Those who can tap into the raw energy of the Fade and block the whispering temptations of demons are truly exceptional. When they turn that mental focus onto the field of war, they can be truly terrifying opponents. Rains of fire, walls of ice, or even the ability to heal allies make up a mage’s toolkit. Most employ considerable skills rendering foes not only weakened, but also vulnerable to physical attacks, setting up opportunities for their teammates to exploit.
When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.
I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.
You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.
Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”
I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”
After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.
The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.
Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.
And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.
The first incarnation of the Cybermen is a truly terrifying one. So human-looking and yet so far removed from humanity, these were the Mondasians who, fearing the inevitable aging and frailty that comes with being human, turned to technology in order cheat death. But in doing so, the children of Mondas recreated themselves as a race of electric mummies and lost many of the essential qualities that defines being human.
Their mannerisms are what disturb the most; they are emotionless, cold and calculating, unhurried and supremely confident in their superiority over the Earthlings present. They’re patronizing and condescending towards their hostages, and yet rather patient and strangely polite.
Imagine if there were an akuma who wanted to get rid of emotions and worked with such efficiency and methodically worked through every person so they wouldn’t have emotions to get in their way of working.
Not long ago
haberdasheratwork asked me what I thought of the Event Horizon, this was, all kidding aside, the first ship that ever gave me nightmares, the first time I watched this it stuck for all the right reasons.
My love of spaceships aside, this vessel travelled to hell, and back, through a dimensional jump drive while attempting to transit to a nearby star system.
It scared the life out of me and I wanted to write a reply but I feel the images do a lot to build a picture of the ship and give you a visualisation of how it looked and felt.
The story truly was on the terrifying side, but anyway, the ship. The Event Horizon was an eerie vessel, I liked it, you just knew through the film and time with it something was not right.
Then you find out after the ship vanished, it literally went to hell and back, and turns into a living incarnation of pure evil.
I played around in sfm, and since the portal assets are so delightfully disjointed I managed to frankenstein together one of my party escort designs.
This character really and truly could be terrifying (she’s still alarming…) but hopefully you can see here she makes an effort and usually comes off as a goofball.
Milly is secretly languishing to be a comedienne, and her silly jokes lead people to believe she’s the comedy core or some nonsense. She’s not, and she’d rather not let anyone know her true designated purpose.
The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy… and that’s on a good day.
I don’t make a lot of posts. I also do not enjoy making serious posts. Period. I go onto tumblr to feel good. It lets me escape the big scary world for five seconds and absorb myself in superheros, MBTI, Doctor Who and video games all at the same time. However, I have never needed to make a post as much as I need to make this one.
1. ANXIETY AND PANIC ARE NOT THE SAME THING Trust me. I have both. Anxiety can be a constant, on-going issue that never seems to go away. While it is nerve-wrecking, I would deal with my anxiety for months on end than have a panic attack as often as I do. I am NOT discrediting anxiety. It is a very scary state of being. Your body is literally in a fight or flight state all the time and there is no stopping the worry that comes in even the slightest situation.
2. PANIC ATTACKS Words can not describe how truly terrifying a Panic Attack is. I’m not entirely sure I can describe it accurately. Someone I know once compared it to being underwater and never coming up for air. A better representation may be being underwater, chained to the bottom of the pool while people who can help you swim by you and watch while you slowly suffocate to death. Trust me, this is NOT an exaggeration. I have never felt more horrified, more alone, more betrayed by the world in my entire life as I have felt during a large scale panic attack. I can literally not process anything. My brain shuts off besides these thoughts: I need help; I can’t tell if this is real or not; Oh god I am going to die; I don’t want to live anymore; Please someone help me or end everything now I can’t take this. I feel so alone in the world that I don’t think the feeling will ever go away and that I am worthless. And yes, my panic attacks can include A LOT of tears and even an asthma attack- but I can’t think to find my inhaler, so I usually end up on the floor unable to breathe.
3. PANIC ATTACKS LEAVE EMOTIONAL SCARS. TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY. One thing most people do not understand about panic attacks is the severity of it NEVER diminishes the more times you have panic attacks. They will ALWAYS be this severe and they NEED to be taken seriously. Nothing is more harmful to a person with a panic disorder than being asked if it was “Just a Panic Attack”. DO NOT ASK THIS QUESTION. PERIOD. Take your friend seriously when they message, call, or ask you for help-Or even to just talk to them. It can be EXTREMELY painful to them if they feel ignored or belittled. I do not know about other people in the following instance, but I loose touch of reality slightly during my panic attacks. I NEED someone there to talk to me and tell me I’m going to be okay. I need someone to help me bring myself back to the world around me. If I trust you enough to be that person, that is a HUGE thing. I trust very few people. It is so painful when those people ignore me or dismiss what is happening to me. It leaves you in a giant uncertain emotional state afterwords that is very VERY difficult to fix. Panic attacks are scary as hell. They’re even scarier when you feel like you’ve been abandoned. The emotional scars that can come from that may never go away
. TAKE A PERSONS PANIC ATTACK SERIOUSLY. The words”Panic Attack” have been so overused (as with any mental issue) that they have just become another “trend” the general public views as common and insignificant. I hope I have been able to describe in some sense what a panic attack truly is. Mostly, I just needed to create this post for me. Processing what happens to me during a panic attack is nearly impossible at the time. This post is shorter than I expected it to be, but if I sat down and wrote everything there is to say about my panic attacks and the repercussions they have, you would be reading a 30 page essay.
Okay so I think it’s a good idea that I should explain to everyone what happened yesterday so no one freaks out thinking I died or something. Yesterday I got into a very bad car accident and was broadsided by an SUV traveling at over 40mph. I was able to actually walk away from it with minor cuts and bruises. This was truly such a terrifying experience and I’m extremely thankful that no one else was in the car with me during the accident. I was discharged from the hospital last night a few hours after the accident but returned today because my knee was very swollen and bruised. They did X-rays and determined that I could have a hairline fracture and maybe have possibly broken my knee. On the picture, that hole that’s on the side of my door by the lower left corner, that’s where my leg was. Doctors and police are saying that it’s absolutely a miracle that I was able to walk away from this. I may be a little beaten up and possibly have a broken knee but I am okay! My car is totaled which is very sad but cars are replaceable. Hopefully I will make a speedy recovery and be back on my feet ❤️ Please always be aware of the people around you while driving. No matter how good of a driver you think you are, stuff like this can happen in a blink of an eye. Don’t threaten your life or other people’s. Stay off your phones and always pay attention to the road. ALWAYS WEAT YOUR SEAT BELT! If I wasn’t wearing mine I would probably be dead. Stay safe out there and send positive vibes my way, I love you guys ❤️
it’s not really the cheating thing that has me feeling lost but honestly now i just see maggie as an overwhelmingly sad character. she’s not like kara, who turns her sadness into positivity. maggie just outright ignores it and pushes those feelings down until she’s slapped in the face with them again. i just feel like there’s a permanent push and pull inside of her and i just see her as being really sad? and doesn’t want to show it, so she never does? she’s not bubbly or joyful and all she really has is alex ( who is never quite going to understand what it’s like to not be accepted by a family and consistently dumped / treated badly ). alex has a family and friends and would be absolutely fine ( eventually ) if maggie left her life for some reason. but i don’t really think maggie could say the same if alex left hers. idk i just feel like this’ll affect my portrayal ( maybe for the better ) and make it a lot deeper and darker than it originally was.
-You didn’t want to think about how many people he’d killed.
A self-proclaimed monster, you had known from the beginning that Nnoitra was a violent, dangerous creature. He’d destroyed things worlds more powerful than you, and you’d never be able to fight back against him.
That had only become truly terrifying when he’d started to kill anyone who so much as come close to you.
You’d signed up for this, he said, agreed to his horrifying breed of protection the moment you’d accepted him for what he was. This way, no one would ever be able to hurt the only good human in the world.
Thinking about the friends you’d abandoned for their own safety, the strangers killed where they stood because they’d touched you.
You truly wished you’d run away while you still could.
All Remus wanted was to come home and
see Sirius, he’d spent the last three hours with Greyback, he was
drained and felt nothing but like a monster. Greyback kept reminding
him what werewolves really were and how he was truly a terrifying
monster and should be proud of it. Remus knew things were quite bad
with Sirius lately but tonight he just needed to be held and reminded
he was loved by the one person he loved more than anything.
What Remus wasn’t expecting was the
flat to be half empty with Sirius standing ready to leave
“W-what are you doing pads?” Remus
asked, nodding down to where Sirius’s had his bags packed
“I’m leaving” Sirius mumbled,
looking everywhere but Remus himself
“Why, I know we’re stressed with the
war but Sirius please” Remus could feel his throat closing up, all
he wanted was Sirius to look at him and tell him this was all some
“I – you’re keeping secrets Remus,
and there’s rumors going around - “
“You think I’m the spy” Remus
whispered, tears beginning to leak down his cheeks
“You think the same damn thing about
me so don’t pull this Remus!” Sirius yelled, knowing that Remus
thought the same thing about him, knowing that Remus didn’t trust him
“James and Lily, they mean everything to me and this I can’t do it
“I fucking love them Sirius, I would
never and you know it!” Remus countered back, anger rising through
his veins “You don’t think I’m tired? Because I fucking am but it’s
all about you Black!”
The mention of Sirius’s last name from
Remus made him flinch back slightly
“Do I though? You always know where I
go, but I never know anything and this – it just all points back to
you” Sirius mumbled, his eyes finally meeting Remus’s “I don’t
“Sirius - “ Remus began
“I don’t Remus, I’m sorry but I
don't” Sirius’s eyes were welled up with tears, his throat
constricting to hold everything back “I won’t lose my family
because of you”
“Because of me?! Sirius fuck no, you
– I’m also your family, your fucking boyfriend”
“Not anymore Remus”
Before Remus could even reply Sirius
left without another word
Remus couldn’t help but breakdown, it
hurt knowing Sirius didn’t trust him but how could he blame him when
he thought Sirius was the spy?. How could he blame him when he was
right about keeping secrets? But he had to, Dumbledore made that
It hurt everything inside of Remus
coming home at the end of the day with Sirius begging to know where
he was but he couldn’t tell him anything and now he’s gone.
The next morning Remus got news three
of his friends were dead and one of them was imprisoned for it all.
He didn’t want to believe it, he didn’t want to believe what he
thought was true. He didn’t want to believe the one person everyone
trusted betrayed them, he didn’t want to believe Sirius was the cause
The only thoughts running through
Remus’s head were ‘It was him, it was Sirius, it was him’
Because of the man
he loved, the man he put himself into, he was alone because of him.
“What did you
expect from a Black?” Remus muttered to himself, his stomach
sinking with realizing this wasn’t a nightmare, this was real.
I guess it’s my turn now. um, it’s funny, I make my living speaking to you all, and now I’m up here and I don’t quite know what to say. in the last few years, we have experienced truly terrifying things and wonderful things; we have lost our town and regained our town; we have met new people, we have met incredible new people. I don’t have to tell you that carlos has perfect hair and teeth like a military cemetery. you have eyes- most of you- sorry, faceless old woman. I don’t need to tell you that his voice is oaky or that his enthusiasm about science is inspiring, and also deeply erotic, so instead, I will tell you this: it hasn’t always been an easy few years, but through it all, just- just knowing that carlos was there, that no matter what else happened, we would come back to each other, holding hands like two kids flirting on a first date- that’s what kept me believing in his town. my love for night vale and my love for carlos are the same love; it is the love of someone who has given their life completely to something beyond themselves. I once described night vale as a friendly desert community, where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep, and it still is. I know nowhere friendlier, I know nowhere hotter, the moon is still beautiful, mysterious lights still pass overhead and, carlos, I can’t wait for every night I get to pretend to sleep next to you.
Cecil Palmer, Welcome to Night Vale, Episode 100 “Toast”