rezby asked: Hey, you should post photos of your skorne army! That'd be awesome. (I play Protectorate of Menoth).
Yeah I know I should.
It’d be a small photo. I’ve redone the red, purple, and green paint scheme I used to have (very Mardi Gras, I couldn’t even take myself seriously) and have been very slowly repainting my dudes. I’ve got, like, four dudes finished. In five months.
I paint slow. Also, day jobs suck.
Menoth is cool. Never fielded them but I’ve painted an army for someone else.
Of all the genres out there, of all the stories and songs and poems and prose, there is one subset this rakshasa adores.
Eldritch horror.
But not just any eldritch horror. If Cthulhu awakens and randomly eats 1d10 investigators per round I won’t be impressed. No, I don’t appreciate death as some of the other connoisseurs of angst do. I don’t even like it. Death is a cop-out. Death is far too often written as the worst possibility when I know full well…
Death is only worst to the unimaginative.
Horror is not watching those 1d10 investigators per round. Horror isn’t even being those 1d10 investigators. Horror…
Horror begins at the hands of the one who awakened Cthulhu. It grows as the awakener realizes not only what they’ve done but that they chose this. They chose to open the door. They chose to begin it all.
And then the realization…
They would do it again if they could. They would always do it again. Not out of malice or evil, not because they enjoy watching those 1d10 investigators per round get eaten. But because it must be done. Because there never was another choice, no other choice they could live with. Because this… has always been their reality.
I very much live for that moment of acceptance. When the sacrifice relaxes into the knife and bleeds for the old god. When the summoner feels the demon’s hands clawing at him and bares his throat. When the werewolf first tosses away his human conventions and sings to the moon in joy. When the possessed wraps himself in his shadow and purrs in the arms of his possessor.
And I know why.
Write what you know, they say. Write what you love. Find what you adore and let it flow out of you onto the page.
I have never felt more free than the moment I looked in the mirror and realized why I have never recognized the face that stared back at me. Why I have never recognized a photograph of myself. Why my shadow looks so wrong.
I write that moment of freedom. And I always will.
In which the rakshasa fully expects to make you cry. Read deep. Deeper…
A day later so there :P
And now for something completely different.
A Don’t Starve fanfiction.
Short, introspective. Wilson contemplates loneliness out in the dark.
![darktwinteekoart:
Colored verison of this
Wilson [Don’t Starve]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/6331bd2671ffd71aa30af4468079aa0b/tumblr_mldayymHoz1rwuy3uo1_500.jpg)
I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD REGRET THIS BUT I DON’T
i haven’t written smut in forever, so i hope it’s alright i’ve no idea how to rate it
Maxwell/Wilson/Shadow Hands
Second chapter’s up
No real warnings this chapter. The core flare phenomenon is something I wrote about previously in Thrill of the Chase so beware of some minor physics.
There will eventually be porn, some fairly mild d/s elements. Mild for us, anyway…
Co-written with Tanger-Catnip
