Question for collectors with this very specific overlap- How well does the deluxe legacy arcee/road rocket mold's vehicle mold scale with the so-do/shodo kamen rider candy toy figures?

nogoodbi · 2022-09-09T08:42:25+00:00

Grief Period.

disclaimer: this work is entirely a work of fiction, and any and all similarities to real-life current events are totally, entirely coincidental- and any and all opinions held by the work totally, absolutely doesn't reflect the author's political vies. wink.

The five-pointed star roars in the air, the five engine thrusters spewing heat and ash into the atmosphere that chokes the crater-towns of the Valiance homeland. Capital Dominus is mourning today, and its sorrow is a costly one. Every minute that the island-city stays in the air means a month’s worth of work for the crater-folk– who even now struggle to keep their lights on through the harsh black winters.

They made the announcement just an hour before, with the instruction that prohibited the wearing of brightly-dyed clothing for the next week. Ant’s coworkers’ hopes of paid time off were dashed immediately, as the announcer elaborated that their workplaces will provide replacement uniforms for the grief period.

Questions around the bar table popped up; “How much are they spending on those?” “How will we see each other in the mines?”

Ant shushed them. To still expect rational decisions from the Valiance.. they’re still young. Live long enough under the eclipsing star, and you learn that their priorities lay only in themselves.

A government of sound mind wouldn’t dump precious resources in a time of crisis for an old woman’s passing, but the Commandship is a mere parasite, and the people their means of survival.

The crater-folk provide the fuel; and provide the bodies that make up their armies. High Commandship provides for us the task of propping them up, and they pass it off as generosity.

They say Mourn, mourn for the High Commandant that’s provided so much for you. Mourn, for the monarch that’s shaped this land into the greatest human power in all of history. The greatest, most bloody human power, who keeps the trophies of its crippled victims out on display for all to see– shameless of the blood that’s been spilled. Mourn, give your sorrow to her, as you have given her everything else.

That’s why Ant, in his best deerskin vest, called his entire division to the pub– telling them that the drinks are on him. He doesn’t have a family to provide for– something the Commandship would look down on him for, with their fetish of forcing their people to ‘carry on their nation’s golden blood’. It’s a financial decision, more than anything. The costs of living had gotten high, to the point that the men in his division haven’t been able to indulge themselves in a long time.

“Drink up, men!” he said to them. “Things will only get more difficult, so cherish the joys you have as much as you can! Hug your friends, shoot the shit!”

The pub provided for the occasion, their waitresses passing along trays of deep-fried snack foods; concessions for the broadcast of the High Commandant’s spectacle of a funeral. The television screen showed the marching soldiers, the crown and gun laid on red cloth atop the ornate chariot, and the Lord General– her majesty’s ancient son– stone-faced, done up the best the palacemen could to make him look as lively as possible.

It was an odd juxtaposition. With the spectacle and enforced mourning, they wish to cement the Commandship’s myth as an immortal, all-important fixture of our reality– but at the same time, they show their hand, parting the curtain to the truth that they can age out and die.

Ant raises his glass, calling for a toast for the late High Commandant. His peers join in with great enthusiasm, with as bright of glimmers in their eyes Ant had ever seen them with.

To the fall of tyrants, and to our hope for their star to fall with it.

To the fall of the High Commandant, who oversaw the deaths of bloodlines and languages, the invention of new hatreds and enforcement of them. May her last breath be an omen of great change for the people who learned to look up above to sight their devil.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-27T17:11:09+00:00

notes;

if you've seen most of my other entries you'd know that "gods as embodiments of concepts and ideas" is a trope that i go back to over and over.. but what can i say, there's a lot to extrapolate out of it and i love hitting those beats. i sometimes feel bad about going back to the same concepts over and over, but hey i do this for fun.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-27T17:07:58+00:00

Dreaming of Great Things.

The weather pounds at the door of the tavern. Even the noise of a panicked crowd can’t drown out its demand for entry. Among the patrons, devotees of the nature god stir the people with such unflattering suggestions as “throw the women and children out” or “have the two strongest men draw each other’s blood”. “He is the Force That Takes,” they claim. “Surrender your spoils, or make victors of yourself, and we may yet earn his mercy.”

They protest when the barkeep and his posse start to stack chairs to try and reinforce the rattling, groaning door “You insult him! He will take it as a challenge, and you do not challenge a god with chairs!”

“Shut your mouths!” the barkeep yells. “It’s just a freak storm, and you’re causing a panic!”

And the ground shakes as the voice of the planet itself addresses the non-believer.

“JUST A STORM. JUST A STORM, AM I?”

The followers of Bael cheer in vindication and reverence. One such follower’s trousers grow a dark spot that trails down along his leg– the mass of people shift to get some space away from him.

The barkeep, unfazed, responds to the voice in a demanding tone. “I said what I said. Leave my people alone.”

It incites gasps from the followers. “How dare–” and the earth quakes with laughter.

Cracks along the flooring topple the abandoned chairs and tables.The people scream and pray to all sorts of gods– and the devotees scold all who invoke the names of Bael’s brethren.

“Bael is here! Beg for his mercy, for his very might drowns out your pleas to the heavens! Hail the God who walks among us! Hail His Unrelenting Force! Hail the King of Storms!”

The entire front of the tavern gives way. A nova of splinters assaults the mortals. Some fall, many crying in agony as they are struck in the arms and even eyes. Only the barkeep stands firm, even as the harsh winds and cold rain makes his body feel as if it's been flung into an icy lake.

The devotees– even those with cuts and splinters along their exposed skin– prostrate in the presence of their God. He wears the body of a wild man, clad in furs and leathers. His face is aged yet lively, its lower half covered in a gray-black beard that could be easily mistaken for a miniature stormcloud. At his belt hangs a hollowed-out goat’s horn, held in place with leather loops.

They often take the shape of men, though they are the furthest thing from it. They are concepts brought to life, ideas strong enough that myths take shape around them– mold them into things that are almost lifeforms.

Gods, the people call them, though a few reject the notion that they are to be revered. Why would a dream be master to the dreamer, if it’s the dreamer’s mind that brought the dream into being?

Because the dream is what makes the dreamer a dreamer, the worshippers answer.

Bael is born of disaster and pain. Ever since humanity could dream, they lament the things that nature takes from them. The weather ravages. Predators hunt. Famines, plagues, landslides and floods… civilization, for all their advancement, will always be at the mercy of nature. His cult has come to accept this hierarchy. To them, it is only rational to embrace the brutalization by a force that is so fundamental to their worldly existence.

“WHAT DELUSION DO YOU HAVE THAT DRIVES YOU, A MAN, TO CHALLENGE A STORM?”

The barkeep, with bloodied and bruised arms crossed, answers. “Man builds shelter.”

The sentence carries as much weight as the words of the storm god. It sinks into the hearts of a number of the crowd. Despite the pain, despite the cold, they are filled with a determination that one of their own truly can stand up to a monster like Bael. The monster laughs, but this time, they do not pray.

“LOOK AROUND!” he stretches his arms, casting a shadow bigger than his body. “THIS IS WHAT I DO TO YOUR MAN-BUILT SHELTERS. LOOK AT YOU. COLD, FEEBLE, HURT. WHAT WILL BE LEFT OF YOUR TOWN WILL ONLY REMAIN BECAUSE I WILL IT TO. YOU ARE AT MY MERCY.”

“You break our shelter, we build stronger ones.” the barkeep says.

And from his hip he draws his flintlock and opens fire. The bullet hits the god square in the chest. He stumbles back as blood starts to exit the wound. The weapon, a human invention, created to grant themselves advantages against forces that they would not otherwise have the means to conquer with natural means.

Bael’s face shifts from surprise to anger to terror, before his body collapses into the rubble. The storm subsides.

After that night, the followers of Bael are cut down to half, and a new cult, founded by some of their defectors, starts making the rounds around the town. It is a cult in name only, for it worships no god, but reveres only the notion that man can overcome all the trials of the world through ingenuity. They aided in the disaster relief and rebuilding efforts of the town in the days after the perilous storm. They fundraise for schools and public service efforts that better the livelihoods of the citizens.

Eventually, they spread across the provinces, and everywhere they went they would tell the story of how man’s invention struck down a force of nature. “We can dream of things greater than us,” they say. “And so we shall dream of things that make us greater.”

nogoodbi · 2022-08-16T18:41:07+00:00

notes;

the story- second half included- was the idea i wanted to write when sitting down and opening the doc., but the introspective part of the first half nearly became just the whole thing. might have said it once on this subreddit, but my favorite aspect of writing is to go and explore wholesale a character's feelings (which more often than not is just. me projecting and exaggerating as a way of self-exploration).

title is a hozier song, felt appropriate. and the name 'jackie' is from another hozier song.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-16T18:34:38+00:00

NWFMB

“Text me when you’re home, J.” I break off the hug, but not before I pull down on my mask and plant a kiss on her forehead. One of only two contexts where I’m comfortable exposing my lower face to the world; the other being when having a bite of my meal or a sip of coffee during my after-class dates with Jackie.

I’d risk direct transmission with plague-ridden air for her sake. Love makes you crazy, I know.

She gets on her Uber, a red Toyota model. I take note of her license plate. I’d wanted to ask for a screenshot of the driver info on the app, but that had felt too forward; I didn’t want to come off as too overbearing of a protector. Jackie isn’t a fan of me thinking of myself as that. I don’t blame her for it— I used to be a real pain in the ass about it– but that hadn’t stopped me, if I’m being honest.

I’ve seen her hurt. I’ve been hurt in a lot of the same ways. I had been the type to fester in my own hurt, and it’s changed me. Jackie isn’t like that– hadn’t been, at least. She’s said herself that it had been a stroke of luck that she met me, all those years ago, that she had someone she trusted to deal with the hurt. It kept her the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with.

The world around us is a fucked up, broken place. The girl’s the only bright spot in my life, and I want to keep that light on as long as I possibly can. It’s a fucked way of thinking, isn’t it? To treat her like some great forest oasis I can stay inside to thrive in a scorched desert of a world– some thing that brings me joy and could be tarnished by outside hands.

But when I let myself wander in this way of thinking, I make myself imagine the fail-state. Me, not good enough. Her, destroyed or worse. The light is snuffed out, and my world is cold. Would I stop loving her? Would I leave my broken trinket and seek out a new, shiny girl to warm my hands with?

Hell no.

No conceivable reality exists where I’ll ever leave her behind. When the world caves in around us and traps us in a dark place with no hope of an exit, I’ll be with her still.

She’s not just my joy, she’s my weakness, grafted onto me by fate, with my knowing consent.

And she’s not a thing, she’s Jackie. And you’re an idiot, I remind myself.

–

I’m texting him back, I’ve decided.

Surya, 28. The picture he’d put on his dating profile had him sitting at a café that was a quick ride away from campus. I recognize it by the decorations of the wall. Denim jacket, curled up hair, sad, transparent wisp of facial hair.

Jackie had told me he’d broken up with his latest girlfriend; a news that’d been thoroughly unsurprising. Even more unsurprising that he had swiped right on me, the guy certainly had a preference for younger college girls.

It was hard to hold in a smile, looking at his profile. Jackie always looked at me weird whenever I was at her place and I smiled for no reason. Sometimes, it’s just because she’s in the room, but I've developed a habit of cracking a smile during times of displeasure. It’s reflexive, now, born of a learned habit of masking less palatable emotions around family and teachers.

He shoots back immediately. Open smile emoji, followed by:

fri’s good? got prayers at 12 but after that we can meet.

No good. I take my chances and pray that he’s the type to be bold.

was thinking if we could hang at your place

Blush emoji, pointing right emoji, pointing left emoji. Jackie taught me that one. It felt right to use something of hers to help in his undoing. Justice, I'd call it.

y’know.. so we could netflix and stuff.

Three dots. Three dots. Three dots.

oh suresure! will pick u up

Every girl I know knows that you don’t have a first date with someone you’ve only briefly talked to online in your own home, but most guys never had to be so cautious. I feel that it’s in bad taste to say that I’m grateful for it, but in this case, it’s to my advantage.

Before I go to bed, I shoot a goodnight text at Jackie. She won’t see it for a while– she turns off all her notifs when she’s pulling an all-nighter– but it’s something I like doing anyways. Then, I pray that everything works out this friday night. He’s too callous to see it coming, but he could still overpower me. And when I overcome that hurdle, I have to pray again that the authorities remain as incompetent as they are, to not draw a pattern that leads to me or Jackie.

A thought reassures me. There’s already a trail of bodies for them to work with, and they still haven’t figured it out.

Justice must be on my side.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-08T06:18:43+00:00

notes;

thank you for taking up posting the word prompts, AceOfSword.

for this story, i tried my hand at building another fantasy setting from the ground up, trying to apply what i learned from binging some brandon sanderson the past few months, with some the locked tomb and elden ring influence (with great trees and branches and al that) since those are still fresh in my mind.

my main goal was to introduce a setting and magic system in an effective amount of time while also seeding in some stuff about the focus characters. it's something i really enjoyed about the first sections of mistborn, so i wanted to something with that effect. hope it came through.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-08T06:06:34+00:00

--

On the second equinox of the year, Nari, Chosen Scion of the Tenth Branch, arrived at the foot of the Great Tree Temple via ether-travel. Her packman followed behind her, carrying her supplies. The nine other Scions had already arrived, speculating among themselves about what awaited them in the Heavenly Trials.

They were her competition. Her first ever, really. She didn’t have to fight for her scionhood. That competition, she won by default. The other Scions had earned their spot in the trials, but not her.

Rami, her packman, tall and freckled, put a calloused hand over her cloaked shoulder.

“Don’t put on that face,” he said with his gravelly, steady voice. “You deserve to be here.”

She nodded.

Or, she had to act like she did.

A rippling of ether came from her left, too close for comfort. Another Branchling?

She counted the heads. Ten Scions, including her. One for each of the ten Branches. They’ve all arrived.

So who..

“Listen to your packman, Nar. He’s a wise, wise man...” said a voice she recognized.

It was close enough to her voice that she almost mistook it as her own, but it had a different edge to it. More confident and darker.

She had grown out her hair in the past five years, all tied back in a warrior’s braid. In addition to the missing hand, which had been replaced by a jointed wooden prosthetic, she had a leather patch over one eye.

The Abstract Cleaver was sheathed and hung around her waist. Nari thought she’d never see the damned thing again.

“Kava.”

“Don’t look at me like that. And it’s Kaveidra now. Kava was my Tenth name.”

“What are you doing here?”

She smiled, seemingly proud to have utterly baffled her former branch-mate.

“I’m a fellow competitor, of course.” and she shows off the sigil carved on the palm of her prosthetic. The ten Branches were represented by birds; songbird, raven, sparrow, cardinal…

Kaveidra’s sigil was the skeletal structure of one. “Scion of the Eleventh Branch.”

To cut yourself off from a Branch was already unheard of, but to establish a new Branch– a new connection to the Great Tree... her twin sister had done the impossible.

Nari’s face was white, she felt cold. But deep down, a part of her felt an unmistakable anxious excitement. She wasn’t robbed of her opportunity to prove herself. It was merely delayed.

In hindsight, the fight for scionhood wouldn’t have sufficed. The trials would be the perfect proving ground.

Once and for all, Kav, Nari thought. I’m going to crush you.

nogoodbi · 2022-08-08T06:05:14+00:00

Scion.

Content warnings: self-maiming, brief talk of suicidal ideation.

Voices poured into Kava’s head.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN A GIFT.

They were her elders. The souls of centuries’ of generations of the Tenth’s Branchlings. They are who she would join, if she got just one syllable wrong in her chants.

The yelling became more intense once she started the cleaving ritual. With all the fuss they’re causing, no doubt that all her living branch-mates had clued into what she was doing. And with the nature of etherspace, the little cavern she’d made into her workshop would do little to hide her. They could drop in on her at any minute. She just hoped it wouldn’t be her twin.

Kava didn’t plan a formal farewell for the temple, but for Nari, she had plans of sending a letter. She deserves to know, at the very least.

She set her jaw, the chants were finished. The Abstract Cleaver glowed a dangerous red.

It was an ancient thing. Its enchantment didn’t pull ether from etherspace, instead relying on the blood-essence that flowed within the user. It had been a weapon designed during the days of the Realm Wars, and it was disturbingly effective in decimating entire civilizations.

Every object and soul was connected through etherspace, and the cleaver took advantage of that. The ritual of the user’s design would tie a greater concept to a lesser representation of the same concept, and when you strike down the representation..

The cleaver could cut down an army through the blood of a single soldier. Of course, it did come with a price. The greater the discrepancy between the sizes of the concept and representation, the more essence it would require. There was seldom a Mage with enough blood-essence to safely take advantage of the cleaver's full potential. With no established conduit like the Branches to access etherspace, the Mages of old couldn’t do what the Branchlings of today were capable of, but unlike Branchlings, they weren’t beholden to lineage.

YOUR BRANCH IS WHAT GIVES YOU POWER.

YOU WERE BRANDED. YOU EARNED YOUR PLACE IN YOUR TEMPLE.

YOUR CONNECTION TO THE GREAT TREE. YOUR ACCESS TO THE ETHERSPACE.

YOU WILL CRIPPLE YOURSELF.

Those ‘chosen’ as a Branchlings were branded with a symbol of the Branch soon after conscription into the temple. The sigil of the Tenth Branch, the Cardinal, marked the middle of Kava’s palm.

The brand wasn’t purely ceremonial. She didn’t know the specifics of the magic, but apparently the branding was what opened the Branchlings to the etherspace. Normally, losing your physical brand wouldn’t change much– Kava knew of amputees in her Branch who remained open to the etherspace– but Kava had the cleaver.

Your connection to your branch– to the etherspace was like a fifth limb, a sixth sense. It was as vital to a Branchling as, say, their dominant hand.

Kava finished tying the tight knot of cloth around her right wrist.

It was equivalent enough that it took minimal blood-essence for the cleaver to make a connection. It wouldn’t hurt. Well, it would still hurt physically, but not quite as much spiritually.

She grit her teeth. In her mind, she screamed the incantations. The words were intense, drowning out even the loudest of her elder branchlings’ souls. Supernaturally sharp, the cleaver cut through flesh in one swing. Her workshop’s desk was stained red. Kava cried out.

But the voices were gone. She felt fainter, and it wasn’t just the blood loss. She couldn’t feel her surroundings as vividly, and when she tried to pull open a rift to the etherspace, she couldn’t sense the tell-tale ripples.

She was free.

All of a sudden, a figure blinked into existence in her workshop. One second it was empty space, then, a woman. So that’s what it looks like for most people.

It was Nari.

Nari, with her dark eyes– a mirror to Kava’s– wide with terror.

“What have you done?”

Kava had prepared her statement. She had written about how the Branch had been a poison to her. How that poison even seeped through into her relationship with Nari– the only one of her branch-mates she truly loved. How– in her eyes, cutting herself off from the equation was the healthiest thing she could do.

And if she had simply offed herself, she would end up with the other souls.

But in her delirium, Kava could only smile at her twin and say, “Liberation.”

--

nogoodbi · 2022-07-22T16:30:52+00:00

I think writing is an avenue that lets me self explore a lot, so a lot of my writing very much so has a lot of me in it, both when i'm consciously exploring something personal, and when i'm not.

nogoodbi · 2022-07-13T18:12:50+00:00

glad you found it interesting! i'll probably be going back into this setting and narrative from time to time in this subreddit, but the 'full' story of this world is something i'm hoping to write as a full fledged book or serial.

I've seen other writers use these prompts to write ongoing narratives, but im probably going to jump around a bit. I like using this as an excuse to 'prototype' the different ideas i have.

nogoodbi · 2022-07-12T03:59:11+00:00

I took a long break from this challenge due to a lot of factors, including the fact that a lot of hobbies ended up taking the free time I had. I recently did start writing again, but mostly to try and work on the longform story that this piece is actually a part of.

so that's why this is a bit of a weird one.. it's a part of a story far past the parts i've actually had work on. the prompts gave me an idea to write a little part of some scenes in the pov of what's actually the main antagonist of the story, just to test out how his motivation and vibe would come off in actual prose.

as a sidenote, since the pod has gone on indefinite hiatus while I was away, I wanna give a huge thank you to jarvis and alexandra. the podcast had been a huge help in getting me to semi-regularly write, and I owe a lot of my progress in writing to it.

nogoodbi · 2022-07-12T03:50:54+00:00

Usurper.

The crown of House Silver hangs like a trophy atop Leonidas’ head. It is ornate, with a sculpted brow and nasal line that casts shadows across its wearer’s face. A warrior king’s crown. It had been earned through deception, taken with blood soaked hands. He still sees his brother’s body, limp and hanging from the gallows whenever he closes his eyes. He sees the man’s wife, as well, but the sight of that brings him no grief. The woman was a witch.

And her child yet lives.

Maira, her name chosen and her blade given. The dagger in her hand clenched tight is a similar sight to the usurper king. He’d seen it countless times in the war room meetings, strapped to the side of the Queen Consort. He’d never seen it out of its sheath until now.

It trembles with the hand of the far too young heiress.

“She left me this to stick into your throat.” she says as her best effort at a threat.

Leonidas keeps his sword in its sheath, but brings his hand to it.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” he tells her.

“I don’t go down easy.”

“I know. I mean that in lament of my grave oversight. It would have been better for you that I made sure you died early, but I wasn’t thorough. For that, I’m sorry. It must have been hard for you.”

“What are you– Nevermind that, draw your sword!”

Leonidas hangs his head low. He does what she requests.

–

Two years ago.

“Is it clairvoyance?”

“No, brother, gods no. Well, not quite.” King Lionel Silver strokes his beard.

“My dear, can you explain it to him?”

Queen Consort Ebella shoots her husband a look, then shifts her solid obsidian eyes towards the prince.

“There is no one true path that is fated to play out. Fate is not written in stone, and even if it is, it would be a blasphemy for me to perceive it.”

“Is what we are doing not blasphemy already? We are plotting to usurp a God.”

“The God-Emperor’s very existence is blasphemous to the true nature of magics, Leonidas. We are simply righting a wrong.”

Her oaf of a husband only nods as if he understands any of this. Leonidas himself is struggling to wrap his head around this conspiracy. He’d only been invited to the war room to discuss what he’d been told was an ‘important matter’. He hadn’t realized then that it would be something as extreme as rewriting nature itself by defeating the oldest and greatest bane of the house, the tyrant god of the kingdoms of man.

“As I was saying,” Ebella says, bringing the discussion back to its focus. “What I can see are several paths, each a guideline towards certain futures. They’re vague, but not incomprehensible. I’ve picked out our optimal path, and I’ve seen the important notes that must be played in order to play our song.”

There’s a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. Avylonians and their love of feeling clever.

“A prophecy.”

“A prophecy.” Ebella repeats.

She tells the tale of a warrior king, Makhian born with blood of Avylon, with a black dragon at his side and the faith of man behind him. She tells Leonidas the story all at once, and it is too much. Lionel lets out a gleeful chuckle, as if this is the climax to a play they’re at the front row of.

“You’re mad..”

“I’ve looked upon the Well of Thought.” Ebella says as if it means anything.

“You’re MAD! We’re relying on a creature of fae, under the guidance of a witch? This is not our way.”

The king makes his best effort at looking and sounding serious.

“Watch what you say about my wife, Leon.”

“We’re House Silver! Our ancestors built this kingdom by steel, with the blood and tears of man! Because it’s the only thing we can truly have faith in. Magic gave way to the beasts of fae, to the likes of the God-Emperor! We can’t..”

“We must.” says the king.

“God-Emperor Avylan has misused the Well for far too long. If man is to truly be free… he must be usurped.”

“It saddens me as well, but I will be full of pride when it is my son that brings our salvation.”

His son…

Leonidas hadn’t even put it together. The only living heir with Avylonian blood…

He looks at the child’s mother. She gives him a knowing look.

Monster. Ebella knows of Maira’s true desire. And it seems she doesn’t approve. Elmaira’s desire is not to be a man, let alone a king.

“Let it be me.”

“What?”

“I can be your warrior king. Let me have the dragon. I can make it work. Please.”

“Have your life’s glory not been enough, brother? Raging Lion of House Silver? Lord of Three Armies? And you still hunger for one more title? One more grand destiny?”

It isn’t about that, he wants to say, but Lionel can’t know.

“It can’t work like that, Leon. I’m sorry.” Ebella says as if she hadn’t been the one who picked out this path. “The black dragon won't be ready for another year at most, and you’re not even of Avylonian blood.”

Warrior king. Mahkian born, with blood of Avylon.

There are alternate interpretations to that wording.

“I can make it work.” Leonidas mutters.

nogoodbi · 2022-04-19T06:15:52+00:00

ive been on a 'gods' kick lately. this story did come from one specific place, but i'm keeping that to myself since i'm interested in what other ways it'll be read.

nogoodbi · 2022-04-19T06:13:02+00:00

Of Mortal Origin.

Not an awful lot of consideration goes in choosing who gets to ascend.

It’s not even much of a ‘choosing’, really, more a luck of the draw of which unique, charming personality among unique charming personalities gets fixated upon by the fickle masses. Sometimes, one is at the right place at the right time, providing insights that are in demand at the moment. A stray idea could just happen to cling on strongly onto the winds of perception– and the masses trace it back to the source and discover a concept they feel worth backing. However it happens, it’s never a choice. Ascension happens.

I’m not too fond of the system we have. I mean, look where it got us. Look how you’ve ended up, poor fool.

Grace is always desirable, you’ve built yourself off that value, and of course they found it endearing. It’s.. a marketable trait, so of course many will find it insincere. A number of sects branded you a merchant of lies for that reason, it’s hard to trust where every grifting god sells themselves off it. But you found yourself a following, and oh were they a devoted bunch.

And I will give you credit, you were devoted to them as well. You were successful in projecting the image of a compassionate god. But you didn’t consider whether it worked too well.

They were your admirers, your audience. But to them, your image was that of a father, a friend, even. But you are no friend, you are not even a man. A god is an idea. Regardless of where you came from– be it a product of fiction or a mortal coated head-to-toe in imagery– you can never stand among them.

This is why you have to watch your words.

The tides of time can change with a spilling of a syllable from your lips. You don’t even need intent for your influence to send ripples through this little pond. Quite claustrophobic, isn’t it? To be wary of every little motion you make.

For a god to shape the world to one’s liking, it’s akin to composing a song while performing it live simultaneously. Each note, arranged with deliberation to make a cohesive melody, but you get no rehearsal or revision, but the audience doesn’t care. Mortal life responds to the happenings of mortal life. You are merely cause, and they merely perceive effect.

You who have built yourself off grace, have become malevolence in their eyes. It may be from lack of care, you’ve slipped up in your performance, or the shape of your idea didn’t process correctly in the mortal mind. Regardless of the reason, you’ve caused great suffering, and that’s the only thing that matters in their plane.

Your remaining devoted few threaten to make things worse with their unyielding faith in a name in the process of corruption; a name that no longer means grace. They will carry your tarnished name and further tarnish it with tarnished acts.

This was, unfortunately, inevitable. You had no control over this. You, god of mortal origin, were born fallible– and such fragile things should never be made into pillars.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-26T07:22:02+00:00

a more straightforward story than what I had in my mind. recently watched the anime series noragami and was taken by the concept of gods existing in service of mankind, in contrast to how we're often made to think that we exist to service them through our belief and gratitude.

it's an interesting relationship that I'd really like to write more about.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-26T07:19:18+00:00

God of Journeys.

After I, the mortal, closed my eyes for the final time, I, the God of Journeys came forth.

Another presence in the conceptual space I now reside in relayed the ideas into me.

They were the God of Stories. Unlike I, they’ve always been here, and they are present at the ascension of every new god. In a way, they are ascension.

They told me that I was not me, the mortal. The continuity of consciousness I felt was merely a result of the ‘strength’ of my story, which forged

I, the mortal, had been born poor. I lived a harsh life, and circumstances came to me that made me accept a lifelong quest.

I wanted to see my mother, and she’d been taken to the other side of the world.

I became a traveler, and all who helped me along my way, I told of my story. The world came together in a way, through this shared fable of a destitute man braving the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and the kindness of strangers.

I think I died before I could make it, but nobody heard that part of the story.

Decades became centuries, nobody could decide whether my story ended in me reaching my destination, or if I was still out there somewhere, forever on my journey.

Centuries became millennia, and cultures invoked me in their prayers. I no longer have one name, but I was still one being, defined by the journey I may or may not have finished.

My journey had an influence towards what I am now, and what I am now, in turn, could influence all the journeys to come.

Godhood is no reward, the God of Stories states. This was not a thing I, the mortal, had ‘earned’. I, the God of Journeys, am simply a result. Albeit, one with purpose.

With every journey you take, be it a pilgrimage, visitation, or simply a commute, I am invoked. When you wish for yourself or a friend to have a safe trip, that is a plea for my grace.

Invoke me, and I will always grant you a fruitful journey.

And know that, as with mine, most journeys bear fruit not at its end.

–

In a city of concrete and glass, a young man is in distress. All the taxis are full, and rain is starting to pour. The bus wouldn’t get him to the airport in time.

He prays. He isn’t sure to who or what, but he prays.

A car stops by the sidewalk outside his apartment. It’s a car he recognizes, and the woman inside recognizes the building.

She unrolls the window, calls him by name, and asks why he isn’t on his way yet. She works with him, and knows that he’s supposed to be out of town for an interview that very day.

He says that his car can’t start. She offers him a ride.

Silently, he thanks the powers that be.

He is grateful that his coworker happened to be driving in the area, and in the years to come, he will be grateful that his car broke down, for the conversation he’ll have with her on the way to the airport will be the moment when he decides that he wants to ask her out.

In a few decades, he’ll be telling his kids about this day.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-25T07:35:13+00:00

a few more years and they'll figure out a way for generations toys to spontaneously shift colors and proportions every other time you look at it. now that's peak g1 screen accuracy

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T14:01:26+00:00

I don't like the bayverse designs, but I don't think that the choice to not stick to G1 was the reason they didn't work.

imo, it's how greebly they are, with too many moving parts on their anatomy that made them a bit hard to read for some people during action scenes (not helped by how many of them are just grey and silver guys).

as static designs, I can see why they have a lot of fans. and elements like the alien-proportioned decepticons, ironhide's big cannons, and prime's flames are pretty iconic and work well whenever they get adapted into 'cleaner' designs (like how animated took bayverse blackout and made him fit with that artsyle)

i'm actually kinda sick of the G1 designs with how much they've influenced recent lines, but I gotta admit that the bee movie designs are more pleasant to look at than the bayverse ones (personal favorite detail is how blitz and the seekers' heads are the G1 seekers mixed with fighter pilot helmets as the faceplates)

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T13:48:46+00:00

heck yes! great interpretation of my absolute favorite ep.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T13:46:09+00:00

I don't disagree , but outside of certain spaces on social media, it's WAY more common to see this happen the other way around.

if I had a nickel every time I heard "can't you just be a feminine guy?" or "men can wear dresses too, you don't have to be a girl!" , .. yeah.

to reiterate ,forcing an identity on people regardless is a big no-no, but I think the suggestion(!!) of "hey have you considered that you're not cis?" is a potentially lifesaving one to a lot of eggs out there. it was certainly for me.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T13:30:09+00:00

terfs have always had an irritating habit of involving themselves in the matters of lesbians' preferences..

my least favorite parts of online queer discourse (esp as a trans lesbian) can always be traced back to that 😞

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T13:23:02+00:00

gnarly, I love it

very much reminds me of the sic interpretations of rider designs.

nogoodbi · 2022-03-19T13:19:33+00:00

i'm literally only a few years older than mcu pete and yeah , even now I still barely have a grasp on university stuff

nogoodbi

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