Timestamp: https://imgur.com/gallery/22h1YVb
Additional photos: https://imgur.com/gallery/kHohiSa
Looking to sell my Anvis 9 setup, as I think I wanna upgrade. Omni V tubes, very clean - slight blem in zone 3 of the R tube. Just ran them through midnight brutality which was non ideal conditions and they performed flawlessly. Included video is from a cloudy night with cloud cover and no moonlight as a reference. Anyway rest of the details:

• Anvis 9 omni V contract aviation tubes
  
• AB Storm Ball Detent mount
  
• Low profile battery pack
  
• Homemade sacrificial lenses/iris caps for focusing
  

These are the perfect entry into duals. I bought to dip my toes in and see if I wanted to continue on the path to burning my money. Looking for $3800 shipped. I am glad to do whatever confirmation you need to feel comfortable buying, but ideally would like paypal f&f. I'm also located in Vermont and willing to drive within reason to meet in the northeast if you are interested and want to see them in person.
Likewise if I have a buyer for JUST the anvis, I will split other parts out:

• just the anvis $3200
  
• AB Storm mount -$280
  
• LPBP- $150
  

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/gallery/Hx4G1wc
Additional photos: https://imgur.com/gallery/kHohiSa
Looking to sell my Anvis 9 setup, as I think I wanna upgrade. Omni V tubes, very clean - slight blem in zone 3 of the R tube. Just ran them through midnight brutality which was non ideal conditions and they performed flawlessly. Included video is from a cloudy night with cloud cover and no moonlight as a reference. Anyway rest of the details:
-Anvis 9 omni V contract aviation tubes
-AB Storm Ball Detent mount
-Low profile battery pack
-Homemade sacrificial lenses/iris caps for focusing
These are the perfect entry into duals. I bought to dip my toes in and see if I wanted to continue on the path to burning my money. Looking for $4k shipped. I am glad to do whatever confirmation you need to feel comfortable buying, but ideally would like paypal f&f. I'm also located in Vermont and willing to drive within reason to meet in the northeast if you are interested and want to see them in person.

🪞
Welcome back to the Asylum write-up, where we explore the decade-long slow-motion car crash that is the Emilie Autumn fandom.
Sorry this installment took so long to upload! Just a heads-up, I may take some time to deliver the last one too – these posts take forever to format on Reddit's finicky-ass editor, and my dumb real life is currently keeping me from precious Internet time. Thank you for your patience! You have my word that everyone who pre-ordered the final installment will receive a PERSONAL, HANDWRITTEN letter autographed and illustrated by me, a list of the snacks I consumed while composing this write-up, some exclusive behind-the-scenes secrets, and a pony.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.1 – Part 4.2 Part 5

Places, everyone This is a test Throw your stones Do your damage Your worst, and your best (...) And if I had a dollar For every time I repented the sin And commit the same crime I'd be sitting on top of the world today (“God Help Me”, 2006🎵)

Quick recap of where we left off. First, there were five to ten halcyon years of pleasant and meaningful interactions between EA and her blossoming fanbase, prominently by way of her official forum. Then, circa 2009-2010, EA's online presence shifted towards sudden anger outbursts, ban-hammering, and an increasingly top-down communication style.
This created a sort of primordial rift within the fanbase, between those who supported EA's right to speak her mind and regulate her own fan spaces however she pleased – and those who thought that her reactions were rude and inappropriate (at best), and that even fan spaces should allow for reasonable, non-abusive criticism of the artist.
Between a poorly-handled book release (see Part 3), the controversial (Part 2) or dubiously true (Part 4) contents of said book, and serious shade from various former collaborators (Part 5), more and more fans had pressing thoughts about EA's work ethic and choices. EA attempted damage control through drastic forum rules that made it virtually impossible to voice any “serious” critical opinion. It didn't work, of course: instead of squashing the mutiny, she created a schism.
Critical fans and active haters started congregating on unofficial platforms.

“WITH MUFFINS LIKE THIS, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?”: TROLL LIKE A GIRL

So here we were, the early 2010s. The official forum (which had about 700 members in 2006, if you recall) was now thousands-strong, reaching just over 12,000 registered users in 2012 – not all of them active, but still. In terms of sheer numbers and content creation, the party was POPPIN'... but increasingly in parts of the Asylum that escaped EA's jurisdiction, such as Tumblr, where they could speak their mind freely.

You play the victim very well You've built your self-indulgent hell You wanted someone to understand you Well, be careful what you wish for, because I do (“I Know Where You Sleep”, 2006🎵)

In one wing of Asylum Tumblr, a smattering of call-out blogs emerged, which laid out EA's various lies, faux pas, shitty takes, and general deep-seated terribleness in detailed timelines and screenshots (or, short of that, long-winded bullet points). While many such blogs framed it as “serious” whistleblowing and did their best to remain as fact-based and neutral as they could, there was some genuine disgust, animosity and creepiness towards EA on that side of Tumblr; for some ex-fans, “exposing the truth” was mostly justify obsessive hatred, prying and verbal abuse. Some, for instance, felt the bizarre need to side with EA's mother in their estrangement. (One user, with the URL “emilyautumnfischkopf”, argued in a serious and down-to-earth tone - but with zero sources - that EA's upbringing had been nothing but peaceful and supportive until she ungratefully kicked her loving family to the curb for no reason at all. They were later revealed 🔍 to have an alternate handle as “eaisalyingcunt”.)
Either way, through these blogs, a number of potential drama bombs that had mostly flown under the radar were dredged up from over the years – some of which were hard to ignore, even for supportive fans. Where to begin?
There was that nonsense in-joke song, captured twice on camera during the 2009 tour (to very little outrage, at the time), crassly called “Manatee Retard”📺. Or EA's scathing response, in print, to a wheelchair user who found it insensitive that she used a bedazzled wheelchair as a prop to do sexy acrobatics on stage. (“Your offence taken at my hard-won self-acceptance proves that I indeed have something to fight against”, she wrote). Spoken word tracks where she made trivializing knock-knock jokes about serious mental illnesses she didn't have, like schizophrenia and OCD. Multiple instances of calling Britney Spears a “bimbo” and a “Hollywood fucked-up”, resentfully claiming that she only shaved her head because she was “hopped up on drugs” and certainly not because she was “bipolar”, a word the press liked to wield as an insult anyway. (“That's almost like calling someone a retard!” Yeah, heaven forbid.) The meanest, most distasteful paragraphs in the book. Basically everything problematic EA had ever said or written.📝 In retrospect, it had been a long time coming, but it was a lot to take in – and certainly more off-putting, even to less emotionally invested fans, than silly lies about her age and last name.
In another wing of Asylum Tumblr, some fans had had it up to here and just wanted to have fun. 🎵 If Plague Rats had learned one valuable lesson from EA, it was how to crack a joke in the face of absurd tragedy – and the general state of the EA fandom certainly warranted a few.
In 2012, Fight Like a Girl was released. After six long years, three of which had been peaceful, the Opheliac era was officially over. The new album and ensuing tour confirmed that the Asylum had entered a process of glamorous Broadway-style militarization. 🎵📺
The mood board was “Roman general meets Vegas showgirl meets Victorian street urchin”.🪞 The color palette was, to naysayers, “musty pink and rotten, stale piss yellow”. 🐀 The keyword was “REVENGE” (through the power of... self-expression! sorority! brutal assault with rusty medical implements!). The chorus of the title song had an intriguing run-on line about getting “revenge on the world, or at least 49% of the people in it” 🎵 – which seemed like an awful lot, and was widely interpreted (to cheers, boos, or uncomfortable sighs) as a misandrist jab at literally all men on Earth.
The show was essentially a demo version of the musical, in that the setlist vaguely reflected the order of events in the story – but prior reading was essential in order to get what the hell was going on on stage. This one Broadway reviewer had not perused the literature before seeing the show 🔍, and hated: the set, the choreography, the skits, the plot, the lyrics, the music, the concept. (Seriously, you should read the review. It's not even my show and I feel like quitting show business.)
Pre-show VIP encounters, now violin-free, were lorded over by EA's new manager🐀, whose official title was “Asylum Headmistress”. (Interesting choice – she sounds fun!) The swag bags were less substantial than before, and the “greet” part of the meet-and-greet was rarely more than a quick hug and photo op.
On Twitter, EA continued to embrace her “I am very badass” fronting attitude...

Often wonder if cyberbullies r aware they’re fucking w/ a girl who’s BFs w/ maker of the SAW films & is marrying a knife-throwing scorpion. (🐀📝)

...and her taste for needlessly inflammatory statements. About an aisle sign in a supermarket:

If this does not infuriate you, then you're a fucking potato.

(Again with the confounding crypto-ableism, EA! 🔍) She also went through a phase of raging against Lady Gaga 📝, who had stolen her idea of using a wheelchair on stage as an able-bodied woman. 🔍 That failed to convince anyone that she wasn't the histrionic diva that haters made her out to be.
Spurred on by EA's rallying cries and “us vs them” mentality, loyalists turned the white-knighting up to 11. On Twitter, some Plague Rats got into cat fights with Lady Gaga's Little Monsters (what a time to be alive). Others tried to balance out the Tumblr negativity with initiatives like “Spreading a Plague of Love” – a “positive-only” confession blog, whose extreme fangirling, comically drastic rules and hyper-defensive tone📝 did not debunk the increasingly popular notion that “true Plague Rats” were a bunch of authoritarian and hopelessly brainwashed fanatics.
EA truthers and other anti-fans started lashing out at anyone who dared express any positive opinion of EA, solidifying claims that the backlash against EA was just a conspiracy of bitter, hysterical bullies.
All this to say: every passing day brought new reasons for fans to get mad at EA and each other, and everyone in the Asylum was in need of a laugh. It's not easy having a good time.🦠
Leading up to Fight Like a Girl and in the years that followed, user-submission-based meme blogs took off, most notably “Spreading a Plague of Lulz / Troll Like a Girl”. A lot of the early submissions were absurdist humor and toothless, cheezburger-Impact memes (a style that was, oddly, already dated at the time). Those often originated in good fun, and from loyal fans, on the official forum. But there was also true snark, satirizing EA's questionable ethics, outrageous claims, and easily spoofed artistic gimmicks. A new slang of Asylumspeak emerged: Glittertits (slight NSFW), GAGA!!, EA Gusta and all its memeface variants, Get outta mah house!, Are You Suffering?, Fight Like A Goat, [Random celebrity] copied EA (a subgenre in its own right), ...
Most of the “trolling” was directed at unrepentant bootlickers and, to a lesser extent, red-in-the-face haters and creeps. Meme blogs would post joke comments under “serious” or gushing submissions on Wayward Victorian Confessions, and taunt loyalist accounts by tagging them in their posts. When a few people complained on WVC that almost all of the Bloody Crumpets to date had been thin white able-bodied women, and a few fans responded by sharing their dream-casts for a more diverse line-up, the blog was flooded for days with confessions that “X should be a Crumpet” (candidates included RuPaul, Mitt Romney, Nicki Minaj, EA's therapist, and the WVC admins). Farcical shenanigans like that.
Ah, but some people will always cross the line, won't they. EA threads popped up on merciless, bully-friendly snark platforms like Lolcow, Pretty Ugly Little Liar, and Encyclopedia Dramatica. Snarkers with a mean streak and obsessive haters mingled in some of the more aggressive, 4-chan-spirited retaliation against EA – which would be called “brigading” in modern parlance. This included flooding EA's Goodreads page with one-star reviews (see part 4), repeatedly editing her Wikipedia page to include her legal name and birth year, and ensuring that Googling said name would bring up current pictures of her.
All of this compounded agitation fragmented the once-united fandom beyond recognition.🦠 Through substantial disagreements among fans, personal bickerings, layers upon layers of inscrutable in-jokes, and cross-platform telephone games, the Asylum morphed into a booby-trapped Escher room.
Satire blogs were taken in earnest. Earnest fan blogs scanned as satire. Memes would get called out as abuse. Appreciation without attached criticism would get mocked as bootlicking. Obvious jokes made by EA would be taken at face value. One divisive confession could trigger days and days of debate, to the point that WVC eventually banned confessions in response to other confessions. New waves of infighting created a confusing web of rival sub-factions🐀, each accusing the others of being toxic, cliquish, and delusional.
The shared fantasy was broken, the collective vision had crumbled, no onez was speaking the same language anymore. Fans would jump down the throat of other fans who held almost identical views about EA, except for that one thing she said or did that one time. Everyone had differing thoughts on what should or shouldn't acceptable to discuss, question, excuse, make fun of.
War is hell.

SCORCHED EARTH SHENANIGANS: HONEY, I SHRUNK THE ASYLUM

Would you tear my castle down Stone by stone And let the wind run through my windows Till there was nothing left But a battered rose? (“Castle Down”, 2003🎵)

Haters vs sycophants is not really the kind of conflict where one side can come out on top (if you're participating, you've already lost). But in the long tug-of-war between “grassroots” and “EA-sponsored” fan spaces, the ultimate winner is obvious – in that the former is gasping in agony, a shriveled husk of its former glory, while the latter... is non-existent. This is due in no small part to EA's tendency, like the Czars of old, to settle conflicts by setting Moscow on fire.🔍)
That's not entirely fair: unlike EA, the czar only did it that once.
By early 2013, as EA was gearing up for her third Fight Like a Girl tour at the end of the year, the official forum was... not as lively as it once had been. Not just because of the stifling rules and disgruntlement towards EA, or because EA herself hadn't really posted anything on there in years; the Internet was also changing, and forums in general were fast becoming passé.
This made it difficult for EA to create a safe space where she could talk to fans, and fans could talk to and about her, in a way she deemed suitable (ie, a space she could gate-keep and regulate enough to keep it completely free from negative criticism). Social media was a minefield; she still posted regularly, but didn't interact very much. So EA and the Headmistress came up with a way to filter out the unbelievers: an official fan club📝, aptly called the “Asylum Army”, with a $100 entry price.
Joining the AA came with a dog tag, a sew-on patch, and a lifetime membership certificate signed by EA and – for some reason – the Headmistress. (Unlike EA's best friend and sound engineer back in the forum's heyday, I don't think fans ever really embraced the FLAG-era manager as part of the Asylum in-group. She came across more as a coordinator / businessperson / adult chaperone, at best.🐀) So, slightly better goodies than you'd get by joining the other AA 🔍 ... but not by much. The main appeal was that members would have access to exclusive content, special merch, giveaways, early bird tickets for future shows, and regular video chats with EA.
The concept itself drew a fair amount of criticism, as you can imagine. Between the name🐀, the price, and the inherent gatekeeping of a pay-to-join fanclub, many balked at the monetizing of a concept that had once (like, three years back) been significantly more DIY, grassroots, and inclusive. 📝🐀
Then again, many also longed for a positive, drama-free space where fans could just be fans. And while the creation of the AA was generally recognized as a quick cashgrab, a lot of people were surprisingly cool with it. EA was trying to finance her dream musical, after all – although a number of fans wished she had gone about raising funds in a less sketchy way.
So around 400 fans shelled out (which, according to the Headmistress📝, “basically cover[ed] the cost of running the fanclub itself – keeping the database up, website, etc.”). Enough for a close-knit, but sizable community. But already, there was a conflict of interest: a high fanclub entry fee essentially demands that you pledge loyalty to the artist over loyalty to your fellow fans, who wish to join but can't afford to. Sharing, caring, and ensuring no one felt left out were some of the more positive values cultivated in the fandom... but leaking exclusive content would surely piss off other paying members🐀, and make EA feel betrayed all over again. (And she had barely just started to mellow out on social media!)
...But then again, this is the internet. After the first month of secret AA drops (lyric sheets, some photoshoot outtakes – nothing too juicy, really), there were, yes, some leaks. EA was predictably miffed, and retaliated by... ghosting the fanclub for weeks at a time in its first few months of existence (great look!). She eventually found the “solution” to her problem, by providing something you couldn't right-click-save (and which had been part of the promised perks to begin with): live interaction.
Over webcam, she was her usual in-person bubbly, charming, funny self. Everyone seemingly had a good time during the fanclub video chat, and this gave people faith and hope.
There were a few more events, giveaways, etc. As promised, ahead of the fall 2013 tour (the last one to date, it would turn out), AA members got priority access to show tickets and VIP bundles. The latter were much pricier than before, and only included soundcheck, a photo-op, and three goodies: a tin of loose-leaf tea, a signed printer-paper setlist, and a small flag that said “F.L.A.G.”.🔍 Some stuff continued to leak – but, as some of the outlaws pointed out (scroll down to the Disqus comments), they were mostly relaying information that was relevant to the entire fanbase, such as updates about ongoing projects (the dragged-out recording of the audiobook, for one).
In early 2014, lifetime memberships were closed, and replaced with monthly, quarterly and yearly subscription tiers. Bizarrely, you ended up paying $3 more per month if you bought a $99 yearly subscription📝 – but it did include the patch, dog tag, and piece of paper!

Sometimes I kind of want to be part of the cool kids and register to the Asylum Army. Then I remember how it came about, what you could get for the same price a couple years ago, how the whole thing was and is handled, and that I won’t support any of this bullshit. (And then I roll around naked in all the money I’m saving.) (🐀)

Still, a number of fans rejoiced at the affordable monthly option, and joined – if not for the exclusive content and merch (which were... okay, but not much to write home about), then for the friendly, drama-free exchanges with an artist they actually did love, in spite of all the frustration.
For the still-too-poor or still-undecided, there was always the forum! It wasn't as active as it used to be, but a few die-hards still managed to keep the lights on... until, inevitably, Someone Did Something and Ruined Everything. (Once again: EA's wrath is spectacular, but rarely completely unprovoked.) The incident features one notable figure in the Asylum community. Let's call him the Collector.
OK, so maybe you remember the meme I linked to in Part 4, with Christian Grey and the ginormous EA hoard. Well, that's the Collector's collection. The “Violin” promo that I called the "Holy Grail of the fandom" in the same paragraph? Also his. The handwritten lyrics that went for $940? Guess who won that auction. Over the years, the Collector had probably spent five figures on EA merch and shows, and although that fact was a little unsettling, he was a very active, easy-going, and generally well-liked fixture of the fandom.
One day in 2012, shortly after the Headmistress had replaced EA's old Chicago BFF as main forum admin, the Collector's account got banned or restricted over something dumb. When the ban wasn't lifted as quickly as he hoped, he took it... the way one takes things when one is unhealthily invested: he started spamming Headmistress and the mod team with increasingly rambling and abusive emails (lost to time, probably for the best). When that didn't work quickly enough, he tried a different route.
One of the many auctions that the Collector had won, some years prior, was EA's old iPod Touch📝 – which contained all of her favorite tunes and, buried somewhere in the data cache... a phone number. Which the Collector tried calling. And wouldn't you know it: EA picked up. She congratulated him on his sleuthing skills, listened patiently as he made his case, apologized for any distress caused by the unfair account restriction, and then they got married.
Kidding! She freaked the fuck out, hung up, and banned him for life from the forum and all EA shows and events.
After his ban, the Collector allegedly still tried to attend at least one VIP pre-show (one source in the comments says he was allowed to buy some merch, refunded for his ticket, and escorted out). He joined the Reform forum to bitch about EA and try to rally people to his cause, possibly made revenge posts about her on darker snark forums, and continued to hound the Asylum mod team. So in June 2014, EA came up with a radical and unexpected fix to the Collector problem.

The official Asylum Fan Forum has been shut down permanently. I have personally paid thousands of dollars each year to keep the forum safe and secure for you ... Unfortunately, the forum has not been kept safe and secure for me, a truth which disappoints me greatly, instead becoming a place where people who have physically threatened myself and my staff prey upon forum members, pressuring them to contact me and my staff on their behalf. If the gullible wish to humor my stalkers (who live in their parent’s basement at age 30 something) and thus put me in danger, they may do it on their own dime. They may also fuck off, because stupidity can kill, and I won’t be your victim. To those who enjoyed the forum, you know who to thank for its closure. (“On the closing of the Asylum Forum”)

Voilà! This is how a decade-long archive of shared history ends: not with a bang, but with a dirty delete and a sod-off communiqué.
The obliteration of the forum took everyone by surprise...

I was actually on the forum when it was taken down. I was navigating between posts and when I went to click on a different board, an error message came up. I honestly cried a little, I'm not ashamed to say. (WVC admin on Reddit, 2024)

...and I do mean everyone:

Chicago BFF / ex-admin, the next morning: Whoa, EA forum shut down? Ex-mod: It turns out that if someone spends enough years actively “waging war” to destroy what they can’t have, eventually they’ll be successful. * eye roll * Not even mods got prior warning. Just all the sudden, poof, gone. BFF: Really? She did not let the moderators know?! This is sounding worse and worse. Uggh. I’m so sorry. Such a loss. (...) Ok, threats are serious, but why not just put it in archive mode so no one can post? (...) Sad. I shall light a candle in the forum's honor. (Facebook posts; scroll down for screenshots)

It was a gut punch, especially for people who had poured countless hours into the community, or could have used some prior warning to save years of their own writing from the role-playing threads. One last chance to take a look around the place that had meant so much to so many.

From the wording of the announcement of closing the forum and a number of other things, it sometimes seems like EA doesn't like her fans much. :/ (🐀)

Three months after the forum was nuked, Battered Rose (a venerable EA fansite, which had been around since the Enchant era and had one of the most complete EA galleries online) announced that it was shutting down too.📝 The admin, who had also been a long-time forum mod, cited a lack of “time, energy, passion, or money” to keep the website going... and being upset at the sudden disappearance of the forum. It was, truly, the end of an era for the Asylum.
...Well, no point in living in the past. For those who could afford it, and still wanted to talk to/about EA after that (not everyone did 🐀), there was always the Asylum Army fanclub!
Over the summer of 2014, EA held regular live chats and Q&A's, and... many attendees really enjoyed them, and thought the AA was well worth the money after all. She also quietly parted ways with the much poo-pooed Headmistress around that time.

Just spent over 4 hours giggling, drinking tea and playing guessing games in chat with EA and other Asylum Army members ... No griping, no downers, just lots of fun. I think I like the way the ‘new fandom’ is going and now I’m really glad I finally decided to join the Army. (September 4, 2014🐀; Battered Rose had closed the day before)

The forum was lost forever, but perhaps that was a chance for a fresh start. Could this fanclub thing really be the Asylum Renaissance that fans had been longing for?

...I have come today to a very difficult but necessary decision, and that is to discontinue the Emilie Autumn Official Fanclub. The site itself, and the community chatroom, will remain open to you indefinitely, but I will no longer be making updates to the site. (Newsletter, September 8, 2014📝)

...Never mind, then.
Turns out the fanclub had been the Headmistress' idea all along. EA had been reluctant from the start, and although she really enjoyed the live chats with a safe community of people “who are there for the right reasons”, she couldn't overcome her fundamental discomfort with the concept. Lifetime and regular members would receive a bunch of digital downloads and a -35% coupon on the Asylum Emporium for their troubles. EA said she would definitely pop back once in a while for live chats, for free, just for fun, but to my knowledge, she never did.
And so the most devoted fans were left standing in the rain...

She is happy, she made it. She is fulfilling her dreams, found love and happiness after all the pain. I understand that she now doesn’t need “us” anymore ... That doesn’t change the fact she broke my heart with taking the Asylum Army and the forum from me. Yet, I am happy for her. (🐀)

...while naysayers pointed and laughed, Nelson-style.🦠

I don’t feel sorry at all for the people that paid for the Asylum Army fan club. Most of them knew that EA is an atrocious business woman and has broken many promises before. In fact, I laugh at them. They seriously thought that EA would actually stay consistent with this? (🐀)

EVERYTHING MUST GO: THE ASYLUM WHOLESALE

EA fans were left without an “official” home for about three years. This gave them plenty of time to be annoyed at EA for: not releasing the audiobook on time, not materializing any new project for a while... and the new sin of peddling random, ridiculously marked-up AliBaba jewelry as “merch” on her official store. Think faux-antique cameo pendants and $30 Big Ben rings (...because the Asylum story is set in London, get it?).

The whole accessories section looks like a tacky overpriced English souvenir shop. (🐀)

The fanbase lost a lost of steam in those in-between years, because there wasn't much to stick around for. As evidenced by the positive reception of the AA live chats, even in the midst of unresolved drama, out-loud interactions in a friendly environment have always been EA's saving grace. Considering the amount of online hate, there are shockingly few accounts of bad IRL encounters with EA: most people say that in live conversation, she comes across as a fun, warm, and genuinely sweet person. Some report that their negative opinion shifted after meeting her.
But there were no chats or live shows anymore. There was only social media, where she ignored questions and vague-posted about overdue projects – and the newsletter📝, which was all saccharine love-bombing to promote bland dropshipped trinkets. For fans who remembered the handcrafted merch (and two-way communication) of the early years, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

CONTINUED IN COMMENTS

​

Where I live the heat and humidity can be brutal, and this year spring is already cooking. So how chuffed was I when Outlier sent me a ramielust tank to test. For the last couple of weeks I’ve been wearing it into the ground. I wanted to really test it, so I leaned into it a bit more than I generally would. At this point it’s seen eight full days of wear (and a cpl partial), has been washed five times, slept in, worked out in, dressed up (a bit), tugged on by a small child and a small-legged dog, and is still in one piece. I know this form, in this fabric, has been highly anticipated by many (myself included) - so here’s what I’ve got:

• Quick Stats:
  • I’m 5’10” (or so) and I’ve generally considered my “true size” to be L for Outlier, but have been sizing up lately and enjoying it. I took an XL for a loosebreezier fit in Lilac Mist. I likely will stick with XL however I think I could definitely wear L and fit would still be solid.
• Fabric
  • Ramie is a natural fiber, it’s old and it’s bast, if you’ve never encountered it before here’s a better description than I’m going to write: https://outlier.nyc/products/ramielustIn-hand
  • In-hand, this batch of ramielust is weighty and smooth, with a dull shine that almost makes it look slightly metallic (ramie-lustrous). The feel of it is like cooled silk. It can be counterintuitive to pull on a heavier (200gsm) fabric to head out into the heat, but in practice the fiber is always pulling heat away from you, while the openness of the fabric welcomes any breeze right through. Along with the weight comes drape that isn’t typical of lighter and stiffer summer fabrics – in motion the sway of the fabric is elegant and special, especially with the cut of the garment (more on that later). The shine of the fabric does become milder following the first wash, but I didn’t notice any significant change after the second or third wash, it’s still got a light gleam to it.
  • To be honest, I’ve been looking forward to this fabric, but I didn’t expect it to feel this nice having only ever tried the very first run of ramielust some time ago – I didn’t intend to wear it four days in a row. But I kept reaching for it in part just because I wanted to feel the fabric again.
• Fit + Form
  • The only Outlier tank I’ve tried prior to this was the Push/Pull Tank. Compared to that cut (in the same size), the Ramielust Tank is a much looser format. The neckline falls lower, and the chest/body is cut wider – it’s a much easier, more leisurely feel, and the ramielust weight makes the additional fabric really drip down and around you in the most lovely way.
  • The cut is open and refined. As with the push/pull tank, the straps are nice and broad, which matches nicely the width of the ramielust tank in the body; it’s substantial, loose, and breezy. When I first tried the tank on pre-wash I immediately thought it was too long, bunching around my hips, but after the first wash/dry the length felt perfect; not cropped, but flowing freely around my midsection when I moved. The fabric sort of leans against you a bit, instead of giving you a full on hug. Not prone to static, just luxurious wavy folds. I really hope this cut shows up more in the future.
• Items of Interest
  • Color + Transparency
    • The fabric is a bit transparent, but not too much - I have a lot of contrast between my skintone and tattoos, and I wasn’t able to easily see my tattoos through the fabric unless the light was pretty direct, and then only where the fabric was flat and close to my skin. The color is crazy, similar to the other lilacs Outlier has done, but with the added touch of the slightly metallic shine of the fabric. If you’re at all inclined toward this color (in tank or other format), you should go for it.
  • Shrinkage Etc.
    • I washed on delicate and dried on medium heat (despite the care instructions pleading to dry on low heat) for all five wash/dry passes. On first wash there was ~2” of shrinkage in length, and probably 0.5”-1” of shrinkage to width. The width, I think, released out a bit with wear but the cut is roomy enough that it wasn’t especially noticeable either way. The length also stretches back out a touch, mb 0.5" or so, I think it was calibrated with shrinkage in mind, as again for me the fit was better after losing length. The fabric always tightens up a touch after dry and then relaxes out quickly with wear, which has been true of prior ramielust runs. In comparison to the push/pull tank: I measured 24” across the ramielust tank after first wash/dry, and measured 20” across the push/pull tank which has taken the same wash/dry treatment. Length is similar btwn the two, with ramielust tank being about 1” shorter after wash.
  • Hand Feel vs. Prior Runs
    • The only other ramielust I’ve had was from the very first run, and I found it effective at dealing with heat but generally rough and a bit unfortunate in terms of texture. This ramielust is very different. I think it was described as “buttery” on live and that’s apt af. If you tried ramielust before and found it rough, you may be pleasantly surprised by how soft and welcoming this run is.
  • Twist
    • I mean, it exists. It’s not bad, but if you look for it, yea it’s there. If you’ve had ramielust before, it’s pretty much the same thing, either a dealbreaker for you or not. Twist has bothered me in the past but with the looseness and flow of this cut, you really have to be looking for it to notice it.
  • Durability
    • Not really a selling point for this fabric, but I was pleasantly surprised by how little battle damage I could find after multiple days of non-delicate wear. I found the fabric stretched out across the day a bit but with a wash/dry snapped back to regular form. I did find one small snag on the fabric, not sure where it came from (dogs).
  • Pet Hair
    • The secret metric for all Outlier fabrics: To what extent does it hold onto pet hair (or lint or whatever) - pleased to report that pet hair comes off of this fabric with little (relative) effort. Take the shirt off, give it a proper shake and a whip, and most of the fur will fall away.
  • Random Thoughts/Scenarios
    • Wearing under injex overshirts, I noticed that my skin was cooler where it was touching ramie vs. where it was touching injex
    • Wearing directly under a rain shell, same thing, felt much cooler where ramielust was touching me vs. the goretex-ish material (no surprise there)
    • Wearing as part of a semi-formal outfit works, I think, because of the very apparent quality of the fabric - both color and luster help give it an “elevated” look that can be pretty well dressed up, and Lilac Mist is nice against black.
    • Works pretty well as a workout shirt (especially in a small, hot garage with no airflow), handles sweat great, is still soft against the skin even with moisture in the mix; I did drag it against knurling a few times and didn’t find any abrasion damage. Not a replacement for a dedicated exercise shirt and isn’t meant to be, but in a hot and humid environment it’ll do the trick.
    • I did have a tiny hand, at one point, tug abruptly on a handful of the fabric, which caused an area to stretch out and bag slightly; a wash and dry snapped it back to normal
• My Feelings
  • In the end, my feelings are that this form is the highest and best use for the ramielust fabric (yet). This tank makes me feel protected and unrestricted out in the heat. It keeps me comfortable, it’s easy. I have to look for reasons not to wear it, and I’m running out of them.
• Pictures (Link to Gallery)
  • https://imgur.com/gallery/ramielust-tank-pk02Sv5

Keith's Transformation Ch 4 [M30s/M30s/F30s][crossdressing][femdom][chastity][first time bi][blowjob]
Friday morning came, meaning it had been a week since their session, and Keith couldn’t stop wondering about the surprise Jasmine had mentioned. His cock was still locked away, and though he had grown used to the weight, it served as a constant reminder. He had to laugh at the irony, the cage making him horny while also preventing him from so much as getting hard, much less getting relief.
As he started getting ready for the day, he was intrigued to find a pair of silk panties and a note in his underwear drawer. He could nearly hear the words written in Jasmine’s dominant voice. “I think you should wear these today. I want to make sure you’re in the mood for tonight.” His cock fought against the cage as his thoughts fought between sexy fantasies of what was coming, and the embarrassment of wearing panties all day. Nevertheless he pulled them on, leaving his folded boxers in the drawer.
His day passed in a daze, barely able to focus on the work he was doing. His heart skipped a beat every time someone came to his desk to ask a question, and through every meeting, sure someone would notice somehow. When the end of the day came, he rushed to pack up and head out, politely declining offers to go out for a drink from a few co-workers on his team.
Dinner was mercilessly normal. Jasmine gave nothing away, almost as if she hadn’t been taunting him about tonight for a week. It wasn’t until later, as he was bent over loading the dishwasher, that she made her move. She came up behind him, hand rubbing over his ass and whispered in his ear “When you’re done there, come upstairs so we can get ready for your surprise. You’ve been such a patient girl for me.” His cock twitched against the cage as she walked off and he hurried to finish loading the last of the plates.
He came into the room as she finished laying out his outfit for the night, but he was surprised to see she wasn’t dressed yet. She looked at him expectantly and he stripped and started to put on his outfit for the night. It started with a pair of black lacy panties that swallowed up his caged package, leaving just the hint of a bulge. This was followed shortly by soft fishnet leggings, though he left the heels for now. A lacy bra matched the panties, and he was surprised to find that some clever padding and positioning turned his natural, slightly flabby chest into a perky pair of A cups, complete with a hint of cleavage. Finally, he pulled the dress on top, taking a few moments to adjust the mesh sleeves and straps, and stepped into a pair of high heels.
Once he was dressed, she sat him on the bed and grabbed her makeup. This was new, but he sat obediently as she went at him with brushes and pencils. Satisfied, she gave his ass a slap before leaving to get ready herself.
Keith stared in disbelief at the woman he saw in the full-length mirror in front of him. A pair of crimson, three-inch heels started the outfit, giving way to fishnets running up her smooth legs. The centerpiece of the outfit was a black and red gothic Lolita dress. Fluffy ruffles and frills of lace gave a playful edge to the short skirt and revealing top. Transparent black mesh covered her arms below the shoulder. The top was low cut, dipping low enough to give just a peak of her small but firm cleavage. Straps ran from the top to a trimmed collar around her neck. Her dark hair was left down, falling just short of her shoulders, framing her face. Her lips were painted with a deep red that looked nearly black, giving sharp contrast to her pale skin. Light mascara and eye shadow drew attention to her piercing blue eyes that seemed to look through Keith’s soul as he stared.
The sight left Keith in a daze, there was no way he was looking at himself. There wasn’t a trace of himself in the reflection, no matter where he looked. No, this wasn’t him anymore. Sure, Keith was the one looking into the mirror, but Kelly was staring back at him.
“How the hell did I get here?” He asked himself, then shook his head to clear his thoughts as he heard Jasmine coming back.
His eyes widened as he saw her outfit for the night. She stood before him in a white suit that had just a hint of pearlescent shine. Matching pearl earrings glinted from among her flowing hair. The suit jacket was fastened by just one button right below her cleavage, showing and framing a lacy crimson corset displaying her impressive cleavage. The crisp suit pants stopped right above her ankles, giving clear view of blood red heels to match the corset. Her own makeup was impeccably done. Around her neck was a thin silver chain. Dangling on the end, resting just above her cleavage, was a small padlock key.
“Ready to go Kelly?” She asked, taking his hand before he could respond. His heart was pounding as she grabbed her purse and pulled him to the garage. She ushered him into the passenger side of the car and climbed in. She saw the panic clear on his face and took his hand, smiling at him.
“We don’t have to go out, we can just go back upstairs. But I want to see you suck a real cock, and I think you want to be a good girl and show me, don’t you?” His submissive urge to please her warred with his humiliation, the two feelings mixing and setting off a storm of desire in his chest. She whispered in his ear and his fate was sealed. “Are you going to be my good girl?” Keith nodded weakly. He, or tonight rather she, was Jasmine’s to command.
Jasmine drove them through the town, one hand resting on Kelly’s leg for support, pulling into the parking lot of a small local bar. Once again taking her hand as they entered the bar, Kelly could feel multiple pairs of eyes on them as they entered. She supposed they did make quite the pair. Jasmine led her to a booth in the corner, leaving her to sit as she went for drinks.
A few minutes into their drinks and chatting someone approached their booth. Kelly nearly jumped in surprised as he said hi, but Jasmine clapped in excitement. “John! You’re right on time. This is Kelly, she’s who I was telling you about. Kelly this is John, he’s going to help us tonight.” She said with a knowing wink in her direction.
A few drinks and a short walk later, the three of them found themselves in a hotel room Jasmine had reserved for the night. As soon as they got in the room, Jasmine grabbed Kelly by the hair and pulled her towards the bed. John pulled off his shirt and pants, but as he was hooking in his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear he was stopped by Jasmine. “Leave the boxers, I want her to get the full reveal.” He shrugged and came to sit on the edge of the bed in front of them.
Jasmine pulled Kelly’s head in front of his crotch then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Now be a good girl and give me a good show.” Kelly shuddered, her dick fighting to rise in her cage, as she looked at the obvious bulge in front of her. Jasmine let her go and moved to sit in a chair off to the side, unbuttoning her suit jacket as she sat. “I’m waiting slut.” Kelly slowly pulled off his boxers, eyes widening as his cock came into view. Already hard, he was even bigger than the strap-on Jasmine had trained her with. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and took the head in with no hesitation. She paused for a minute, not used to the taste and the warmth compared to the dildos she was used to sucking. John’s hand came to rest lightly on her head and she went to work.
She started slow, sucking gently on the head as she swirled her tongue around, then moving down his shaft slowly. She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft and stroked slowly as she bobbed over the first few inches of his dick. His hand pushed lightly on the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair as she sucked and licked. Her hand moved down to play with his balls as she lowered her mouth completely down his shaft. She looked up at him with lust in her eyes as she deepthroated his dick, reveling in his soft groans as his cock stretched her throat.
Over in the chair, Jasmine’s pants were around her ankles and her fingers were rubbing her clit furiously. Her gaze fixed on the sight of Kelly on her knees, her throat bulging around John’s thick cock. “God yes baby, you’re such a good girl.” She moaned out, slipping two fingers inside herself. “Show me what a good cock sucker you are.” Kelly redoubled her efforts and started to slide faster up and down his dick. John groaned, letting her go for a few minutes before tightening his grip and taking control. He held her head in place and started thrusting at a brutal pace. Drool dripped off Kelly’s chin as he fucked her face, using her mouth fast and hard. Kelly’s dick was leaking precum into her panties as she was used like a cheap toy.
It didn’t take long before John groaned loudly and pulled her as far as he could down his dick. She felt his dick throb as he pumped his cum directly down her throat and heard Jasmine moan out loudly as her own orgasm overtook her. John pulled her off his dick, causing the last few shots of cum to fill her mouth and splash across her face. Pulling her glistening fingers from her pussy, Jasmine smiled a wicked smile as she looked at Kelly’s cum smeared face.
“Good girl. You did so well. Now for the main event...”

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.

####

INDEX

1. DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
   
2. DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
   
3. HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
   

"Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" transports readers to a 2063 Earth, a world on the brink, where the scarcity of fresh water has led to previously unseen geopolitical tensions. Amidst this backdrop, the nation-backed militant group DAGGR has emerged as a formidable force, leveraging advanced technology to assert control over Canada’s abundant water resources. At the heart of their arsenal is 'slugTech,' a technology pioneered by James Broadshaw, intended for ecological restoration but repurposed for militaristic dominance.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.

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The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --

1. He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
   
2. He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
   
3. With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
   
4. He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
   
5. In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
   

This sequence was a statement. Ryan was not only back in the fight but also commanding it.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.

asking because of all the "no kill rule"discourse

Please keep spoilers to a minimum, since I'm only as far into the game as 30 days before the fall performance!
Tldr: Basically what the title says, but what I want to know the most is whether the roles are different (I have a feeling they wouldn't be...) and if they're not – whether each LI gets to shine on stage in his own route (more so than in the other routes). If you also want to discuss some issues related to that, feel free to continue reading.
So at first I was disappointed when I learned that the character routes would only begin after the winter performance (since it meant everything before that would be the same regardless of the route), but then I thought: “Well, alright, but the characters will surely get to shine in the Univeil performance, right? And that's the most important one anyway”. Sure, I was a little concerned about the limited number of empty spots in the “Movie” section in the Gallery, but I thought maybe a different section would open or something like that, I don't know. Today though I decided to actually look into the Univeil performance section in Otome Kitten's walkthroughs, simply to confirm that the songs would be different (and thus the performances as well) and long story short... they're the same?!
Yes, I'm aware it'd probably be a little unnatural for Neji to just randomly write a different script in each route, because what would be the reason for that? But I thought that the differences in the common route for each character's route would be enough to justify it. Heck, I'd even be fine with it being a little random (like each route was a different universe), as much as it usually bothers me. Also, Neji's known to make surprising decisions and surely there would be a good enough reason to give each LI the main role in his route, especially since Kisa has to somehow get a leading role in the final performance as well.
But now I don't know... So once I'm finished with my first route there will be nothing new performance-wise in the other ones...? That's a huge bummer. I really hope that even if the songs are the same there will be some other differences... Or perhaps it really is best if the game is meant to show us the real, somewhat (very) brutal world of theater, were an actor (or actress) doesn't simply get a leading role out of nowhere (because we're “playing their route” 😂). I guess I'm a little torn, but at the end of the day I still really wanted to see Kisa as the Al Jeanne and her LI as the Jack Ace in each Univeil performance (or even the other way around, as long as they'd get those leading roles). And maybe Kisa as the sole lead in her own route. I WOULD feel a little bad for the other characters, but perhaps it would actually be a good way to show them grow by accepting defeat once in a while and they'd also get to shine in their own routes.
At first I marked this as a question, but now I've realised that I actually also want a discussion, because this is quite an interesting matter that made me think. So besides answering my question, what do you think about what I've written above? Do you think it's better for a game (or this game SPECIFICALLY since it can get quite psychologically deep) to be more realistic, thus making you connect with the characters on a deeper, more profound level or would you like to remain in the fantasy world at least a little (since a game is a form of entertainment after all) and see each character realise their potential to the fullest (and be super happy 😂🥰) at least in their own route?

He's been through a lot of battles with his rogues gallery so he's been scavenging battle trophies from them by this point. Surprisingly no body count, considering how brutal he is lol

Title: Dig Two Graves, by Craig Schaefer
Publication Date: April 26, 2024
Bingo Squares: Under the Surface, Criminals, Dreams, maybe Prologues and Epilogues (the first chapter isn’t marked explicitly as a prologue but it functions just like one), possibly Self-Published or Indie (this series is indie in America and the UK but published by Penguin in Germany; I have no idea why they don’t print the English versions too, but just like the music industry, everything I hear about the publishing industry makes very little sense to me), Multi-POV (mostly narrated in first person but there are cutaways to other characters at key moments), Published in 2024.
Disclaimer: I’m a big fan of Schaefer’s books, so I’ve got some admitted favorable bias going in here. Do not look to me for any kind of dispassionate, detached critique here, because I love her stuff.
But I almost didn’t! And that’s what I kinda want to talk about. Dig Two Graves is the eleventh novel in the Daniel Faust urban-fantasy series; I read the first book, The Long Way Down, ages ago and found it…meh. Angels, demons, doomsday plot, whatever. It was fine. Very clearly the author’s first book, with all that entails. I don’t begrudge that because every writer has to start somewhere, but I wasn’t really left with a big desire for more (IIRC I was binging Dresden at the time, and fully roped-in.)
But Daniel Faust isn’t Harry Dresden (or Alex Verus or Atticus O’Sullivan for that matter), and that’s part of this series’ special sauce. He’s a magician and a career criminal, and the series has tracked his evolution from a freelance villain selling “vengeance for hire” to the second-chair boss of a reborn Las Vegas Mafia.
(Which he would have been the leader of, but when some Chicago Mob hoods treated his best friend Jennifer with callous disrespect, his immediate response was “I don’t know why you’re talking to me, she’s the boss, I just work for her.” Which is Faust in a nutshell: he doesn’t need titles and honors, he knows his power and he knows his worth and he values standing up for his buddies more than anything else.)
Befitting a villain protagonist, these books are dark as hell. Just to let you know what you’re in for, the very first book involves a porn star getting drowned in a toilet by her abusive pimp and a magician sacrificing his own little kid for power. They don’t get much happier from there. We live in a vast and uncaring multiverse where most of our neighboring parallel worlds are made of nightmare fuel, the machinery running the cosmos is hopelessly broken, and most people go to Hell when they die regardless of their actual moral conduct. (On the bright side, Hell isn’t actually that bad and there’s no Heaven, anyway. Heaven is closed.) If you’re familiar with the Swedish tabletop role-playing game Kult, the Faust books are the closest thing I’ve come (outside of Clive Barker, the designers’ main influence) to the feel of that game.
But what enthralls me is that this isn’t some pointless wallow in misery-porn. To the contrary, Schaefer’s books are deeply, passionately humanist. If I had to summarize the overall philosophy it’d be “we’re all broken, we’re all fucked up, but if we work together we can do incredible things. No supernatural cavalry is coming to the rescue: we need to protect and care for each other, because we’re all we have.”
So, anyway. I read the first book, felt ambivalent about it, moved on to other UF writers. Then I got pulled back in when Schaefer wrote a novella set between the first two books, The White Gold Score, and gave it away for free for a week because she felt bad about taking a year for the next book to come out. (And if that sounds nuts, bear in mind that she’s Brando Sando prolific. She’s been candid about how she wrestles with depression, nearly committed suicide once, and writing is literally what keeps her alive so she does a LOT of it.)
My response to that book was “You son of a bitch, I’m in.” IMO that’s the moment the Faust series matures into its real shape, stops playing it safe and establishes it’s here to do it’s own thing. Pressed into solving a pretty stereotypical urban-fantasy murder mystery, clues lead Faust to a ring of drug smugglers using a concert tour as cover. And instantly, he and his crew of found-family rogues decide “You know what? We didn’t care about the stupid mystery anyway. Let’s kill these dudes, steal their cocaine and sell it ourselves.”
I cannot overstate how WEIRD this setting is, too. Per an interview, one of the mission statements when coming up with the series was “no vampires, no werewolves, no fae.” (A rule this new book breaks, but in a genuinely funny way that makes sense and also keeps the rule intact.) Instead we get stuff like murderous tulpas resembling classic rubber-hose animations brought to life by a quadriplegic assassin (this is literally a plotline), mind-controlling cockroaches (also a real plotline), and a villain who can rewind your life to the most traumatic accident you ever survived — and rewrite history so no, you actually didn’t (yep). At one point we’re introduced to a pocket dimension called Noir York, a parallel world where superhero comic rules are in full effect, and even the heroes joke about what a stupid name it has (but oh then we find out in a spinoff novel that it was unintentionally created by a massively powerful psychic twelve-year-old raised on a diet of Marvel comics, bad movies, and D&D, and damn if that isn’t exactly the kind of goofy name I would have thought was cool when I was a kid.)
Also, this will either be important to you or not important at all, but there’s some great queer rep in these books. Daniel is straight, but (after escaping his insane and abusive father as a teenager) he was taken in by Bentley and Corman, a pair of elderly gay con artists, who became his surrogate dads. They’re delightful. There’s a tiny plot point involving a character coming out as asexual (and the response from Faust’s found family is “of course we respect that, why wouldn’t we?”) which comes back into play in Dig Two Graves (memo to shape-shifters: if you’re impersonating an ace person, maybe go easy on the sexual innuendo). It’s queernorm. Nobody gives a shit about orientation or gender, they’re too busy pulling off magical heists and stealing cash and having fun.
Dig Two Graves finds Faust back in the land of the living after a sojourn to Hell in the last book. He didn’t really “escape,” since everyone wanted him to leave, but due to plot shenanigans he’s stuck in a coma patient’s body while one of his friends, a demon, is wearing and fixing his former skin. Hell is reaching a boiling point, as after long-time series villain Naavarasi was totally exposed in an assassination plot, the demon-prince Malphas has decided to shelter and protect her — literally the last thing anyone expected, and a borderline suicidal political move that could plunge Hell into a new civil war. This would be bad for everyone, including our world, ‘cause that shiz isn’t going to stay contained.
Out of a teeming gallery of villains, Naavarasi is the series’ longest-running antagonist and at this point, genuinely and utterly loathsome. The tragedy being that she’s also completely understandable. The queen of the rakshasa, her jungle-dimension was annexed by the powers of Hell, who proceeded to slaughter her people and capture her as a demon-prince’s pet. She eventually ingratiated herself to the point where she was given freedom and even noble honors, but that was a mistake. She utterly despises demonkind, doesn’t view humans as much better, and will happily burn the entire multiverse to the ground if it means hurting the people who hurt her. She lives for revenge and at this point she’s gone so far beyond the moral event horizon that she once murdered one of her own kids just to cement an alibi. What’s ensued after her appearance in the second novel, Redemption Song, is a great class in villainous evolution.
(Spoilers, seriously, big spoilers below.)
At first, Naavarasi is almost a comic-relief villain. She has the power to change her shape at will, but she’s a massive narcissist who requires constant praise so she’s basically incapable of using that power without going “Aha! See?! You were tricked, it was me all along!”
Except…no, she isn’t, because it turns out that her whole ego-bimbo persona was a deliberate ruse to make herself look harmless and she’s actually ferociously smart, a chessmaster who plans ten moves ahead at all times. But at least the heroes can use their magic to tell when she’s in disguise!
Except…no, they can’t, because then it turns out that, also, was a trick. Rakshasas are totally invisible when they’re in another person’s form and she was deliberately letting them notice her transformations in order to deceive the heroes into thinking they could always tell.
The Xanatos Gambit is a trope from the Gargoyles cartoon, where series antagonist David Xanatos often pulled off schemes with an “I win no matter what” clause attached. The gargoyles stop him from bulldozing a community center and turning it into a strip mall? That’s fine, he actually invested in it last week and now he’ll make money off of it, because he anticipated the heroes would get involved in the first place and was counting on them stopping him. Naavarasi is all Xanatos Gambits, all day.
Except this time.
Hot on her trail — and after his brother Teddy, who Naavarasi corrupted and converted to her service — Faust and company follow a bizarre trail of clues to a little Midwestern town called Springfield, where no one seems capable of discussing life outside of town (or even acknowledging that there IS a world outside of town) and the local library has books by Sutter Cane and Paul Sheldon. If you recognize either of those names, you know how weird stuff is about to get.
Springfield, for reasons I won’t spoil, is a world of its own…and it runs on horror-movie logic. Now of course deconstructing horror tropes is nothing remotely new; there’s even a Scream gag early on, which felt like the writer going “Yeah, you know exactly what we’re doing here.” But it’s executed in ways that had me smiling from cover to cover, like Daniel exploiting the logic of slasher movies in order to keep a hulking killer at bay. You know the tropes, the characters know the tropes too, and it’s all used to delightful effect.
(A standout is a sequence where the heroes have to survive the ending of Night of the Living Dead, and when they easily prove more than a match for the black-and-white ghouls, one of the villains ramps up the threat by…well, let’s just say that if you’re into zombie movies and 1980s horror, you’re gonna be grinning.)
There’s so much heart here. The conflict between Daniel and his brother is emotionally brutal, especially when Dan takes full responsibility for his own part in the rift between them. And while he desperately wants to make peace and get Teddy out of harm’s way, it’s clear from the start that there’s no happy ending here. The two penultimate chapters of the book are a pair of utter gut-punches, as two protagonists are brought to some of their darkest places ever, and thankfully the story ends on a high note. It feels calculated to push the reader into the dark and then pull us out for a big finish, with a setup promising the series’ most audacious heist ever in the next installment (and this is a series with a LOT of heists).
(Also, Herbert West, Reanimatorgets a cameo fresh from his appearance in the last Harmony Black spin-off novel. I love this absolute dork and I hope he becomes a regular.)
So yeah, thumbs-up for the book itself. Really this review is more about the series itself, which has evolved over the years from “yeah, that’s okay” to my absolute favorite urban fantasy. Schaefer’s evolution as a writer has been so much fun to watch over the years, and the stories keep getting better.
I would say “Jim ButcheSchaefer crossover when?” but honestly, Harry’s response to Faust would probably be to fuego him on sight, and Faust would try to take out Harry with a sniper. So, uh, Clive BarkeSchaefer crossover when? Given all the BDSM overtones in these books, I wouldn't remotely blink an eye at a cenobite showing up...

Senator Jorel stood before the arched window that looked out over the skyline of Vrax Prime's glittering capitol city. It seemed impossible that just outside this haven of intellect and progress lurked a threat unlike any they had ever encountered. But the reports confirmed it.
A chiming noise signaled the arrival of the others. Jorel turned as two dozen of his political peers filed into the chamber, their scaled exoskeletons shimmering various shades of blue and green under the light. They took their seats in the circular gallery with practiced formality.
Everett, speaker of the Senate, addressed Jorel. "What have you summoned us for, colleague? Your transmission spoke of an urgent matter."
Jorel strode to the center stone platform. "Honored colleagues, as you all know our spacefarers have pushed the boundaries of the Empire to its furthest reaches. But in doing so we may have stirred something from the void that we do not fully comprehend."
He activated a pane that displayed a series of shadowy figures engaged in combat. "Our expeditionary forces along the galactic rim have encountered unfamiliar life: bipeds roughly Vraxian in stature but with alien features and capabilities. They call themselves...humans.
Murmurs arose. No one had heard of these so-called humans. Jorel continued. "Our scouts report humans raiding border worlds with an intensity unlike anything known. Rather than flee danger, they advance into it with abnormal ferocity. We've obtained footage."
The pane flickered to a scene of darkness broken by flashing lights. Vraxi soldiers fired weapons from cover, but lean, hairless bipeds charged relentlessly through the beams, absorbing injury after injury yet fighting on. They swarmed enemy positions with metallic tools, smashing and stabbing in a frenzy.
"As you see, humans do not retreat or cease fighting even when fatally wounded. This has allowed small forces to overwhelm our numerically superior garrisons through their unwillingness to acknowledge pain or self-preservation. Their methods defy all we know of warfare."
The assembly murmured louder, disturbed by the vision. Everett spoke gravely. "What would drive a species to fight so brutally, Senator? For what aims do they raid our space?"
Jorel shook his head. "That I cannot say. But if left to operate freely along our borders, these...humans could undermine all we've built. I propose a fact-finding vessel be dispatched. We must understand this unknown to contain it, before it seeds chaos across the stars."
Everett pondered the proposal before nodding slowly. "Agreed. You will lead this mission, Jorel, and bring us answers. The Senate is adjourned until your return."
With that ominous note, the assembly rose to depart, buzzing with unsettled conversation. Jorel stared out at the city once more, his mind racing with questions and suspicions about the mysterious newcomers called humanity.
Senator Jorel gazed nervously out the viewport as the diplomatic vessel slipped from hyperspace into real space above an azure planet. Optic sensors enhanced the image, revealing massive landmasses criss-crossed by silvery waterways and dotted with points of lights in the darkness.

This was Earth, homeworld of humanity. And awaiting them down on the surface were unknown objectives - the race that had struck fear into the mighty Vraxian Empire. Jorel steeled himself. It was time to face this mystery and learn both its nature and intent.
The shuttle knifed through thin clouds, nearing one of Earth's largest conurbations - a sprawling metropolis larger than any Vraxian city. Looming steel spires jutted skyward as far as the eye could see, interlaced with gridlike streets glowing with activity even in the planet's night
A cleared landing zone came into view, ringed by vehicles the likes of which Jorel had never seen - armor-plated machines mounted with billowing cannons. As grav-engines powered down and the shuttle hatch opened, a dozen humans in camouflage uniforms awaited with weapons carried nonchalantly.
Their commander stepped forward. "Greetings. I am General Smith. Welcome to Earth, representatives of the Vraxian Empire." His tone was polite yet held an edge - as if ready to respond to hostility in an instant.
Jorel introduced himself and offered gratitude for receiving their mission, hoping to seem diplomatic. Smith merely nodded and gestured for them to follow. Armored trucks ferried the group into the city, and Jorel gazed in wonder at the sheer scale and complexity of human civilization.
Their destination soon emerged: a rugged complex within sight of the city but separate, all concrete and barbed wire. Smith led them inside a bunker where holographic battle maps floated in the air. "This is where we plan and monitor operations," he explained.
"We received your requests to observe humanity's military abilities. As a show of good faith, you may witness exercises occurring up north." The maps zoomed to a remote terrain Jorel recognized from aerial surveys - a vast proving ground
There the group watched and waited in silence. As sunrise broke, rhythmic thuds echoed across the hills, growing louder. Then they came into view - rows of armored vehicles rumbling over the ridges, pounding the earth under thick treads. Infantry swarmed behind and around the machines, hugging them for cover as they advanced in unison.
Weapons fire erupted across the valley, but the humans did not slow or divert course. They charged headlong into the simulated battle, intent on defeating all opposition through force of will if necessary. Jorel observed in mute awe, realizing all too well that humanity's edge in war was far sharper than even the most graphic reports suggested.
The expeditionary shuttle departed Earth's atmosphere, leaving its blue-green orb shrinking against the black void. Senator Jorel remained lost in thought, replaying all he had witnessed on the human homeworld. Their world, their cities, their people...all bore signs of a civilization attuned purely to warfare.
As the days of hyperspace travel passed, Jorel conferred constantly with his aides. Piecing together observations and information gleaned, a clear image emerged. Humans were descended from wild plains-dwellers who survived through perpetual conflict over scarce resources. This selected strongly for hyper-aggressive traits that had only been refined over millennia of constant strife.
Their entire social structure was organized around perpetual readiness for combat. Leaders were those most effective in martial organization and strategy. Cities existed to mass and project force efficiently. Children were indoctrinated from birth in disciplines both intellectual and physical. Even in times of peace, simulated battles remained the primary public pastime and way of life.
At last the vessel dropped out of hyperspace above Vraxi Prime. Jorel requested immediate audience with the Senate to deliver his grave report. As before, the assembly gathered in hushed anticipation of his findings. He began without preamble.
"Colleagues, I come to you with a warning. The humans are unlike any species we have faced - their entire biological and cultural evolution has been shaped by an unceasing imperative to fight. Warfare is not a tool to them, but an end in itself. Their strengths are a threat unmatched by any force we could bring to bear."
Gasps rang out. Everett motioned for Jorel to elaborate. He complied, recounting all he witnessed both in battle and within human civilization itself. By the time he finished, the assembly buzzed with a palpable panic rarely seen among their stoic kind.
Everett stood. "You have presented a dire prognosis indeed, Senator. These humans seem devoid of restraint or reason where battle is concerned. Their emergence in our space could undermine all stability hard-won. We must deter this threat by any means."
Jorel shook his head solemnly. "With respect, Speaker, I believe confrontation would be folly. Our fleets could defeat them in open war...but at heavy costs. And humanity's ferocity ensures they will fight on regardless. No, our only prudent move is vigilance and isolation. We quietly expand our buffer, while closely monitoring the humans should their expansionism grow."
A tense silence followed as the assembly weighed these alternatives. At last, Everett nodded slowly. "You counsel wisdom, Jorel. So shall it be - for now, we watch and wait, hoping these humans' own brutality does not become their universal undoing, or ours." With that ominous note, the Senate was adjourned. And so ended the discussion that began a new, uncertain chapter in Vraxian history. One that would see new shadows looming ever larger on the horizon.

This years arena took place in the Garrigae Manior.
Day 1
Game maker Monty was right about the previous years statement about these next two games being relatively similar. The cornocpuia layed within the lobby of the seaside Garrigae manior. President Mcaine himself chose this arena mainly due to his recent frequenting visits of this manner in particular on his drunken summer Holidays. The Manior had 6 floors the 1st floor being the lobby/corncoupia. The corncopuia itself featured tridents and swords and surprisingly no food. The food could be found in many puesto side stores as an extra scavenger hunt for the tributes. Besides the maniore this years arena was circluar in shape feauturing many stores and trift shops with a salty air breeze that would distract tributes to the sea. Little the tributes know at the time the water was poisonus and if it had direct contact with human skin it would burn it and cause temporary paralysis. In the stores of the arena featured many valuable capital delcaises and weapons. Agrivated monkeys also roamed the arena mainly heighbernating in the trees until provked to awake.
When the tributes podiums rose up Brociade from 2 looked at Jafar from 1 nodding contently back at him as Tiffany from 1 located Anchor from 4. To Brociades right and left were Frank from 8 and Wybrana from 3. Both outliers were mortly petrified of teh carrer boy he even grinned placing the number 2 on his side to Jafar from 1. He noticed this start plan single before pointing at a grinning Qwendlon from 2 as she then pointened at Leon from 7 grimly looking a head.
As the gong sounded only Frank from 8 and Clarion and Victoria both from 5 ran away from then corncopuia. Qwendlon earned the first kill of this years games by tripping Geo from 6 and as he smaked his head on the ground Qwendlon threw the unconscious bleeding boy onto Brociade. Brociade yelped before he then was tackled to the ground by Leon from 7. As Brociade gasped for air he grinned when Leon fell to the ground with a knife in his heart. Tiffany grinned before shoutting “You ok.” Brociade nodded before grabbing a sword before shouting at Tiffany to watch out as Belle from 7 nearly stabbed her in the heart. Luckily for both ladies Belle ran of with a trident. . However with qwendllon hurled a trident at him it ended up impaling Ateno from 3 through the heart. Taking his opportunity at Qwendlons exhaustion Brociade took a trident off the wall of the corncopuia before hurling it into her throat. This death came as a shock to most in snow square but Camilia laughed saying she knew “That” would happen. As Jafar and Tiffany finished off the pair from 11 the remaining 20 tributes that werent the carrers ran off as the 6 blood bath cannons sounded.
“Finally that demented pig is gone.”
Brociade laughed before then turning in surprise not seeing Anchor. “Wheres the boy.”
“I think he pissed his pants after the blood bath.”
Tiffany laughed as the three took the remaining supplies before walking up the maniore rooms becoming quiet entranced at the pure luxury of the beds and decoir. Even the pair from one were transficked upon the architecture and jewlerly designs. The 3 of them then proceed to rest keeping watch over the arena. After afew hours of watching they heard a cannon sound. This was Marina from 4 after her district partner Anchor had grown quite impateint with Marina’s constant sobbing episodes before snapping her enck within an instant in an fit of rage. The pair from 1 and Brociade from 2 walked toward the window of where they had previously saw Marina’s deayj seeomh the pair from 8 walking the streets.
“Should we go for him.”
Jafar grinned before a sposmor gift flew down.
Tiffany then grabbed the gift before grinning as she then took out a shiny silver bow. Brociade looked on with a rather sour expression as viewers in snow square laughed Silca recounted “Someone’s jealloius.”.
Tiffany then took out a few arrows from the quiver before spotting out the window spotting the pair. As they stopped in there tracks.
“Did you hear something.”
Frank shrugged before continuing.
“Lets see if I can get a 2 in one special wanna try if I miss Brociade.”
He nodded before Tiffany shot her first double set of arrows. As they narrowly missed the pair. She swore before quickly tossing the bow and arrows to brociade he then stuck his head out before shooting the two double arrows at the pair from 8 threw there necks. As 2 cannos sounded Tiffany smiled before asking “Is that how its done.”
Brociade winked before saying “Indeed.” Back in the capital when this scene was replayed Camilia laughed before swearing she saw Brociade blush. As the moonlight soon enriched the arena the carrers were luckily sponsored a small feast of capital goodies from there good ol show. Brociade took first watch as Jafar Tiffany slept. At mid night horn of plenty played featuring the 9 fallen tributes. Qwendlon from 2 Anteno from 3 Marina from 4 Geo from 6 Leon from 7 the pair from 11 leaving 17 remaining.
Day 2
After Jafar’s morning watch came to an end. The three had a brief breakfast before watching for any action. However after growing quiet bored after no apparent action a cannon sounded. This was revealed to be Blanche from 10 after having an unforeanut encounter with Anchor from 4 in one of the vila stores.. After an short chase Anchor eventually caught up with her before throwing her in the acid water.
After this death was announced game maker monty made an live announcment. He congratulated the tributes on making it to the second day before suggesting they “Hide or get to an higher altuide” before an acidic tsunami would crash into the arena. As the wave startedts course many shouts of horror crossed the streets. Luckily for the carrers they still resided in the maniore however Jafar suggested that they’d go up to the roof that way they could have an overview of the arena and eventually eliminate more od the competition. As they then reached the roof a cannon sounded.
This was later revealed to be Wybrana from 3 as she succesfuly climbed a tall tree however she was soon whacked across ahead by Anchor from 4 and Bellle from 7 slammed her sword into Wybranna’s stomach. As the wave claimed Kaden from 9 Remedia from 12 and the girl from 14. After the girl from 14s cannon sounded. 2 sposnor gifts flew down.
Brociade walked up to the gift before smiling happliy at it taking his brand new “Shiny and rather expensive golden bow”. This gift and alongside Finnick Odair’s trident were known as the most expensive gifts in hunger games history. However as a note resided in the bottom of this sponsor gift Camilia declined to read it out loud to spare the ears of capital and district viewers,
As the wave returned to the bay game maker monty made an announcement declaring the streets to be safe to traverse. The carrers then begun there target practices splitting up to 3 corners of the maniore roof shooting near by birds and potentialy passing tributes.However after 6 hours of no action Tiffany gasped seeing Lunar from 6 weakly walking toward the manior as a last ditch effort to get food,.
“Who wants her.”
Jafar and Brociade immedtlay ran forward before aiming at the weak girl. However before she was about to enter the manior Brociade shot his first arrow. As it hit Lunar in the shoulder she screamed out as Brociade then was shoved out of the way by Jafar as he then shot more arrows at Lunar nearly all of them missed causing Tiffany to scream “She’s getting away!.’’
However as Lunar successfully limped away Jafar pushed Brociade to the ground rather agroantley shouting “It was you who missed.” However as Brociade had grown tired of being the punching back punched Jafar in the face.
“Your really gonna act like a child now you brat”
However as Jafar fought back and kicked Brociade in the crotch. He winced in pain before the pair got into a brutal fist fight. viewers in the captial started laughing hysterically at Tiffany’s face in the result of the fight of pure bewilderment.
Tiffany then grabbed both Jafar and Brociade by the scruffs of there necks meansingly saying
“We gonna act like real carrers or what?’
As Jafar stuck his middle finger out at Brociade he then gripped onto his trident as Tiffany rather surprisingly slammed her knife into Jafar heart. As he spluttered bloood and tried to attack Brociade he soon slipped in his own blood he screaned before falling off the roof of his cannon soon sounding. After Jafar’s cannon sounded Tiffany let a sny grin cross her face she grinned saying “Your welcome” before winking at Brociade. Brociade smirked before he and Tiffany chatted about lives in there own districts with Tiffany becoming entranced with interest when Brociade talked about the Heath Academy in his district and how he had pranked Qwendlons mentor Jade one time by putting a cockroach in her coffe which ended up being a fake resulting in Tiffany laughing hysterically. As night fell Tiffany asked if Brociad ecould keep first watch however a knife came whistling at there general direction. The pair doged before seeing Raven from 9 angrily hurling more knives at the pair. Viewers in the capital could see her blood shot eyes as she shouted that they “Would pay for killing Kaden”. Tiffany responded that they “Didnt kill him” but before Tiffany could say anything else Brociade stabbed Raven through the neck. As Raven begun to cough blood she soon faded out of consicous her cannon sounded.
Brociade and Tiffany soon walked back into the manior before the pair then slept in the nearest room. At midnight horn of plenty played featuring the 7 fallen tributes. Jafar from 1 Wybrana from 3 Kaden and Raven both from 9 Blanche from 10 Remeda from 12 and the girl from 14 leaving 10 tributes remaining. Tiffany from 1 Brociade from 2 Anchor from 4 Victoria and Clarion both from 5 Lunar from 6 belle from 7 Yreil from 10 sebastian from 12 and the boy from 14 remaining.
Day 3
Both of teh carrers decided it would be best for them to exit the manoir. And as they did this early in the morning an cannon rang out. This was Lunar from 6 after she had tried to climb the tree Wybrana had climbed the day before but the now imafous “coconut duo” and the suprsing crowd of monkeys attacked Lunar with the coconuts before she was finished of by Yreil from 10.
“I hope its that girl that nearly got you thrown off the manior roof>”
Brociade laughed before stopping for a second. As the quiet morning sun light soon became littered with dark clouds. As tornadoes begun to form the remaining nine tributes scattered through out the arena, Brociade and Tiffany soon spotted a distressed sebastian from 12 running away from Anchor from 4 and Belle from 7 with a few of there monkeys 🐒 with racing alongside.
Tiffany soon “shouted nice to see you again Anchor where were you from the first fay.”
Anchor flipped her of before throwing her trident at Tiffany, She yelped before throwing her self to the ground. The 2 groups of tributes barrled into the monior again before there fight resumed. Brociade lunged at Anchor slamming his face into a table as Tiffany and Belle begun widley shooting arrows at each other. Viewers in snow squares cheers grew at deathing level as Tiffany managed to get the upper hand against belle however just before she was about to stab Belle a Trident flew through there landing into Tiffany’s stomach. Brociade shouted out as he then delivered his signature move kicking Anchor in the stomach. He winced before Tiffany somehow got up and hurled her remaining arrow as it flew into anchors head. As his cannon sounded belle swore before slamming Anchors Trident into her heart. Tiffany’s cannon soon sounded as Belle looked wearily at Brociade before smiling saying.
“Thats for Anchor.”
As Belle ran off 2 more cannons sounded. Clarion and Victoria both from 5 had unforeanutly been sucked up into the tornado before being droopped from a high height crashing down into the ground.
Brociade walked over to Tiffanys body before pulling a rather kind move covering Tiffanys body with his shirt. He returned to the top floor of the monior before resting and eating the rest of the remaining rations he had. As the tornados soon dissipated game maker monty made another announcement. He congratulated the final four tributes on making to the final 4 before announcing that if a tribute were not back in the manior’s first floor in 5 minutes there tracker would denote.
As curious sounds of intrigue and interest and cheers sounded in snow square Brociade Yreil Belle and the boy from 14 made mad dash to the floor. The boy from 14 had been tripped up by Belle before she hurled one of her last remaining coconut shells at his head. Brociade soon spotted Yreil from 10 quickly running at him with a sword. However he then tripped giving Brociade the upper hand stabbing him in the heart. Brociade breathed and suddenly sat down happlily smiling. However as Brociade was having his “Winning fantasy” smiling and holding his knife in an action hero way a voice was soon heard saying “Coconuts are girls best friend.”
Brociade yelped before Belle quietly lowered her self from the ceiling of the first floor slicing Brociade’s throat. Viewing square was shocked and surprised as Brociade’s sadly saying “Im sorry Herminia”.
As Brociade’s cannon sound Belle grinned happly before sitting down in exhaustion as game maker monty crowned Bella “Belle” Figoura of district 7 had just won the 112th hunger games. In the mentoring gallery Herminia angrily ran out of the gallery as Acaia Ebony smiled serinly.
For her victors interview Belle was adorned in a light brown gown with cherry blossoms falling from top to bottom her messy red hair was straightened out and then braided. Eagle eye viewers could see a small anchor tatto on her neck as a momento to Anchor mean while camilia was adorned in a twilight yellow dress with green leaves decorating top of the dress.
She congratulated Belle on her rather sneaky victory. Before declaring her “The coconut assassin” by the captial causing her laugh. When pressed on her strategy Belle smiled and said “thank mrs ebony for it we made a plan the night before the games.” The captial citizens gasped as Acaia was seeen smiling warmly and nodding Canilia then asked if there was any “romatinc feelings” toward Anchor. Belle smiled and nodded as Camilia gasped before pressing her for details. As the pair had “lady chat”. After going over her 3 kills Belle commended Tiffany and brociades determination to win the games causing audience members and Camila said”aww”. Belle soon smiled warmly before bowing as she was then dismissed from the stage as game maker Monty was welcomed to the stage.
Cyrus regally waved to the audience in his stylish rainbow suit with a pure white bountiner. After he and camilia hugged each other game maker Monty announced that the following year would be his final year as the game maker. Many sounds of sadness and shouts of “‘no” sounded he then added in that he wanted to “start a family with silca”.
As the Saddness turned to cheers Camila smiled warmly before doing her usual “arena hints” requests. Cyrus grinned before saying to look for certain areas on this years games as hints. Many captial citizens gasped before shouting at game maker Monty to come back to the stage he grinned before camilia tried to calm the audience down. However as this was to no use she smiled before ending the interviews there.
Belle returned home to district 7 moving into the victors village with her sister and orphan friends. She would later go on to open her lumber company in the heart of the district. After the 116th games Belle became the mentor for both male and female tributes before she was rejoined by her mentor acaia ebony after whisterio Jansensions admission to the Mcaine physiatristic. She would later go on and marry her future husband Herb Jordan the pair would go on and have 5 kids together 1 would be chosen for a later games.

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Hello, and welcome to the second installment of my Emilie Autumn write-up. (Per mod recommendation, new installments will be posted every two or three days – there are seven in total.)
Emilie Autumn is a singer-songwriter with an elaborate semi-fictional universe and a complicated relationship with her fanbase. I strongly recommend you check out Part 1 🔍 before reading.
In this installment, we dive into the drama surrounding the contents of The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls / TAFWVG – the half-autobiographical journal, half-historical fantasy that has defined EA's artistic output and fanbase lore for the past fifteen years. It's still more “Hobby History” than “Hobby Drama” proper, but trust me, it provides valuable context about the general vibes of the fandom.
Content Warning throughout this installment for themes of sexual and gender-based violence, including torture, sex trafficking and femicide, as well as attempted suicide, mental illness, hospitalization, and ableist discrimination; brief mention of Holocaust imagery. Oh, and obviously, spoiler alert for the whole book – but that's comprehensive investigative work for ya!
🪞 = picture / visual 🎵 = music / audio 📺 = video 📝 = primary source / receipt 🔍 = press article / write-up / further reading 🎤 = song lyrics 🐀 = anonymous fan confession 🦠 = reaction / meme

OVERVIEW: “A DOCUMENT IN MADNESS – THOUGHTS AND REMEMBRANCE FITTED” (LAERTES, ACT IV, SCENE 5)

...When the book was first released, I had only two aims - to explain myself to a growing audience that thought they knew me but didn't truly, and then to expose the corruption of the modern day mental health care system and educate in order to inspire at least a tiny bit of change. (EA answers a fan question on Goodreads, 2018 📝)

The Book begins with Emilie Autumn...
...Well, technically The Book begins with a malapropism. Wrong “foreword”, EA! 🪞 Which is our first clue that despite the myriad revised editions this book has gone through, it could probably have done with a little more initial editing, and perhaps a bit more room to reflect, between the events related and the publication of the first final draft.
Anyway, The Book begins with first-person narrator Emilie Autumn surviving a suicide attempt, stating this to her shrink over the phone soon after. Her shrink tells her that she is currently a danger to herself, and that he won't refill her prescriptions (the meds for her bipolar disorder) unless she immediately checks herself into inpatient care. And it all goes downhill from there.
The psych ward stay at an LA hospital lasts longer than the anticipated 72 hours, and proves overall more traumatic than therapeutic. An increasingly distressed Emilie suffers through the inappropriate comments of creepy doctors, the poor bedside manners and general cluelessness of emotionally numb nurses, the intimidating presence of armed guards around the hospital, being stripped of her belongings and privacy, the lack of transparency or actual care in the ward, her partner's indifference during the occasional phone call, the bad hospital food (I can see how that would suck in such a context), having to repeatedly fill out forms and questionnaires (okay, that's annoying too), a patient eating yoghurt in her vicinity (uh...) and staff members existing while fat (wait, what?). She documents the whole unpleasant experience in a journal that she has to turn in at bedtime.
One day, upon recovering her notebook in the morning, Emilie starts finding torn scraps of ancient wallpaper between the pages. They're scribbled with letters from a young woman named Emily, who is also locked up against her will in a psychiatric facility – namely, a women's insane asylum... in Victorian England. Awaiting each new time-traveling letter with bated breath, Emilie gradually learns that the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls (yes, that's its actual name within the story) isn't so much a hospital as it is a dumping ground / torture dungeon. Women – who aren't so much “crazy” as unconventional and inconvenient to men – are kept in chains, subjected to leechings and ice baths, pimped out as human exhibits and sex slaves, and killed en masse in gruesome medical experiments by a psychopathic doctor who's like a Disney-villain take on Dr Mengele. “My life and hers are basically the same. Nothing has changed at all in mental healthcare,” thinks Emilie in the modern-day psych ward, as a nurse offensively tells her that it's time for art therapy.
Alright, that was a long summary, and I'm showing my bias a little bit. But the contents and tone of the book are relevant to this write-up – as are, of course, the common criticisms that arose in the years after its publication.

A (BI)POLARIZED RECEPTION

In the spirit of neutrality and historical accuracy, I will quote some 5-star Goodreads reviews that I think reflect the reasons why many people genuinely loved and continue to love the book...

I don't think I've ever read anything like TAFWVG. It is amazing, horrifying, and both a work of magical fiction and brutal honesty. I felt like for the first time I had found someone who could understand how I feel. I identified on so many levels with this book, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. I appreciate Emilie as an artist so much more now because I realize just how much of herself she puts into everything she does. (...)
What scares me is that it is so incredibly real and several times, I felt as if Emilie was speaking thoughts I've had myself. (...) So many of the things she expressed during states of depression for these characters make so much sense to me, though, and I greatly value how real and honest this is. (📝)
Having some of Emilie Autumn's actual handwriting in the book made it much more personal and made it seem much more like a journal than just any ordinary book. This is a must read for any "muffin" (Emilie Autumn fan). (📝)

...and some of the less scathing and more nuanced 1-star reviews, highlighting common complaints about the book's contents and tone:

The writing was not strong enough to handle the story being told and there were so many issues from how mental health was handled to the entitled behaviour of the main character to the treatment of all the other characters, I ended up giving up in frustration. It’s a shame as this could have been a really interesting exploration of the mental health system in America paralleled with that of the 1800s, but instead just turned into a lot of, in some cases offensive, ramblings. (📝)
I was shocked in the opening pages by the voice of the main character, and I don't think it was a technique to give her depth. It sounded like genuine elitism with the flavor of "I should be allowed to kill myself." Um. Ok??? (...) I wish the prose had been tolerable for me to get to the high concept journal entry stuff, but everything that the premise promises... from the quality of what I read, it falls very, very short. There are horrible elements to being inside an institution: it's scary, it's dehumanizing, it definitely isn't the "best" space for healing... but this author does not have the knowledge, expertise, or perspective to provide an adequate critique. (📝)
The torture and rape are mentioned as daily occurrences and, while I'm sure such things did occur in Victorian times, it was so overdone and hinted to with such macabre glee, I felt I was watching someone's sordid fantasy. (...) This is not a solemn look at mental illness from the inside. It is a glamorized, twisted, fetishist notion of mental illness and asylums which made me feel truly uncomfortable. (📝)

...I opted not to quote this one because it was too savage and not always fair, but it's a fun read.
In short, the people who enjoy the book tend to praise the engaging storyline, the witty and eloquent writing, the raw authenticity, the depths of insight, and getting to take a peek inside EA's brain. The people who don't, on the other hand, criticize the unbalanced structure, the overwrought and rambling style, the obvious distortions or straight-up fabrications (we'll get to that, all in good time), the acute main character syndrome, the seeming lack of self-awareness or appropriate research (despite claims of “historical accuracy”), the flippant and even dangerous claims about highly sensitive topics, and being made to read stuff that should probably have stayed firmly concealed inside EA's brain.
Many critics report being put off by EA's high opinion of her own intellect and booksmarts, as she routinely assumes staff members to be too dim-witted, uncultured and incompetent to be worth engaging with. (Which is a bit rich, coming from a self-tutored West Coaster who inaccurately claims to speak “the Queen's English” and misspells “in memoriam”.) She takes this disdain to... really mean places. Some readers were especially taken aback by a series of straight-up petty, out-of-left-field fatphobic jabs. 📝
Others cringed (and this is a serious problem for an author who claims to be an advocate) at EA's blatant disdain of any other form of mental illness besides her own. This mostly shines though callous and cruel descriptions of those she calls “the real crazies” – meaning the other patients. By callous, I mean she spends several paragraphs calling a detox patient cute nicknames like “the Duchess von Nutsberg”, “Miss Nuttersby” or “the Mayor of Cracktown” as she gleefully mocks her withdrawal meltdown – with a subtle dig at Courtney thrown in for good measure (second screenshot, end of first paragraph). It's one of the only instances when EA expresses sympathy for the staff; as she hears them brutalizing the problematic patient in the other room, she muses that, in their place, she would probably want to “bash [the woman's] head against the wall”. This is intended as comic relief from her own narrative.
But the most all-encompassing complaint is EA's perceived glamorization of mental anguish and extreme suffering. (Not the gross kind that's experienced by lowly crack addicts – the other kind, the refined kind.)
This complaint refers, in large part, to the book's apparent glorification of self-harm, and categorically negative depiction of psychiatric care. On top of the two main narratives, the book also included three pre-hospitalization journals – the “Cutting Diary”, the “Suicide Diary” and the “Drug Diary” – whose unfiltered, unapologetic contents (including high-contrast pictures of fresh self-harm cuts) were very polarizing.
I will note that EA herself, in interviews, has overtly stated that she's not anti-medication or therapy, and that physically hurting yourself is not a great strategy in the long run. But these nuancing statements are not present in the book. Some former fans have cited EA and her work as a reason why they delayed seeking medical help for their own self-harm and mental health issues.
The complaint also refers to the abundant depictions of tragically gorgeous women being subjected to the most odious abuse, and justifying their self-destructive tendencies as appropriate reactions to said abuse.
Mmh, what did that one Goodreads reviewer mean about “someone's sordid fantasy”...? CW for rape, torture, murder. This is the way... step inside! 🎵

PSYCHSPLOITATION EXTRAVAGANZA

Come see our girls! Crazy girls! If you're willing to be thrilled, this is a hell of a ride! Those girls! Crazy girls! They're hot! They're nuts! They're suicidal! (“Girls! Girls! Girls!”, 2012 📺🎵)

Many comparisons have been drawn with the video game Alice: Madness Returns and the movie Sucker Punch. (In fact, EA got thiiis close to accusing Zack Snyder of plagiarism📝, but wisely stopped short.) In my humble opinion, those similarities are essentially cosmetic, and don't really cut to the quick of what makes TAFWVG – and what makes it so familiar, yet so bizarre within its purported genre. So allow me to share my white-hot take on this self-published fantasy novel from the first Obama presidency.
You heard it here first, folks, and only fifteen years late: TAFWVG is basically a Sweeney Todd reskin of Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtues 🔍), by the infamous Marquis de Sade.
I'm doubtful that Sade was a conscious, direct influence on EA, and the two books are obviously very different in style and explicitness – but they have many, many tropes in common. Hear me out.
Both Emily-with-a-Y and Justine are virtuous, pure-hearted heroins of singular eloquence and beauty (or, for those familiar with literary parlance, “Mary-Sues”) who have The Absolute Worst Luck. Both grew up around wealth and sophistication, but abruptly found themselves poor and alone in the world as teenagers – though both are briefly reunited with a long-lost sister during the plot. (In both cases, one sister dies. Like I said, terrible luck!) Both find themselves in a world of sin and depravity that they vehemently reject, while almost all the other characters gleefully revel in base greed, power schemes, and pure sadism.
After fleeing her convent school to escape the indecent advances of a priest, Justine is entrapped by a gang of depraved aristocrats who use her as a sex slave before having her thrown in jail as a thief. A cold, unscrupulous older woman helps her escape, and forces her to join her gang of robbers. Soon, Justine falls in with a succession of colorful maniacs, such as a medical enthusiast who wants to vivisect his own daughter, a man who rapes women specifically to get them pregnant and kill their newborn babies, and an order of lurid monks who turned their convent into a private sex dungeon.
Compare with TAFWVG:
After being groomed by a human trafficking ring fronting as a music school, Emily is sold off to a depraved aristocrat who would use her as a sex slave – and who, we later learn, murdered one of his own daughters for fun during an orgy. She escapes, but is soon arrested and jailed as a thief for stealing a loaf of bread (I suspect that may draw on another classic of French literature 🎵📺). A cold, unscrupulous older woman bails Emily out, but only for a forcible transfer to the Asylum – which her doctor-son uses as an human experimentation lab and for-profit sex dungeon. When inmates inevitably get pregnant, they are forced to receive botched abortions and hysterectomies, and various other un-sedated mutilations, from a twisted surgeon who is implied to be (gasp!) a young Jack the Ripper.
(In both cases, I personally find that it's the sheer accumulation of impossibly sordid twists that makes the reading bearable, and possibly even fun, rather than just sickening. Each new misfortune is so fantastically awful that the whole thing becomes about as poignant and realistic as The Human Centipede.)
One last intriguing detail: not only were Justine and TAFWVG both written while “inside” (the Bastille and an LA hospital, respectively), both were also reworked by their author several times after publication. And both heroins' fates somehow got worse with every re-issue! Lest we forget: one narrative is a 2009 historical fiction that was meant to champion female empowerment, sisterhood, and more compassion in the treatment of mental illness. The other is 18th century non-con porn that was so brutally graphic, so outrageously deranged, that its author was deemed a menace to society and sentenced to live out his days... in an insane asylum. (Tangent: it's even more darkly funny when you know that 1. Sade was a legit monster, a repeat offender of heinous sexual crimes, but it was the freaking book that got him locked away for good, and 2. he was arrested while on his way to submit yet another version of the manuscript.)
What's interesting is that EA explicitly addresses – and ostensibly calls out! – the exact sort of exploitation and objectification, specifically of mentally ill women, which many readers feel she enacts in the book. It was a central theme in Opheliac: here's her discussing the erotic undertones in Romantic-era depictions of dying women. 🎤 In TAFWVG, the inmates are forcibly dressed with ethereal white gowns and flowers in their hair for a human exhibit / brothel that the doctors call “The Ophelia Gallery”. 🪞 Johns frequently pay to see the girls re-enact Ophelia's death in a bathtub; Emily deems this “madness at its most perverse”.
But then again, it's a time-honored tradition for exploitation media, both fiction and non-fiction – from Reefer Madness 🔍 to Cannibal Holocaust to Michelle Remembers – to cover its ass by clamoring that it's merely "raising awareness" and "showing the truth" of the horrors it depicts in exquisite, lurid detail.

”AFFLICTION, PASSION, HELL ITSELF, SHE TURNS TO FAVOUR AND TO PRETTINESS” (LAERTES, ACT IV SCENE 5): WINNERS OF THE 'MISS UNDERSTOOD' BEAUTY PAGEANT

A number of fans certainly raised an eyebrow at this darkly fetishistic aspect 🐀 📝 of the Asylum narrative, even when they couldn't quite put their finger on what didn't sit right with them. Some wrote it off as cathartic fantasy, like a lot of EA's work. Some expressed mild discomfort, and kindly called the book “paradoxical”. Others were outright disgusted by what they perceived as blatant hypocrisy and trauma-profiteering. The concept definitely hasn't aged very well; in fact, in recent years, there's been increasing pushback 🔍 against the “insane asylum” as a setting for horror fiction. Advocates find that those stories tend to reinforce harmful stereotypes against psych patients, trivialize medical brutality as entertainment, and make it even scarier for people to seek treatment when they need it.
But! For the book's first several years of existence, this discomfort was definitely not mainstream in the fandom. In fact, it was pretty marginal – underground, even; the general consensus was that the whole thing was awesome.
Let me illustrate. Soon after the book came out, EA got a tattoo on her right bicep that read “W14A” (Emily's assigned, tattooed number in the Asylum), to symbolize how she had been “branded for life” by her hospital stay. Over the following years, she started assigning “inmate numbers”, with a similar four-digit format, to fans who requested it online or during meet-and-greets. A number of Asylum forum members started using their unique number as a username or flair; to this day, some fans still use theirs to sign comments on EA's Instagram. A fair few also got their inmate number tattooed.
There are a few reasons for this years-long honeymoon period before the first waves of outrage. First of all, “years” is how long it took before a substantial portion of the active fanbase had actually read the book. On top of dispatching delays, the first and second editions were full-color hardbacks, selling in limited pressings at about $50 plus shipping, which a lot of youngepoorer fans could not readily afford: they had to rely on second-hand accounts from the ultra-fans who did manage to get their hands on a copy. And many such ultra-fans were also young people, who may have been led to EA by their own mental health struggles, a taste for the dramatic – and in many cases, sadly, a personal history of trauma that made it easy not to be phased. To a good part of EA's audience, the blunt violence and over-the-top edginess wasn't tacky or unsettling: it was unironically cool and genuinely relatable. Cool enough to overlook the bad takes and casual bigotry, if you picked up on them at all in the excitement.
Besides, EA pushed The Book so hard, as early as 2007, that before it was even officially released in late 2009, it had become the all-encompassing framework for the entire fan experience. From the music to the stage shows to the in-group slang and lore, everything was Asylum now. So I imagine that even if you hadn't read the book, or weren't all that into it, it was kind of a “tune in or else tune out” situation.
Anyway, that's about all I can think of to explain what possessed dozens, hundreds of fans, across continents, for years, to actually cosplay as “Wayward Victorian Girls” from the story (just to reiterate: mentally ill rape-and-torture victims who, by the end, are being killed in droves and either buried in mass graves or incinerated). I'm talking madwoman tousled hair, sleep-eludes-me smoky eyes, thigh-high black-and-white striped stockings, and virginal “hospital gowns” (white slip dresses), sometimes complete with fake blood splatter. Dressing up for EA shows, or public Muffin Meetups. Posing wistfully for artsy photoshoots in empty bathtubs or childhood bedrooms – or your local abandoned house, through the metal bars of a smashed ground floor window, so it looks like you're in jail. (No, I am not going to dig through DeviantArt for evidence of my claims. I'm assuming a number of the people in those pictures now have kids and stable jobs, and I'm afraid someone might put a hit on my head for causing their blunderyears to resurface.)
Look, I'm not clutching my pearls and saying that those dreamy-edgy visuals were all horrendously insensitive or caused any tangible harm. OR that there's no merit in “shocking” or “distasteful” art that takes a controversial approach to real-world horrors, including glamorizing them.
But even as an outspoken proponent of smut and an staunch cringe apologist, I do find it a bit surreal, looking back from the year 2024, how chill most of the fandom was with the core concept of LARPing as... survivors... of mass incarceration and torture... in striped uniforms... with numbers tattooed on their bodies...? Yeaaah, this feels more and more uncomfortable the longer I think about it. Your Honor, I plead collective insanity for this one. After all, as Kurt Vonnegut once wrote, “you are what you pretend to be.”
*
Ah, well. Art sure is complicated! We can at least take some comfort in the fact that the Offensively Titillating material is mainly contained within the obviously fictional part of the book. Can you imagine the mess if, like the autobiographical portions, the Bedlam Softcore bits featured actual people from EA's real life?!
I mean. Given enough time, that could get pretty awkward.
...We'll circle back to that in the next installment.

I was up late, mindlessly drifting across the internet's backwaters like a digital insomniac. That's when I came across...it. A crudely designed website with glowing green text pulsating against the black background like radioactive veins.
At first, I thought it was just another laughably amateur attempt at a creepypasta-style horror story trying too hard to scare people. But as I read on, the content made my blood freeze.
The site claimed to have insider information about something called "The Render" - a legendary and depraved creature that stalks ancient forests and woodlands, seeking out humans for its deranged rituals. If The Render finds you alone, the text warned, it will appear from the shadows and ask you a simple question in a grating, inhuman voice:
"Are you right-handed...or left?"
If you foolishly admit to being right-handed, the creature mercilessly snaps your right arm with brutal force, relishing your screams as the bones shatter. If you admit to being left-handed, it shatters your left arm without hesitation.
And if you refuse to answer or try to be deceptive? That's when The Render truly unleashes its evil. It begins methodically shattering every limb while you lay helpless on the ground, wailing in sheer agony. The relatively "lucky" victims had just their arms and legs broken in this cruel game.
But there were accounts of The Render also taking fingers and even hands from those who angered or offended it the most. One particularly disturbing story claimed The Render seemed to derive sadistic pleasure from the sickening crunch and snapping sounds of bones breaking. As if it fed off the audible misery of its victims' suffering.
The most chilling detail, however, was the final part of The Render's cruel ritual. After shattering your body and will, it would cruelly wipe your memory of the entire traumatic event, using some sort of unnatural power. Victims awoke later, hopelessly broken yet with no recollection of their fateful encounter in the woods or how their limbs became mangled.
Just...emptiness. Foggy blanks where those nightmarish memories should have been burned into the psyche.
At this point, my hands were shaking, cold sweat prickling my skin. This had to just be an admittedly well-done work of fiction, right? Creative writing at its most depraved, but not real... That's what I desperately wanted to believe.
But then I scrolled down to the photo gallery section of the website.
Twisted, mangled arms bent at grotesque angles that no person should ever have to endure. Compound fractures with thick bones protruding through ripped flesh. Deep, ragged gashes crisscrossing appendages, dried blood caked around the wounds. These weren't AI-generated, and there's no way they were Photoshop fakes...these injuries were undeniably, horrifyingly real.
And each one was captioned with some form of the same sickening line of text: "I don't remember how this happened."
I slammed my laptop shut, heart pounding as if I'd seen something obscene that could never be unseen. Suddenly, my apartment felt too open, too exposed...too vulnerable. I struggled to catch my breath, fighting waves of panic washing over me.
Was this just an immersive horror experience? Some morbid Internet rabbit hole designed to mess with people's minds? Or did this unholy creature - The Render - actually exist out there? Stalking the forests and woodlands, seeking out new victims to torment and disfigure for its sick pleasure before cruelly erasing their memories of the traumatic event?
That night, fear gripped me like a vice. I barely slept, startling at every creak and groan of the apartment settling. I checked and double-checked that all windows and doors were locked. At one point, I even got on my hands and knees, compulsively peering under beds and into closets with a trembling flashlight beam like a terrified child convinced there were monsters hiding in the dark.
For a while after that, I tried to put the disturbing website out of my mind and regain my grip on reality. Surely it was just someone's creative writing project meant to unsettle people, I told myself. An unsettlingly well-done bit of horror fiction, but fiction nonetheless.
And yet...
Months later, I find myself staring unblinkingly at my right arm. The sickly pale flesh disappearing beneath the stark white cast. How? How did this happen? I've racked my brain endlessly, but many of the memories surrounding this catastrophic injury are just...gone. Erased. Replaced by hazy, formless blanks where the crucial details should be burned into my psyche.
The fragmented flashes I can piece together play like a distorted reel of specters and half-glimpsed horrors. They started a few weeks ago, as the dense forest began swallowing the last rays of twilight. I remember clutching the straps of my backpack tighter as I made my way along the narrow, winding trail alone. The crunch of twigs and dried leaves under my boots. A damp, earthy scent hanging heavy in the evening air. The trees seeming to press in closer with every step forward.
That's when it began - that incessant, unnatural scratching sound that made me freeze in my tracks, my breath catching in my suddenly bone-dry throat. It slithered through the shadows of the treeline ahead, a harsh, grating rasp like something being dragged across jagged stone. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck as more garbled noises joined that initial ungodly skittering, seeming to circle me from all sides now, haunting whispers riding on the wind.
I shone my flashlight towards where that first sound had originated, the bright beam slicing through the enveloping darkness. My heart pounded so violently I could feel it throbbing in my temples as I squinted to make out whatever foul presence was lurking ahead.
That's when it emerged. A hunched, spindly figure slithering out from the treeline, eerily silhouetted just beyond the glow of my light. Despite the deep shadows, I could make out elongated, disproportionately long limbs that twisted bonily with each strained movement, like viscous tendrils that did not...could not...belong to any living creature found in nature. Not on this earth.
The gurgling wheeze that issued forth next chilled me to the core - a blasphemous mockery of speech that raised the bile in my throat as those inhuman jaws worked:
"Are you...riiiiight-handed? Orrrrr...leeeeeft?"
In that soul-freezing moment, fragmented memories from the cursed website I'd discovered months earlier came flooding back in fractured pieces. Tales of an ancient, depraved legend - a twisted, unnatural creature that stalks the darkest forest trails, seeking out human victims for its sick, deranged rituals.
I felt rooted to the forest floor, petrified as the vile creature lurched another step closer. Its shadow seemed to reach out in tendrils, caressing the ground around me as that gurgling rasp issued forth once more:
"Welllll? Anssswer truthfulllly..."
My mind raced, trying to determine if playing along or staying silent would be the wiser decision in the face of this unholy abomination. What new torments would it unleash if I angered it? What if...
The thunderous crash of undergrowth being violently disturbed somewhere behind me shattered my thoughts. I whirled around to see a second set of glowing eyes emerging from the trees. Then a third set...and a fourth. More twisted, unnatural shapes beginning to encircle me from all angles, slithering out from the treeline as garbled wheezes and scratching sounds joined in a nightmarish chorus.
My heart turned to ice as the full realization dawned - this was no mere encounter with a solitary monster...this was an ambush.
The Render had been first, the vanguard of what appeared to be an entire hunting pack of these depraved, forest-stalking horrors. And now they had me surrounded...alone, defenseless, and ripe for their foul torments to commence.
I opened my mouth to scream, but only a rattling wheeze escaped as the first set of grotesquely long arms reached out to seize me...
...And that's the last thing I can recall. Just fragmented sensations of blinding agony, shrieks of torment echoing endlessly through the abyss of the forest, and those cruel wheezing sounds that could only be this entire pack's laughter at my suffering.
I don't know how much time passed. All I remember is a hazy darkness, broken up by fleeting nightmares even more terrifying than the actual events must have been. Visions of being slowly, methodically unmade at the hands - or tendrils - of those unholy woodlands beasts slithered through my subconscious in disconnected bursts.
When I finally regained consciousness, I was lying in a hospital bed, head pounding and body laced with fiery lances of pain. Doctors and nurses hovered over me, masks concealing their expressions as they asked me a barrage of questions I couldn't begin to answer:
"Can you tell us your name? What's the last thing you remember? Do you know what happened to you out there?"
My throat was too ragged and raw to speak, but even if I could have, what would I have said? That I was ambushed and savagely attacked in the forest by grotesque, unnatural monsters straight out of a nightmare? They'd think I was insane...or worse, lying.
For now, I could only stare down at the cast covering what remained of my right arm. The limb was twisted at an angle no human arm should bend, with wires and metal rods protruding through the plaster in multiple places to stabilize the shattered bones. I turned my head slowly, feeling the agony radiating from every inch of my body - a torrent of broken bones and trauma.
They say time will help my memories reform, that the human mind protects itself by blurring out traumas too devastating to comprehend all at once. Part of me welcomes that possibility. To forget, even temporarily, the excruciating visions plaguing me of...things...that should never exist outside our darkest nightmares.
But another part feels there's something too dangerous about forgetting. As much as I want to let those scattered, corrupted shards of recollection fade, something keeps pulling me back. An inescapable feeling that the second I drop my guard, I'll be vulnerable to the next encounter.
Because after seeing what walked among those tumbling shadows of the forest...I know it's only a matter of time before They return.