Fenster The Deviler - Business Before Pleasure

I was talking to someone today about writing, and I was surprised by how amazed they were by writers’ ability to create a story. They couldn’t understand how JKR was able to create the world of Harry Potter–how she came up a world so far removed from our reality. 

It made me realize something; not everyone can come up with worlds on a whimsy. Not everyone can create characters that they grow so fond of that they’re like real people in their eyes. Not everyone has gone through the experience of a character derailing their story and swearing it wasn’t them typing those words in that document. Not everyone can just envision a story and then just write it. 

I’ve been making stories since I was a small child–it’s something so ingrained in me that to imagine not being able to write (no matter how much I agonize over writing woes) is such a foreign concept to me. Writers, cherish your ability to create stories. Because not everyone can create stories. Because there isn’t anyone in the world who can write the stories you are writing. Because you don’t know when or where there might be a person in the world who needs to hear your story.

Grondel of Irvasker

I never planned on this turning into a scene. It just sort of tumbled out. So I had no way of knowing how to end it. So, forgive the meme conclusion. Enjoy?

...

The Irvasker tribe of the wintery north always held honor among warriors as guiding doctrine. Every man, woman, and child was expected to show this level of reverence and respect to strength and especially overcoming obstacles, be they from the world or within. This left Yorgen Irvasker, son of the mighty Tusk Irvasker, in a difficult position. The great beast Grondel’s head lay at his feet. The same beast that Yorgen had failed to hunt for months. Indeed, such a feat would yield, by their tribe’s most honored traditions, the seat beside the Chief. Yorgen was conflicted giving such a regal position to an outsider, especially a Bobkin. He clenched and unclenched his fist several times around the pommel of his great sword, debating if he could talk his way out of lopping the sly grin off the Bobkin’s face. The Chief cleared his throat again, motioning to Yorgen.

“Ah yes,” Yorgen said, knocked from his internal monologues of bloodshed, “You have done well, Bobkin.”

“The name’th Withper.” The Bobkin named Whisper said with a painfully comical lisp. He leaned his small frame against the beast’s head, his elbow digging into its ear. “And I think, you got more to thay than that.”

Yorgen stifled a grumble with a cough, “Yes of course. As the customs and traditions of our tribe dictate, you are to receive a title and position worthy of your deed.”

Whisper gave a revoltingly self-satisfying smile and patted the head, “Tho, what will thith get me?”

The Chief stood from his throne of furs, leather and bone and made a wide gesture that made his mammoth-skin cape flutter around him. “For your deeds you shall become a Yar-Vasker.” 

Whisper looked from the Chief to Yorgen. Yorgen sighed and wiped a hand over his face and down his beard, “He means you will become like a brother to the Chief.” 

The minute warrior cheered, “About time you meatheads recognized my might.”

The Chief smiled. Yorgen grumbled, but then noticed a shifting of movement on the beast’s head. Not a sign of life, more like a sudden change in color before quickly shifting back. 

“But before that,” Yorgen said, approaching the head, “We shall make ceremony of this great and impressive victory!” He raised his mighty great sword into the air. The masses cheered at the glinting steel of his blade. “Oh Whisper, the great hunter, the honor shall be yours.” He extended his arm, offering the huge weapon to the small Bobkin.

“Exthcuthe me?” Whisper said, head tilting to the side.

“Drive the blade into the beast’s head, such is the ceremony before honoring you as Yar-Vasker.” Yorgen said with an ice-cold smile. 

Whisper looked at the greatsword, the handle of which was larger than his forearm. “I don’t think--”

“Oh but great hunter Whisper,” Yorgen said, his voice booming, “After defeating this beast, surely this small task is nothing for you.”

“Yes,” The Chief said, his smile was warm and brotherly, “Show us the might that slew the powerful beast.”

Cheers lifted from the crowd, followed by chanting for their new hero. Yorgen beamed, eyes wide and full of malice, down at the small Bobkin. The handle of the weapon aimed at his head like the bolt of a crossbow.

“Uh,” He looked between the weapon and the beast’s head. “Ith thith really nethethary?”

“Oh?” Yorgen said, a brow arching with the hope of mimicking the expression of one who is surprised. “Could it be you do not have the strength?”

Whisper sneered and matched glares with Yorgen, “Well, it was quite a mighty battle,” He let his grin show more of his sharp teeth, “Not that you would really know.”

The chanting of the crowd masked their interaction, but enough people noticed the change in Yorgen, from his usual calm and dominant presence, to the tense presence of a coiled predator. A second chant was called out, probably by one of the younger fools in attendance, that called for more bloodshed.

Whisper and Yorgen held each other at a glare until the burly, bearded man broke first. He turned to the Chief.

“My Chief. The battle with Grondel has left our savior weary indeed and unable to initiate the ceremony.” Yorgen said, his face wearing a worried look that ill matched the giddy sound in his voice.

Whisper let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“So instead” Yorgen continued, “Mightn’t I do the honors?” He turned and lifted the blade over his head, eyes locked on the head of the beast.

“STOP!” Whisper said, his lisp vanishing. 

Yorgen brought the blade down. 

The head bounced out of the way and tumbled behind Whisper.

“Are you crazy?” The head burbled before twitching and shifting into a different creature. A mix between a shaggy dog and a dragon. The Farceling tried to hunker its large body behind the small Bobkin. 

The crowd went wild, confusion, anger and a couple of people laughing nervously.

“I knew it!” Yorgen cried, “Naught but lies and trickery!” Yorgen strode over to them, blade held tight in his fist. “You dare--”

“Now,” Whisper held up his hands, “Let’s be reasonable about this.” 

“We need to escape,” the Farceling muttered from behind his friend.

“What do you think I am trying to do, Hush?” Whisper said in a panicked voice.

“No, not from him,” Hush said.

Yorgen loomed over them. “I have had enough of you both.” He was shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. “You shall be put to death for your deceit.”

“Silence!” The Chief cried, raising his hands.

A rather tiny Pixum poked its head out of Whisper’s pocket for a second, “Did they figure me out too?” Whisper quickly pushed Silence back into his pocket.

The din of noise in the hall fell away. 

“Where are the guardsmen?” The Chief said, scanning the crowd. Five hands went up.

“Here, Chief!”

Yorgen’s eyes went wide, “Then who is standing guard?”

The five men looked at one another.

“You said you were going to stay behind.”

“I told Bristle to stand watch for me.”

“Then why is HE here?”

“But Grondel is dead, so why would I need to stand guard?”

The crowd turned their eyes on the cowering Farceling. A hush fell over the room. 

Then a quaking wail, the sound of souls being shred and the dead writhing in their graves, came thundering through the hall. Followed soon was the sound of barricades splintering under the force of powerful, unstoppable limbs. 

The Chief went pale, “Grondel.”

Yorgen furrowed his brow, “It's here.”

“Oh shit,” Whisper whispered

Roll initiative…

ummmmmmmmm

Text: I saw a man get struck by four different bolts of lightning, and stand up. “Family drama,” he muttered as he spotted me, rolling his eyes. 

After watching Sonicmega get rather salty at the Nickelodeon game Paw Patrol: On a Roll and quickly typing up a rather stern letter, I knew I had to try voicing it myself.

Give him a follow and help him on his journey to Partner!

transcript under the cut

I recently purchased a copy of Nickelodeon Paw Patrol: On a Roll! via the Nintendo eShop for exactly $20.00 USD. I cannot begin to describe to you how excited I was to play this game, given that I am an avid lover of canines and most animals in general - with the exception of slugs because a slug once got into our kitchen and left behind some of its slime, which my mother mistook for me spilling food (and subsequently spanked me for). On top of this, I know that Nickelodeon understands the importance of building positive, healthy relationships in children, including those of their beloved family pets. It goes without saying, then, that I was fully prepared to see my hard work rewarded in PAW PATROL: ON A ROLL via the ability to “pet the dogs” after a successful mission. IMAGINE MY SUBSEQUENT DISMAY, upon learning that not only do I never get the chance to pet the Good Boyes, the main character of the game doesn’t even take it upon himself to give them the attention and praise they deserve! How could a company like Nintendo let such an important, integral part of bonding with a dog be left unattended, much less permit a game that ignores the most enjoyable part of having a dog in front of you to be sold for TWENTY AMERICAN-BLOODED DOLLARS? I can’t even go out to a dog park because of this pandemic, and yet you have robbed me not only of my money, but also my chance to pet a dog in some form. I would like to formally request that you refund my purchase of PAW PATROL: On a Roll, and return my $20 back to me so that I may use it for other dog-related activities - such as hiring a dog groomer to Zoom me in to one of their next sessions, or buy myself accessories and pretend I am the dog (allowing me to thus pet myself through use of a psychological loophole). In either case, it will bring me closer to petting a dog than this game managed to. I thank you for understanding my plight in this time of great need.

Work Drabbles - Space Arm!

Made off of a random idea, which is like most of them. A tale of a space 

...

"And so your first thought was to stick your arm into it?" Dr. Fel'o said, running the DNA scanner over the officer's glossy black arm.

"To be fair," Officer Dent said, "It was just my finger and it sort of crawled up from there."

The medbay of the intersteller ship had been quarantined due to Officer Dent's malady. The scanner beeped and an image was brought up on the monitor on the other side of Dent's bed.

"It crawled up?" Fel'o said walked around to inspect the monitor.

"Yeah, you know like the way frost covers a window when it gets cold out?" Dent said gesturing with his left hand. His right arm remained motionless.

The doctored made a non-commital sound, looking over the diagnosis. "Well, it might be a parasite. Or a fungus." He stroked his chin. "Does it hurt at all?"

Dent shook his head. "It tingles once in a while but it doesn't hurt." He looked down at his arm, "What's the verdict doc?"

Fel'o ran his finger across some intricate readout data and sighed, "As a surprise to no one, I'm sure, we have no data on this." He tapped a few components to start up a new file, "I would like to take a sample."

Dent cleared his throat, "You gonna," he hesitated at the word, "Amputate?"

"I am tempted. Seems like the simple solution." Said the doctor, picking up a handheld tool with a long blade. "But I would rather we didn't do that." He set the tool down, "This is usually the part where the hapless scientist gets eaten by the parasite monster trying to protect its host."

Dent frowned at his arm, "It seems harmless enough. Juda accidentally slammed it in the airlock and it didn't eat anyone."

Fel'o turned sharply, "Slammed it in the airlock? Like," He smacked his fist against his arm, "Bam."

Dent nodded and made the same motion, smacking his fist against the arm. It continued to be glossy.

The doctor looked back at the data readouts. "Then maybe." He stepped away from the monitor and paced around a little. "Okay, let's try something else." He walked to his desk and grabbed a smooth, silver ball. He clicked a few buttons on it and it started to hum. He clicked again and the humming stopped.

"We are going to see if vibrations do anything interesting." Fel'o put the ball into Dent's hand. When he let go, the ball fell to the floor.

"Sorry, the hand can be finicky." Dent shrugged.

Fel'o picked up the ball, "But you said you can still move your arm."

"It jerks around sometimes. Like, when Juda went to slap me for getting my arm stuck, it just sprung up." Dent said, poking his arm with his other hand.

"I see," said the doctor. He held the ball over Dent's hand, "Okay, this time I'll have you catch the ball."

Dent sighed, "I dunno if I'll catch it, but I'll try."

Fel'o nodded and just as he dropped the ball, he screamed. A sharp, quick scream that made Dent tense. His hand clenched around the ball as it fell.

"There we go," Fel'o said. "I better note that it responds to reflex stimuli." He walked back to the desk and scribbled his notes.

Dent relaxed his shoulders but tried to focus on keeping his fist flexed around the ball. The hand remained clenched. Fel'o came back wearing a heavy lead protector and a plexipolymer mask. "Alright, let's try some medical science." He tapped a button on a remote and the silver ball began to hum again. Dent screwed up his face and shivered.

"Now that is a strange sensation." He said.

"Does it hurt?" Fel'o asked.

Dent shook his head, "Not really. More tingles. But less of a 'bam' and more of a wave. Like, ocean wave stuff." He said.

Fel'o nodded and observed the arm. It was still glossy but there were ripples spreading across the surface. Then, the ripples began to bubble and small spines were rumbling up from the surface. Little mountain peaks pinpricked across the arm and rose upward.

"Remarkable, it's like a non-nutonian liquid." Fel'o said, shaking his head. "Incredible."

"I think so too, but it is also kind of unnerving." Dent said. "Since, you know, it is my arm."

"Oh right. Let's end here for now." Fel'o clicked his remote and the ball stopped humming. He returned to his desk to scan the mountain of data.

My tl is really dead rn so if ur a writeblr who writes fantasy, urban fantasy, anything with kings and queens and lots of fighting and shit (doesn’t have to have all of these elements …btw!)

That’s my jam, reblog so i can follow u and check ur rlly cool shit out

Havent updated in forever, but I figure I can catch up by spreading my love of Dragalia Lost. Instead of pranking us with false hopes, it gave us the most adorable shootem up bullet hell with Notte!

*strums guitar*  I like to call this song  "Terry Pratchett Should Be Required Reading, Jesus Christ He Didn’t Fuck Around"

Abaddon Among the People - A drabble

I had some spare time at work and a word processor opened in front of me. A fun idea of a character that was once a harbinger of doom gets put on hiatus so the creator can get back to creating. But what happens when they don’t want to come back?

Enjoy.

~~~~~

"You're Grounded!" The eternal being bellowed.

"What!?" The destroyer of worlds cried back. Then, in a flash of light, the world opened around him. His glorious wings vanished and he fell. Passing through the several layers of reality, each plummet robbing him of his home and place among his kind. It its place grew a painful resentment. 

Then, he landed. He glared back at the bubbling rips in existence from whence he came. As the rends stitched themselves back together, he cried up into the void, “You’ll pay for this!” 

And then, silence. He would be forced to live among the mortal people. Creatures he once only saw at the tip of his lance. He would be forced to wallow alongside them.

That is, until they are called upon once more.

~~~~~~

"Let's get your wings back." Said the emissary of the eternal being. It floated in the middle of the living room and pulsed with eerie blue light.

"Actually," Don said, "I kind of like it here."

"What?” The being’s body bubbled and hissed as impossible energies coursed over what passed for its skin. The lights in the apartment started to flicker and shine in strange ways, like the bulbs were in pain.

"Hey, easy easy, you're gonna blow the whole grid." Don said, putting his hands on what passed for the being's shoulders. "Do you want some tea? I was just heating up a pot."

"How-" It began, before a finger pressed to what passed for its lips. Don gave a  pleading look before hooking a thumb to the bedroom door.

"She's trying to get some sleep."

The emissary's eyes twisted in an unnatural and disturbing way, the pupils weaving between each eye. When they settled, it began again.

"How can you turn down the call of the Eternal?" It said. Though hushed, the voice of the emissary was still heavy with purpose.

He shrugged, "I guess it just isn't as important anymore." 

What passed for the emissary's mouth dropped open.

The tea kettle began to hiss. "One second," Don said and hustled off to the kitchen to grab the kettle. When he got there, the emissary was standing next to the refrigerator. Its glowing body illuminated everything in a swirling mix of blue and white light. He didn't turn to face the impossible being as he poured out some of the hot water into a pair of cups.

"Was that a yes or no to the tea?" He said.

"You are making a mistake." It said, its voice dipped into that quivering pool of impossible where it sounded close and far at the same time, a booming whisper. The kind that makes your heart wait its turn. A mortal being would probably drop to their knees in terror and repent their sins.

Don set the kettle down and tipped his head to the side. "Yeah, probably too late for black tea. Too much caffeine." He poured out the cups and walked right past the emissary to the cupboard. "How about some chamomile lavender?"

"PESTIFER MUNDI ABADDON," the emissary said. “I CALL UPON YOU.”

Its voice was like a forgotten song. It was old and dripping with power. For Don, it ached with memories. A surge hit him and an old itch prickled his skin, centering on seven very particular points on his back. He grabbed the edge of the counter top to keep himself upright. His jaw clenched as a warm, pleasing, dangerous power kindled in his arms. The counter top began to crack.

"How feeble," He thought, looking at the splinters spreading from his flexed fingers. "A flick of my wrist and this whole wall would crumble. No, the whole building." A smile creeped over his face. His muscles burned, burdened with power, on the edge of a sudden push that would bring forth ruin.

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE," The emissary said.

"Who I am," Don said, his own voice was becoming dangerous and hot with feral potential. In truth, he never forgot. The memories of a lifetime long lost all gripped at his heart and mind every day. And every day he had placed them in their dark box. Things were different now.

"Who I am, is not who I was." He said. His bones, his body, ached in protest. But it wouldn't be the first time.

"YOU ARE A TOOL FOR THE ETERNAL AND YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED." The emissary said. Its body shimmered brighter, eyes burning with literal fire. Wisps of white smoke drifted towards the ceiling.

"Shove it, glowstick," He said, turning to face the floating voice of eternity. He put his finger right into its burning face, "You want to destroy this world so bad you can do it your damn self!"

What passed for the emissary's face curled into a horrible look of satisfaction. "So be it."

It was gone in the next moment.

Don was left in the kitchen alone. In the sudden darkness, he had the chance to ruminate on his choice of words. The gears whirred in his head as he flipped through the pages of his memories. Back, back, back. He finally reached that dark box in his mind. Whispers crept to his mind. Whispers of the end times, and getting permission, and a prophesied fool who would welcome the end of the world.

"Fuck," Don said.

A small voice gasped from behind him. He spun around, arms raised defensively. He looked at the doorway where a young girl was huddled, peeking in. She had a yellow rain hat and rain jacket, just like when he first found her. The baseball bat was a new addition. Though, it did prove that she had been listening to his survival advice all along. Her hazel eyes were wide and fixed on him.

"You said a swear," She said, her shocked face turned to a chiding smile.

He dropped his hands and let out the breath he realized he had been holding. He walked to the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a small hard candy. It was a serious swear, so he grabbed a strawberry one. He walked over and knelt down in front of her. He held up the candy and said, "No telling, okay?" He smiled.

She set the bat down and grabbed the candy, stuffing it in her pocket. "Deal. Who was the floaty guy?"

Don had almost forgotten about it. Is this the mortal ability to bypass traumatic moments? He will have to be more careful in the future. Things were about to hit the biblical fan.

"The floaty guy," He began, "Was an old friend. Wants me to get back into my family's business. I turned him down and he took it pretty hard."

"Is that why he exploded?" She said, she fidgeted with her hair, fingers fumbling to make a loose braid.

"Pretty much," He said, once again taking advantage of the impressive ability children have to just go along with things. They can inquire forever about why rain falls but tell them your old friend, who is a floaty guy on fire, just exploded because of family issues and they just nod along. Which is what she was doing, nodding her head like it all made sense to her.

"Speaking of which," He said, "We need to go see Mother May."

Mother May would know what to do. Probably. Assuming she was lucid enough to still be coherent. It was still early in the night. If they could catch her before her second bottle of absinthe, they might stand a chance to get a question in before she goes into her "Trance".

"Ready to go," She said. She grabbed the backpack that was tucked behind the doorway and slipped if on. Then she picked up the bat and rested it on her shoulder like a big leaguer. 

“So it would seem,” He said, giving her a nod. “I’ll grab my stuff and we’ll get going.”

He hustled to his room and dug into the back of his closet. He grabbed his satchel and leather duster jacket. He dashed to the door, but his hand came up and caught the door frame. He hesitated at the door. He looked back at the closet. His fingertips drummed on the door frame.

"What's taking so long?" The girl called from the front room.

He let go of the door frame. "Nothing," He called back to her before leaving his room.

Seconds later, he came sprinting back, vaulting over his bed and diving into the closet. He pulled back with a small box in his hands. He let his fingers trace over the intricate and ancient writing on it. He stuffed it into his satchel.

"We'll be fine," He said, "But just in case." He got to his feet and hustled out of the room again. “We’ll be fine.”

. . .

Mother May was a withered husk of centuries of abuse. Most, if not all of it, had been chemical and self-inflicted. However, for all the hallucinogens she had ingested in one form or another, she was a spry woman, scuttling about her duties at the Pearly Gates hostel. After a day of hard shilling to the lost and misfortune, she would shuffle to the parlor in the back to engage in recreational fortune-telling and tarot reading. Surrounded by her favorite tinctures and exotic smoke, she would play cards against the gods and read what the future had in store. This night, she had barely settled down to turn over the first card when there came a knock, knock knocking upon her chamber door. She laid down the card "The Fool" and sighed.

"Come on in, Don," She barked at the door, "You know you're always welcome."