Jack the black cat squishmallow

Drawing, illustration is dead. But it didn't die yesterday, it's not something that happened with the advent of AI. It is a phenomenon that has been around for some time, for at least a decade now.
It all started around 2008. 2008 was a year of great development for the internet in general, I personally have the perception that the web became mainstream around that time, especially thanks to the various social platforms which at the time were still crawling.
Now, without long rounds of words, the death of art is the fault of social media and capitalism. Very original thought I am aware. But the discussion obviously doesn’t end here. As I have been saying for a couple of years now, social platforms have betrayed their initial mission, there is no longer sincere sharing and publishing things on the net, especially for artists, has backfired. The internet is no longer a place where self expression makes sense, right now we find ourselves inside a monumental manger for AI companies and advertisers. These companies are straight evil, black or white, there is no shade of gray, basically Netslé if it was a tech company. They not only feed on our content but apparently now they aim to replace it. Call me a conspiracy theorist, luddite, do as you please. This whole story is just plain wrong. I could write long paragraphs to give you the impression that I have a little awareness or a deeper thought on the subject but that's not what I'm here for. I want to talk about the death of art.
When I say that art is dead I don't really mean it, the same goes for the internet and social networks, I am critical of these two things but there is no doubt that they have given us so much. The point of my speech is only one: saturation.
We are drowning in talent, there are too many masterpieces out there, it is full of people who are incredibly capable of creating entertainment of all types and for all tastes. Books, movies, comics, cartoons, video games. A single life is not enough to enjoy all the beauty of these infinite parallel worlds. But what role does drawing play in all of this? The greatest of masterpieces today is consumed with a speed not worthy of its quality.
What I mean is try to think of the most iconic video game released since 2010, the one that has generated the most reactions from the general public. Two video games come to mind: Minecraft and Undertale. I have to confess one thing to you, I'm not a big fan of these two, they are definitely close to my personal top 20 but there is a lot of stuff that I liked more. However, it’s impossible to not recognize their value, the impact that they had in videogame sub-culture.
Now, let's stop for a second on Undertale. You know Undertale's art style, right? It's iconic, but to call it inspired is perhaps a bit of an overstatement. It is certainly different and genuine and it is precisely this simplicity that has made it enter the hearts of many people. In addition to the incredible soundtrack of course. In the end, it's really true that graphics only count for a few, what counts is the artistic direction but even above are the ideas and the way they are applied.
I want to give you as an example a youtube channel that has recently exploded. It's called Monstergarden.
https://youtu.be/cwCV1opXBv8
He is a guy who deals with fantasy and worldbuilding. If you take a look at his content you will quickly understand what it means to know how to use your imagination well. It's not just the drawing that brings you the numbers that his channel has raised in less than a month.
So drawing is useless? For me yes, in part. A poorly drawn comic with a good story, I can follow it (basically the original One Punch Man webcomic), but bad story and good drawing... eehhh When I say drawing is useless try to think about how much time you spend looking at a single drawing on the internet, a few seconds most of the time, at least that's true to me. Usually I stop for more time in front of a drawing when I read a comics… or porn (I'm a simple man).
As an artist, I occasionally get lost in my drawings, staring at them for several minutes. It's kind of sad to think that there will probably never be anyone who will spend at least half the time I spent looking at my stuff. In a way, I'm my own #1 fan, sounds a bit depressing I know. I think this doesn't just apply to me, it's my opinion but I think there are many of us in this boat. When I was younger I drew to show others that I was good at it, now that I've grown up a bit I do what I do just because I feel like it. I gave up on social media, now I'm only dedicating myself to my story. I draw and write because I feel that inside me there is something that needs to come out and if I don't I feel sad, it's practically like going to the bathroom.
Speaking of AI, about a year ago I was scared, now I no longer see AI as an "invincible rival". I filled my eyes with Ai art, but there was nothing vaguely worthy of memory. Huge quantity, lack of originality. Ai art has become synonymous with the word anonymous, it’s mid as fuck, once the eye gets used to it… there’s nothing more. The only thing I found genuinely interesting are the AI generated commercials, those are very interesting and worthy to be called art, but it is just a happy atoll in the middle of a flat sea.
Do you know why I like reading comics like Scott Pilgrim? As you flip through the pages you can see the author's style evolves volume by volume. We start with volume 1 which is done in a certain way and then we get to 7, a completely different thing. The same goes for an average art profile on Instagram, how cool it is to scroll down to see how the new stuff is different from the old stuff.
With AI art there is none of this, lately I've been treating it like the spam emails in my inbox. It's an algorithmic cancer, visual pollution that I have to filter out to be able to look at the real stuff, the stuff created by people. From the finest of painting to the questionable sonic fanart. I hate Ai art, but this feeling of mine isn't driven by envy as it could have been a year ago. It's a different kind of hate, like when you step on dog shit on the street. I can’t take a little walk anymore down my favorite alleys, this shit is everywhere, I am unable to fully enjoy art spaces like Art Station, the spaces that must belong to real artists not to a horny redditor who spends his days churning out disproportionate asian girls.
(Sorry for any grammatical errors, English is not my first language)

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/N1DWWtQ
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[←Chapter 53] [Cover Art] [My Links] [Index] [Discord] [Subreddit] [Chapter 55→]
The day had slid by Aya like so much water off of a duck’s back. It took a particularly hard prod by Frare to dislodge her from a slurry of inattentiveness. As she looked around she realised the barricades had been almost completely disassembled, with only scraps remaining on the church floor. The pieces of broken glass and masonry were being carted outside by the villagers that remained.
Currently there was a lukewarm debate around the command table, dragged to the centre of the hall. Aya’s consciousness glossed over Sorore reprimanding her brother for bothering her, as well as the various arguments over logistics and provisions. She half-heartedly listened to discussions of various threats on various roads, and then quickly forgot about it.
Without really realising it, she found herself peaking at the parchments spread over the table. The lined scrolls held no real meaning for her, but the centre map with its pins certainly did. It was a large and fairly extensive map of the continent, with various cities illustrated with flowing script too elaborate for her to read. Slowly her eyes flitted from north to south, and found the curl of a mountain range bleeding into a peninsula where she assumed Karkos was.
“What about here?” she said, pointing to the location through the greaves of the captains before her.
Most turned to look with amused confusion, and she quickly felt a flush creeping up her neck.
“It’s a city,” she said.
The officers continued to look at her, awaiting elaboration.
“Y-you could get food there,” she offered weekly.
She almost added ‘I’ve heard the food is quite good’, though fortunately for her dignity the phrase died on her lips before it could enter the world. Naia, almost directly across from her, looked down and stroked his beard.
“It’s far from the worst option,” he said, “in fact, it’s probably one of the better ones.”
“It charges an arm and a leg, just for the usage of one ship. The cost of transporting all of us will be steep,” one soldier protested.
“The mountains are blocked off with the Alonshaze destroyed. None of the other passes can be reliably quickly traversed, even in summer,” Naia countered, “going the land route right now would be asking for trouble. The flatlands at the base of the Alonshaze have always been unstable, but ever since Ein’elen broke up it-”
“Sharaloch would be another option,” spoke up Damafelce, without much enthusiasm.
“You want to bet on a city of pirates and mercenaries for transport?” exclaimed another captain.
“Unwise, especially with such valuable persons,” Naia said, “we’ve already had enough headaches. The last thing I need is a hostage situation while sailing the strait.”
“You get what you pay for in Karkos,” yet another captain offered, with general murmurs of assent, “though with what gold we have I-”
“The gold’s not the issue,” said Naia, “if necessary, we can issue bonds in the name of Angorrah, or the paladins can in the name of the church.”
Niche, glum and surly, still nodded at the implied question.
“The general would not be happy. You know how possessive they get over money on a mission,” said Damafelce.
“We’ve been attacked multiple times, crossed half the continent, and found a long lost bequeathed, all with about a hundred men,” snorted Naia, “with all due respect to my betters, they can take their complaints and shove them-”
“If we’re going by speed and stability, Karkos is the best way,” cut in Niche through the laughter of the soldiers, “the safety of the Bequeathed should be our top priority. A good ship will get us there in under a week.”
“A ship to Espala, then Inalthia. Draskar forest is a nightmare at any time of the year,” Naia said, leaning over the map. With a subtle motion, he moved Aya’s finger northwest, and she realised with horror that she’d been pointing to the wrong end of the peninsula where some lesser settlement stood.
“Captain Deckard, I assume those that don’t want to come for pilgrimage will be returning to the fort?” he continued without giving any sign that she’d done anything wrong.
A new man, eyes blazing underneath furry dark brows nodded fervently.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to clear out. I want everyone ready by sunset - it’ll be just under a week before we reach Karkos. Get what sleep you can - we’ll be riding out the next morning.”
There were a few finer points of debate that were bandied back and forth, but the conversation largely seemed to be settled. Niche and Damafelce both seemed to be locked in a staring match as Naia approached her.
“A good suggestion, my lady,” he said, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been in the city, but it might be just the place after this string of close calls.”
Aya tried to take what credit she could with a burning face.
“Now, there’s one other piece of business I have to attend to, I think,” he said, “where is the mage?”
“He’s on the roof,” she blurted, “I can show you.”
“No,” he said, holding up a gauntlet, “I think we’ll be just fine by ourselves. You should go and rest. It’s been a long night.”
He and Damafelce walked away from the table and vanished through the side door. Aya returned back to the altar with Niche, who was muttering some unkind things under his breath. It wasn’t more than a half hour before Naia returned with his captain, looking troubled. Before she could ask any questions, however, he quickly exited through the front of the church.
The rest of the day was largely spent on routines of amusement, the Bequeathed and the children of the village playing little games and telling stories among each other. The paladins, though they kept an eagle eye upon their charges, were not in a talkative mood that day. Lillian’s face was particularly dark, and she often muttered things that no one cared to listen to.
When evening came, any residual fears of the monsters returning were put to rest. The icy fear was no more, the villagers placed back what intact pews there were, and the flow of people from the medical bay slowed to a trickle. A simple meal, and a dreamless sleep, and Aya awoke in the early hours of the morning. Pulling herself up to one of the broken windows, she could see the summer green of the trees, their vibrancy somewhat damped by a light blue-grey fog.
Before they left, a service was held to bury those who’d been slain. The dead were laid side by side, wrapped in simple drab cloth, in a large pit just outside the doors of the church. Niche stood over the graves, eyes shut, pronouncings the blessing and peace that these brave defenders would lie with. Aya took the time to say a silent thanks as she gazed at the cloth-bound bodies.
As the remains were covered with soil, Niche shifted into a louder, older language as he sang in a husky tenor. Some kind of funeral liturgy, she guessed, though it was unfamiliar to her. The villagers cast tears into the ground with clouds of earth as they passed along the pit, then they left for the wall and the village beyond.
Aya’s concerns as she reentered the church shifted to more material things - hunger, cold, the lack of bathing over the last few days. At least some of those needs were addressed by the paladins in the next hours, with furs and food. But soon enough, they were on horses, walking in a line down to the south over open fields before the forest.
The first morning passed with very little conversation between anyone as they passed underneath the trees. That was all the better for Aya, who found herself enjoying the crisp air and the rapidly warming sunlight. It did take a bit of a turn for sorrow when she remembered that she often swam with her mother on mornings like these in the mountain lakes. Still, she was determined to extract what happiness she could on such a wretched journey. It was a resiliency that Frare seemed to share, while his sister still glanced nervously at the trees around them. Aya wondered if the girl was still seeing the creatures from last night in every shadow.
When they reached a clearing around midday, the children were made to sit before Niche as he handed out various meagre components of meals. As they began to eat, Lillian joined him, and both cleared their throats in unison.
“Right,” Niche began, “I realise the last few days have been less than smooth. Hardly a time for lessons, unfortunately.”
His dry chuckle was not reciprocated by any of the listeners, so he quickly moved on.
“But, given the nature of what happened, I think it’s advisable to speak on magic and mages, and what the scripture says about them.”
Frare, at the word ‘scripture’ audible groaned, which was followed by a hiss as his sister seized his ear.
“We have been forced into a position where we needed the help of a mage,” Niche said, picking his words with care, “it was not something we did willingly. It wasn’t a choice, but rather the product of circumstances beyond our control.”
You mean, the commander overruled you, thought Aya, though she elected not to voice such thoughts.
“If we had another choice,” Lillian chimed in, “we would’ve taken it. Survival, however, takes precedence, especially for you three. The choices were made, we might not be proud of it, but we’re all still here and that’s what matters.”
“That being said,” Niche said, fumbling in the interior of his breastplate and withdrawing a small booklet, “it would be good for you to understand what exactly underlies our choices.”
Aya’s eyes flicked over to the twins - Sorore was sitting upright and attentive, while her brother was a glum and slumped mirror. Niche thumbed through a few pages, focused in on the one he’d selected and once more, cleared his throat.
“And thus it was found, a great conspiracy, conspired against the children of Angorrah, conspired with creatures both great and small, but terrible all, in darkness and stagnant pools, where the profundity of their sin would go unnoticed by the decent and pious. Hated and proclaimed sinner, traitor, rebel against the Lost themselves. Three Boons would be taken, and three Houses be condemned to dust.”
Sorore perked up, for she clearly already knew the story and was excited to hear it yet again. Aya waited with a tempered anticipation, hoping at least there would be a half-way interesting tale, despite its lacklustre delivery. The story progressed into a broad parable, describing how three houses arose in rebellion against the church, and how three holy items had been robbed from the sepulchre of the ‘roiling cathedral’.
Apparently, they were ferried into the hands of mages, who perverted their holy functions until they burned the most sacred tree on the continent, one laid by Nafthtazia herself. For all of Aya’s doubts about the moral, she couldn’t deny the enjoyment of a good piece of history.
“Magic exists beyond the purview of the church,” Niche began, then quickly corrected his error, “rather, it is a part of the mystery of the Lost, but others can access in inappropriate ways. Some speculate that it should be left entirely to the Lost, not handled by mortal hands. Regardless, the church has taken upon a sacred duty, to ensure that what magic is used is done so sparingly, and with the utmost care.”
He closed the book with a flourish, clearly pleased at the depth of his instruction. Frare’s eyes were fluttering, which prompted a painful poke from his sister.
“So, magic is evil?” said Aya, trying to square that conclusion with all she’d seen.
Niche puffed out his chest, no doubt about to exclaim that it was in the strongest possible terms. Lillian however, had her own thoughts to add before he could.
“Not… inherently,” she said, “But it is broadly forbidden and for good reason. It is less evil, rather a great risk for evil. That is, far too easy to put it towards evil ends. That’s why mages are, as a rule, cruel, selfish, and dangerous creatures. Perhaps it is better put that magic attracts evil, even if it can be used for good.”
Aya stewed in that statement for a while - clearly the church was deeply knowledgeable, expanding and attending to her own, meagre education on the matter from the local priest. Still there were holes, obvious holes, or so she told herself.
“It might be hard to understand,” Niche said, “it might seem a little strange that the church forbids something that could be so useful. There are very good reasons both in scripture and in history that proves the point - magic is not to be used with abandon, and thus must remain under the Church’s eye.”
He patted the sigil of the church, engraved on his breastplate.
“That is one reason why the Light Lords were created in the first place,” he said, with thinly veiled pride, “we are the watchers, investigating the use of magic and capturing the perpetrator that would harm or cheat with it.”
“It was a decision made long ago,” added Lillian, “it was a sort of… half-agreement between the church and the army. We kept the peace that was broken by the mages during the Night of the Burning Tree.”
“So there are mages in Angorrah?” said Aya, drawing a strange, near insulted look by Sorore at the question.
“Well…” said Lillian, sharing a look with Niche, “a handful at most, who operate under the strictest scrutiny.”
Sorore’s face twisted at this, but whatever comment she would’ve liked to make stayed in her head.
“The point is that mages are faithless and concerned for themselves above all else. They are to be engaged on only the most necessary basis. They may be directed towards good in service to the church, but never on their own.”
The rest of the lesson served as constant reinforcements and examples of the danger of mages. There were one or two arguments between Frare and their teachers that Sorore was too slow to suppress. Before long they were off again, the leaves shaking above them as a wind blew from the south. The evening camp mercifully spared them another lecture and after a simple dinner, both twins made their excuses and retired.
Aya huddled beside the fire as the temperature dropped. Around them were a circle of waggons, some covered by a framework of canvas, others bare, all loaded with supplies. The gifts of the grateful villagers, granted to the commander who had saved them.
The paladins were busy doing maintenance, carefully laying out arms and armour, scrubbing, polishing and sharpening. Aya got up, murmured a good night to the paladins, who nodded curtly. They were so absorbed that they didn’t seem to notice Aya slipping away.
She poked her head into one of the ‘empty’ waggons, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. Save for a handful of small crates, there lay the crumpled form of the mage just as they’d loaded him. Aya felt her breath still as she looked at Inniaylsia’s amber eyes. Even from this distance, she could see the subtle inner flames of reds and yellows softly illuminating them.
“Yes?” came the voice of the older woman, curt and snappish.
Aya started to speak, then stopped, realising that she had no real reason to be here, at least not one that she’d thought out.
“Come out with it child,” came the voice again.
Aya was put in mind of a line of children, heads bowed before a grandmother picking detritus from their scalps.
“I- I-” she said, “I was wondering if…”
“No. There’s been no change in this old bag of bones,” said Innie, her voice softening slightly, “though I’m sure he would appreciate your concern.”
Aya stood there for a moment, awkwardness rising, before setting her jaw, looking behind her, and upon seeing the paladin’s backs, clambered in as quietly as possible. The cat sat attentively and silently, regarding the young girl before her. Aya began in a hushed whisper, talking about the Night of the Burning Tree and the lessons of the paladins from the morning.
“If you want to ask a question about history,” interrupted the cat, “you best ask this sod when he wakes up. He proves irritatingly well-versed on that. Considering his age, he might've lived through it.”
“I thought you were old as well,” Aya said, trying to remember where she got the notion from.
“I am. Older than him. Old as half the company put together,” she said, “but I rarely venture outside of the forest. This is the furthest south I have been in decades, perhaps a century or two.”
Aya paused to try and get a grasp on the scale of time the creature had just casually gestured at.
“So my dear, if you’re going to ask me about the great deeds of men or the history of cities, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” said the cat, tail bobbing this way and that.
“But that’s not exactly what I…” said Aya, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I wanted to ask about magic.”
The cat cocked its head, the speed of the tail picking up.
“What about magic, child?” she said.
Swish-swish.
“Well, I was wondering, just for a start, what is it?” Aya said.
“You should sit down,” said the cat, “this might take a while.”
[←Chapter 53] [Cover Art] [My Links] [Index] [Discord] [Subreddit] [Chapter 55→]

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/HSp0AD5
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Struggling with sleep a lot lately and just looking for someone to help me pass the time! I'm a gamer and a chef.. I love outdoors stuff and learning new things!always been a bit of a quick learner :) I'm also a jack of all trades! Well, most trades.. I've picked up a thing or 2 in my years of working, and working in different fields...
Anyway! Hit me up if you want to chat about anything or if I could give advice on anything... hell, sometimes even just an opinion! .looking forward tk hearing from you!

Learned what an Abstract birth certificate was yesterday when i got a rejection from the passport office for having one. Thanks California. Im supposed to leave in 10 days and I won't have time to get a certified copy....
I called the passport office and got 2 different answers.... 1 lady said i could bring supporting documents and 1 lady said "absolutely not you will be denied"... i have supporting documents currently in my hand.
Has anyone been able to provide supporting evidence to go with their abstract and not have it kicked back? This is a pretty jacked up situation to be in and i dont know what to do.

The first time I ever saw this man was the night of my brother's bachelor party. I had a few too many drinks so I took a cab home. I sat down on my couch and started watching some of the garbage that was on this late at night. I watched TV for an hour or so until I got bored.
I was getting ready to go to sleep when I heard someone pounding on my door. I obviously got freaked out because it was the middle of the night. I slowly walked up to the door and looked through the eyehole. The only thing I could see was a silhouette of a hunched man standing in the corner of my driveway. At that point I was absolutely terrified. I thought about calling the police but I realized that I was probably just being stupid and that there was nothing to worry about. I turned on the porch light and the man started walking up to the door. He was around 6 '3, 6' 4, white, medium build and all of his clothes were torn, but the one thing that stood out for me was his eyes. They were bloodshot and looked like they were about to pop out of his head.
When he walked up to the door he started looking at the eyehole.
“Please let me in” he said
I was seconds away from calling the police when he said something that shook me to my core
“I’m going to kill you”
The thing that freaked me out the most about this sentence is that he said it in such a calm manner.
“What do you want from me” i said
“Open the door” he replied”
I didn’t know what to say and just stared at the man. This went on for about a minute when he started sprinting to my backyard. I ran straight for my gun and grabbed my phone. I locked myself in my room upstairs and tried to call the police. I called 911 and they weren’t answering. I called like 10 more times, and on my last try someone answered the phone.
“PLEASE HELP ME, HE’S GONNA KILL ME!!” i screamed
I couldn’ hear anything and was about to hang up when I heard some say.
“You can’t hide from me”
I hung up after that.
I decided that I was going to stay up all night just in case that freak makes it into my house.
I fell asleep that night which was probably the most irresponsible thing I have ever done in my life. When I woke up I thought that this was probably just a horrible lucid dream or something like that.
I put on some clothes and started heading downstairs to get some breakfast. I walked up to the kitchen and got some things out of my fridge. I walked up to my island near the window and looked up and something horrifying. It was that guy from last night, but this time he had blood smeared all over his face and clothes. I have never been so scared in my life. I must have stood there beside that window for like 4 hours when I decided that I was gonna shoot that asshole. I took my gun out of my room and walked outside to shoot it.
When I walked out the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming stench of this guy. The smell was so horrible that i couldn't even breathe. I pointed my gun at him and said.
“If you don’t leave right now im going to kill you”
He smiled. He didn’t care. I tried to pull the trigger put i couldn’t, something was stopping me from doing so. Thats when i felt something controlling my hand, i couldnt resist it. My hand turned around and the gun was pointed in my face. I saw the trigger slowly get pulled, and then i just heard a click.
“Shit, i must’ve forgot to put the bullets in the magazine” i thought
I felt relieved but not for long. The man started whacking me with his gun and im pretty sure i passed out almost instantly.
I woke up around in the middle of the night. Honestly i was surprised that the guy didn’t kill me. I opened my eyes and couldn’t see him anywhere. I felt a wave of relief fly through my body. I walked up to the door and reached for the door handle and noticed something horrifying. All of my fingers from my right hand were gone. I broke down and started weeping on the floor, I had no idea what i did to deserve this.
I opened the door and walked in. It was pitch black so I turned on the light and I saw the man standing in the middle of my living room. I fell to the floor and accepted my fate. I layed on the floor for a good minute when I heard him giggle. I looked up and his face was and inch away from mine. The stench from his breath is something that i will never forget. I puched the freak in his face but he didn’t even flinch. He didn’t move staring at me. We sat there staring at each other for a long time. I started to stand up when i heard something fall in the kitchen. I saw a rotten leg covered in maggots. I looked back at the guy and he was gone.
I ran up to the front door and tried to open it but it was locked and the keyhole was gone. I started walking up the stairs to get to my room because i had a baseball bat in there. The closer i got to the top of the stairs the louder i could hear the man laughing. When i got up to the top i could see his silhouette at the end of the hallway. My room was behind me so i slowly walked backwards to get in. The second i got in i slammed the door shut and locked it.
I jumped out of the window and started running towards the nearest convenience store. I was getting close to it when i saw the guy again. I was sprinting away from him and towards the store but he was getting closer and closer. I was 10 feet from the store when he caught up with me. He tackled me to the ground and started smacking my skull against the concrete floor. Then he let my head go and i that it was over, but thats when he ripped off my entire leg. He didn’t even break a sweat, it was easy for him.
After that torture session he ran away. I started crawling towards the store. When i entered i couldn’t see anything because of the bright lights. The only thing i could hear was the sound of people screaming.
I woke up in a hospital in pain. A nurse walked up to me and asked me a few questions. After that i fell back asleep. When i woke up i decided to share this story. This is probably the not the last thing you will hear from me.

Blue on grey: https://i.redd.it/how-would-yall-feel-about-batman-wearing-the-blue-and-grey-v0-y9jwj930b9aa1.jpg?width=1895&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=abfc382ae852b79e5af34cb93bdc6339696a6758
Black on grey: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/2c/Batman_%28circa_2020%29.png
Black on black: https://i.insider.com/5005d7a869beddfe2f000005?width=600&format=jpeg&auto=webp
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This post will only be understood by people who were in rap communities before like 5 years ago. I don't know the crossover of people who use to be obsessed with multisyllabic rhymes, complex wordplay, and shit in hip hop/rap music and people on here or even modern day rap fans but I remember if you were into rap you would always encounter these motherfuckers. Especially in the early 2010s or so when Vinnie paz, Immortal technique, RA the Rugged man, were going strong. You had those hipster backpackers like that or the Atmosphere/Aesop Rock types then you had the NOI members who worshipped Lupe fiasco, Black thought, Mos Def, Jedi mind tricks, Talib kweli, Pharoahe monch, Wu tang, Canibus, K-rino. (most of those rappers are still the GOATs dont get me wrong). Then you had the "bars" NYC timberland rap fans who worshipped Jadakiss, Styles P, Joe budden, and those mfs are still around today. I remember in hip hop forums there would be people who only judged a rapper by how much syllables they rhymed and their wordplay. Some cared about punchlines while others liked birtherism illuminati references. But they all were labeled "lyrical miracle" rap fans. I definitely had this phase in my early teens when I only listened to rap (which was the only genre I listened to) for the multisyllabic rhymes, wordplay, and punchlines and the "underground hip hop" sound of it. I remember getting into arguments over Vinnie Paz being the greatest rapper of all time. Was a weird time back then in rap communities.

What’s the dress code for Tso uniforms, Hire orientations.. and EOD. I’m in the pool, Is it all just black casual?

Hey, all. As the title says, I'm having a rough go of it trying to enjoy DMC3. This will almost undoubtedly spiral into unhinged ramble territory, but I will try my best to keep things a little focused. I'll go over my play history with the series for context and bring up my particular complaints; I'm hoping the community can spot what it is that I might be missing or offer me a window into the brain of a DMC fan. I want to say here, probably unnecessarily, that I am not trying to condemn the series as some doo-doo brain button-masher or anything; DMC as a concept sounds really appealing to me, and I want in, so I am very honestly asking here for any ideas on how to get my ape brain to enjoy it.
I only tried out the games this year, and I had always heard beforehand that these were the games to get into if you wanted flashy hack-and-slash fun, that even if you somehow hated everything else the combat would win you over. So I got DMC1, played about an hour and a half, and I hated it. "No biggie," I thought. "I'll skip over 2 and try out 3." After all, it does seem to be a favorite of the fanbase.
Initially, I was elated. It felt much smoother to control, I had a few more options to play around with, and I was pretty quickly given new guns and devil arms. However, as I progressed, it became very stale very fast. Even with swordmaster as my style the whole way through (I maxed it out, too), I felt like I had a bafflingly small number of things to do with each weapon, and I didn't even like one of them (Nevan).
I took a month-long break after beating Geryon, and in that time I checked out DMC4 and 5 and thoroughly enjoyed Bayonetta. I also bailed on 4 after 10 or so missions of Nero had pushed me to the brink of madness (the same issues I had with 3 but cranked up), but with the help of a character selection mod for 5 (I wanted to skip to Dante to see what the fuss was about), I actually had a pretty decent time on the first few levels. The style-swapping seems like a no-brainer, leveling up styles and getting new moves is significantly faster, and, while I haven't played enough to know for sure, those extra slots on my guns and devil arms promise a deluge of new shit to do later in the game.
This encouraged me to go back to DMC3 with a style-switcher mod. For a while, I was again having an okay go of it. But now, having finished mission 15 like a day ago, I'm all the way burnt out again. I didn't end up liking the Beowulf weapon much (again, too simple, especially compared to 5's interpretation), so I was back to the old three, and they've just become so stale. I have a lot of other gripes with enemy variety and level design, but these are tangential; my biggest grievance by far is that the combos in a vacuum just don't offer me enough variety.
And before you ask: yes, I know about jump-canceling. I've tried it out with a few of Rebellion's and A&R's air moves for 2 or 3 reps, and I don't really care for it. The usefulness is there—I just don't like how it feels to input. I also regularly use crazy combos to get easy peasy SSS when I'm thirsting for red orbs, but I hate the fact that it feels like I'm brutalizing my controller to do them, lol.
So help me out, please: what am I missing/doing wrong/etc.?
Extra context—my history with hack-and-slash and beat-em-up games: this post is probably way too long as is, but I wanted to include this in case it was helpful. Like I mentioned, I recently played and really enjoyed Bayonetta. In particular, I liked the vast array of combo options with appreciable utility differences in their enders and speed, the great variety of weapons (especially that whip, ZAMN!), and (mostly) the bosses. I didn't like how the late game's overuse of minibosses and drought of grunt crowds funneled me into playing less stylishly/more repetitively. A few months before that, I played and loved Sifu. Although I know this game plays a lot more restrained and tactically, there were a lot of tools to use and certainly ways to look flashy. I've tried Ninja Gaiden Black for less than an hour, probably. It was okay? I need more time with it. And lastly, the apple of my eye since I was a kid, God of War, particularly 1-3. I can wax poetic about how much and in which ways I adore God of War, but unless that's useful for shaping advice, I'll cut my flowery ass short.

This might sound weird.. but I’m grateful to have come to the knowledge of having bpd (or latched on it) because it’s like having a huge umbrella that covers all/almost all my behavior that i can use to make some sense of whats happening and to have some sense of self also when everything else seemed random/not relatable . Does that make sense? And most importantly most of your posts, comments and how open hearted and relatable they are to what I’ve experienced and still experiencing made me feel some sense of belonging I’ve missed most of my life. And this connection to such a community feels so great with perfect balance of nothing to be proud of but nothing to be ashamed of, it just is.
As the cat said: hang in there folks.

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It was raining the day Finnegan stumbled inside the Lucky Star.
His blonde hair was matted and plastered to his face. Blood soaked his right sleeve, and one of the lenses in his glasses was shattered.
“H-help,” he murmured. His knees hit the polished wooden floor. His glasses close behind.
The inn and tavern were quiet—most girls preferred to stay inside on rainy days. Yomi and Ravyn weren’t most girls, though. Some of the rarest Encroachers came out of hiding during the brutal San Island storms. That meant new weapons, new armor, and Bells.
They were two drinks in, celebrating a successful hunt of a pack of galatrax, when the youth tumbled through the door.
“What the hell?” Ravyn jumped to her feet, Yomi close behind.
“He’s bleeding!” Yomi hissed, rushing to his side. “[Stabilize]!”
Is this really the next man? Emberlynn, Ravyn’s mother, had always built her father as a larger-than-life figure. A man that couldn’t be felled by a little rain or surprised by a measly roach.
This… man… was tall but thin. Gangly. Like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.
He blinked up at Yomi. “A-are you… are you a nekomimi?”
“I’m sorry, a what?” Yomi dabbed at the bite on his arm with the napkin she’d snatched from the table.
“Mou ii.” He had the gall to look frustrated. Ravyn scoffed. “A catgirl,” he tried again.
“Oh. Yes.” Yomi looked over her shoulder at Ravyn. “We’re, um, well, we’re all catgirls.”
“Oh my God. This is the isekai jackpot.” He rubbed his eyes with his clean hand, blinking up at Ravyn. “Even if the monsters outside are a pain in the ass.”
Yomi hurried to the table, snagged her glass of water, and moved back to his side. “Here, drink this.”
“Ah. Arigatou.” He accepted the water and took a deep drink.
Ravyn had never heard so many unintelligible words in so few sentences. Which was impressive, considering who her mother was. “You didn’t fight back?” she snapped.
“Fight? With what?” He sputtered a laugh, his energy seeming to return. “Besides, why would I fight something that could so obviously kill me?”
Ravyn marched to his side and snatched his broken glasses from the floor. “To survive. Level up. Get Bells. Moron.”
“Baka!” he hissed back.
“Ravyn,” Yomi warned, her ears twitching with annoyance. “This could be new for him, remember?”
“Uh-huh. Saoirse has blessed us all with a—” She paused, squatting so she was at eye level with the newcomer. “Hey, is there a term for a small man? Like calling a young catgirl a kitten.”
“Erm, a boy?”
“Yes. Good. That will do.” Ravyn snapped the glasses in half at the thin bridge and looked at Yomi. “Saoirse has blessed us with a boy.”
“Hey, I—!” He reached for his glasses, then flinched back. His deep green eyes flickered between Ravyn and Yomi’s faces. “Nani? I don’t need my glasses anymore?”
“Saoirse’s tits, can you please speak like a normal person?” Ravyn commanded.
“Ravyn!” Yomi snarled.
He stared at her in disbelief. “How did you know I didn’t need those anymore?”
I didn’t. “Call it a hunch.” Ravyn tossed the remnants of his glasses in a nearby trash bin and wiped her hands. “Good luck in Nyarlea, boy.”
“My name is Finnegan.” He pushed Yomi’s hands away and stumbled to his feet. “Are you a bitch all of the time, or am I a special case?”
Ravyn growled, her hands balling into fists. On his feet, he was almost a head taller than her. But Finnegan was still a malnourished, ill-equipped boy. She raised one hand level to her chest and flattened her palm, the burst of flame mirrored in her violet eyes. “Want to find out?”
“Holy shit,” he stepped backward, raising an arm to block his face.
Yomi caught Ravyn’s wrist and forced it down. “She won’t hurt you.”
“Hm? Please, try me.”
He froze, then looked at Yomi. “Wait, so… [Stabilize]. That was a Spell?”
I should burn you to a crisp right now. Save the Encroachers the trouble.
“That’s right,” Yomi said, positioning herself between him and Ravyn. “I’m Yomi, by the way.”
Finnegan nodded, and his gaze returned to Ravyn. “And you are?”
“Leaving.” Ravyn turned, retrieving the Bells for their drinks from her [Cat Pack] and plopping them on the table. She came to Shulan with Yomi for an adventure. Not to team up with a feeble man who used a strange language and had no idea that Magic existed.
That was a fast road to a quick death.
“Ravyn, wait!” Yomi turned to Finnegan and raised her hands. “Sorry, give me just a second.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’m, uh, just going to sit down a minute.” He wandered to an empty booth, then searched the pockets of his trousers. “Wait, what’s this?” His hand surfaced with the silver rectangle that Ravyn recognized immediately—an iPaw.
“We’ll explain in a moment,” Yomi replied, taking Ravyn’s wrist and yanking her farther back into the Lucky Star.
Their waitress—Kiri—and three other catgirls in attendance had witnessed his entrance and their exchange. Kiri was at his table in the blink of an eye, offering him whatever was on the menu free of charge. The other three leered longingly, joining into a single throng to share a whispered discussion.
“We will explain, Yomi?” Ravyn snarled once they were out of earshot.
“Yes. We.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you insane?” Yomi gestured wildly toward Finnegan, toward the other girls, and then back to Ravyn. “Isn’t this exactly why we left Zhuli?”
“To die trying to protect a mass of twigs? I don’t think so,” Ravyn retorted. “That is not a man. Let him go get himself killed, and then we can get a real man.”
Yomi fervently shook her head. “I don’t know what your mother told you about the men of Nyarlea, but everyone has to start somewhere, Ravyn.”
“That boy, sitting over there, is beyond novice levels of experience.” Ravyn pulled the hefty pouch of Bells from her [Cat Pack] and waved it in front of Yomi’s face. “Look, right here. We’re doing fine on our own. We hit Level 4 together, and we can hit Second Class together. We don’t need him.”
Yomi glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “No, but he needs us. Look at him.”
The tittering trio had made their way over to Finnegan’s booth, and Kiri had slid into the seat next to him. His face had turned a brilliant shade of red, and he stammered through his answers to the endless stream of questions.
Now that he’d dried off, Ravyn could see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the bruises on his neck and arms. There was a small cut on his temple and numerous abrasions on his knuckles as if he had come to blows with a roach. The tears in his clothing suggested he’d been on the losing side.
This wasn’t Finnegan’s first day on San Island—it had taken him some time to find Shulan. But by the grace of the goddess or otherwise, he’d survived and made it to the Lucky Star.
Memories of lonely nights spent in her own room assaulted Ravyn like a tidal wave. Talking to her only friend—a garnet, for Saoirse’s sake—and wishing someone, somewhere, would take the time to see things from her point of view.
“Fuck,” Ravyn whispered, the fight draining from her shoulders. “Yomi—”
“Look, we can make a deal,” Yomi interrupted, holding up a finger. “We give him two weeks. If we can both agree that he’s a lost cause, we’ll go back to adventuring ourselves. Just the two of us.”
It wasn’t a terrible deal. Two weeks wouldn’t set them back very far. Besides, the Bells her mother kept sending to Yomi—Ravyn had sent them back one too many times, apparently—would keep them afloat for a year if need be. As much as she despised using that money, Yomi was adamant about keeping a safety net should things go to hell.
Well, here we are, Mother. Hell himself has walked through the door.
“Two weeks? Swear on it?” Ravyn sighed.
“I swear, Ravyn. Please.”
Ravyn hooked her finger around Yomi’s, tightening it in a tiny truce. “I’ll have your tail if you push me again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Yomi grinned and hugged her.
“Oh. That’s overkill. No need for this.” Ravyn held up her hands at her side, unsure how to react to the hug. “I don’t see why you’re so stuck on him.”
Yomi released her, her smile widening. “What kitten doesn’t dream of being in a man’s Party?”
This one. “Yeah. Guess so.” Ravyn turned and marched to Finnegan’s table. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at each of his newfound companions in turn. “Alright, ladies, clear out.”
“Who the hell died and made you queen?” one of the whisperers retorted.
“Are you a healer, kitten?” Ravyn crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Are any of you healers, for that matter?”
The three girls shook their heads.
Ravyn jerked a thumb at Yomi. “He’s hurt. Let someone who can actually help him through.”
“Kiri, I think one of the girls in the back needs your help,” Yomi said.
Smooth when you can be, huh? Ravyn grinned. “We’ll take good care of him.”
“We’ll see about that,” Finnegan grumbled.
Ravyn cleared her throat and raised her hand in the same movement she’d done before to summon the flame. Finnegan jumped back as far as he could, holding the iPaw up like a shield.
“Don’t set him on fire, Ravyn,” Kiri murmured as she vacated the table. The other three slowly followed, glowering at Yomi and Ravyn as they returned to their seats.
“We’ll see about that,” Ravyn chirped.
Finnegan shot her an angry look over his iPaw.
Yomi took a seat next to him while Ravyn assumed the opposite side. She leaned forward, placed one finger on the top of the iPaw, and tipped it down until it rested against the table.
“Alright— what did you call me earlier? Baka?” Ravyn began, her smile sharp.
Finnegan’s face darkened. “Yeah.”
Ravyn snickered. “Well. Welcome to the Lucky Star, baka. Your training begins now.”
​
Yomi Pro Tip: My mother told me stories of how my father required multiple helping hands to have a fighting chance in Nyarlea.
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