Markona's Declassified Fandom Life

Have some doodles

-[Wanna be an Icon]-

Two icon commissions for @ghostlyglimmer and @furmewolfy

But no, it was about ethics.  It was about knowing the difference between what’s allowed, what’s legal, and what’s right.  And that fairly often those three don’t line up.

Or it was about gender politics.  About the first person in a society willing to step up and say “You’ve called me by this name, and this pronoun, all my life.  But that isn’t me.  This is me.  No, we don’t even have that pronoun yet, but this is still me.”

Or it was about racism.  That constant social whine of “well, everybody knows what they’re like.”  The blame game that’s based on the whispered mutterings that never have a source, and always boil down to “I’m terrified because they are different.  I’m terrified because when I look at them, for a second there I can see myself in their eyes and if I was wrong, then all I’ve said and done…”

It was about giving voices to the voiceless, and hearing how much they’ve been trying to say this whole time.

It was about what it means to be human.

so many chronically ill people only get diagnosed when someone other than their doctors say, "hey, have you heard of postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome? it is really common, treatable, but it only shows up on specific tests."

or "hey, I know you have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, have you had autonomic testing or testing for non length dependent small fiber neuropathy? 30-40% of people with fibromyalgia have small fiber neuropathy, and a lot of that is the non length dependent pattern, which not a lot of doctors know about."

or "hey, you know how you have weird allergy issues? have you ever heard of mast cell activation syndrome? around 17% of people have mast cell issues, and they can cause debilitating symptoms all over the body until treated."

there are so many debilitating chronic illnesses that are EXTREMELY treatable, but only show up on specific tests. a lot of people with these conditions test as 'healthy' otherwise. and so fucking many of these kinds of conditions are presented at dysautonomia international in presentations that are easy to understand.

these medical conditions are everywhere, and have been around forever. and covid-19 has multiplied how many people have these, around the world.

everyone has an autonomic nervous system, and it breaks very easily. dysautonomia can happen alongside countless other medical conditions. every chronically ill person needs to be asking themselves if they might have some form of autonomic dysfunction. because chances are pretty good that they do.

Red String of Fate

A pair of wings - huge, black vulture wings, far too large on her tiny body - were the only things that suggested she was divine.

The general shifted his weight from foot to foot. Obviously respect had to be given to gods, but… “Er - I’m sorry, I was invoking Ares? The god of war?”

The child god shrunk in on herself, and pulled the shawl over her shoulders. She muttered something. “Sorry?” the general asked.

“Ares is the god of slaughter,” the child god said in a slightly louder voice. “Not war.”

The general looked at the priest. The priest shrugged, clearly lost at sea. “Well,” the general said, “then maybe Athena? Goddess of tactics in war?”

“Tactics,” the child god repeated. “Not war.”

There was a long, ugly silence, as the huge vulture wings shifted with the whisper of brushing feathers. “My name is - was - Iphigenia. Daughter of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, commander of the Greeks who stormed the walls of Troy. When my father disgraced Artemis, and the winds of Greece would not blow her battleships to Troy, I was brought to Aulis. For my wedding, I was told. I was-”

She sobbed. Teardrops dribbled off her chin and fell to the temple floor. “I was fourteen. And then I was brought to the highest altar in Aulis, and - and then - and-”

Another sob. “I was fourteen,” she said.

The vulture wings draped over her, and she disappeared under the cloak of black feathers. When they parted, and when the child god looked up at the general, he fell backwards. Those eyes. Eyes he’d seen a thousand times in battle -

“I am the true spirit of war, general,” the child god said. “I am the goddess of bloodshed, of sacrifice, of the slaughter of innocents. I am invoked when men ravage, burn and pillage. I am invoked when mothers cry out, when sons die, when daughters are stolen. I hear it all, general. I have heard it all since the fall of Troy.”

His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.

"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."

"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.

She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.

"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."

The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.

It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.

She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.

Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...

"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."

The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.

"I mean you're about his height-"

"No."

"It would just be for a-"

"Absolutely not."

"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.

"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."

The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."

"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."

---

It had been a very strange year for the Empire.

Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.

Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.

"Not intentionally. Ghosts are just drawn to me. I'm a ghost sponge. A ghost magnet. When I'm hired to check out a haunted house, I walk in and take all the ghosts with me when I leave. And if it turns out there's a demon the ghosts eat 'em. It's a very efficient system."

"...Say that last part again."