Fili

[character a] pushes [character b] onto his back, then straddles his prone body

Imagine with me that trip to Erid once Grace is been affected by his lack of food:

Grace trying (very wrongly) to lift spirits by making dark jokes about how he was so concern about the radiation that he had not thought about the scurvy.

Grace soothing himself by remembering his days as a teacher by explaining Rocky how the scurvy is affecting him.

Rocky who have more food that he could ever eat in their way to Erid (things that happen when your mission was always to go back home with your 22 coworkers, and now is only you), and not been able to give any to his friend who needs it.

Rocky who decides to go eat less that what he needs for empathy to Grace and he would have keep doing it, if it wasn't for Grace who begged him to eat for the sake of Erid, because they couldn't risk to lose the taumeba just because they both were sick.

Rocky who notices how Grace is sleeping more and more, each time with a weaker breath and pulse.

Rocky's accidental thumps against Grace leaving dark bruises in Grace's skin.

Grace coughing blood, the effort making him cry a little, and then commenting that for Rocky he had to "seem very leaky right now no, jaja?", but Rocky not saying anything, just getting closer to Grace.

Rocky who once again starts eating less, because eating makes him sleepy and he has to watch Grace sleep. Grace sleeps most of the time now.

Rocky fighting against his own need to sleep, finding funny that now is him who doesn't want to go to sleep and Grace the one who wants do it all the time.

Rocky remembering that his friends also died like this; slowly and painfully, getting tired and tired, sleeping more and more, until they didn't wake up.

Rocky speaking specially loudly and high becuase that makes Grace stay awake longer.

Rocky singing eridian lullabies to Grace.

Rocky trying to knit blankets (with any material he can find) for Grace, who is having goosebumps and spams.

Grace who gets more easily irritated and have outburts against Rocky, to then broke in tears and ask him to forgive hin, Rocky never takes it personally and he always forgive him, because he knows is the fever and hunger speaking, not Grace, not really.

Extra: They getting to Erid.

In my mind when they got to Erid both of them were in very bad shape, Rocky been the only one conscious, but barely.

Rocky getting out of the Hail Mary explained everything to the scientists in a rush babbling in frenzy things like: "Grace and I found the solution, a cure to save the stars", " a predator, we found a predator", "you can't get in the ship, his atmosphere has oxigen, it would burn you, and is so cold it would freeze you", "You...you can't get him out of the ship, our atmosphere is toxic to him, and it would melt him.", "He needs food, he needs medicine, treatment.", "He is a hero, he is my best friend"

Rocky who doesn't move from Hail Mary door, blocking the entrance to the others eridians, until he looks at Adrian and runs to be besides them, to lean on them and hide between their arms "He needs to surive, he can't die, not after...not after he save me, he can't die" and Adrian who is very confuse and happy to have their mate there with them, promise him that they are going to make sure that his friend survives.

More writing tips

Now, I’m already aware this topic is going to cause some controversy, and I happily welcome any feedback. But this is something that’s been on my mind for a while now, and as a fanfic writer for many years, I want to talk about it.

So, let’s start with how A.I. actually works. It’s not quite at the level of J.A.R.V.I.S from Marvel. A.I. generates responses based on a mixture of human-created text, licensed data, and publicly available material. In short, it looks at existing material and produces responses based on patterns in how people tend to write and think.

When it comes to using A.I. to write a full story, I’m going to say outright that I don’t think it’s a good thing. Generating full stories and relying on it too heavily can cause your personal voice to disappear. It removes the writing process that makes storytelling creative and meaningful. Shaping thoughts and emotions is something A.I. simply can’t replace. And while it can imitate style and structure, it can’t create from lived experience. It might look meaningful, but that meaning isn’t coming from a real place.

That being said, do I think A.I. shouldn’t be used in writing at all? Not exactly. While I personally don’t use A.I. in my writing, I’m open-minded enough to recognize that it can be a powerful assistant tool. In my opinion, it comes down to how you use it. It can help with brainstorming ideas, organizing messy thoughts, or editing for clarity and grammar.

This might sound controversial, but if you wrote the story yourself and used A.I. to refine it, you are still the author. No debate.

If you wrote a story and used A.I. to refine it, it would do things like catch grammar mistakes, suggest alternative phrasing, and point out inconsistencies. Those are the same things you’d get from tools like Grammarly or ProWritingAid. At the end of the day, if the characters, themes, and decisions about what stays and what goes are yours, then that wasn’t the A.I.—that was you. All A.I. did was help you express it more clearly.

At the end of the day, we have to accept that A.I. is part of our lives now, and it’s not going to disappear just because we don’t like it. A.I. in writing is like a calculator: it can help you produce answers, but if you don’t understand the process, those answers don’t mean much. It won’t ruin your writing, but if you rely on it constantly, you risk losing your ability to think and write on your own.

A.I. isn’t the problem. Not thinking for yourself is.

You're the daughter of a very, very dangerous man, not that you have any idea. To you, he's just Papa--the man that raised you single-handedly after your mother's death, who treasures and spoils and loves you more than anything on earth. Who's always been overprotective you, making you take a bodyguard every time you leave the beautiful but isolated estate you grew up on. You're sheltered, there's no denying it. So when, after going to watch a performance of your favorite ballet, four men shoot your bodyguard in the head and shove you into an unmarked van, to say you're scared out of your mind is an understatement.

There's a black bag over your head, and a gag in your mouth, forced in by a large, hairy hand when you wouldn't stop screaming. It's hard to breathe, and your can feel your bodyguard's blood still on your face, your tears dampening the bag and making it stick to your cheeks. You're trembling as you choke on your sobs and on fabric, squished between two large, hard bodies in the backseat, big, calloused hands gripping your bare upper arms tight enough to bruise. Your pretty dress was torn in the struggle, just enough to leave you feeling exposed and so very vulnerable, sure those hands are going to start wandering at any moment.

But that doesn't happen. An hour passes in complete silence except for the sound of your crying and muffled pleas. Then the van rumbles to a stop and you're dragged out of it none too gently. You stumble in your high heels and fall to the ground, crying out in pain when sharp gravel scratches your delicate skin. You're harshly pulled back to your feet, then thrown over a broad shoulder, some sort Kevlar vest digging into your hips and chest uncomfortably.

Minutes later, you're tied to a chair by all four limbs, and the bag is ripped off your head. It catches on your hair, pulling a few strands out and making you yelp at the pinpricks of pain against your scalp. You blink as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, recoiling when you're met with a bearded face inches from your own.

Please, you mouth around the gag, suddenly too scared to make a single sound. The man's grey-blue eyes stay flat, showing not a hint of compassion as he moves away, revealing another, hulking figure behind him, shrouded in shadows. There's a bright flash of light that makes you gasp, and all the blood drains out of your face when for a split-second, you see a disembodied skull staring directly at you from the darkness.

Shrill screaming meets your ears, and it takes several seconds to realize that it's coming from you. The bag is pulled roughly back over your head, and seconds later the sound of a door slamming shut startles you back into silence. You're breathing hard, whimpering soundlessly, cold and hurting and more scared than you've ever been in your life. It stays that way for minutes or hours or days, you're not sure how long, because time lost all meaning the second you saw the demon lurking in the darkness. Part of you is worried its still here in the room with you, just waiting for the right moment to strike, licking its teeth with a sharp tongue made of pure shadow as it fantasizes about devouring your soul.

Then you hear the door open again, and the bag is pulled off your head once more. You flinch, curling in on yourself, shaking your head as you whimper muffled pleas and prayers. You're delirious from fear, lips numb when the gag is pulled down and something is pressed to them. You don't react, eyes glassy as you stare into nothingness, too afraid that if you look at this new person's face, you'll find empty sockets instead.

"Drink," the person commands in English, voice gruff and masculine. You don't move. The man grunts, and you feel two fingers touch the bottom of your chin, tilting your head back as water flows into your mouth, spilling out the corners as your prayers grow in fervor. The flow of water stops, then, and the touch disappears. You feel cold rivulets drip down your throat, trailing down your chest only to get soaked up by the torn neckline of your dress. You shiver, your words stuttering to a stop when at the reminder of how exposed you are. You try to shift in the chair to cover yourself a little more, unused to showing so much cleavage, and scared of what it might inspire the man to do. You can feel his heavy stare on you like a crushing weight, and the relief when it moves away is enormous. You breathe just a little easier, shoulders slumping inelegantly.

Suddenly, something is thrown over your front, covering up your torn gown and the skin you've unwillingly been showing. Rapid footsteps follow the terrified, shocked shriek you let out, then the slam of a door.

Complete :

Incomplete:

Missing Recipes

Glowberry Cookies (Dell)

Spellfruit Parfait (Darcy/Juniper/taliferro/Reina)

Coconut cream cake (Hayden/Taliferro)

Missing Item

>>> [Fields of Mistria Recipes v0.15.3] <<<

This is very different from the kind of content I post on this blog, but I figured I'd share this big ole spreadsheet I made for Fields of Mistria which I started way back in Sep2024. That was a month after early access released and I've been slowly updating and adding on to this thing after every major update and patch since.

If this looks familiar, I originally shared it on Reddit and I've also seen it being passed around on the Discord (ty for sharing!). I figured now is as good a time as any to share here, after the recent patch, and also before this spreadsheet becomes completed obsoleted by better online tools lol. The 3rd image summarizes all the things I've packed into it.