Hagan tak sengaja bertemu Liara, secara sadar menjadikan perempuan itu partner one night stand. Lalu, di pagi harinya, menawarkan sepuluh juta seminggu asal Liara mau menjadi istri. Hagan tak berharap apa pun pada pernikahannya. Ia hanya membutuhkan Liara sebagai teman tidur. Lantas, apa yang akan Hagan lakukan saat status Liara diketahui oleh Redrick--si adik tiri--yang selalu berusaha melenyapkannya? Note: Mengandung unsur 18+ Read more

I wrote a full-length musical about baseball two years ago (lyrics and libretto; it’s never had music). I’ve been very proud of that accomplishment, but I know it needs a lot of work before it can get anywhere. Like, it probably needs a full rewrite. I’m just so lost as to how to approach this. I think my issue is that I’m a much better lyricist than librettist, and I am struggling to see how to make this work.
I’ve already made significant conceptual changes to the show: I have truncated it from an A Chorus Line-esque musical in which every character gets their own realization of the main theme to there being three characters who embody the themes. This deepened the three characters’ personalities and problems, rather than having such shallow characters spread out among the team. I think this will be a good change. But I’m just… unsure of where to go from here. Part of me thinks I should find a librettist or playwright to collaborate with, because I have been having such a hard time figuring out the plot structure and writing the scenes.
And then there’s the issue of the lyrics. I like a lot of the songs I wrote for this musical, but I wonder how much of that is because 1) they’re mine and 2) they’re from my first musical. I’ve been working steadily on writing songs since starting the baseball musical two years ago. Today, I looked back at some of the songs I wrote for it, and for the first time I found myself very critical and dissatisfied with them. Which I suppose is good — it means I’ve improved over the last two years. My stance on certain lyrical elements has evolved — for example, I am less fond of imperfect rhymes these days, and very picky about what kinds I use and how I use them.
But now I’m just staring at this project and overwhelmed at how to approach it. I can visualize some aspects of this show: I know how I want the music and the dancing to work with the story. I don’t want it to be a sung-through musical. But every musical I have written so far (1 1/2 full musicals since this baseball one) has been sung-through, including this one. Mostly because it’s so much easier for me to write lyrics than dialogue. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sung-through musical. I just don’t think that’s the right move for this one. There’s so much you can do with a distinction between speech and song. I really do want to explore that. Obviously, though, playwriting is hard. So I find myself leaning on my crutch — the fact that lyrics are easier for me — and not practicing my dialogue so much. It’s getting to the point where I wonder if I should just be writing concept albums or song cycles instead of fleshed out musicals, or if I should find a collaborator. Ideally — and I’m trying to do this — I would keep pushing through and churn out lots of book scenes for practice until I get better at it. Dialogue has always been the hardest thing for me to write, even when I was writing novels.
I’m just frustrated right now. Thanks for reading this rant.

I wrote a full-length musical about baseball two years ago (lyrics and libretto; it’s never had music). I’ve been very proud of that accomplishment, but I know it needs a lot of work before it can get anywhere. Like, it probably needs a full rewrite. I’m just so lost as to how to approach this. I think my issue is that I’m a much better lyricist than librettist, and I am struggling to see how to make this work.
I’ve already made significant conceptual changes to the show: I have truncated it from an A Chorus Line-esque musical in which every character gets their own realization of the main theme to there being three characters who embody the themes. This deepened the three characters’ personalities and problems, rather than having such shallow characters spread out among the team. I think this will be a good change. But I’m just… unsure of where to go from here. Part of me thinks I should find a librettist or playwright to collaborate with, because I have been having such a hard time figuring out the plot structure and writing the scenes.
And then there’s the issue of the lyrics. I like a lot of the songs I wrote for this musical, but I wonder how much of that is because 1) they’re mine and 2) they’re from my first musical. I’ve been working steadily on writing songs since starting the baseball musical two years ago. Today, I looked back at some of the songs I wrote for it, and for the first time I found myself very critical and dissatisfied with them. Which I suppose is good — it means I’ve improved over the last two years. My stance on certain lyrical elements has evolved — for example, I am less fond of imperfect rhymes these days, and very picky about what kinds I use and how I use them.
But now I’m just staring at this project and overwhelmed at how to approach it. I can visualize some aspects of this show: I know how I want the music and the dancing to work with the story. I don’t want it to be a sung-through musical. But every musical I have written so far (1 1/2 full musicals since this baseball one) has been sung-through, including this one. Mostly because it’s so much easier for me to write lyrics than dialogue. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sung-through musical. I just don’t think that’s the right move for this one. There’s so much you can do with a distinction between speech and song. I really do want to explore that. Obviously, though, playwriting is hard. So I find myself leaning on my crutch — the fact that lyrics are easier for me — and not practicing my dialogue so much. It’s getting to the point where I wonder if I should just be writing concept albums or song cycles instead of fleshed out musicals, or if I should find a collaborator. Ideally — and I’m trying to do this — I would keep pushing through and churn out lots of book scenes for practice until I get better at it. Dialogue has always been the hardest thing for me to write, even when I was writing novels.
I’m just frustrated right now. Thanks for reading this rant.

chapters 1&2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Link to AO3
Gentry’s sweet cravings were getting out of hand.
The last time she had a proper dessert was almost a week ago, and if she had something to say about it, no amount of saccharine text exchanges with pretty boys was going to replace a good old sugar rush. A couple of days ago Sereen treated her to the sweetest snack she could get with her status and that piece of dried fruit was nowhere near enough to satisfy G’s sweet tooth.
So many vending machines and eateries, but not a single good bakery? Hell, even a crappy one would do at this point! She had to hunt down some glucose tonight.
After Sereen’s initial tour around the city, she went off leaving G to explore the city on her own. It was getting easier and easier. With the auglasses on, finding her way around proved pretty intuitive, not in the least thanks to the distinct chessboard-like layout of Ashtapada. Each district had a letter-number label. By remembering one’s “square code”, one could find their way back on foot or by cab in no time wherever they found themselves.
Gentry spent hours exploring the wide walking streets and little nooks that offered yet another glimpse into Ashtapadan reality. She once stumbled upon a bookshop with nothing on the shelves but blank-page tomes. The shopkeeper asked her what she was looking for and after finding out the she was a Newcomer, explained that it was a book-on-demand type of place. She would place an order for a story and he would write it for her in a matter of days.
What confused her most was the snow-white buildings of the city. Despite being made with rough porous concrete, they were drowning in lush greenery that sometimes looked like it nearly chocked the structure. Each had the same distinct feature, though, that made them all look unfinished: however tall or short was the building, the top floor always looked under construction. Though there always were the omnipresent hounds on each of the working site, there were never any cranes or scaffolding visible. The obliging auglasses offered G the answer: everything from the smallest houses to the few high rises was essentially self-producing! From what little she understood reading about this advancement, the carbon in the atmosphere was captured by special aerial filters and dissolved in some water. It later went through the pipes in the buildings’ skeleton-like armature and got sprayed on. As the water evaporated, the carbon solidified into neat coral-like blocks that formed the walls and other structures.
Well, that explained why the fumes she saw on the outskirts smoked backwards!
It was getting dark and the orderly streets came alive once G engaged her glasses that revealed the digital underside of Ashtapada again. Every business had a modest sign in the physical world that didn’t stand out on the angular facades. But there also was a hidden bright animated augmented-reality one that could compete with Broadway neon in brightness.
Signs like these weren’t just decorating the facades: the 3D ones flashing on the ground filled almost the whole field of view, too. They looked amazingly enticing in the evening dusk. Information stalls with digital assistants, huge arrows pointing at meeting points, temporary signs inviting strangers to join a club gathering — Gentry was going to gawk at every single one tonight. She came up to some of them, waving hands in the air to try and touch the flickering lights, not caring what she looked like from the outside. Ashtapadans seemed a very relaxed bunch, not putting their noses in others’ business, which felt liberating. Noting how other people in the streets interacted with 3D service bots, G came up to one of them, too.
“Hello, Gentry, how can I help you tonight?” it chirped. The hologram looked like a cute animated girl with an elaborate pink hairdo. “You can ask me a question directly or say “What can you do” to access the list of commands.”
“Hi!” G said. “Do you have a name?”
“You can call me Yukio,” it responded with a little curtsy. “I can answer any questions, show you around or chat about anything!”
Any question? It must know where the desserts were sold! On second thought, wasn’t there something more important than that? Something that brought G here in the first place.
“I’m looking for a person named Exxy Mah,” she said to the patiently smiling girl. “Is there a citizen or a newcomer with this name?”
“There is!” Yukio answered, gleefully jumping in the air. “Exxy Mah is a famous Ashtapadan, she is an advocate for healthy living. You might have seen her on posters and screens around the city.”
The woman in the picture the assistant conjured up floating in thin air showed an elderly woman. She was looking very fit for her age but it clearly wasn’t the Exxy Gentry knew.
“Hmm... That’s not her...” G said. “There has to be another.”
The girl suddenly looked on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry! It’s the only one in Ashtapada! No other Citizens or Newcomers are registered by this name!”
Did her friend change her name then?
“A friend of mine should’ve arrived here last year under the same name. Can you check where she is now?”
Yukio’s helpful attitude fell apart in an instant. Her posture became stiff like a 3D model she was and a voice void of any emotion informed, “Personal data on people of Ashtapada, including their whereabouts is protected by the privacy laws of the city. Please rephrase your search.”
A blink later, the same cute Yukio was standing in front of G again.
“Can I help with anything else?” she smiled.
Was there a way to ask this dummy in a way that would give her at least a hint about her friend?
“Ok, Yukio,” G attempted. “When did the famous Exxy Mah you mentioned arrive at Ashtapada?”
The girl flickered into a wooden statue again, “Personal data on people...”
“Ok, ok, I got it,” G waved. “Bring back the friendly assistant, you creep me out.”
“Can I help with anything else?” the model went again.
G sighed.
“Is there a place a newcomer can get something sweet, a chocolate or a cake perhaps?”
Yukio gasped indignantly, “Ashtapada has a very strict policy on stimulants! You can’t legally buy any tobacco, alcohol, products with added sugar and other such substances!”
“Such substances!” G hollered, forgetting for a second that she was talking to a lifeless simulation. “Sugar is completely harmless! It’s good for your brains you know! Can I at least ask a Сitizen to get me a snack?”
The girl crossed her arms in defiance.
“You can’t buy any dessert in Ashtapada, whatever your status, the law is for everyone. No refined sugar!”
G thought for a moment, rewinding their conversation in her memory.
“Did you say I can’t buy sugar legally?”— Gentry perked up — “Is there a black market of sweets I can go to?”
“A black market of sweets!”
Yukio stared. It was clearly the first time she had had to deal with this particular word combination. It took her a second or two to process the request.
“There’s no black market of sweets in Ashtapada,” she stated, confidently, at last.
“Ok, pinkhead,” G said, rolling her eyes. “I guess it took all candy floss in Ashtapada to make that hair.”
Annoyed at the assistant, she stomped through the bright neon figure in front of her and into the pedestrian street now full of people.
If there was a place with some glucose in this stuck-up place, she was going to sniff it out.
***
The hunt wasn’t of much success. After watching a street performance by a group of dancers, listening to an impromptu debate and taking part in a couple of opinion polls, Gentry finally felt that it had been a little too much. Even with the auglasses disengaged, he noise, the people and the boisterous crowds in the streets seemed to pour light and sound directly into her brain in an endless stream. It gave her a headache.
Calling up a map from her wristcomm with an already practised motion, she marked a place nearby that looked much quieter and had a swarm of vending machines, too.
Screw the sugar, she just needed some water now.
The place was indeed quite secluded. The narrow street started on the edge of the bustling zone she just left but didn’t seem to cut into the living district. It wasn’t used by many people, but, to G’s surprise, it seemed to be used by hounds, scurrying back and forth with parcels, trash bags and other loads of lesser identifiability.
Perhaps this little alley was shared by humans and these tireless little helpers over the course of the day? The hounds would make use of it in the night but workers would walk it to leave the residential area when the sun was up? That would explain the line of vending machines along both sides, with their tempting lights that invited to at least take a look.
Sadly, their insides weren’t as tempting as the signs promised.
G walked past the rows of healthy corn-based snacks, rows of dried fruit packets, lines of non-edible stuff like auglasses upgrades and finally ended up in front of a drinks machine. It immediately identified her by scanning the device on her wrist and merrily chimed a hello. G frowned. The few options that were available to a newcomer with an embarrassingly low status like hers immediately got illuminated, hiding more enticing bottles and cans in relative darkness.
No need to rub it in, you soulless beast!
But... there was a can that looked a little sweeter than others. Perhaps it was because of its sickly-pink colour, or a pattern vaguely reminding of chewing gum printed along its rims together with the fact that it was unavailable to pheasants like her, but something told Gentry that it probably was it. A sweet drink she was after.
Or, at least, sweetish.
Against better judgment, she tapped the touchglass to order it.
Nothing. The little screen insisted that she must choose what was available.
She scanned her comm again.
Nothing.
She engaged the little flashlight in her glasses and looked at the can more carefully.
Was it... a little askew?
It definitely was.
Its lower rim was half-hanging in the air, the release mechanism lazily holding it in place.
A good shove...
A good shove would probably drop the can down.
Wouldn’t it?
G looked around and immediately felt a pang of guilt.
She hadn’t done anything, officer!
Yet.
No people, just a couple of smaller hounds rhythmically clip-clopping along the dim alley.
Should she?
The can looked at her from behind the glass like a captive princess, waiting to be rescued from the agonizing imprisonment. Someone to grab its slender body, deflower it with a skilled motion and drain its sweet nectar in a couple of gulps.
Hang in there, my sweet prize, your saviour is coming!
Another hopefully inconspicuous glance around confirmed there were still no people in the alley.
Gentry stepped to the side and leaned on the machine, estimating its weight.
Not too bad.
She leaned in heavier, feet pushing into the ground, legs and back straining against the cool metal.
A little more, and...
One of the little hounds stopped and looked G over, like a dog that saw a little furry animal that could be torn apart.
What, little buddy? Just taking a break. Is it against the law to lean on vending machines?
Gentry urged the walking robot to move along with a little shove of her foot and immediately felt a little bad when it obediently left without making much fuss.
Why the guilt? It wasn’t like she kicked the little guy!
Still, Gentry felt emboldened by the little victory against the mindless machine.
Surely, the frigid castle that held her sugary princess shouldn’t be of much trouble either.
With a renewed wind in her sails, she stepped back a couple of meters and slammed her whole body into the automate that answered with a promising clanking. Another good push and the visual assessment confirmed that the pink princess was nearly saved. Gentry smashed into the box one last time and the can that she longed for finally jangled down and into the pick-up box.
Gentry’s exhilaration lasted only for a second, however. Before she could retrieve the can she lusted after, something much bigger than a modest dog-sized carrier hound filled her field of vision. A larger four-legged robot that also had something fastened on its back and belly. It stood motionless, its front camera glinting in the uneven light like a bird of prey’s, watching G as she stood up after the impact, unsure what to do.
Was it a police hound or something? Unlikely. There were no marks on it that would identify it as such. What was its problem then?
It’s alright, mate, be on your way now.
G slowly moved her hand towards the pick-up box and almost grabbed the cool can when the hound gently shoved her hand aside with its boxy head.
What’s your problem, pal?
Gentry considered if it was worth it being accused of theft so soon after arriving at Ashtapada. Was it really that bad though? She could always claim it just dropped there by itself.
She pushed the hound’s stump of a head back, covering its camera with her palm, reaching for the can again. This time, as if blinded by her hand, the hound didn’t do anything to stop it.
Ah, easy. These machines were too dumb.
Gentry stepped back, completely sure that the matter was settled, and popped the can open. Its sweet scent filled her nostrils with a seductive promise. But the hound had other plans. Once his camera was uncovered, it seemed to focus on the offending drink again and made to awkwardly sway its head to kick it out of G’s hands.
Excuse me? What about the Laws of Robotics, mate? Rings a bell?
It wasn’t hard to dodge the clumsy assault, but the sheer size of the robot made G uneasy. If it seriously wanted to harm her, it could just stomp on her foot and shatter the bones there like fragile glass.
Better get out of here then.
Finally making a sip of the promising nectar, Gentry moved back towards the light opening of the alley, flanking the beast at a respectful distance before scrunching her face in disgust.
Shit! The drink wasn’t sweet in the slightest! It was all a lie! Vile flavourings! She was cheated! Her lovely princess lured her with a siren’s song and stabbed her right in the heart!
Disillusioned, G gripped the can tighter as if in retaliation and picked up the pace.
The hound wasn’t having it though. Surprisingly agile on its metal hooves, it appeared in front of Gentry, blocking her way out. The robots usually looked more like docile cows or donkeys, especially when they were loaded with cargo, but this one, now... looked like a real hound. Its posture suddenly squat, the camera glinting once again, it definitely wasn’t going to let the transgressor go that easily.
Shit, shit! Had it seen her face? Had it scanned her comm? Was she going to prison now?
Panic rose in Gentry’s brain like a suffocating wave.
Run? Return the can back? It wasn’t even good enough to be worth the trouble!
Tentatively, without turning her back on the beast, G made a couple of steps back to escape in the other direction but the robot matched her stride, his dark presence looming in the narrow pathway.
Something like this had happened before. A similar quiet spot in her city. A similar evening that started off great but ended in a disaster. The same impending danger, the same feeling of helplessness, a similar... weapon in her hand?
Right. The brawler that attacked her and Pete at The Clockface was human and was taken down by some boiling hot water, and this hound also had eyes. Only one in fact. And if the can is sturdy enough...
Brace yourself now, my princess, it’s time for sacrifices.
With a well-aimed swing, Gentry launched the can into the thin glass of the hound’s camera eye, turning to run for her life at the same time. A crashing sound proved that she succeeded but there was no time to check what the robot would do next. As usual, the time seemed to stretch into a sickening slime and her legs didn’t feel real, but G knew that outside her reeling head everything was moving properly so she had no time to lose.
Run away, mix into the crowd, save your hide.
Feel worthless later.

Just curious with everyone’s experience going to planned parenthood. (For context since I don’t want to tell anyone I personally know) My boyfriend and I had slept together about 3-4 weeks ago and I ended up taking Plan B after since things didn’t go as planned and before anyone comments about weight, ovulation, all that jazz and how Plan B won’t work, I weight 110 pounds and when we had sex I had finished my last menstrual cycle 3-4 days prior (also I’m aware it’s not 100% effective but this is stressful). I’ve had to take Plan B twice before and each time I have I had intense cramps (worse than usual) and it usually delayed my period by a few days to a week and therefore I am currently not menstruating from the plan b I took and was expecting to start it next week but I have been so irritable lately and have had loads of other emotions and my boyfriend suggested I take a pregnancy test. Mind you both me and my boyfriend are in our early 20s and he has just finished college while I just work a minimum wage job so we both don’t think we’re ready to have a kid or financially support one. But regardless I took a pregnancy test last night and maybe it was user error since I had shoved the test into my pocket while it was reading my urine but it had said positive. Since we both are not ready we decided to at least set up an appointment with planned parenthood for Thursday and I will be taking more pregnancy tests later today to make sure it’s correct. But why I came here was to ask if anyone has gone through this and what I can expect throughout this process? And although we could probably scrounge up enough money to afford it I’ve heard many different prices which kind of scare me so I’m unsure what to expect. Sorry if this was a novel to read I’m just a 22 year old girl who is obviously panicking and very stressed out!❤️❤️

Hello there, how are you? Here is my introduction. Hopefully, it will give you a good idea of who I am.
I'm a married 41 yo male looking for an online chat buddy that can turn into friendship.

What matters to me in a friend?

Consistency:

I want someone who isn't a different person from one day to another. Someone who has a set of values and ethics they adhere to. I'm a Christian, so it would be nice to meet another Christian.

Shared interests:

I am into computer programming as a hobby for the creative, fun aspects of it, like game programming or creating creative apps.
I like streaming movies and TV shows: I am subscribed to Prime, Netflix, Hulu, Disney Plus. I watch Tubi, too. I like Science Fiction shows, Thrillers, Horror, Comedy, Action, Fantasy, K-dramas, and similar.
Trying to get into Audible books: I like getting Science Fiction, LRPG, Fantasy, Supernatural books with my wife.
I'm into AI art, and it would be fun to have someone to share creations with.
I like gaming. I'm currently exploring which genres I like best, but I'm into strategy, open world, fps, deck builders, RPG, puzzlers, and similar.
I like writing. I like writing poetry, but i haven't done it in some time. I want to eventually draft a Sci-fi novel.

Someone who has time for friendship:

Doesn't have to be every day, but someone who wants to put aside time to talk and not just go weeks without saying a word. Someone who won't just ghost you and isn't a bad faith actor. Just someone who has time to build a friendship.

Who am I?

I'm a guy that finds it incredibly hard to retain or make friends, and I am unsure why. I am married and my wife is going blind. I have mental health issues, like generalized anxiety disorder and depression, which isn't surprising. It's hard to live life without resources and friends. I talk about problems and health problems, which might put people off. I have a pessimistic view lately, because it just feels truer than optimism. Even though I might seem to be a downer already, I feel like I am fun to talk with to, lol. I like talking with others who have shared interests. I like learning new things, and I've been using AI to do that lately. Sociology and psychology interest me, but I haven't delved into them too deeply, just casual observations or thoughts on it. It would be nice to find another Christian who is into gaming and programming, watching movies and new tv shows. I tend to last longer with friends who have been outsiders before or had hard lives, but it's not a prerequisite.

Why haven't friendships worked out in the past?

I've been trying to unlock this enigma, but it's been elusive. I think it's because I talk about my problems, and I talk a lot, so I end up saying something controversial that I thought they could handle. I am respectful and tactful, but I think I overestimate how tolerant people are of differences of opinion. My wife is going blind, and I have become a pessimist, so maybe people don't like hearing about chronic health problems or problems often. I try to reciprocate the same energy, so I don't get why people are easily offended. I am an open-minded person, but I am opinionated. I think people don't like that I am secure in my opinions, so when there is a difference between us, they might think I don't value or think about their insight. I really hate it when people are really engaging at first, then when you return the energy, they ghost you. That's a big red flag. I tend to connect with other Christians, programmers, writers, movie enthusiasts, but they got into the interests for reasons I didn't, so we don't connect. Like programmers tend to be super logical and mathematical,
while I get into it for the creative aspects. Another example is talking with Christians, but they are from another denomination, or they are super strict and able developing a Bible study, but I am trying to make casual friends and am more laidback. Even another example, I talk with Science-Fiction fans, but they want the Science to be realistic and fact-based, while I get into it for the creative storytelling. Those nuisances always ruins it for me.

Final Thoughts:

Well, I think I wrote enough to get a good idea of who I am. It would just be nice to find decent people who I can vibe with and who don't just profile you, judge you, or act like they are your friends, then ghost you. I am tired of that, lol.

Hello all!
I'm looking to run a one-on-one, I have done some development on this project, and am looking for ideas, tips, or resources to furthestrengthen the project. If you think something is a bad idea, please, also share. I'm really hoping to make Vallaki feel real. Perhaps an extended name list for both barovians and the Vistani.
Sorry for any formatting issues, I'm totally at work and supposed to be doing other things but I cannot get this out of my head. Spelling? well that's from memory.
On Strahd:

• I've adjusted his character slightly. His original story of not getting the girl falls flat for me, even with further understanding of his character, so I've adjusted it.
• The public adored Sergei, and when Tatyana, beloved by the people, began hanging around Strahd and his brother, it was obvious they were to marry.
• Tayana of course, duty bound, said yes, and was set to marry Sergei.
• She became more in love with Strahd, and the two promised each other to whisk away, but similar to as written, Strahd succumbs to the dark powers trying to preserve his love, and seeking a life/youth with her.
• The wording of the deal will end falls so that, despite this being promised to him, Strahd is never, and will never, be the same person that Tatyana fell in love with, thus, he is not the one promised to her, and he will forever chase her, and she is stolen from his grasp as soon as they get close.
• Strahd's current play is to improve life in Barovia, so that his new Tatyana might be in higher spirits for courting.
• The year is set in 900 something. i don't remember exactly, but this makes strahd a much older vampire. This would be after the first war with Azalin, however we are not playing with the other domains of dread. scope of this is already too big.
• Strahd's current lovers will be more active and actual partners to him.

The Player (wizard. Illusion):

• Son of Strahd, a dhampir, hidden by his mother before Strahd finds out. His birth mother passed the child along to one of Fiona's friends, in Vallaki. His mother has done an excellent job at hiding his not-human status.
• Thus, the campaign begins in Vallaki. The player has an older brother named Sergei (a careful play on my part via name suggestion) and is meant to mirror Strahd. Yes, Sergei is Sergei reincarnated.
• Sergei steps in, after PC speaks out again Vargras, and takes the blame for him, eventually dying in the stockades (an accident, he was left there too long.)
• This puts the player at odds with the Vallokovichs, as well as angry at the world.
• Soon, his world will come crashing down with the fest, and he and his friends, called the unofficial vallaki restoration committee, will likely be caught in the cross fire between Fiona and the Baron. Honestly, even with random rolls (the brother dying was a roll on tasha's), everything has fallen into place quite nicely.
• The PC will mirror strahd quite well, and follows the idea that perhaps this cycle can be broken, or perhaps, the vampirism will consume him as well. (we've agreed on blood as a mechanic being similar to a drug. not needed, quite nice, hard to turn off of. starting with no dependency.)

Because the player is alone, I am considering starting at level five (feeling mixed on this), with the option of additional npcs to pick up, who could gain levels through events. The player knows nothing about strahd or curse of strahd, and has been actively avoiding content. I'm not looking to murder my player, nor his friends, however they are all at risk should he put them in harms way. Player knows COS is dangerous as fuck, and that it will be a careful endeavor, not an adventure. Player is heavy role play, low combat, but understands there is plenty of danger and combat is possible.
Mechanics I'm looking into are:

• gritty realism (or a variant? unsure. i feel like it fits, but raw rules are a bit lackluster)
• an enlarged map (changing 1/4 mi to 3/4)
• perhaps adding a few older towns from the books or other modules (researching this)
• Sanity. (married to this, suggestions still welcome)
• The mists cover the sky, so its never sunlight out, just bright during the day.
• Trying to find a good playlist/music vibe/sound effect vibe. This I'll be running with three monitors online, but if i run an alt version with my friends, it would just be on my laptop, so user friendly interface would be cool.
• Oops am now penniless. (not sure how to accomplish this for someone that is a townee.)

Researching I am doing/done - Feel free to add to my list of content to consume.

• Read I strahd, both books.
• Picked up a short story book about ravenloft, with one of P.N. Elrod's books as a hope something's in there. Haven't read it yet. Ik reviews are mixed.
• There was bother book I started reading but do not remember, but it started with a bookseller, if anyone could point me in that direction.
• Read through module and again certain parts. will do again before playing of course.
• Looking at some of the expansions on here. Haven't gotten too far. I did a bit looking into mandy mod but idk if it fits the vibe.
• Reading Dracula (with daily Dracula. It's been fun.)
• Researching Romania, Romanian history, and wildlife to that nice sweet spot on making the world feel like a tangible world.
• Just started listening to Twice Bitten.
• Some research into vistani. Disappointed with current findings.

I have so much information, but I don't want to make this a novel. Feel free to ask questions about PC's family, friends, or what not. Any thoughts welcome.
Edited for typos, and will probably continue to edit for typos. I always miss them.

A couple of my seniors decided to either search for or straight-up purchase the answer key I was going with for our Guided Reading Questions on The Handmaid's Tale: The Graphic Novel. Granted, I think I may have been overdoing it with the questions—I was even going to make them a regular Classwork/Homework grade instead of Minor (which they originally were) since most of them haven't been handing them in. Plus, a couple more CW/HW grades would've lined up nicely in my grade book.
But I digress; some of them seem to have sought it out hard enough to find it and use the exact same answers I have (word for word). I'm near the end of my first year of teaching, so I'm unsure what exactly I should do. I'm talking to my supervisor about it today, but do you guys have any ideas? I don't want to just cancel the assignment and give those who were honest a "sorry, blame your classmates" instead of an actual grade.
Thank you in advance!!

Hello there INFPs,
It’s been a ride these last few decades, the pain of growing up in the world unsure of what or who you are and the constant crushing of negative thoughts. The ceaseless questioning my own sanity, usefulness, masculinity and even purpose. Is there no end? Well…
I’m here to say I feel better, look better (yet I still rate myself a 4 or 5), and have done some stuff I’ve been proud of now in my middle aged self. But the crushing negative thoughts continues. I still feel I could be better at everything: better body, better wealth, fame, a girlfriend. These are all things that are externalized that try to fulfill the desire of feeling loved.
I have seeked my whole life on what was wrong with me, i tried zodiacs, the hypersensitive person discovery, the hyperpotentialites (people with multiple interests), however these methods don’t help, it does not offer understanding or meaning that I needed. Briggs Meyer helped me feel like I was not crazy that I was just a rare personality in a spectrum. It was helpful.
Until it wasn’t.
I have considered creative writing, I really enjoy world building and discovering new places and interesting characters. I decided I will be a part-time fiction writer. I started off writing first drafts for multiple stories and novels. But I began to hang the INFP stigma over my head, great writers like Shakespeare, ray bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe, were considered INFPs. It then became an ego boosted delusion that I was supposed to generate content that was on their level. If you came to read this looking for wisdom well read this: Comparison is the Thief of Joy.
The more you compare your life to others in the perception that some how they are winning and you are not. Then enjoy misery.
Practice gratitude now.
Focusing on your self makes you miserable, I realized finally that when I made someone feel good, no matter if it was being funny or a kind act, I felt amazing.
The moment I judge myself I die a little.
Briggs Meyer doesn’t help me understand this but the big five personalities did.
The big five are Openness, Extroversion, conscientiousness, agreeableness and neuroticism.
I scored:
90% on openness (open to new ideas, creative) 20% extroversion ( a low score is introverted) 20% consciousness (not confined by rules, but not industrial, appears as non motivated, lazy) 90% Agreeable (want to please others, hate conflicts, wants to mediate, nurturing) 90% Neuroticism (crushing negative thoughts, anxiety, paranoid, insecurities)
Well that neuroticism sounds terrible, but it explains why I’m miserable in a concrete way than any therapist on YouTube could explain.
I have to find a way to balance out my low consciousness and high neuroticism.
As a 42 year old agnostic I found that balance in Catholicism. If you asked me if I would be a Christian in my 20s or 30s I would laughed in your face. Now I’m baptized. Funny how life throws a curve ball and you have no idea how you got here.
I found a spiritual disciple that is rooted, when I am aloof, I found a way of existing that reverses my negative selfish thoughts into a means to help and serve and sacrifice for others in return I gain peace, my first confession was the greatest weight off my shoulders I have ever felt. But this is my path, it might not be yours.
We are the late bloomers. we struggle to find who are and there is no quick fix for that, no 2-day shipping, no self help guide. It’s all on your unique individuality, your true values.
Only the painful task of gaining the experience, confidence and wisdom of who we are, the building of values that make us as we age. And I know you are asking what’s the pay off? When do I feel better? Why can’t I be successful like everybody else?
We don’t lead tik tok trends, or politics or companies we lead the values of goodness, social justice and human rights that the world periodically forgets. It’s through our artistic expression, vision, acts of kindness, activism, and a deeper need to connect others to each others. The pay off is Our pain, Our emotional struggles, Our self doubts, it tempers our soul so that we have the bravery to become the saints of the world.

This is probably going to be a long one so I'll add a TLDR at the end. Sorry this is kind of all over the place, it's hard to condense my thoughts into a timeline for this because I have memory issues due to CPTSD and ADHD.
For context, my dad was horribly abusive the entire time I had contact with him which was up until the age of 10. My parents divorced when I was 7 and he manipulated me into turning against my mother. However, during most of this time my parents were sharing (50/50) custody, my mom moved over an hour away and I barely saw her except for one weekend the entire year or two she lived the hour away. For my mom's week of custody I was often with my grandparents (her parents), who were also abusive, in order to go to school.
Even when she moved in with my grandparents, and even after she got full custody of me after my dad began dating an awful woman who causeed so much trauma for me, my mother was almost always working or with some guy she was dating. It was horribly neglectful in my hardest years and most important years developmentally. However, I only very recently realized this.
For most of my life, after my father dated that awful woman and my mom got full custody my mom has been my hero and my closest family member. At least, until recently when I began to see her abusive tendencies for what they are.
I guess the first crack in her facade to me was when I came out as trans to her when I was 14. This was after an entire year deliberating on my gender identity and trying to build up the courage to tell her. But I eventually did because she accepted me being gay, why would this be different? I was wrong... Horribly wrong. All I remember from that day was her yelling at me, me balling my eyes out, her saying that me crying wasn't very manly of me, and using stupid gender roles that she doesn't even follow against me to invalidate my gender as a man. Ever since then she's been trying to use my right name and pronouns, but there was another pivotal time a year or so after my gf moved in with us (about 1 years ago around the time I was 19), that she got mad at me and purposely used my dead name and pronouns to my partner in order to hurt me. It's also been over 6 years and she still "slips up" and messes up. Especially when talking about me in the past despite me explaining that it makes me uncomfortable and I was still who I am today then. I just gave up explaining that to her years ago.
She is also emotionally neglectful and has been my entire life. She even admits this. But that doesn't change the fact it's the truth and it severely messed with me, especially since I'm ADHD and autistic. I was already predisposed to not being able to effectively handle my emotions and that absolutely didn't help. She never regulates her own emotions and constantly belittles me for attempting to regulate mine. I've gotten better over the years, I've been especially conscious of my emotions because of me getting on testosterone January this year. Meanwhile, she's gotten exponentially worse in the past year or so after I got a stable job and income. She never says she's proud of me or that I'm doing good. And when she does it's when she's trying to apologize for screaming at me. When she says she loves me it feels like just going through the motions and that it's not actually said from the heart. She's an actual energy vampire and I'm exhausted after any kind of interaction with her.
We moved out of my grandparents place and into our apartment in July 2020. She got closer to me then and stopped neglecting me for the most part, but it was entirely too much too late.
More recently she's become so angry at everything. I have to constantly walk on eggshells at home and at work. (Unfortunately, we started working together before she got worse and before I really noticed her abusive tendencies. I would have never suggested it if I knew what I know now. But hindsight is 20/20.) I have to do extra at work all the time that I'm not required to do, because if I don't she'll complain that she does everything around the store. Which she doesn't. I'm basically a manager in everything but title, and I'm physically disabled. Which makes it difficult to stock on certain days especially when my pain is so bad I have to use my crutches.
My mom constantly acts like a child and has made me parent her and her emotions my entire life. She refuses to get a therapist or medications that she desperately needs at the aid and suggestion of our outstanding boss and myself. Yet she was the one that urged me to get on medications for years when I was showing severe signs of depression and anxiety. She's incredibly manipulative and often acts like a narcissist. She complains about her mother (my grandmother) being abusive all the time, but then does the exact same things my grandmother does without even thinking. I still have a 30+ minute long recording of her working me to hysterics in the car on a drive to my literal doctors appointment at 16 to prescribe me antidepressants and anxiety medications. She threatened to call the cops on me when I got out of the car to try and go into a grocery store we were going to after the appointment.
She gaslights me constantly over things she's done and claims never happened. She always has to be the victim in everything. She doesn't believe me when I say I've done my chores I've been assigned. To the point where I've almost started recording every single time I do them just to prove to her. She constantly says that I need to act like an adult and that this is what adult life is like, but refuses to do any of the things she's trying to make me do. She never communicates effectively and acts like a petulant child when I call her out on it. I have been her parent my entire life and she's never been a mother to me. My grandparents and myself raised me more than she ever did.
And the last straw? Just 2 weeks ago she threatened to kick me and my partner out of our home over 4 dishes in the sink. She told us to find somewhere else to be and that we can't live together. When she promised when my partner moved in with us that she would never kick us out and she would support my partner as long as my partner was going to school, which my partner is. My partner got accepted into an amazing local college. (Because my partner was just coming out of a situation in which their family kicked them out 2 times in less than a year.) This was a fundamental breaking of trust that my mother can't take back. I don't trust her any more and I'm realizing I certainly don't love her. I'm just biding my time, keeping my head down until we can move out.
The signs have been there my entire life, I was just too fucking blind to see them and I feel like an idiot. I've dropped past partners over less than what my mom has done to me. And it's this realization that she's always been an awful parent that has nearly broken me. I don't know what to do because she's been the only person in my family that I felt was my actual family and that I could rely on. But now once I move my partner and I out of this place, I want and need to go lc or nc with her for my own sanity. And when I do move, I'm not going to tell her. We'll just be gone one day and all that will be left is a note with the screenshots of her telling us to get out. I'll never tell her where I've moved to, I'll never tell my grandparents where I've moved to. Maybe I'll visit her, but it will be on my terms and when she starts any shit, I'll walk away. She can call the police all she wants. But I'm an adult and I don't owe her anything. Since she never gave me anything.
There's so much more I could add that she's done to me. These are just some of the more noteable offences because this would be a novel otherwise. My grandparents are abusive too, but moving out made my relationship with them better. I'm kinda hoping it's the same with my mom, but I'm unsure.
TLDR: my mother has been neglectful, narcissistic, manipulative, and gaslighting me my entire life and I'm just now realizing it. It's difficult to come to terms with because she was my best friend my entire life. Until I realized her abuse and neglect.
If anyone has been through this kind of realization before, how did you come to terms with it? What did you do? Because I feel lost, like everything was a lie. I just wanted to get this out, but I also could use some support since I can't move out yet.

This is the first chapter, please provide feedback if you have the time. If this chap turns out to be decent, I'll keep working on the novel. If there are flaws, I'll polish this up before moving on. English ain't my first language, so please understand my poor grammar. Also, I'm also not sure how dialogue works, so that's another thing you'll have to understand.
e.g.
"Hey," Jim said. "What's up?" "Hey." Jim said. "What's up?"
stuff like that, i'm not sure about.
I've copied and pasted the text from Google docs, and the indentation is slightly off. Forgive me for the formatting.

Avocation

8:13 A.M. January 23rd, 2012
Pristine Worth, 13th
Vail, Colorado
Your average bank robbery
“So, as you can probably guess…” a figure dressed in a leather jacket said. “This is a robbery.”
The robber had a gun in his hands and was wearing a small fanny pack on his hips. On his face was a Guy Fawkes mask. On his hands were a pair of blue latex gloves. “Everybody down on the ground. Now!” He shouted. The gun had a black leather handle with a silver handle. He toggled the safety lever and heard a click. The robber felt the trigger loosen.
There were three people in the relatively small bank. One guard, one manager, and one teller. The others had fled when he pulled out the gun; a logical response. He’d originally planned a note job; he’d pass a Post-It note to a teller, who would withdraw the money for him. It was stupid, but thanks to the U.S.'s compliance policy, all tellers had to comply with robbers no matter what. He’d received the cash from the drawers and safes, but had made a gamble when he told her to go to the vault and withdraw all the deposit boxes. Within seconds, she ran out and called the authorities. The remaining teller was curled up in the fetal position on the ground, so the robber didn’t think she’d be much help. So here he was now. Another enthusiastic security guard had stood his ground but decided to go for a capricious stroll when a bullet grazed his shoes. Minimum wage had its limits. One by one, the hostages slowly lowered themselves to the ground except for the teller, who was still curled up into a ball.
He pondered to himself where to hit, keeping his gun trained on the hostages. The ATMs were out of the question. The teller stations were empty, but maybe the teller had intentionally not given him all of the cash in the drawers. Or he could go into the office area, which almost definitely would lead to a vault. He’d have to settle for the motherlode. The police were definitely contacted; it wouldn’t be long before the boys in blue showed up.
He stuffed the cash the teller had given him into his duffel bag, skimming through them, on the lookout for any dye packs. The robber wouldn’t have to worry about bait bills; he’d learnt from experience they did little to nothing. He filtered out one dye pack and threw it away. The bills with the dye pack attached to them were probably fakes anyway. The rest were dumped into his duffel bag. He left it open for later.
The robber looked around to see a frail, wooden door to his right. A sign read, ‘Restricted Area, Authorized Personnel Only’. Unfortunate. He aimed the gun at the lock, then pulled the trigger. It fell off with a clunk, then holstered his gun by habit. The robber walked up to the door and opened it.
Keeping the gun pointed towards the lobby, he stepped into the room. The door opened to an office area, with granite countertops and old desktop computers. He looked around until his eyes fell upon a large vault. Perfect. He holstered his gun and pulled out two brown blocks from his fanny pack. The box had a forest of wires woven around it and other pieces of electronic scrap and metal, snaking into the large box. Something was scribbled on the cardboard exterior in permanent pen. The whole contraption was held together by pieces of duct tape and glue. He kept his ears and eyes trained on the main room and peeled off the plastic on the side with the adhesive and attached them to the hinges of the vault door. A strip of white paper jutted out from the gray box. Even though it was a rush job, the robber felt proud of himself having made it with only C4 putty and cardboard boxes. He yanked out the white stripes on the explosives and ran back to the lobby, then covered his ears, despite the pair of headphones on his head. A deafening boom echoed through the room. The hostages screamed while the floor shook as if an earthquake had hit the area. Dust and debris cascaded down from the ceiling. Then, the shock stopped as abruptly as it had started. Sneaking a look through the window for any signs of law enforcement, he found the roads to be clear other than pedestrians running about like a flock of birds. Although the police weren’t here yet, it wouldn’t be long before they arrived in the vicinity. Worse yet, this was his first robbery in a while. He would have to be careful. Gun aimed at the door leading to the office area, the figure walked back into the room past the charred carpet and stench of burning cloth. The vault door’s handle had been sheared off by the explosion and sat embedded in a desk. The vault door itself was hanging slightly ajar. The robber yanked it open and entered the vault.
He stepped inside to find a cage door, most likely made out of steel.
“Right, right…” he muttered. Of course it wouldn’t be easy. The robber then checked his watch. It had been a minute since the alarms started ringing. He’d at least have about 5 minutes. He aimed his gun at the lock and took some potshots. The bullets clinked off harmlessly, only denting it. The robber then walked up to it and extracted the last improvised explosive from his pocket. Dropping his gun to the ground, he stuck it to the cage door and yanked out the cord. Even if the caged door didn’t exist, he had to use it to get rid of the evidence; no use in keeping it as a souvenir.
Picking up his gun from the ground hastily, he stumbled back into the lobby. The hostages rolled up into the fetal position, as if they knew another bomb was being blown. Another boom roared in the building. Glass fragments from the broken lights rained down on the floor, along with a shower of more dust. Some Monday for the three brave boys here, he thought. Dusting himself off, the robber then rose slowly and returned to the vault room, where the caged door had been blown off his hinges. Smoke rose from it like vapor rising from a kettle. The robber carefully kicked aside the charred door. He wouldn’t dare touch or step on it; he’d learnt from experience that explosives left metals scorching hot. The robber then dashed back out of the vault, then peeked around the corner to see if police force had arrived. Although he could hear echoes of sirens in the distance, there were still no police cars nearby. He tore his headphones out from his head, stray strands of hair getting caught in the headband and being yanked off. Grimacing from the stinging pain, he folded it back up and stowed it in his fanny pack. If he could, the robber would leave it behind; however, any DNA could easily be traced back to him. That was the reason why he was wearing the surgical gloves. Setting the gloves on fire and getting rid of the toxic fumes were the tricky part; though a reasonable price to pay in exchange for not getting thrown behind bars.
Not that he’d been operating under the radar; the robber had developed quite the reputation in the local community. A few years back, he’d once been caught breaking into a safe without anything covering his face. The robber had to stay out of town for half a year before law enforcement stopped investigating. Even though he was wearing a face mask, the robber still felt skittish walking in crowds.
The freelancer then walked slowly into the vault room. Surprisingly, it was only the size of an office cubicle. With shaking hands, he reached up to the shelves and jerked them open. In them were worn files and records, their pages yellow with age. There were some deposit boxes at the bottom of the shelves, but he wouldn’t have enough time to break them open, let alone get the keys. As he examined the trove, he could hear cars screeching down the street, with the faint echo of police sirens. Adrenaline started pumping in his blood and his heartbeat started to quicken. It had been a while since he’d committed a robbery; he’d forgotten about the feeling of the job. He took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. Checking his watch, he saw that he had 2 minutes of the original 5 until the police got here. In the explosions, he’d burnt through 2 whole minutes. And even 5 minutes were an estimate at best; Google Maps could only be so accurate with its guesses, apparently bad ones, since sirens had already started howling somewhere downtown.
The stale dust in the room stung his nose, but he soldiered on, turning to a table with a mountain of 100-dollar bills on it. He unslung his now empty fanny pack and set it down on the floor. He unzipped it and shoved the cash in, missing a few bundles on the way, handfuls of cash fluttering down to the ground like tree leaves. Even though the fanny pack was an extra-large model, he still couldn’t shove the entire load in. He’d have to settle for a dozen fistfuls. “Come on…” he muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the bag. He grabbed another fistful and stuffed it in, sneaking looks behind him to make sure the hostages didn’t attempt anything funny. Or maybe they had escaped; it wasn’t like the robber had zip tied them. The sirens had gotten louder now. He could faintly hear engines rumbling outside the building. The freelancer then managed to zip the pack back up and stumbled back into the employee area.
The robber ran back to the lobby and tore open the fanny pack. He shook it as bundles of cash fell into the duffel bag. The thud of money was music to his ears. He dashed back into the employee area.
The robber cased the room for an exit. He knew he’d parked a motorbike around here. Though he had scouted the place out before, he was still unsure of where the exit was. The front door was a big no-no; he could see the police cars now through the window. They were only a couple blocks away. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to get the rest of the money.. Then, he saw it. A door in the break room area, its hinges rusty with age, though there was a keycard reader next to it. Nebraska, he thought. He recalled the time when he’d blown up truck doors with his fellow robbers and made out with 20 million in gold. Good times. At least until he had to shoot someone.
Ignoring the increasing noise of the sirens, he ran around the room, opening drawers and sweeping tables in a frenzy. Nothing that he could use. The freelancer started panicking. He willed himself to calm down; law enforcement couldn’t be here so quickly. And he couldn’t give up now; he had the cash. All that was left was to get out of there. He cursed under his breath. Maybe he should just run out the front door after all. But he knew that was a Go To Jail card. He hadn’t stayed in the game this long by strutting around in broad daylight with a gun strapped to his waist.
The robber took a few deep breaths and walked over to the back door, kickin it. He tried again, putting more momentum into the kick. The door shook, but nothing. Heart pounding, he tried to bring the door down again, but was met with a sharp, stinging pain in his ankle. Wincing, he stood up. He’d watched James Bond one too many times. Once again, Hollywood had sold him a false bill of goods.
Frowning slightly, he retrieved the pair of headphones from his fanny pack and put it on his head. Then, he aimed at the door and shot the rusty hinges, emptying the clip. Sparks erupted from the brackish-orange steel like fireworks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another magazine, then slapped it into the gun sloppily, his dexterity long gone from the adrenaline coursing in his blood. He felt one more magazine in his pocket. It was a tangential worry at best; he wouldn’t last long in a firefight. Not that he’d ever want to enter one in the first place. A leather jacket might stop a pebble being thrown at him, but not a pebble coming towards him at 2,600 feet per second. Then, the sound of tires screeching against concrete stopped. The robber’s heart felt like it did too, for a second. Damn it, he cursed. He hadn’t even got to the getaway vehicle yet. He would need a miracle.
Over the noise of alarms, a voice in a megaphone boomed outside the building.
“This is Officer Jackson of the Center Police Department. Surrender now and come out of the building with your hands raised.”
Yet another flashback to one of his robberies. Not every day do you get to face a squad of police officers on a Monday morning. He brushed that thought aside, blood roaring in his ears.
He shot off a hinge and pulled 5 shots at the hinge on top. Empty casings clattered onto the floor. The last hinge loosened and then fell off. With a rush of exhilaration, he opened the door and stumbled out to a getaway bike. No cameras were covering the dimly lit alley, though there was still foot traffic on the streets. With his blood roaring in his ears, he scanned the highway. Yes! Amidst the back alley, he could see that the roads were not locked down yet. He fumbled for the motorbike helmet on the seat and hastily put it on. The robber looked around for a brick or some heavy object to block the door with. Finding none, he slammed the door behind him. At this point, he was starting to feel light-headed from the adrenaline. He almost dropped the keys into a gap in a manhole, but grabbed it just in time. He stabbed it into the keyhole, taking two tries before finally finding purchase. He then turned the engines on and took off in the dark alleyway. He joined the bustling road, hopefully blending in with the fleeing caravan of cars. Most people seemed to treat a bank robbery like the plague; they’d do anything to run from the vicinity, something the robber didn’t quite understand. Tightening the straps on his helmet he’d neglected while making his getaway, he let out a sigh of relief, fogging up the helmet. The robbery was messy, even by amateur standards. He’d seen and committed better robberies, most not involving having the police on-site. At least he hit the ground running from his recent month off.

Hi, I’m a writer and have done some books (they’re offline and in progress, only one being published), I started on wattpad but feel like the algorithm is really not helping me get any actual reads (the published one has been neglected for months now lol) and I’m thinking about going to another platform because it‘s kinda demoralizing.
I’m just unsure because I do novels and idk if that’s like a popular format in here or not?
TL;DR: I’m considering going from the orange W to AO3 because of low reads edit: I write novels so I’m not fully sure about it

This thread is so anyone can post about what they've been reading, whether it's new chapters, binging or catching up to a series, etc. It's about your opinions on what happened and expressing them here for others to join the conversation. Make sure that any spoilers are covered so that others who haven't read that chapter don't get spoiled (Rule 5).
We no longer post chapter update links due to DMCA and copyright crackdowns. We have for you here the full post for more information.
Please put the approved websites you're reading the chapters on. Others may check it out too!
Rules:

• No Link Posts for chapters.
• Comments can have links to officially licensed sites.
• Comments can have series numbers, reference numbers, or partial URLs (e.g. "I found this series on mangadex, it is title/61b0d21c-b703-4999-910d-ebffc44791bb/"). This is subject to change pending harsher copyright crackdowns.

You can create a Text post for discussion on the sub, you cannot create a link post. The thread title should be in this format:
"[DISC] Series Title - Chapter Number" The post will count as your post of the day as stated in (Rule 4). Spamming posts [DISC] threads for chapters, even at a daily rate isn't recommended.
"[New Series] Series Title" example 1 or example 2 is the format desired, you may use it as a template of what your post should look like. If you are unsure if a series counts as Otome Isekai, please send us a modmail for approval. A series description needs to be added to the body of the post.
The mod team must approve any other sites, otherwise, it will result in your comment being removed. This prevents malicious ads and malware from moving to other peoples' devices.
List of approved sites:

Mangadex Bato J-Novel Club Asura Scans Kai Scans Scylla Scans Temple Scans Gourmet Scans Flame Comics LSComic Reaper Scans Tritinia Scans Webtoon Lezhin Manta Tapas Tappytoon Pocket Comics Manga Up! Comikey Inker Cosmic Scans Manga Plus 

Last week's thread

I really appreciate everyone that commented on my first query attempt. Thank you so much for taking another look! I've also added the first 300 words at the bottom.
Dear AGENT,
I’m excited to share with you my adult contemporary romance, HARD TO HACK, complete at 75,000 words. UNCANNY VALLEY by Anna Weiner meets the Silicon Valley series, featuring relatable characters with the raw, realistic insecurities of FLIRTING WITH FOREVER by Cara Bastone and the STEM workplace setting of THE TAKEOVER by Cara Tanamachi and LOVE, THEORETICALLY by Ali Hazelwood.
Ella Harvey is a software engineer at an unprofitable, dysfunctional little startup in Los Angeles called Squidzee. She’s driven but deeply insecure, suffering from imposter syndrome due to her untraditional coding background and poorly managed company. She yearns for more, but questions her self-worth and finds solace in the messy but familiar characters and culture of Squidzee. When she is tasked with hiring a manager for their fledgling team, she chooses someone that promises to help with her competence and confidence.
Adrian Rossi left his previous cushy director position on catastrophic terms and his professional reputation is ruined. His cold, iron fist clashes harshly with Squidzee’s laid-back dynamics, but he seems to have a soft spot for Ella. Unsure if the attention she’s receiving is due to her work performance or some other, unorthodox reasons, Ella resists reciprocation and attempts to squeeze mentorship out of a relationship that is quickly running off the professional rails.
For months they dance around the subject of their attraction until one night their tension culminates in Ella coming to his apartment, igniting a thrilling, secret romance with unclear intentions. Amidst homey taco shop dates, lavish rooftop drinks, and smoggy LA highways, Ella begins to sort out her feelings for Adrian, only to be hit with a catastrophic blow: HR has caught wind of their romance, and has made it clear that relationships between managers and employees are prohibited at Squidzee. Toeing the line between love and betrayal, they are faced with difficult decisions that cut deep into their insecurities and could change the trajectory of their careers, their relationship, and their lives forever.
I am a debut author. My decade of experience as a software engineer and struggles as a woman in tech have inspired this story. This is a standalone novel that has series potential.
First 300:
“Tell me about yourself. Why should we choose you as engineering manager for Squidzee?”
Ella crossed her legs and braced herself for the ensuing lukewarm, long-winded synopsis of work history that she had heard dozens of times in the six months that her company had been hunting for a manager.
An early-stage, unprofitable startup, Squidzee was ready to add some hierarchy and direction to their laid-back organization. After eight years of the founder keeping a loose eye on engineering as he grew his little company, it was time for some experienced leadership. Every manager candidate met first with Ella, the senior engineer. So far, not a single one passed her interview.
Software was a casual field - nothing fancier than hoodies and sneakers was expected. Every day, Ella dutifully wore her T-shirt or sundress to the office, bare-faced with hair still wet from the shower. For interviews, though, she dressed up a bit more - kicking her outfit up a notch and throwing some makeup on - in hopes to exude professionalism and respect. The trousers, blouse, and styled hair were an armor, protecting the interview candidate from the insecurities that bubbled behind her stuffy clothing and artificial beauty. Ella's eyelids were heavy with eyeshadow, her lashes fluttered with astounding astronomical length, and her lips were tacky, untouchable, and frankly disgusting from the lipstick that promised all-day wear.
She was on time, professional, and ready for every manager interview. The same could not be said about the candidates. One applicant reeked of alcohol; another arrived nearly an hour late and clearly lied on her resume. Multiple others boasted about their technical proficiency but bombed Ella’s simple coding test. One particularly memorable candidate wore what was clearly a ski suit to the interview, explaining that he was on his way to ride some pow pow at Big Bear.

I recently read the answer to the following post asking what's the point of One Punch Man (OPM)?:
https://www.reddit.com/OnePunchMan/comments/sazyj6/whats_the_point_of_one_punch_man/
Besides the fact that the post made me want to read the manga.. I'm wondering if OPM is written in a particular writing category or genre or style? What is it called when you write novels from the perspective that the main character accomplished their goals already?
____________________
Any advice on where to post this type of question? It was removed from onepunchman and I'm unsure about posting it in writing. Or I maybe the question I should be asking is why did my posts get deleted? Maybe, I haven't met a specific posting criteria such as having enough Karma, or I didn't read the rules properly? Thanks so much.

What is good my dudes? how has the week been? Ive been busy starting this story and wrapping up another of my novels(clean up and last chapter work) but you all likely arent interested in that. Instead today we get a look at our leading lady, and how much of a entitled brat she can be. Just you wait, Connor does not realize he has been chosen as her's just yet.
Let's get this Bread
-----
“Help!” Eivaley screamed as her eyes shot open, her lungs stretching to the limit, causing her throat to burn.
Eivaley’s body reacted naturally to what she thought had happened moments before; her heart rate shot into orbit while adrenaline wracked her tight, unused muscles, causing horrendous lightning pain as they flushed with blood, readying to run from the Voodal.
It took her several seconds to consciously realize why she was trying to run and from what. She was inside the nightclub. Torkla had been shot dead by some alien gangsters who were trying to drug her.
No, wait—they did drug her. But that man—saved her. Where was he? Why was he not at her side when she awoke like the stories she had been told? Or as a champion was expected to do?
That metal-armed man had hefted her over his shoulder and whisked her away from the gunfight like a champion should. Did he not realize what he had done for her species? Did he not care? No, it could not be that—she was a princess, and everyone she was around could recognize her regality.
It was evident in her attire, chin held high, piercings along her brow, and namely in the essence that oozed off her and other nobles. They were proud and stalwart, save for a few instances, such as the noble women's champions.
He was supposed to be here to state his desire and take her. That was only the proper thing to do. But he had left her alone. It was all so confusing.
After ruminating on that idea for several minutes, Eivaley realized she had no idea where she was or what was going on. She was just caught up so much in the fact that the man was not here that it had slipped her mind.
Eivaley sat up in bed, and the rough blanket covering her fell to the ground, leaving her as naked as the day she was born. Under usual circumstances, her being naked when she wakes up would not be odd, but she had been dressed when she was drugged.
Who in all the universe had the gall to strip her? With her still imagining the man who whisked her away as someone valiant hero, she hoped it had not been them. But if not them, then who?
She swore if they did anything strange to her while she was drugged, they would face the worst wrath money could buy, and in the COS, enough crit signs public death warrants. The gods certainly knew Daddy had deep enough pockets to condemn a planet to that fate.
If she learned anything harmful was done to her, they would not live longer than a few days at most. But that could be dealt with after Eivaley figured out where she was, talked to the man who saved her about his proper role as her champion, and ensured Daddy compensated that man well.
The room was cold and damp, the chill making her scales ripple in a shiver. Nearby, there was a single metal table and chair. The small light hanging down from the ceiling gave her a clear view of the rugged grey duracrete walls and the closed, shining steel door at the far end.
Swinging her legs out from the rough, uncovered, stained mattress, Eivaley scrunched her nose, realizing how horrendous the scent was. It was a foul combination of rotting meat and stagnant air.
What is this place? The only thing its drab, oppressive build reminded her of was prison cells in some spy hollow flicks that were her guilty pleasure.
Even though Daddy did not want her watching stuff like that, Eivaley regularly snuck them into the mansion or watched them with the servants on the private frigate he had her travel on. Daddy claimed they would fill her head with useless ideas and distract her from the duties she would never have to fulfill.
She ignored Daddy not out of malice but because of Torkla's advice that a life without excitement would be painfully dull and wasted.
She was about to walk closer to the door but spotted something neatly folded on the chair. Scooping the faded garments into her hand, she cringed. They looked almost like scrubs but had patches and stains covering them.
Considering what she was wearing, namely nothing, Eivaley could not be picky right now, even though the rough material likely would chafe. The clothes were unbefitting of her station, and the stars only knew what the stains on the crotch were.
Eivaley quickly donned the oversized garment, ensuring her tail was sticking out the back and that her more sensitive areas were as covered as possible. Could the man not at least have left her underwear?
As Eivaley put on the clothes, she kept looking around and listening, trying to gain more of a sense of the area and not let someone jump her again. She was confident she had seen everything in this room; there was nothing she could not see at a glance.
Listening, however, revealed something. It almost sounded like someone singing, but they were horribly out of tune. Their voice was clearly going through some kind of synthesizer, having a bit of an unnatural crackle and pop.
Now that she had some semblance of modesty, it was time to figure out what was going on, even though the scrubs were so large they were damn near falling off her shoulders.
As Eivaley hesitantly pushed open the door, the scent of rot only got more intense, and the sound of the voice became more apparent. The door opening made her feel much better about her situation; if she were a prisoner, there would be guards and locks.
Instead of those obstacles, she faced a well-lit hallway with built-in overhead lights. Steam poured out of old, damaged piping, filling the passage in a haze, barely letting her see a pair of doors at the end.
One had bright light and the synthetic voice pouring from it, while the other was firmly closed, with a small palm reader next to it.
Ok, maybe she was locked in here. But a little exploration was possible, and whoever was singing might be able to give her some answers.
Shielding her head from the steam, Eivaley slinked forward, her feet plopping against the wet floor. Peaking around the doorframe, she was confident she could handle anything. She was the Fifth daughter of the Torkla empire, after all.
Oh, how wrong she was.
Not even the sight of Torkla’ head halfway exploding could prepare her for this. The room was some kind of medical room. This room was nothing like her usual doctor's office, instead of the clean, sterile white, and neat design.
This room was one pulled straight out of her nightmares—dozens of glass cabinets filled with medicine, narcotics, cybernetic components, and body parts floating in formaldehyde covered the walls. Nothing was clean; it was dusty, coated in dried blood, oil, and god knew what else.
Dead in the center of the room was a strange grey-skinned alien, extending his spiderlike augmented legs upward to guide a light arm closer to the alien-like alien strapped to a table.
Eivaley thought the man on the table was asleep or dead until the grey alien stopped singing, leaned down, and ran a scalpel under the alien's eye. The bird-like alien screamed at the top of his lungs, loudly enough it caused Eivaley’s blood to run cold.
What the fuck was she witnessing? Some horrible torture session? An execution? Some sick, twisted serial killer kill room?
As the avian thrashed against the straps holding him to the table, she gagged for a moment, then nearly threw up when the leather snapped tight.
The gray alien shifted over the top of the seemingly unwilling patient, “You wanted this. Now shut up, hold still, and let me work,” He growled; two of the spider-like appendages holding him up shifted and drilled into the sides of the patient's head, holding them still from the shoulders up.
Eivaley wondered if it was good that the devilish doctor silenced the bird, but her heart was glad he was not screaming anymore.
With a twist and a squelch, the doctor pulled the patient's eyes out and tossed them off to the side. Whether through preternatural means or sheer dumb luck, they plopped into a jar sitting on a cart.
Most sentients in the universe have heard about the fight-or-flight response because nearly all species that made it to the stars had some form of it. However, one thing that not everyone knows is that those are not the only two options when placed in a shocking situation.
There are two others most did not know by name but did through action: fawn, meaning you show pleasing or more submissive behavior, hoping the threat does not harm you.
Then there was what Eivaley fell victim to—freeze.
She fell to her knees, uncaring that the impact on the metal grating on which she stood had carved them open slightly.
At the same time, she sputtered, attempting to say anything. Her mind was unable to comprehend the grotesque torture fully.
Time warped in on itself, and she had no idea how much time had passed before the horrendous surgery was over. But she witnessed it all: the spider scuttling, grabbing cybernetics, and drilling them into the bird's skull, all while he cruelly hums a jaunty tune, was beyond surreal.
Once satisfied with his work, the demonic doctor's torso twisted around entirely, tucking a bloody tool into a slot in his forearm.
He had not noticed her presence during his practice, despite him scurrying around to different cabinets—but he knew she was there now.
“How long ago did you wake up?” He snickered and slowly crept forward, the apparatus on his head shifting between several optical lenses as he did.
When her eyes finally settled on whatever this thing called normal, they were as red as blood and glowing with fire and villainous curiosity.
Those cruel eyes scoured Eivaley's trembling form, plucking her apart at the very molecule. An evil smile crawled onto his ash-grey lips, revealing rows of clear, crystalline teeth. They glowed just like his eyes, giving the man a horrendous Cheshire appearance.
As the doctor got closer, Eivaley's heart rate shot into orbit, sweat formed on her palms, and the most primal part of her soul screamed at her to move, or she would die at the demon's hands.
“What is it, Eivaley? Can you not speak standard?” the doctor asked, reaching out to jostle her, recognizing that she seemed to be in shock.
Stitch found that she was not speaking odd; he had pumped enough nanotech and drugs in her to keep her that she should feel better than ever.
The millisecond, his artificial hand clasped her shoulder, bedlam befell Stitch’s humble surgery room.
Though still not coherent, Eivaley screamed and tossed a hail mary hit toward whom she perceived as a threat. One the good doctor had not seen coming at all.
With a hefty crack, her fist collided with his jaw, rattling his bones and sending him reeling.
“What the fuck was—” Stitch started but cut himself off when Eivaley rushed into a corner, overturned a table, and grabbed the first object she could, readying to throw it at him.
Not wanting his shop to be destroyed, Stitch activated his automatic security systems, knowing how strong humans were. They would alert just the man he needed to get here right now.
Conor.
—
The crowd around Conor parted quickly, shouting in worry and panic, trying to understand why he was running, and had his suppressed pistol in hand.
They were doing this because he had just shoved a pair of Urintit who refused to heed his warnings to make a hole; he had not shot them, there was no need, and he needed all of his ammo for whatever was going on at Stitch’s clinic.
He had no idea what was going on. All that Conor knew was that the automatic defense systems there had alerted him to go to Stitch’s place immediately, warning him that the tech-head had been wounded and needed aid.
His boots sloshed in the deep puddles. Conor was unsure whether the water was from a leak somewhere in the upper city or whether it actually rained today. In this area of the city, determining the weather or whether it was day or night was impossible. Things like day, night, and weather just did not exist this far into the belly of Heavalun.
The lights on the walls and ceilings were supposed to dim and brighten to simulate some kind of day-night cycle, but because of years of neglect, these more built-up areas were snared in a perpetual dim orange twilight.
The wan light and crowd were easy enough for the mercenary to maneuver, thanks to his thermal vision, wired-up legs, and razor-sharp reflexes. He barreled through civilian after civilian. He even left a half-smash food cart in his wake, but he ditched his meal to answer Stitch’s call; whoever was waiting on their kebab could suffer the same fate.
It wasn’t like their meals were his issue.
Nothing was going to stop him; both he and Brakul needed that princess to be unharmed, and he needed Stitch’s meds to live.
Having pushed his servos to their limits Conor had covered the ten kilometers from the noodle shop he was eating at to Stitch’s clinic in record time—but how much had unfolded in that twenty minutes, he could not say.
Thankfully, Stitch had set his doors to automatically open for him when the alert went out, so Conor wrenched the heavy metal door to the clinic open like it weighed nothing. Its frame vibrated as the door slammed against the wall.
Clearing room by room, ensuring no one was in the rooms, he proceeded through the living room, the kitchen, and the bedroom hall leading to the basement.
It was odd. There were no signs of a struggle on the upper floors; they were just as he had seen them earlier in the day. Neat, tidy, and relatively clean.
That made Conor wonder: Did some patient of Stitch go nuts at attacking him mid-surgery? If that was the case, was his pistol enough? Stitch has always strapped patients down, having been in hundreds of his surgeries here. If they broke out—how strong were they?
But Conor did not have the time to grab something more robust or specialized. His pistol, strength, and violence of action would have to do.
Before he reached the stairs, the sounds of shouting from a woman and Stitch filled the air. That was a good sign; at least the doctor was alive.
Descending the stairs and opening the door at the bottom, Conor cleared the hallway to where the red-scaled bombshell had been resting with a glance but did not proceed down it. He would check it after helping Stitch.
He crossed the hall toward the sounds of shouting and smashing glass, knowing whatever danger was in the clinic must be there.
“Stitch, what’s going on?” Conor shouted, rushing into the room with his handgun raised, ready to shoot anything that was not the doctor or the woman.
It took him less than a second to asses that he would not have to shoot anyone. The Human, who, through reading her ID card a few days ago, he knew was named Eivaley, was the problem that the system alerted him of.
“Get the fuck away from me!” She shouted, throwing another beaker at Stitch from behind an overturned table she used as an impromptu barricade.
To the tech head's credit, he was doing a good job of avoiding the projectiles, as evidenced by the floor around him being covered in shimmering glass shards.
“Conor, stop your crazy bitch!” Stitch barked, ducking under another throw. “Before she hurts my patient or me.”
Stowing his pistol and sighing, Conor stepped between them, grabbing the next projectile thrown into the air.
“Eivaley, stop!” Conor barked, turning to face her. “Stitch is not going to hurt you.”
Eivaley wound up another throw as he did this but stopped, recognizing two details about Conor: First, his metallic arm, clutching her last toss, and second, his voice. She could not forget either; they were ingrained into her mind and soul after the other night.
“Ok, now that we aren’t throwing shit at your doctor, can you put that down and come out here?” Conor more commanded than asked, but that was just his nature to be more upfront than not.
“That thing is not going to hurt me, right?” Eivaley questioned, still clutching her ammunition.
“I have been saying that this whole time you—” Stitch started, but Conor hushed him. “Doc, shut off that damn alarm,” Conor ordered, looking back over his shoulder for a second.
“Fine, just control her,” Stitch replied after pausing momentarily and turning his attention to his datapad.
Conor turned to Eivaley, “No, Neither of us will hurt you. Fuck, he fixed you from that drug, and I dragged your ass here. If we wanted you harmed—you would be.”
Eivaley paused, setting the bottle down and taking stock of the situation. The strange Human was right; they could have killed her, sold her, or done anything, but as far as she could tell, she was in good health.
“OK—But can I get my clothes back? And an explanation of what the fuck is going on?” Eivaley said, stepping out from behind the table.
“Fine, just stop busting up my shop!” Stitch emphasized. “Conor–take her upstairs; her clothes are in the guest room.”
“Alright, Doc.” Conor shrugged before stepping toward the door.
He did not even glance at Eivaley, assuming she was smart enough to follow—which she did.
“So your name is Coner?” Eivaley questioned on their way up the stairs, wanting to know his name since he saved her, and she would have to ensure he and his friend were paid well by Daddy for their efforts.
“Been that as long as I've known,” the Human replied flatly, not caring how intently Eivaley was staring at him.
“Conor? I've never heard a name like that,” Eivaley commented. “Where is it from?”
“Ask all your questions in a bit. You have to get dressed, and we can talk later; just wait in the living room once you have changed. I’m going to go help Stitch out,” Conor replied, pushing open the door and ushering her in.
It was not that he was unwilling to answer mundane questions, but there was no point in detailing those things for a future client. She would just forget it anyway.
“Alright—my champion,” Eivaley purred, slipping inside the room and shutting the door.
Conor had no idea what calling him champion was about but had no doubt he could ask later. For now, he pulled out his datapad and texted Brakul, needing him to hurry up and get here.
-----
So buds what did you think of todays chapter? not much going on just yet, but starting next week connor and eivaley will start their grueling journey out of the city.
Please don't forget to updoot and comment. I will see you in the comments.
your baker
-Pirate
-----
Prev
Next
Buy My Novels

This is the first (or maybe I'll move it) chapter of just writing a story about my Pathfinder character. I'm unsure about whether or not it should be explicitly tied to Golarion or if I should edit out any references, but if I ever did get far enough to publish, Pathfinder Infinite does allow novels.
I'm unsure about whether or not this is actually interesting, though I really enjoy writing these sort of casual scenes. I have a first draft of this bit, but I'm unsure which of the two is better. Particularly the photograph scene that sets up the mystery. I'm curious about whether or not the things I'm doing are notable or if they're too obvious. And of course if the characters are engaging and the hook makes you want to know more.
Blurb:

Izalith has always been an outsider, being the only vishkanya in town after her mother died. It was a position that made her gravitate towards the adventuring types that passed through on their way to more exciting places like Sarkoris, filling her head with tall tales. But as she got older, the thought of leaving the place her mother died, where her second mother still was, she never did go on her own adventures. That was until a night with an embarrassing incident with a charming older gentlemen resulted in a body, the kind of questions a queer foreigner doesn't want to be asked, and a magical sword telling her that she had to fight evil gave Izalith the push she needed.
Now setting out with Sword, her sword mentor, Izalith has started traveling the world. Using the knowledge gained from decades of traveler's tales and the lessons from Sword to protect herself and help others. She finds herself now waking up in a strange bed with the kind of missing memories that come from drinking, but something odd is going on in this new city she's in. Izalith isn't the only one with missing memories, and not all of them are so forgettable as a bar fight and a one night stand. With Sword's aid, Izalith will have to get to the bottom of things, if anyone can even remember that something is going on at all. One thing is certain: Someone is lying, and it's going to get people killed.

My novel could be described similarly to Paradise Lost, an epic story that mixes Greco-Roman myth with Christian myth. I tried writing it as an epic poem but failed and thought the next solution is writing in scripture verses that are prose poetry, so I have a bit of freedom in telling the narrative in a style that’s similar to an epic poem, and I think it works well into my Christian elements since it is a sort of fanfic of the religion. But unsure if it’s realistic I would get it traditionally published? I may just have to self publish.

Hi everyone,
Over the past year, I’ve been working on a novel that I hope to publish. However, I’m now considering turning it into a graphic novel due to the visual elements that writing alone can't convey.
I haven't drawn in a while, and while I consider myself a good artist, creating comics requires a different skill set. I enjoy writing prose and want to improve my comic-making skills, but I'm unsure where to start. Creating a comic involves pencils, inking, and coloring, and I don’t know if I have the time to do all three. In fact, I don’t know if I have the time to draw the comic at all. I feel overwhelmed but am determined to create something for the world to enjoy.
Promotion is another concern. I dislike using social media; it’s depressing, but I recognize its value and would be willing to hire someone to handle it.
I originally wanted to enter the animation industry but had some reservations. It takes years to get a show running, producers could restrict my creative vision, and there is a lot of bureaucracy involved. I want creative control. While I’m open to the advice of editors, the subject matter of my story might be controversial and not politically correct, which could affect its chances of being picked up.
My story is about a new government with utopian aims declaring war on climate change, and a homeless veteran being trafficked to a forced labor camp. It critiques the extreme actions of some activists like "Stop Oil" and Extinction Rebellion, and the protagonist begrudgingly allies with the Islamic State against the government. The book even starts with Joe Biden mysteriously dying, Kamala Harris killing herself, and Donald Trump getting assassinated.
I believe this is an important story that needs to be told, but I’m unsure of my capabilities and where to start. Any advice or resources would be greatly appreciated.
What is the best way to do this story?
Thank you!