Scipostorm - ScipoStorm

Answering every single personality or future life quiz that had questions about relationships or what I found most attractive with whatever my best friend would put down. Or whatever I looked for in a friend

tell me you are aromantic without actually telling me you are aromantic

Adventure: Sparks Fly at the Powderkeg Taphouse

“ ALRIGHT YOU MANGEY DOGS, YOU KNOW THE RULES: NO DYING ON THE PREMSIS OR WE CHUCK YOU IN THE ALLEY, NO KNIVES UNLESS YOUR TAB  IS SQUARE, AND NO BREAKING A GLASS YOU HAVEN’T PAID FOR.  AND REMEMBER, SPARE TEETH GO INNA THE TEETH JAR: ROUND’S ON THE HOUSE IF YOU SAD, GIBFACED, BASTARDS MANAGE TO FILL IT UP.”

-Ares McKinley, Barkeep. 

Setup: When listed among the city’s various taverns, drinking halls, and common rooms, the Powderkeg is a sort of afterthought. Easily the most rowdy establishment in the city, it has little in the way to recommend it it save for the cheapness of its drinks or the ease with which one can find a brawling partner ( or three). There are rooms to let, but the loudness of the rabble downstairs lasts until the early hours of the morning and seems to preclude sleep, which the proprietors seem more than happy to encourage as it scares off “ The wrong sort of customer”.   

Adventure Hooks

The Powderkeg makes a natural backdrop for any hardknuckle tournament, be it wrestling, boxing, or just a plain old fashioned fightclub. Characters who want to prove their grit may seek their fortune in the lists, but may discover that the Powderkeg regulars are well acquainted with a wide variety of cheats, ranging from simple underhanded tactics to performance enhancing substances. While many of these under the table alchemics are to be expected in such violence revering venue, some others seem tailor made to the clients interests, or else dangerously unpredictable. A back alley alchemist is at work here, selling drugs to the brawlers and using the clientele as their personal testing grounds for new mutagens. Getting ahold of this supplier will be difficult, as they always work through proxies, with many of the buyers knowing them only as “ The Good Doctor”. 

A villain or rival who wishes to parlay with the party may use the Powderkeg as a stage, knowing that while the establishment may appear innocuous and ostensibly neutral, their agents may hide among the rabble and a few well placed bribes can allow them to slip out a back way while the party is barred inside. Worst comes to worst, this antagonist may incite a brawl, hoping the ignorant punters will soften the party up for the real slaughter to come. 

If you were to ask how the Powderkeg got its name, any of the regulars could tell you that it’s an old joke relating to the fact that the owners are so cheap they store their liquor in casks bought secondhand from the military, which explains one of the very particular smells wafting around the tavern and why the cheapest drinks happen to be a bit gritty. In fact, both the name and the smell are explained by the tavern being a front for one of the city’s largest illegal weapon manufacturers, who use the fights and ensuing infamous reputation as a smokescreen for their real crimes.  Materials for weapons and black powder are disguised in the same sort of barrels any tavern takes in by the wagonload, and are processed in a network of hidden cellars deep beneath the surrounding streets. When a buyer is found, the ‘Keg’s owners send their product off in a cask, mixed in to a wagonload of identical, empty barrels, which conveniently detours through a little observed location where the goods can be unloaded without scrutiny. Such deliveries are given little scrutiny by police or trade officials, which has allowed the gunrunners to operate unchallenged for YEARS.  That is, until a mixup causes on of these barrels to be picked up by the owner of the party’s favorite tavern, who’s asks for their help untangling the crime they’ve absentmindedly gotten themselves tangled in. 

Tag urself I’m pug

I believe you

decay sounds more gentle than rot. when something decays, it is gently taken apart in it's comfortable eternal slumber. when something rots, it's violently taken apart with agony. in this essay i will

moon after moon after moon~victoria pettella

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

There is a specific and terrifying difference between “never were” monsters and “are not anymore” monsters

“The thing that was not a deer” implies a creature which mimics a deer but imperfectly and the details which are wrong are what makes it terrifying

“The thing that was not a deer anymore” on the other hand implies a thing that USED to be a deer before it was somehow mutated, possessed, parasitically controlled or reanimated improperly and what makes THAT terrifying is the details that are still right and recognizable poking out of all the wrong and horrible malformations.

do it.