woe unto those

So what if the alien life we encounter evolves in a non-aqueous manner/environment?

“Human Steve, Human Steve!” The alien wailed, “the sky is falling, the end is nigh!”
Steve sighed and buried his hands in his coat.

“For the LAST time Gary, it’s just rain.”

“Alas, toxic dihydrogen monoxide”
“water”
“-comes crashing down from above poisoning the faithful ground of the planet known to those who live there as Soil.”
“Earth!”
“Woe unto those who once cherished the lands that bore them only to have it so tragically torn away in an unforgiving chemical storm…”
“Gary,”
“Human Steve, you have my most sincere condolences. Our people extend the hand of friendship in these hard times and offer you our hospitality until-”
“GARY.”
“Yes?”
“It’s fine. Water’s a part of our planet. We’re used to it- we even drink it, in fact we need to- I’m about sixty percent water, it keeps us running. Seventy percent of the Earth’s surface is covered by water, it’s in the air on the mountains- all that blue stuff you were asking about? Yeah, that was water too. You know what we should have probably called the place ‘Water’ it would have made more sense.”
Gary stopped, the slightest of quivers visible as he stared at the Human.
“You drink… water?”
“Yeah, all the time.”
“It does not harm you?”
“Not unless you go trying to breathe it. Then you drown.”
Gary let out a whimper.
“Human Steve,”
“Yes Gary?”
“I would very much like to go back to my ship now.”
“Of course. Here, I’ll lend you my umbrella.”
“Umbrella?”
“Hey, just because we’re ‘immune’ to water, it doesn’t mean we like getting wet.”

How is it possible for someone to be so supportive and so damaging all at once?
I used to sleep at your house when it was too loud inside my own head for me to sleep at my own
Now I wake in a cold sweat in a college dorm room and the ghost of you drips, saline, from my skin.
You were the poison and the antidote and I guzzled them both down
as eager to kill myself as I was to get better.
I remember the way your words poured acid over anyone who dared to express their humanity through art.
I remember being confused at how you could write me the most beautiful poems,
but laughed at the song lyrics I loved because they made me think of you.
“So edgy.” “So brooding.”
Woe unto those who relied on vague lyrics to get them to sleep at night!
Death to the poets who wrote anything at all before they had fully mastered the craft!
It took months of you being gone from my life for me to enjoy myself without feeling stupid
Still even now all it takes is the slightest word from anyone, the smallest change in tone,
And doubt is all I know.
A mere taste of the self-professed insanity I used to mainline
Have you ever told someone your version of events,
what you were sure was the truth,
only to have them say you were crazy?
For the rest of your life you are never entirely sure of anything.
Your autobiography is reduced to a disjointed series of maybes.
I used to wish like hell that there was a pill I could take that would reattach me to reality,
some chemical way to ensure the accuracy of my memory.
I have no idea what happened anymore.
Sometimes I’m not sure I even know what’s happening now.
And the worst of it is I can hear your voice even as I write this poem.
“It’s good,” you’d say, “but a bit too angsty.”
Regarding Assassin's Creed

In regards to post/161737036690 [edit: link], you’re so right.

Vax would be an Assassin, right alongside his sister, Vex(there’s even precedent: Assassin’s Creed Syndicate has a brother/sister team). Vax, of course, would be the sneaky one, prizing stealth above any other means, while Vex is less subtle. Of course, it’s hard to be so when you have a 150 lb. doggo that follows everywhere you go. Everyone who sees Trinket swears he’s more than half wolf, but Vex in turn swears that she hasn’t the faintest idea what they’re on about.

Percy would be the resident Quartermaster, coming up with all the new, exciting, and fun ways to kill. He probably definitely takes a bit too much glee in his work, especially considering that, unlike other quartermasters, he makes a point to test all his weapons and gadgets personally. If asked, his favorite invention would likely be his Cabal’s Ruin, a cloak designed to gradually pick up and store static electricity until such a time as one chooses to expend it.

Tiberius Stormwind was a fantastic alchemist and scientist from Draconia, always eager to try out his latest combustible concoction on some hapless foe. When he received word that his homeland was on the brink of civil war, he immediately departed to lend what aid he could. Sadly, that was the last time any of the Order saw him alive.

Grog is the head of the Bruisers. Reluctant to join with others whose goals don’t immediately align with his own, but once the Twins prove themselves capable in a proper fight, he starts to warm up to the Order.

Scanlan is a master of information. Whatever tidbit you may need, he’s got it, for a small price, of course. Whether you need to know who’s meeting with whom, or need secret access to a certain nobleman’s home, or aid in escaping notice in an area, Scanlan Shorthalt is the man to know. Nobody’s quite sure if he actually is Burt Reynolds and/or The Meatman, or if he simply employs them, but either way, the three always seem to know exactly what’s going on in all quarters. But woe be unto those who cross any of them, else they may receive a visit from his friend, Bigby.

Recently, a third persona has appeared on Scanlan’s stage, that of Taryon Darrington, purportedly a noble son of some far-off house. Nobody’s quite sure where this noble house actually is, but given Taryon’s apparently inexhaustible wealth, few people look very deep into it.

Pike is the resident medic, eager to help, and often just as eager to call on her friends in very high places to smite those who harmed her charges in the first place. To everyone’s surprise, she already knew Grog from before her time in the Assassins, and when he learns that she’s working with the Order, he puts his entire force of thugs and strongarms at their disposal. After all, if Pike trusts them, that’s good enough for him.

For a time, Keyleth wasn’t any official part of the Assassin’s, she was merely Vax’s plant-loving heiress, and frequent intimate and confidante. He regularly told her all that he did for the Order, knowing that she would never spread the information any further. It wasn’t until Vex was attacked by a particularly rare and potent poison that Keyleth proved her worth. Having grown up with a deep love of all things flora, she quickly figured out what was ravaging Vex, and produced the proper method to purge it from her system. After that, she was made an honorary member of the Order, often supplying them with both poisons and cures to aid them.

Matthew Mercer is the head of the Order, the one who dictates who the Assassin’s target. He is shrouded in mystery, though, and few alive have seen his true face. If he ever shows himself to anyone, it’s typically in one guise or another, though he has some favored ones. Recently, however, rumors have begun to circulate within the Order that he also heads the currently most dangerous group to oppose the Assassin’s, the Chroma Conclave. Of course, such rumors are completely unfounded and utterly silly…

…. Right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Credit to @achievementtooth for many of these ideas, especially Vax, Vex, Pike, Keyleth, and Trinket}

–––

[holy cow y’all idek what half of this means but it sounds awesome]

“The path to immortality is hard, and only a few find it. 

The rest await the Great Day when the wheels of the universe shall be stopped and the immortal sparks shall escape from the sheaths of substance. 

Woe unto those who wait, for they must return again, unconscious and unknowing, to the seed-ground of stars, and await a new beginning. 

Those who are saved by the light of the mystery which I have revealed unto you, O Hermes, and which I now bid you to establish among men, shall return again to the Father who dwelleth in the White Light, and shall deliver themselves up to the Light and shall be absorbed into the Light, and in the Light they shall become Powers in God. This is the Way of Good and is revealed only to them that have wisdom.” 

― Thoth Hermes Trismegistus: The Emerald Tablet Of Hermes & The Kybalion: Two Classic Bookson Hermetic Philosophy

[…] Mr. Trump quickly made it clear on Twitter, his social medium of choice, that Mr. Dixon and the “Hamilton” team had been “rude and insulting” and owed Mr. Pence an apology. At first, a part of me could see Mr. Trump’s point, or at least feel a shudder of embarrassed empathy for Mr. Pence. If someone were to single me out for a direct plea from the stage in a large theater, I would no doubt want to run home, dive into bed and bury myself under the covers. (Mr. Pence, speaking on “Fox News Sunday,” said he was not offended by Mr. Dixon’s words.)


Thinking more rationally, I believe it can also be argued that a great work of art — a distinction for which “Hamilton” easily qualifies — should be sufficient unto itself. Though Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Tony Award-laden show has been embraced as Broadway’s favorite feel-good musical of the moment, this portrait of a revolution is in itself revolutionary, with the provocation and defiance that such a characterization suggests.


“Hamilton” makes a sustained and vibrant case for the virtues of an American melting pot. This is as true of its form (which melds rap and hip-hop into the classic book musical) and its casting (which uses black and Latino men and women to portray the white founders of the United States) as of its content. (Don’t forget, this is a show in which the title character, Alexander Hamilton, and the Marquis de Lafayette exult on the battlefield: “Immigrants, we get the job done.”)


The very presence of Mr. Pence — whose views on immigration, like those of Mr. Trump, are anything but celebratory — at this particular show (one previously embraced by the Obamas and Clintons) would seem to signal that an unspoken debate was going on that night. In that case, wasn’t Mr. Dixon belaboring the obvious in delivering the statement prepared by him and his associates (including Mr. Miranda)? Was what he said a condescending equivalent of supertitles for the inferentially challenged?


Any inclinations I might have had to think that way evaporated in the face of the succeeding barrage of Mr. Trump’s tweets (which were still continuing on Sunday morning). They underscored for me just how much we are living in a world that demands overstatement, in which italicized capital letters are required to highlight sentiments that might otherwise go ignored.


Woe unto those who believe that the meanings between the lines will be widely read. Much of the success of Mr. Trump’s presidential campaign had to do with his awareness of that reality of contemporary communication.


In delivering his plea to Mr. Pence, Mr. Dixon wasn’t just emphasizing that a play is more than a self-contained work of art, that it’s a cry of thought and feeling pitched to an audience, a city, a nation, a world. He was also addressing Mr. Trump (through Mr. Pence) on his own blunt terms, albeit in a more eloquent (and, yes, polite) style. He was meeting directness with directness, carefully spelling out what his show had to say.


If the recent past is anything to go by, it is fair to assume that Mr. Trump will encounter more direct salvos from theater artists once he assumes the presidency. Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard M. Nixon, George W. Bush (Remember Will Ferrell in “You’re Welcome America”?) and Barack Obama have all been the subjects of theater satires while in office. Those portraying Johnson and Nixon — created in a time when the nation was as contentiously divided as it is now, the 1960s and early ’70s — were especially savage in their attacks.


So will the political theater of the future prove a match for all the president’s thumbs? In any case, disagreement and dissent should energize art, not paralyze it, and provoke responses to match. I look forward (though perhaps with a wince) to whatever Mr. Trump has to say about whatever is said about him on this country’s stages. The main thing is that the conversation — all sides of it — be allowed to continue.

  • Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me. 
  • (Micah 7:8)


This may express the feelings of a man or woman downtrodden and oppressed. Our enemy may put out our light for a season. There is sure hope for us in the Lord; and if we are trusting in Him and holding fast our integrity, our season of downcasting and darkness will soon be over. The insults of the foe are only for a moment. The Lord will soon turn their laughter into lamentation and our sighing into singing.
What if the great enemy of souls should for a while triumph over us, as he has triumphed over better men than we are; yet let us take heart, for we shall overcome him before long. We shall rise from our fall, for our God has not fallen, and He will lift us up. We shall not abide in darkness, although for the moment we sit in it; for our Lord is the fountain of light, and He will soon bring us a joyful day. Let us not despair or even doubt. One turn of the wheel, and the lowest will be at the top. Woe unto those who laugh now, for they shall mourn and weep when their boasting is turned into everlasting contempt. But blessed are all holy mourners, for they shall be divinely comforted.

From Charles Spurgeon’s “Faith’s Checkbook”
Victory in Reverses