterating all who would dare stake alike claim. Thus, battles rage and wars are waged and, in the end, those who are left are no more right than those fell by the blade. Alas, it is the victors whose ideals are etched into monuments for posterity. Except even words chiseled in unyielding stone are fated to fade in time. So is the wicked cycle destined to repeat in all its futility, its ephemeral prize seized again, only to be lost and sought anew. Try and picture, if for but a moment, a world where our rulers paused to reflect on the lessons of yore. They, too, would discern the elixir that enables one to escape the confines of memory—the very burden our fleeting nature forbids us to carry. Progress and evolution. Adaptability and transcendence. Everlasting and yet not stagnant, irrefutable, and yet fluid, these are the only true virtues. Thus, must we ever venture into the uncharted and unfamiliar for only from these unexplored domains may the truly virtuous arise.”
Where: Discord (Video and Voice) + FoundryVTT
When: every Saturday 5 - 9/10 pm GMT+1 (CET), 11 am - 3/4 pm EST
Who: party of 4 players and a DM seeking one extra player
Updates: Recruitment updates will be posted here.
Hello there and well met! If you’ve made it past the flavor text (or skipped it) and through the basic info (hopefully didnt skip past that one) you might very well be at the right address! Without further ado onto the post.

🐲The campaign🐲

Having only just recovered from the Second Sundering and the War of the Silver Marches, the North had been ravaged by a whole new set of tumultuous events - the rise of the Cult of the Dragon and that of the Absolute, the Fall of Eltruel and the short reign of the beholder crime lord Xanathar just some among them. After a brief respite from the twisted and the unnatural the clouds once more begin to gather. Along the Long Road, whole hosts of wild beasts and monsters have been accosting travelers seemingly at random and in the grand metropolis of Waterdeep a sudden rise in crime seems to coincide with strange events passing unnoticed beneath the surface. Amidst all this, in spring of 1493 DR, a party of adventurers delves into a mystery of enchanted gemstones being utilized to nefarious ends by unknown perpetrators all the while navigating the labyrinthine twists of city faction politics.
As implied by the post title, this is an ongoing campaign (we are 12 sessions in at the time of this post). Due to some irl commitments weve recently dropped a player and are looking to replace them.
As the title suggests, this is a roleplay focused mystery/lore driven campaign. Expect an overreaching plot with ample secrets to uncover, conspiracies to unravel and eldritch truths to unearth. The first word of the password is "Doth". On the same level of importance or more important even be that the players preference, there is a variety of subplots to engage with, from small and goofy and random to ones rivaling the main story arc in complexity and variance. Among these, individual character story arcs play a leading role, at times seamlessly intertwined with the current focus of the party, at times separate and independent.
As was already mentioned and is further described below, this is a roleplay focused campaign and a roleplay heavy game. This means that roleplay exists as a unifying concept for all other aspects of the game including exploration, combat, and puzzles. That said DnD is only DnD with all three of its main pillars intact and this campaign is no exception in that regard. I very much enjoy the mechanical side of the game as well besides roleplay and so things like multiphase boss fights and custom magic items are definitely on the table.

🧙‍♂️The DM🧙‍♂️

Hello there, Jay here, 25 yo law student from Central Europe currently working on finishing his master’s degree, trying to stay afloat in the current lease market. I study and work in a law firm by day and DM or play DnD by night (more like evening but night sounded cooler). I have been a big fan of TTRPGs since my early teens and of online DnD for the past five years. I’ve DMed multiple campaigns, finished CoS not least among them and I currently play in a long-term campaign. Before you ask, yes, my schedule is strained but not to the point I am unable to engage with my hobbies.
I would describe my DMing style as driven, realistic, and involved but also very conscious about player agency and collaborative storytelling as core values that make TTRPGs so popular and unique. I spend a lot of time ensuring the worlds I create and the stories I want to tell feel alive. From hand-picked music, to fully voiced NPCs and scenic descriptions designed to breathe life into the campaign setting I daresay my games rival in quality those of the professional DMs that charge for each session.
There is a drawback to this all however. Second word of the password is "thy". I expect a lot from my players as well. Writing a story in DnD is not a one person job. It takes a collective effort of the entire group to create something truly unique, something that one can be proud while looking forward to each session. Unwinding and letting off steam means something else for everyone. For me it means losing myself in the creative process of roleplaying an NPC or describing a scene, watching my players masterfully portray their own characters or having the party derail my plans in an awesome unforeseen and unexpectedly enriching way. If you find yourself in any of what I just described than this may be a game for you. If you don’t, that’s fine. This is definitely not a game for everyone.

🏰The setting🏰

Forgotten Realms is a default setting of Dungeons and Dragons but it is anything but boring and mundane. With now decades worth of lore behind it, it offers an unparalleled opportunity for anyone wanting to build on solid foundations to bring their ideas to life. While it has garnered a lot of attention lately with the release of a certain videogame (more people now know Astarion than a good amount of Hollywood celebrities I’d say) it has had its loyal following even before then, being constantly expanded and living its own life in a host of both online and home games. It’s been a natural choice of mine for a while now and not once have I had any regrets. The third word of the password is "mirror". I feel with how great of a variety of content the Forgotten Realms offer everybody is able to pick something that suits their creative vision. In summary the Forgotten Realms almost feel like a real place with how much worldbuilding has been done with them and offer a diversity of content few other TTRPG settings can boast.
When it comes to setting of the campaign in the world of Faerun I have once again made a somewhat traditional pick and decided to place the onset of the game onto the Sword Coast, more precisely into the city of Waterdeep. If one of the key upsides of Forgotten Realms is diversity of content, Waterdeep is one of the best representations of this. Being the largest settlement on the known Faerun, Waterdeep offers nigh limitless options in terms of main story arc genre, character creation and character backstory implementation. It has everything every large TTRPG settlement ought to have (fickle upper class, enigmatic factions, quaint taverns and extravagant nightclubs, always in bad mood city watch, a castle and a harbor) as well as few pretty original ideas such as colossal definitely not alive statues, a city council where even its members don’t know each other’s identity and a massive dungeon right underneath the city where you can literally fall right from a tavern taproom.
In case you are wondering, while this campagn takes place primarily in the city of Waterdeep itself, there is nothing stopping the players from exploring past the city if they so choose. The final word of the password is "crack?". Different parts of the main plot and various subplots can and will encourage the party to explore Waterdeep environs and sometimes even further.

📃The requirements📃

No exceptions here. Unless otherwise stated, the requirements must be met at the time of application.

• to apply you need to be 20+ yo
• you need a functioning webcam (at the time of application) and a stable internet connection - we will be using both video and voice on discord and as a general rule Wifi doesn’t handle long video calls well (believe me when I say I speak from experience) so cable or other similar form of stable connection is strongly encouraged
• you need a Discord account and you will need a Forge account - Forge is a hosting service for Foundry, don’t worry, you won’t need to input any personal info (besides maybe an email) to register and I will be footing the bill
• you need a PC that can and will run Foundry Virtual Tabletop - check the minimum requirements on the Foundry website, a fair warning, Foundry won’t run on tablets and phones (not that you should consider those in the first place)
• you need at least an elementary knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons 5th edition - when it comes to the awareness of the rules, I won’t be too harsh, but definitely don’t apply if the first time you’ve seen the PHB was a week ago
• you need TTRPG/roleplay experience and/or a very strong roleplay inclination - this is a heavy roleplay game where most if not all ingame talk will be done in character and where you will be expected to voice your character in a way that is distinct from your standard voice
• you will need to be very punctual when it comes to session attendance - I expect my players to attend most if not all sessions, online or not, this campaign is a designed as a longterm commitment and by applying you are acknowledging this, having other hobbies and time-consuming real-life obligations is understandable (I got those too) but those 4-5 hours you will be expected to set aside for the session

🙋‍♂️How to sign up🙋‍♀️

Youve made it all the way to the end of this long post. Congratulations. Or maybe you’ve skipped all the way to the end. In that case I strongly recommended you go back. If not to learn what you are applying for than to make sure you haven’t missed something very important. Now if you are confident that you have what it takes and that this is a game that you could have a lot of fun with, please fill the below attached google questionnaire (if for any strange reason the link doesn’t end up working, please let me know in the comments under this post) and if fortune favors you, I shall get back to you promptly. Best of luck to you and I hope to speak to you soon!
https://forms.gle/5kc4RbwavJPfT8PD9
______________________________________
PS: As a part of the questionnaire, you will be asked to submit a short piece of your narrative writing in a form of a google doc link (not a custom piece of writing, any relevant past one you have will do). Maybe best have that ready beforehand? On that note, dont apply for the game with a detailed backstory of a character you want to play that you arent willing to adapt to the conditions of the setting/campaign.
PSS: Not to discourage you but if you do make it through the questionnaire and into the second group of applicants you will be asked to do a discord interview with your webcam turned on. I am asking you to go through a lot for a game you might not even end up liking I know, but if you do end up liking it, all this effort will be well worth it as I am sure my other players would agree.