Zelda: No Matter How Hard I Try, No Matter How Hard I Pray, The Spirits And The Goddess Hylia Do Not

I’ve seen discussions sometimes about how fanfiction-based fandom culture is heavily influenced and dominated by people who are not cis men.

One thing I haven’t seen discussed as much though is how much of fandom in general is shaped by neurodivergent people.

I mean, you have autistic and ADHD people with special interests or hyperfixations collecting information and writing detailed meta, connecting very strongly with characters and fandoms. I would not be surprised if the percentage of autistics in fandom communities was significantly higher than in the general public.

And that’s not even getting into other types of neurodivergencies and how they influence fandom culture.

I sometimes see people try to divorce fandom culture from the idea of being a “geek”, and I understand that this is sometimes because of the association with the sexist geek stereotype, but I also know that there is a connection between the two concepts, and it’s probably us neurodivergent people.

Okay but

Modern Witchers who use an app to find and pick up contracts. Like Fiverr or Uber, but for monster hunters. Witchr.

DO WANT

Oh my god

so

the last two times they’ve had to extract a personality from another system (Castle Heterodyne, the Beast) Agatha’s built a little dingbot for it

Do you realize what this could mean

DINGBOT LUCREZIA

Fandoms are for noticing all the Funny Background Events, because single readers cannot possibly find all of them on their own.

A Boy and his Goldfish

So I think we all remember the goldfish. This guy here: 

That Gil manages to catch

Hold onto during the whole scene

Maneuver around

And even shield from the explosion.

But what I noticed recently while collecting my outfit reference was this little gem right here:

Yeah. That’s a fishbowl in the corner. But it could have been there before you say? Well…

Zoing is afraid of it. So it’s new. Gil kept the goldfish from TPU, the dork.

Bonus:

“Get Bigger Tub.” ….For mutant goldfish, perhaps?

I’m a sucker for tiny Time, fluff, and found family tropes….

Local Bird Slam Dunks an Armed Swordsman. What Happens Next Surprises No One.

idk i had a particularly dumb idea and needed it out of my system

Sky sees an unfamiliar foe and clearly goes through the standard Zelda Enemy Weakpoint Checklist.

1. Try to slash it.

2. Try to hit it from behind.

3. Try an item.

4. Go for the eye.

Meanwhile Twilight?

5. YEET

Art by @linkeduniverse

Something that isn’t really addressed in “It takes a village” is that, while Agatha dresses pretty much like she does in canon while she’s in Mechanicsburg, she has a radically different fashion sense in Beetleburg, where she decided that in order to pass herself as a Very Normal Student, Nothing To See Here, she simply had to crib Vanamonde’s fashion sense. 

Possibly that’s just because the mental image she has for ‘respectable young adult’ is Van, and a general unawareness of the fact that, no… Van is… he’s just a fancy goth. Also these are not her colors.

But also, because she tends towards dark and cool colors, it gives her a much more matronly vibe that does help when it comes to keeping the other students in line.

Later, after they find out she’s a Heterodyne, many of the people who knew her at TPU will think ‘oh, that explains why she always dressed so creepy’, but no. No, that was just her plan for blending in. That was Agatha trying to be subtle. 

Things Marinette Dupain-Cheng has contingency plans for:

Adrien Agreste is a serial killer

Adrien Agreste is a secret robot

Adrien Agreste is a Fae who wants to steal her soul

Adrien Agreste is the harbinger of an alien invasion

Things Marinette Dupain-Cheng does not have a contingency plan for:

Adrien Agreste says he loves her back

concept #3: Time goes on, and even as he sings sombre ballads everywhere he goes, Jaskier also makes it a point to actively stay out of Geralt’s path. It isn’t easy, especially after knowing his presence so well after years of travelling together (where there used to be times when he could step onto a dirt road after months apart, and somehow still find his way back to the Witcher, no matter where he was or how far apart they were) but he pulls it off. 

People stop knowing him as the Witcher’s companion, and just know him as a travelling bard. 

He travels from town to town, village to village, city to city - and they listen to his songs but refuse to remember them; the heartbreak in every word just too much for them to commit to memory. He then leaves every tavern, every inn, every pub - feeling in his bones how his worship dwindles day by day, and how soon no one will sing for him, and how then he will simply fade from being. 

He thinks. He hopes. 

He goes to bed with a wry smile and a heaviness in his body (age, he presumes, catching up to him) wondering if tonight will be the night - only to wake up the next morning because there’s still some worship left out there, and still some song left for him to sing. So he does. He continues. He travels, and he sings. And day by day he slowly weakens - because, you see, that’s just the way brokenhearted deities go. 

But then, there will be times. Incredibly odd and extremely rare days. When he’ll be walking and suddenly stop in his steps; or he’ll be sleeping and awake with a start in the dead of night - and he will feel that familiar tug in his chest, that used to lead him to a certain someone who used to matter so dearly to him.

Who still matters so dearly to him.

And Jaskier will know that it’s time for him to make a run for it. To pick up his pace. Whatever he needs to do to get out of dodge before Geralt gets too close. Because he just can’t, you see. He just.. won’t. He’s not ready, and he doesn’t think he ever will be. He’ll put as much distance between them as he possibly can, leaving nothing but the faintest memory of ever having existed behind him. After all, travelling bards were a fairly common thing, so most places wouldn’t even give much thought to his comings and goings, let alone care enough to tell a Witcher about him if they should ask.

And he doubts Geralt would ask. Why would he?

So he’ll slip out of rooms in the dead of night, or avoid the next town he had been hoping to stop at, and keep walking until his knees ached and his feet hurt. If he has the coin for it, he’ll ask for a horse; he rarely has the coin for it, these days. He’ll keep going until his chest stops aching, until it no longer feels as if his body is split in two; part of him longing to turn around, the other determined to keep moving onward. He’ll make the next town, or even further, if he can. He’ll find a tavern. He’ll sing some songs. He’ll make enough to eat before going further on his way.

But sometimes, the ache - the tug - persists, and Jaskier knows this means that Geralt has not stopped. He knows this means that Geralt is still moving forward, ever closer. Too close for comfort. And though Jaskier knows he needs to keep moving to avoid him, he also knows his weakened bones would not be able to outrun a Witcher and his horse.

And so, it is during these times, that Jaskier will reluctantly pick up his lute, take a deep breath, then pasting a smile on his face, he’ll pluck out a fanciful tune and sing heroic songs - about a white-haired, golden-eyed Witcher - who saves damsels and fights monsters wherever he goes.

The townsfolk will laugh, and they will sing along.

And Jaskier will feel their worship bring new strength into his bones, new life into his lungs, and awaken the blood running through his veins. He’ll sing, and dance, and feel more alive than ever.

And he’ll hate every minute of it.

Because now he knows that there will be more days ahead of him. More weeks, more months to endure. More life and more time for him to waste away once he leaves this place. More nights to spend hoping that each night will be the night he finally fades from existence. 

And even moreso, he’ll hate every minute because every note he sings to earn those minutes, is a reminder of every minute he used to spend with… 

.…with Geralt.

And it hurts. It hurts to remember. It hurts to realise he’ll never have that again.

So when all is said and done, he’ll take the coin he’s made and make a run for it. Chest aching and heart pounding. He’ll hope the townsfolk somehow forget him once he’s gone. And he’ll hope that they somehow forget his music as well. 

He’ll hope they’ll forget the songs; that they stop singing once he’s out of town. He’ll hope this is the last time he’ll be forced to do this - using his worship to prolong the inevitable. It was wrong, and it wasn’t very deity-like behavior.

But most of all, he’ll hope that this time… he finally outruns Geralt of Rivia.

For the very last time. Every time. Because he just doesn’t know how much longer he can run.