to help make a difference in climate change and to not contribute to human and animal suffering as much as possible i:
- am vegan in all aspects
- do not have a car
- walk and bike as much as possible
- use public transportation when i can not
- use reusable bags
- use reusable water bottles
- use reusable utensils
- use reusable containers
- refuse plastic at all opportunities
- buy recycled/fair trade clothing as i can
- try my hardest to be zero waste
- throw away NO food
- recycle everything i can
- switched to having all of my energy come from renewable sources
- appreciate all water i use
- pick up trash
- buy local produce when i can
- forgo produce that uses many resources
- donate money to vegan and environmental causes
- live a minimalistic life
- get furniture and appliances second hand if possible
- sell and donate things i no longer use
does that make me better than you? of course it doesn’t. but i probably am doing better than you. what the fuck are you doing for the planet? do more.
Sunday Respite - A Bountiful Bar-full of Fantasy Beers and Liquors
Ah, alcohol. It’s something that I, as a person (rather than an amorphous blog), rarely even touch outside of the realms of tabletop and electronic RPGs. I find its flavour to be sickly, its strength to be grotesque, but its value as a story-telling and world-building tool to far out-weigh its less than palatable taste. The food - and therefore, drink - of a culture can be just as clear of a clue into its intricacies as that of an exhaustive recital of their far-gone history. Or, as I prefer to put it; one good drink is worth ten-thousand words. There, some wisdom with your blog-post.
So here, gathered upon my shelves and cabinets, are the finest ales, wines, liquors, and spirits known to human tongues and hearts. They shine with a certain heavenly glimmer as the sunlight bounces off of their smiling faces and hand-scribed labels. Yet the greatest glow is the warmth they gift from inside your gut. So, please, drink away, or simply peruse for as long as you wish; I have plenty and to spare.
Slick, dark liquor, served in small, dainty bottles of barely 4-inches in height. They are corked with a rubber cylinder with a ring-pull affixed at their top, decorated with the ivory-white silhouette of a cat’s head on the bottle. The fluid itself fizzes and burns the mouth and throat like piping-hot tea, flavoured with the spiced, exotic flair of those outland folk who care to experiment with their foods beyond salt and honey. The more easily intoxicated drinker may find that they are unable to talk for hours after drinking Black-Cat, as their tongue lolls about their mouth like a limp, wet fish.
This drink is apparently sourced from the sap of a mangrove tree in the swampy lowlands. It is collected by the native folk of the region in tubes of bamboo, and sold on as a packaged beverage for good coin in healthy, regular bouts of trade. The drink is a pale-yellow, ichorous, fluid that turns to syrup if left in direct sunlight. It is sweet, almost like honey, and is strong enough to even turn a barrel-chested regular of the most rugged of taverns into a babbling infant after only two, full pipes. The good news is that drinkers always say they awaken the day after with a clear head full of healthy, happy dreams.
The truth is that noone truly understands just where Hagspit is brewed, or if it even is anymore. Whenever it seems that the alehouses in bustling cities and distant hamlets alike run down to their last few stout pint-bottles of the stuff, there is always a full crate of the stuff forgotten at the back of the cellar. It’s not exactly a popular drink either. It’s colouring is a sickly and inconsistent swilling of ocean blues and moldy greens that stain the teeth and putrefy the breath. Apparently though, with enough of the stuff downed in one sitting, you could find yourself getting stung through the heart by a fat, black scorpion and hardly even lose a heartbeat in response. If you ever need to wade knee-deep into a wasp nest or risk a poisoning at a suspect banquet; drink a full pint of Hagspit and tip your barman well.
The Rootwater recipe is as varied between one town and another as the people who drink it. The drink itself is little more than a brewing process where the gaps in the ingredient list are filled-in by whatever is at hand in place of what was more common further down the road. One town may have a specific vegetable root listed, but in the next settlement down, that root may not grow there. So, instead of wasting trade on that root by itself, they replace it with a ground-up beetle shell that is more-or-less the same. That same beetle may be replaced by a rare mineral extract, chemical compound, magical mixture, or entirely secret additive that is only known to that brewer alone, further adding to the mystery of the Rootwater recipe. It wouldn’t be too obscure to hear of turf-wars or violent disputes between rival, neighboring breweries and their respective appreciators alike.
‘Smoke’ is a rather literal name for the entirely unbranded and unlabeled glass hip-flasks sold at snake-oil stands across the nation. Within the curved, polished glass is a half-pint of swirling, smokey, grey air. When un-capped and poured into a glass or open mouth, the smoke pools and slowly begins to liquefy into a silvery fluid after a few, brief moments. ‘Smoke’ is a supposedly luxurious drink that can, at once, ‘heighten your spirits, senses, and stature’ - according to the grinning salesmen that speak ever so highly of each of their products whilst eagerly counting their coin when your back is turned. The reality is not quite as perfect, as the drink is intensely alcoholic. An imbiber will stumble around the streets after a single swig, but the drunkenness only lasts for a mere hour, or even less. A favourite of lunch-break drinkers and those looking to enjoy themselves in the evening, but at no expense of their morning.
Sylveon is one of the most common Eeveelutions used in a domestic setting, and actually rarely appear in the wild due to the circumstances necessary for their evolution. It has been theorized that the only reason Sylveon exists at all is the domestication of Eevee for thousands of years.
Having Sylveon as a pet is one of the easiest cared-for Pokémon in the world. Sylveon are ideally suited to life with humans, and are extremely adaptable to live in human habitation. Being the Sylveon’s chosen human pretty much guarantees a friend and occasional caretaker for life.
Sylveon is no shrinking violet on the battleground either! These Fairy-types easily follow orders and with an array of impressive moves, they are ideal for contests as well.
The only drawback to having a Sylveon is their extreme loyalty. Sylveon have a tendency to bond to one human or Pokémon in particular, and will often act aloof and cold to anyone else. This makes them unfit for team situations and, should their chosen leave or die, they will become despondent and many end up wasting away. Trading a Sylveon is ill-advised as well, as the Pokémon will almost always sicken and die from this.
As long as you can promise a Sylveon a friend for the rest of its life, caring for one is easy and peaceful.
a lot of household tasks (especially things involving water like dishes or laundry or mopping) are terrible sensory experiences for me. I melt/shutdown nearly every time I do them. but I have to get them done somehow. any advice? thanks!
I’m assuming that as you’ve specifically mentioned water, and judging by the nature of the tasks, it’s mostly a tactile issue?
Dishes - If at all possible, invest in a dishwasher. - Wash dishes under running water instead of in a bowl of water if that’s better for you. - Wash things straight away so that it’s quicker, or if that’s not possible soak things to make it quicker to rinse them. - Use a sponge on a stick so that you can hold the stick when scrubbing and avoid contact with the water. - Wear gloves. - Use disposable plates (recycle to reduce waste) - Trade tasks with someone else, or ask if someone would be willing to come and help you with these jobs (a friend or family member could wash items up and you could dry (using a cloth/tea towel to avoid contact with wet items) and put things away).
Laundry - Wear gloves. - Use tongs to empty the dishwasher (and potentially to hang things out, too, if you’re able to). - Use the washing machine bag net things so it’s easier to take everything out all in one without having to keep picking up handfuls of wet clothes. - Ask someone else if they’ll deal with the unloading and hanging up wet clothes (so you can just deal with the dry part - loading the washing machine).
Mopping - Use a bucket with a wringer (the bit you press the mop into to twist it and wring it out). - You should only have to touch the bucket (the outside of the bucket should be dry) and the mop handle (should be dry). - Ask someone else to deal with filling and emptying the bucket if there is anyone around who can do that.
* Try to plan these sorts of tasks around each other and other tasks (so that you know you’ll have more energy/won’t already be overloaded before you start).
* If the problem is to do with noise (sloshing noises, for example) wear ear defenders of some sort, or listen to music through earphones/headphones when you’re doing these household tasks (at least during any parts that involve unpleasant noises).
Smaug was a fire drake from the North and the last great worm known in Middle Earth. His origins are obscure, it is speculated that he is descended from the many dragons of the War of Wrath, though significantly smaller. He conquered Erebor from the dwarves and laid waste to the neighboring trade city of Dale, inhabited by Men. He was drawn to Erebor from the wastes of the North for the great treasures it held. He reigned as King Under the Mountain for nearly two centuries, sleeping on the gems and gold he conquered which formed a protective armor on his soft underbelly. Thorin Oakenshield led a company to reclaim Erebor, as he was it’s rightful heir, with them came Bilbo Baggins the company burglar. As Bilbo attempted to steal back the treasures of Erebor he was discovered by Smaug, interrogated following a game of riddles, and narrowly escaped with his life, but with valuable information about a weak point in Smaug’s nearly impenetrable scale and gem armor. In a rage of suspicion Smaug believed that the men of Laketown, refugees of Dale, were behind Thorin’s attempt at usurping him, and flew out to destroy them. Though information of his weakness passed through a thrush bird, who sent this information to Bard the Bowman, descendant of Lord Girion of Dale. Bard led a company of archers in defense of Laketown and slew Smaug; armed with this vital knowledge and a Black Arrow, an heirloom of his family. Smaug’s destruction allowed for the reconstruction of Dale and left the riches of Erebor up for grabs, which caused plenty more headache.
“Never laugh at live dragons, Bilbo you fool!“ he said to himself, and it became a favorite saying of his later, and passed into a proverb.” - Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit, Inside Information
a/n: this part is kinda inspired by the comics… for those of you who haven’t read them, don’t worry about spoilers. this is completely different than how it goes down lol. in other news, i’m gonna try to wrap this series up pretty soon. it was so fun to write, and i hope you guys enjoyed it (no, this isn’t the last part)
let me know what you think! my messages and inbox are always open, and i respond to everything :-)
The men who stood before you widened their eyes. They were obviously unsure what to do, and without Negan there to guide them, the Saviors were at a loss for words.
“Take the pregnant one. Get her in one of the trucks,” the leading man ordered. “If these dipshits won’t surrender for their own safety, let’s see how they react to us killing a pregnant woman.”
Maggie was roughly forced to stand up, being gripped by both her arms and practically thrown into the back of a truck. You winced at the sound of her body hitting the hard floor of the truck, hoping that she didn’t get thrown around too much. No matter how much Maggie tried to hide it, you knew she was growing more and more fragile as her pregnancy progressed.
“I’m gonna need you all to start talking. We have your weapons. We have your people. Now, all we want is for you to give Negan back to us. He’s in one of these houses, and I assume someone here knows where he is,” the man barked, pacing calmly past each of you.
You stared him in the eye boldly, unfazed by his empty threats. What he didn’t know was that Carl had killed Negan–hours ago? You were unsure how long you had been fighting. It was dark outside, only the slight sliver of sun keeping your vision clear. Their leader was dead, and until then, you had them wrapped around your finger.
“I know where Negan is,” you declared. The man smirked as he crouched down to your level. “And I’m not telling you where until you give us our people back.”
The man chuckled, grabbing your chin again. “You really think I’m just gonna give you everything that easily? You really think I’ve survived this long by just trusting every damn person I lay my eyes on? You really think I’m that-”
Your eyes were screwed shut by the blast. An explosion had sounded from the other side of Alexandria, and you were knocked on your back from the force. Cyndie was up in no time, grabbing you and Rick and pulling you to your feet.
“You have to trust me,” she yelled, leading you to a truck filled to the brim with the most guns you had seen in a long time. “Take what you need and tell me what to do. Tara brought me here.”
You wasted no time trading in your empty guns for loaded ones. You would have refilled them with ammo, but you had no time to waste. Rick did the same and lead you to the last place he saw Carl. The three of you creeped around the backside of the houses, avoiding the main streets of Alexandria.
“There!” a man yelled from behind you, firing bullets in your direction. You ducked, drawing your own gun and shooting him in the head as Rick and Cyndie took down the others.
“We gotta go. People will come now that they’ve heard gunfire from over here,” you panted. Rick and Cyndie nodded, running in the same direction you were originally heading. You felt the ground shudder beneath your feet as more and more explosions sounded through the Alexandria. The community was big, but you knew it wasn’t big enough to survive this many attacks.
“Shit. They probably got grenades,” Rick muttered through gritted teeth. He shot two Saviors who jumped at you from around the corner of a house, then continued running. “Last time I saw Carl, he was just up here.”
You didn’t see any trace of him left behind, and you hoped he was safe inside one of the houses. You knew better though; Carl would never give up fighting the Saviors. He would never just hide away to keep himself safe.
“We gotta keep looking. He was alone when I saw him. That’s when they took me; separated us,” Rick rambled, searching his mind for a likely place Carl would be.
Screams could be heard from the gate of Alexandria, but they were different than the screams you had been hearing all night long. These were men; These were the screams of the Saviors.
Rick lead you out into the streets, for they had mostly been cleared. Very few residents of Alexandria were dead, as far as you were aware. The only bodies that scattered the paved roads were fallen Saviors. You figured someone had moved the residents who couldn’t fight to a defended shelter, which seemed to do the trick.
As Rick lead you and Cyndie down the streets of Alexandria towards the gates, it became clear what had caused the Saviors to retreat. In the middle of the seemingly civilized town, there was a giant tiger tearing apart any man who dared to come near Ezekiel, who had lead an army of his men to Alexandria.
The civilizations were unified against one common evil: the Saviors. And to your delight, they seemed as dead as the walkers.
Italy: No! Bambina run! Run please! Live your life!
Germany: Beast! You let my daughter go right now, and I won’t have your head!
Japan: Daughter, please run. Leave me and live.
Romano: JUST RUN YOU IDIOTA! RUN! You are the only person that matters to me, If i leave, I have nothing. It will be a waste to trade yourself for me. You have your whole life ahead of you. Run Bambina, and never look back.
Pacing is probably the number one biggest concern you should have if you’re making a narrative work. We only have so much time on this tiny blue pearl, after all. If your audience is giving you their attention (and possibly their money) you should try not to WASTE THEIR FUCKING TIME. And despite pacing being so important, it’s probably the aspect of narrative works that I see abandoned the most, in virtually every medium. Games that drag on to long. Shows that can never get to the fucking point. Comics that are written for the trade. Webcomics written by the page. All of these are bad, and will almost uniformly suck ass.
Works should be paced briskly. That doesn’t mean everything should move fast, it just means not to waste the audience’s time. A slow burn on a story is fine, as long as you aren’t wasting the audience’s time too much. When you put something into a work you need to stare at it and ask yourself ‘does this need to be here?’
Does this further the narrative? Does it establish something about one of the characters? Does it set up for something that will happen later? What’s the shortest this can be while still including everything I want? You don’t want to reduce your own work, but unless you have an editor to help you, almost everything anyone produces can use some fucking cuts.
Comics have been blighted for years by the 'write for the trade’ mentality, where stories that would have been 2 or 3 issues are stretched to take up an entire trade. It wastes the audience’s time and money, and is just the shit cherry on the crap sundae that is modern cape books.
Like 90% of webcomics aspire to be narratively driven yet also have a joke on every page, so you end up with stories moving at a glacial pace while panel upon panel is used to set up and deliver jokes that aren’t as funny as the author thinks they are anyway (surprise most webcomics are shit!)
For a game, pacing is especially critical, since games are an interactive medium. If the audience finds the game tedious or boring before the credits roll, you have failed. A lot of people harp on games having a certain length, but if your game is only enjoyable for six hours, it really should not be 10. Examples of this kind of shit are both Overlord games. Those games are charming, and relatively enjoyable, but both of them are like thirty hours long. They can’t support themselves. (It’s to note, when some idiot babbles about 'games needing to be shorter’, this is usually what they mean. Dunno why they always phrase it in the most inflammatory manner possible.)
Remember; it’s better to leave your audience at the credits wanting more, than at the credits going 'thank god’. It drastically changes how people will remember your game, the impression it’ll leave on them, everything.
It’s hard, especially for games. When developing a game, trying to figure out 'how long is this fun?’ is about as easy as trying to catch smoke in a jar, but hitting that magic length will make your game exponentially better than if you didn’t.
“To be held under the sway of that little worm is only adding insult to injury. I’ll have you know that there was a time when I could make the scheming bastard piss himself in fear.”
“That’s nice,” Sakura grunts, tying off the tourniquet and snapping the excess fabric with her teeth. Now that the bleeding’s been controlled, she can get around to the actual healing. “Tell me another, old man.”
Akasuna no Sasori, fresh from the grave, levels a glare in her direction. It ought to frighten her, what with those weird inverted eyes, smeared black framing phosphorescent pupils.
Weird circumstances aside – hello, she’s willingly waltzed into a confined space with what amounts to a very nicely put together zombie – she isn’t afraid of him. She just took an enemy sword to the meat of her thigh half an hour ago; a cranky little man isn’t going to intimidate her.
Besides, she’s already beat him to the ground once, and she can do it again.