Remi's blog of writing and arts and other things that I like. I'm Remi, btw, and I write, I do other things as well, but mostly? I like to write, so yeah. Enjoy your time here!
i had never felt such safety as within the crushing weight of earth all around me, the pressing embrace of the buried. in that instant i knew what it was to be dead, and i ached with envy for them.
[id: reference sheets for two magnus archives ocs listing their names, pronouns, entity alignments, and some trivia. the first, soren, is an avatar of the end. he’s a solemn middle-aged white man with pale skin, greying hair and facial hair, and brown eyes. he wears a royal blue tuxedo, and the back of his hand is covered in a hyperrealistic tattoo of the bones. the second, lakshay, is an avatar of mentis. he’s a young, nervous-looking indian person with medium skin, brown eyes, and dark brown hair braided over his shoulder. he wears a button-down, a blue vest, and an earpiece, and his smile shows a gap in his teeth. detailed ids and text transcriptions are below the cut. /end id]
time for another lil ref sheet like i had with isolabella and inés for the newest arrivals in devil may care! soren you are a right bastard but we will allow lakshay because he looks very polite. man’s just gotta pay the bills yfm
lakshay is listed as mentis rather than the spiral due to some differences between the american taxonomy i’ve established in dmc as opposed to smirke’s, used in europe. check out the fic to learn more and keep up with all my other taxonomy nonsense 😊
Gods of rabbits and deer, which are quick-footed and wide-eyed and everfrightened. Gods of hearths–each and every one, which look sometimes like cast-iron black cats and dogs which curl up amidst the coals, other times stout and potbellied men and women with embers in their mouth. Gods of kings which wear motley diamonds and foolsgold crowns; gods of farmers who lie down forever in their wheat-shrines and wait with open mouths for rain. Perhaps not large gods. Perhaps not powerful gods. But there are gods for all things in Theoi.
This includes thieves, and gods of luck and nimble-fingered prayers, goddesses of dark shadows which cradle darkhonored men like mothers and, of course, the Nameless Nighthawk, the Matriarch of the thief-gods, so powerful that even her name was stolen from her devotees in an act of pique. And, as is natural for gods, they have their favorites. Champions and acolytes; high priests and blessed ones. The Nameless Nighthawk did not, as a rule, have favorites. This is what most scoundrels and rogues believe, because it makes her apathy to their prayers and many offerings more bearable. They go to the smaller deities–Smoke-and-Shade or Gloambringer; Many Eyes All Blind and the Pursestring Crooner. Those gods love to answer prayers of the talented, the desperate, or merely the interesting. But especially of the faithful, just as all gods do. The Nameless Nighthawk, as a rule, has never cared about those things; and especially never about the faithful.
“The Godsblood Garnet,” says The Nameless Nighthawk, at a quickly chalk-scratched shrine in the brightest part of an otherwise dark alley. Her voice was an absence of silence which merely made the surrounding silences louder. “Make of it an offering.”
Her only priest said to her, “You truly expect me to snag the last remaining miracle of The Martyrmonarch? The Archcathedral is the center of the Allfaith, and you’re insane. I enjoy being a thief, Nighthawk, not a corpse.” The silence-within-the-silence was gone, though, as her presence faded back into the normal muffled sounds of a dirty city alleyway. No one hears the muttered swear except for an alley-cat, and her goddess of stray cats Twitches Tail And Pounce had a standing agreement with The Nighthawk anyway.
Talis did not need to be taught the joy of thievery. He came to it naturally, in the shamelessly sly manner of cats and crows, dipping long and slender fingers into pockets and purses and things left by themselves. He built his first shrine a night after his first tutor began teaching him the proper rites and obeisances to the Brocaded Bear, who had always been patron to his family. He hadn’t known how to dedicate a shrine to a patron that wasn’t the Bear, so he was a clever child and invented a dedication of his own. He drew a steadily clearer shape in shining earrings and golden coins, gave detail and form with embroidered cloths and the reflected candlelight through faceted crystal perfume bottles.
The Nameless Nighthawk, as a rule, has never cared about the talented, the desperate, the interesting, or even the faithful. The Nameless Nighthawk, as a rule, has only cared about a single thing, and this is why she was the Matriarch of the thief-gods. She only cares about results .
“How did you summon me, child?” she whispered to him from a whippoorwill on the window. The boy looked at her with a tilted head, eyes bright with curiosity and the beginnings of cunning.
“Dunno,” he said back.
In the following years, she never taught him the joy of thievery. But she taught him otherwise everything else he knew.
There’s something extremely endearing but also fucking hilarious about my partner helping me kill these bosses and giving me huge swords and runes in Elden Ring and telling me it’s payback for all the stuff I gave them in Animal Crossing
Mage brandishing an enormous crystal staff, eyes glimmering with sorcery: I grant you my strength and the broadsword of screeching death for the kindness you showed me in a previous life, in which you gave me a cool dress and several pumpkin seeds
So many Batman stories start with Alfred allready fully a part of Bruce’s life and Batmans support system, knowing his identity and such.
But for once I really want to see a story where after Bruce leaves on his travels, instead of just moping around in a empty mansion Alfred treats himself to an early sunny retirement abroad, til years later he hears on the news about some mythical vigilante in his old home city Gotham
Because of course only that wretched place could have such a thing.
Everyone thinks it’s some kind of cryptid but Alfred is practical enough to deduce it’s some kind of rich idiot taking the law into his own hands.
Then a image shows up on the news broadcast, one of the few clear pictures anyone can get of this ‘Bat-man’, this black costumed Dracula looking being, cape and all.
And suddenly Alfreds mind is transported to a decade ago, watching the young boy he deeply cared for, lost and angry, scribbling drawings of hundreds of bats and himself as a bat-like demon, muttering to himself about a oath of vengeance and how he ‘shall become a bat’…
”Oh Christ, that’s MY rich idiot!”
That same evening Alfred is on the first flight back to Gotham, busts down Wayne Manors doors and forces his way into the Bat-Cave, patches up a very bloody, very confused Bruce and promptly asserts himself as once again Bruce’s Butler, as well as The Batman’s secret ally.
i think gerry would be happy to finally have a friend to tell all his wild stories to bc hes got a LOT, and some of them dont even have anything to do with fear entities!
