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When I wrote the short story about the billionaire who was turned into a dragon, and I called the dragon a “fetid, foul, cancerous wart that defiled the world by its existence”, a “dribbling, drooling, farting, pus-filled pimple that undulated under the disgusted sun, looking for all the world like the largest, most diseased scrotum imaginable,” I wrote it while thinking of Elon Musk
The story was written in a way where you could imagine that I was speaking about any billionaire with a cult of personality, but I want it on the record that only Elon Musk could inspire those adjectives
Arthurian legend but WHAT IF they were a cool hot 80’s biker gang. Now presenting my random idea that birthed a yearlong sketchbook fixation (WAY more of this to come)
Oh my god bro you fucking know what I’m watching TONIGHT
On a more serious note I did very little research for this project and mostly did it just for fun so no I have never heard of this, and it looks amazing, thank you for the rec. Also. To anyone reading, if you haven’t, please watch the 1996 romeo and juliet with leonardo dicaprio. That was TOTALLY the fanspiration for this idea.
This plant, we tell children, has a one in ten-thousand chance to have four leaves. You can search through a clover patch all day and never find one. But if you do, and you pluck it and keep it, it will bring you luck.
And this flower, we tell children, if you let it bud and bloom and age from sun-yellow flower to moon-white seed, you can then pluck it and blow its seeds away to make a wish.
And this flower, we tell children, can be woven into a hat
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Titania was first used as an epithet for Diana in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and I do kind of vibe with the idea that Titania from Midsummer Night’s Dream is Diana/Artemis in a Pratchetty “Old Gods Get New Jobs” kind of way.
When the forests were cut back and civilization grew, Artemis, Huntress, She Who Haunts the Forest, slunk into the wild. The spirits of the wood and wind followed her, nymphs, dryads, butterfly-winged things and goat-headed things, following into the tattered woods and fleeing from burgeoning humanity.
His name is Moss and he's a knight who did bad things while he was alive and was cursed by the faeries after his death. Now he's a servant of the fey who uses his fighting skills to protect the weak magical creatures of the woods 🌿
He likes to sit on rocks for a long time and walk slowly around the forest dragging his weapon on the ground. Most birds think that he's some kind of statue and of course he's a nicer person now 🌱
Her sixth autumn was rolling into her sixth winter. The first skiffs of snow had arrived, heavy in the forest clearings but thin between the trees. The winds had shifted, bringing the cool smell of dead leaves and frost.
It was the first time she had seen a human.
She’d spotted it as soon as it entered her territory. It wore a red thing that made it stand out on the snow like blood, and a huge bundle on its back that weighed it down. It marched with the heavy sounds of crunching snow and litterfall.
If it was a deer, or a rabbit, or a coyote, this would be the point where she’d swoop down and wrap her talons around its throat.
There was a polite noise on a branch below her. It was the sound of a raven clearing its throat.
“So,” Chinook said. “Is there a reason you aren’t?”
Tuque looked down at him. “Aren’t what?”
“You know. The hunting, the pouncing, the snapping of necks and the feasting of eyeballs.”
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It was almost a perfect scene around the table. Badmash the half-orc pouring a glass of her special reserve and laughing. Ruuth the gith happily shovelling grits into her mouth. Barnum the halfling telling a wild story about some half-witted con that she only just barely survived. And at the head of the table, Suffer-Not, a human monk of the order of the Honest Secret, smiling and not listening and resting his head on his half-elf husband’s shoulder.
The Captain drummed her fingers on the table. She stood up, chair screaming as it was pushed back against the wooden floor. “Suffer-Not?” she said. “Can I talk to you? In the other room? Now?”
The second he entered the dark room after her, she wheeled around on him. “You told me your husband was dead.”
Suffer-Not blinked. “No? I didn’t?”
“You definitely did.”
“I feel like I would know.”
“You told me that your husband was killed by Dante Graves, and that’s why you joined a secret order of monks dedicated to the extinction of vampires.”
“…Oh. Oooh.”
“Yeah. So I’m… confused about how we’re having corn and grits with your dead husband.”
“Well, now I’m embarrassed to say.”
“What?”
“Well - okay - I get what happened here, but you’re not going to like it.”
“What?”
“So I told you that my Virgil was killed by Dante Graves.”
“Which is your husband’s name.”
“Nope.”
“What?”
“Virgil was the name of my horse.”
“…What?”
“Right ‘bout ten years ago, Dante Graves showed up, heard talk that my Virgil was the prettiest thing in town. He came to my house, I invited him in, gave him supper, he drugged my coffee, I passed out, he killed Virgil while I was asleep.”
“I’ve heard this story, yeah.”
“Yeah. The part I didn’t tell you was that Dante Graves likes turning into horses.”
The Captain took a moment to take in this fact. “What?”
“It’s a whole thing. Some vampires think wolves are the peak of creation; Dante Graves thinks it’s horses. So he likes draining the best horses around so he can make himself the best horse around.”
“And that’s why he killed your horse?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause. “Why was the horse in your house?”
“That’s where he slept.”
“In the house with you and your husband.”
“Yep.”
There was another pause. Back in the kitchen, Barnum started up on another story. There was a sound of clinking flatware.
“Suffer-Not-A-Vampire-To-Live Smith, I got piss drunk in a bar with you once.”
“Yes you did.”
“And I started crying when you told me this story.”
“Yes you did.”
“Full on bawling.”
“Yep.”
“Because I thought the whole time you were talking about your husband.”
“I see that now.”
“But you’re telling me that you joined a secret order of vampire-hunting monks-”
“We worship the Railsplitter in more aspects than just the Enemy of Vampires, for the record-”
“Because a vampire killed your horse.”
Suffer-Not-A-Vampire-To-Live Smith nodded. “That’s ‘bout the shape of it.”
Another pause. “Was he a good horse?”
“Best I ever knew.”
The Captain stared at him for a very long time through her one good eye. She nodded. “Well. Glad we got that straightened out.”
She turned to walk back into the kitchen, froze, and looked back at Suffer-Not. “By the way, what’s your husband’s name? I’ve been this close to calling him Virgil all night.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem, he’s also named Virgil.”
Agatha Knapweed stared at the pixie. The pixie stared at its boots.
Very familiar boots, Agatha thought. Obviously made of leaves and leather and smeared with old pitch, but scale models of her own boots.
And then Agatha thought: Come to that…
“Are you supposed to be dressed like me?” she asked.
The pixie was already red. Now it glowed like a hot iron. “Yes, ma’am,” it squeaked.
“Beautiful handiwork” said Gertje the dwarf, looming in to look for herself. “Would you give us a twirl, darling?”
The pixie gave a shuffling, miserable approximation of a twirl. “I - I couldn’t finish the shield in time,” it said. “A few of us were planning on meeting tonight, and I really wanted to finish your shield in time to finish the costume, but I had-”
It swallowed, and shifted its grip on the scraps of paper it had clutched to its chest like a lifesaver. “Other things to finish.”
Agatha stared. The pixie had even painted one of its hands to match her prosthetic arm.
Dain the half-elf cleared his throat. “And this is because you’re all a - fan-jee-on?”
The pixie went back to staring at its boots. “Yes, sir,” it said. “A lot of p-pixies are doing it. We turn invisible and follow adventuring parties when they go d-dungeon-crawling.”
It turned glittery eyes full of embarrassed tears up at Agatha. “W-we’re dungeon fanatics,” it said. “Fan-dungeon - fangeon. W-we think you’re really c-c-cool.”
Agatha blinked. She felt as though she should say something.
“Well,” she said lamely. “That’s - something.” She cleared her throat. “So you’re the one who left the note this morning?”
She looked over at Barnum the gnome, who’d been quietly reading the tiny scrap of paper through a jeweler’s loupe. Now he stared at the rest of the party with a grey, sick expression, one eye hugely magnified through the lens.
“I can’t read this,” he said.
“Sure you can,” said Agatha. “I’ve seen you read fairy before.”
Barnum gave her a Look. He went back to the tiny page.
“‘Dain pushed Agatha against the cavern wall,’” Barnum read. “‘She whimpered. She felt the heat of his breath against her neck, felt his lips brush her collarbone, down her chest, across her exposed-’”
The noise Gertje made was a high, howling cackle. The pixie wailed.
A fantasy story set in a seniors home that caters to retired adventurers who believe that they have to die in battle to a horrible monster to enter paradise, so once a week the staff brings in a horrible monster for the residents to fight
I’m almost sure that Terry Pratchett has made this joke already, but I can’t remember so I’m claiming it as my own
“Arachne was cast down by the gods, and so became our patron goddess of blasphemy,” said the priestess. “She protects those who question the station of the gods, those who challenge dogma. She is the mother of schisms, of science, and of curiosity. She doesn’t ask us to think of her; she only asks that we think.”
The novice nodded. “Fine, fine - but why the tapestries?”
She gestured up to the tapestries that hung along the walls, huge and high and impressive and bearing such slogans as “HEPHAESTUS JERKS OFF INTO A SOCK,” and “APOLLO HAS AN ASS’S FACE.”
“Our Lady also encourages blasphemy for blasphemy’s sake,” said the priestess.
“And that one?”
In the centre of the hall was the massive loom, where the tiny, glittering spider-goddess scuttled between the threads to churn out a new tapestry. This tapestry was huge and grey and read in big, bold, serifed letters: “SOME PIG.” In one corner the weaver had included a sow with a war helmet and the helpful label of “ATHENA” on its rump.
"It has been remarked to me," said Lord Vetinari, "that when one sends Sam Vimes to clean a room, he cleans the whole house."
"Sir?" said Vimes.
"When one sends Sam Vimes to a coronation in Überwald, he uncovers a conspiracy to overthrow centuries of dwarf tradition, dismantles the power of the werewolf clans, and comes back with an excellent trade deal on fat," said Vetinari. The newspaper rustled as he turned a page. "If one points Sam Vimes to a crime, he will even arrest the bricks the criminal was standing on."
"Sir," said Vimes.
"I have found this aspect of your work commendable over the years, Vimes," said Vetinari. He folded up the newspaper. "But surely, this time-"
He slid the folded Times across the desk so that Vimes could read the headline in big, bold, serifed letters:
FORT MORPORK NO MORE
"-you must say that you've gone too far?"
Vimes looked up at the ceiling and saw into the events of the last month -
A month spent on a floating fort on a frozen swamp on a major intersection between two rivers Hubwards of the Great Outdoors. A fort made of Quirmian-speaking frog trappers, and Morporkian-speaking beaver trappers, neither of whom liked the other, and this had led to fires, explosions, peace talks, and war talks -
And into this was dropped Sam Vimes.
"Can't say that I have, sir," said Vimes.
"Of course you wouldn't," said Vetinari. "But it occurs to me that the reason I sent you to Fort Morpork was to settle the differences between the halves of the fort."
"Yes, sir," said Vimes, who'd had time to think about this. "And now that neither of them own it, it's not a problem anymore, sir."
Vetinari sat back in his chair and looked at Vimes over steepled fingers. "An… interesting solution, to be sure," he said. "And now the land passes back into the ownership of the Turtle Clan."
"Yes, sir. They lived on the swamp for hundreds of years before the Quirmians arrived. They should have an idea of what to do with it now."
"And the settlers?"
"Are all pious bastards, sir," said Vimes.
Vetinari turned so that Vimes wouldn't see his expression. "I believe what I meant was: now that the Turtle Clan has control over the fort and surrounding swamp, what will happen to the settlers?"
"Big John Raven's invited them to stay, sir," said Vimes. "Provided that they recognize that the Turtle Clan is in charge. Anyone with a problem with that is welcome to pack up and head back home, with or without their teeth."
"And how did you get the governor to agree with this?"
"He said he represented the interests of the Ankh-Morpork crown, sir," said Vimes. "So Carrot pulled him into another room and had a… talk with him."
Vetinari stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out over Broad Way.
"Many have expressed to me their disappointment that Ankh-Morpork has lost her last colony, Vimes," said Vetinari. "Of course, a month ago they hardly cared."
"It was never ours to begin with, sir."
"I have no shortage of messages from the Lawyers Guild which argue that the city bought the land rights from Quirm one-hundred years ago."
"No, sir, it was never the Quirmians’ to sell," said Vimes. "The Turtle Clan doesn't believe in land ownership. They say that the land is a living thing. It's their mother, sir, it's something that they have to treat with respect."
"One would say that was how Quirm was able to lay claim to it, then."
Vimes squinted at the back of the man's head. How much of that rot do you believe, he wondered.
"I think," he said out loud, "that we can say that this was done in the best interests of the Ankh-Morpork crown."
Vetinari stared out the window. Then he nodded. "Well done, Commander," he said. "Don't let me detain you."
Vimes had gotten as far as the door before Vetinari said, "One last thing, Vimes. I believe that the swamp is due to be renamed?"
"Yes sir," said Vimes. "Carrot says it's 'Genyáhdë:h'. It means, 'Of The Turtle Clan'."
Vetinari shook his head. "Then it appears there was a miscommunication with the Times," he said. "They have it written that the swamp would be renamed 'Ganada'."
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Before Qaylie was born, Granddad would come down from the mountain to the town when he was needed. But that was over ten years ago; now he stayed in the mountain, and those who needed him went to him instead.
Qaylie liked to go before it was dawn. The sky was brightening now, a hazy shade of midwinter grey. Wisps of windswept snow had covered the well-worn path, and sat on the pines in grey, sullen lumps.
Icicles glittered around the mouth of Granddad's cave, turning the crevice into a grinning, toothy mouth.
She grinned back. She cupped her mittens around her mouth, and shouted, "GRANDDAD!"
The winter air echoed the word. And then the sound began, the low, grinding, scraping noise of metal on stone. It sounded huge. It sounded heavy.
It sounded old.
It was.
Granddad pulled his head out of his cave. Things tied into his horns - jewelery, bottles, skulls, tied together with fishing nets and bits of rope and lengths of yarn - clinked and clattered and clanged against each other in a ghoulish windchime.
He was missing a tusk. The other had been carved into scrimshaw depicting a valley full of fire, the flames twisting into awful, leering faces.
He pulled himself out of the cave. His neck was a carpet of wrinkles. His talons pulled his bloated, scarred belly across the stone. His fleshless wings hung limp at his sides. He was the colour of cold iron, and he was the shape of a nightmare.
He wore spectacles. One of the lenses was a round stained-glass window from the church back in town.
Qaylie held out the pack. "O Great And Terrible Baradir The Red!" she recited. "I Come Bearing A Tithe, In The Awful And Desperate Fear That You May Not Yet Snuff Out Our Fleeting Lives."
The dragon hummed. Pebbles and little bits of ice vibrated with the sound. "And I accept it," he rumbled. "And may you live to grant me more tithes, you tiny, ill-born, insignificant insect."
The two stared at each other, refusing to let a flicker of emotion cross their faces.
Qaylie broke first. She sprung, laughing, and wrapped her arms around Granddad's snout.
"Happy birthday, Granddad," she said.
Granddad laughed. Under the cool, black scales, Qaylie could just feel the furnace glow.
***
"Tolma made you some more string art," said Qaylie, pulling out the awful webby thing from the pack.
"She's getting better at it," said Granddad, hooking it on the end of one massive talon.
"And Burk's made you some more jam - he's trying stonefruit again, he knows you like it."
"Oh, lovely."
"Granddad?"
"Hm?"
"There's another dragonslayer in town."
Granddad didn't say anything. He was staring in apparent fascination at the string art.
She wondered how well he could actually see these days. His black eyes glistened with so many glittering cataracts that they looked like windows into a sky full of stars.
"Dad's seeing how long they can stall him," said Qaylie. "They want to hold it off until after today at least."
Granddad carefully hung the string art off one horn, where it hung alongside a cuckoo clock and the skull of an elf.
He smiled at her. "I'll be sure to send him packing then," he rumbled with something like fierce pride. "Just like all the other ones, eh?"
Qaylie pursed her lips. "Packing" wasn't the right word for it. Qaylie had seen four dragonslayers come to the town over her life. They came in gleaming armor, and they swaggered like the weight of the world made their legs wobble. Then they'd come back down from the mountain, looking embarrassed and rather thoughtful.
Most of them left after that.
But... but there had been some trouble with that last one.
She began tracing a looping shape in the snow with a stick. "Granddad?"
"Hm?"
The words were treacherous and refused to leave her heart.
If she was able to, she'd say something like: "You're getting very old, and eventually there's going to be one dragonslayer who won't care that you're just a silly old crocodile who likes terrible string art and always lights the midwinter bonfire and always tells the terrible dirty joke about the gryphon and always-"
"You know the funny thing about that horizon?" Granddad rumbled.
She blinked, and realized that tears were starting to form in the corners of her eyes. She rubbed them away angrily. "Sorry?"
"There used to be a mountain there," he said, squinting his night sky eyes at a bare patch of horizon. "I remember it well. It was shaped like a - well, it had a very memorable shape.
"But it's not there now. I can't remember what happened to it."
She stared at him. "Isn't that odd?" he said. "A mountain. It should've been there forever. And now that I'm looking for it, I can't see it any more."
He shook his head, his decorated horns making little clattering noises. "Humans think that the world will never change. That tomorrow will be like today, and that old dragons will always be there. Like mountains should be.
"But the world is always changing, Qaylie. Once you get to my age, it never stops changing. The mountains roll and crumble and fold in on themselves. The rivers split and disappear, and new rivers come and carve canyons across my valley. I've watched more empires than you can count form and try to take this valley from me."
He grinned at the images playing in his mind. "Oh, how they burned. The world is always changing, but that sound is one thing that never does. And then someday..."
He sighed. He looked somehow even older than before. "Mountains disappear."
He stared at that empty spot on the horizon.
He said: "Don't use your sleeve."
"Sorry, Granddad."
He unhooked what might’ve been an old battle flag from his horns. "Here's a tissue."
There were some soggy noises.
"I don't want it to change," Qaylie muttered through the fabric.
Granddad butted her with his snout. She looked up into a sky full of stars. "Ah, but that's the special thing about dragons," he said. "I am Baradir the Red, and this valley will never forget my fire."
And then the dawn broke - creeping over the mountain ridge with the dull, inevitable pace of a glacier, and trailing red light across the clouds, the frost on the pines blazing with orange light -
Like little glowing embers.
And as Qaylie watched, the valley below was filled with silent, gleaming fire.
The fisherman talked. The flounder listened. The slate-dark skies glowed with rolling flashes of thunderlight, and the green sea clawed at the shoreline, fizzing with angry foam.
When the fisherman had finished and had started fiddling with the brim of his hat, the flounder gave him a long, silent, lopsided stare.
“Your wife wants to be God,” said the flounder.
“A god,” said the fisherman. “She says she’ll settle for a god.” It didn’t sound terribly placating when he said it, but he felt that it had to be said.
It was difficult to read the expression on any fish, but the flounder’s crooked face made it impossible. It looked as though it was locked in a walleyed sneer. “This is the same wife who wished last week to be the Pope.”
“Yessir,” said the fisherman.
“And the same wife who wished to be an emperor the week before.”
“Yessir.”
“And now she wants to be God.”
The fisherman licked his lips. “A god,” he said again.
Lightning forked out of the sky. Waves like black cliffs crashed into each other. The foam fizzed.
Something like thunderlight glowed in the flounder’s eyes. It said: “I like her style. Go to her.”
When the fisherman returned home, he saw his wife, huge, glorious, and gleaming, the goddess of the ambitious, the patron of the world-shakers, the chain-rattlers, those who know it is no bad thing to be discontent.
"How is it, dear?"
His wife smiled and blazed with shimmering shades of storm and starlight.
romaincrisis
origamiaround
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