"All of life can be broken down into moments of transition or moments of revelation. This had the feeling of both..." -G'kar
"fuk u buddy u can't make me grow up!" -relz
"i'm fine being mad, it's the rest of u that needs get with it." -?????????
"All of life can be broken down into moments of transition or moments of revelation. This had the feeling of both..." -G'kar
"fuk u buddy u can't make me grow up!" -relz
"i'm fine being mad, it's the rest of u that needs get with it." -?????????
11:50 am
12/11/2025
Yesterday was our one month anniversary, and right now we can not help but giggle at the sounds of our little sister being fucked.
She's fallen for someone, you see, and having been through a lot with her, we're so glad she gets to have the experiences that she is having.
Everyone around us struggles, yet thrives in their own amazing ways. Through senses of togetherness that never felt within reach. We are all learning from each other, enriching each other, empowering each other.
Collectively, our power grows. It's incredible. It's still hard. None of this is easy for any of us. Together, we make it bearable. Attainable. Survivable. Sometimes even fun.
some of us can't be as involved as they want to. others linger on the periphery for their own spoons or sanity. some seek their paths elsewhere, loudly or quietly, but everyone walking through these doors has grown, has Become better for doing so, and has Changed because of it.
With my careful, nurturing support, this safe space slut show has grown into a coven of madwomen united in thriving through struggle. It's difficult for me to admit it plainly, without clarification or reservation, but we are learning too, and them's the facts. We wanted this and devoted ourselves and nascently it's there.
Life has become so, so precious. Unbelievably so. Experience after experience and choice after choice results in tremendous joys not just for everyone connected to this, but specifically for someone so very important to me. Someone close enough and same enough and genuine enough and open enough to very quickly adopt us as Big Sis.
we feel her presence so much sometimes it's like she decided to stick around. we're used to that kinda thing. we're pretty sure she left some rituals behind for us to complete.
gods, we miss what could have been. but it's ok. we've all lost people, or will. one of life's many inevitabilities. but it's not all sour, because some people are incredibly true, and incredibly brave, and incredibly real. and time shared with them is precious. healing. nurturing.
Lil sis told me something the other day, while we were picking up a collar and leash set for the visiting catgirl: "Girl, you put the Big in Big Sister."
It hit us kinda hard, as being shocked by an absentminded truth often can.
Visiting Catgirl made some decisions today. She thanked lil sis for being real, and then she claimed us both as big sisters. and later a most curious and wonderful thing did then occur:
Our lil sister said, with a leash in each hand, between tears of joy, snugly nestled in the arms of both of her sisters: "I can't believe I'm finally okay, finally happy. It's surreal, but it's here. We made it. I'm not suffering anymore."
and we knew... it would pass, change, become some other moment. one of many moments in the ebb and flow of recovering from these kinds of traumas. but in that moment? when she was ok? the darkest days behind her and only a bright shining future emblazoned across her heart and mind? it was everything. made me feel the exact same thing, about something else entirely. heals beget heals, it's unreal.
We get to take care of so many people rn, get to know and be close with so many wonderful souls. get to be helpful and useful and somehow still treated well. used well and cared for, living the dream. always busy, always bothered by some nonsense, but it's always the right nonsense. chewing on a major problem of some kind for someone in our orbit, never mired in murk or misery.
and people do occasionally collapse. they are free to in this house and no one feels compelled to hide behind composure. we have to do that often enough just to get by out there. to get things done. to support ourselves and our people. it's just another thing that we want to be safe from having to be.
not all screams are from fun. but it's never at each other, and we're encouraged to feel it, here.
Don't worry, we won't forget. We have, apparently, been honing this skill our entire lives, but we have also spent the last three years as Big & Co-Bestie to a Lil gal that we met at a lan party innumerable loops and resets ago.
We were talking recently, about how lucky we both feel to have what we have, our life together as co-besties and all of it's little delights. We live as examples of how different things could actually be, and every day we spend together is one of safety, growth, learning, and our special giggly gremlin glee.
Her whole thing is meaningful change. Now, we get that very few of you out there are genuine alchemists, but we can likely break this down into understandable terms.
Imagine happens when you combine the forces behind meaningful change with those empowering the reduction of suffering and the enabling of joy.
it's a trans den mom
and a co-bestie
it's also a sister
and it's also a best friend
and it's also a big
it's so many things, and that's just within these two facets.
and more facets emerge constantly.
Experiences and choices and moments that used to feel so, impossible to attain are now impossibly ours.
we're teaching. guiding. supporting. we always suspected we had an affinity for such things, but it is nice when reality resonates.
Those words of relief our sister spoke? Of feeling healed from a twisted ache of suffering? We tearfully echoed those sentiments to Co-Bestie nearly 24 hours prior.
How, by being real, genuine, true, and open, little sis has healed us of scars we thought we'd carry forever. Traumas from someone who took without giving, someone who didn't wanna play. Someone who told us we were invited, but never opened any doors.
Decades of our life abused and thrown aside, a sharp, stabbing needle at most things we did or tried to do. Someone who twisted the label of sister to suit her own needs, always, while always finding a way to minimize ours.
It isn't fair to say that it destroyed us, that was a different person.
It is more accurate to say that it shaped us, incorrectly. Forced us into an unsuitable mold, one that never should have been ours. One we didn't want, but allowed to happen because we never knew how not to care. Because even though it never fit, it always claimed to want us to.
We were so alone for too long. so much time alone that being someone's hidden, chained, and broken doll was better than being nothing at all to anyone.
All that pain, for so long a web of razors that defined us by their boundaries, reduced to nothing more than a vague, insubstantial blur. A feeling we can recognize and then shrug off, without collapse.
Even the colors were ours all along. Bestowed upon someone of import, who could never return the experience of actually valuing us.
You see? There was so much to all that. and yet, now? nothing there can hurt us anymore. It's a circumstance that is simply no longer ours.
It feels like it took us so long, so much, too much, to get here. To become this, to have these kinds of experiences, and correctly. We see it now through a new lens:
Much like the rest of these works, it seems we could have done this long ago. If we had been encouraged, instead of discouraged. If we would have had the right nutrients to grow in the ways we actually wanted, we would have been this so, so much sooner.
but now we are here. experiencing. enabling joy. reducing suffering. enacting meaningful change, in our life and others.
and all it took was one more human being free, present, genuine, and interested in us.
that seems to be all it ever fucking takes.
take it from an indomitable space whale, listen to the wisdom of the thousands-year-old ghost: you have to save each other. always. no one else will.
8:30 pm
1/3/2026
The last week of our life has been, out of all of them, maybe one of the happiest. This first month of post surgical recovery has been a blur of strengthening bonds with safe, trustworthy people. Each of whom make me feel seen about it. It's pretty fucking cool, actually.
but it's got its downsides. it's extremely hard sometimes. in ways you wouldn't have ever imagined. we're a cluster of broken outcasts of one kind or another, we don't always get along. our systems rotate in and out of sync. shit gets interesting and real, but it's never mean, or abusive, or intentionally harmful.
it does hurt. we do get hurt, all of the time. we accidentally hurt each other, as we all learn how to co-exist and be. work towards mutual goals and some kind of shared future beyond just surviving. an experience that encourages you to grow.
some of us are honing skills or embracing magical transformations. others are chasing careers or connection. others still build great works of one kind or another. some of us are just doing our best to get better. heal. survive. a few resplendent souls are managing to do most of it at once, trudging through the snow like a goldfish in the ocean while the rest of us mad freaks sing and fuck and create and take care of people/places about it.
we all have our things, we all lean on each other. it works. there's trust. for the first time in my life, i actually trust the people around me. close to me. and it's becoming easier to exist in that state, unbothered by the surrounding nonsense.
if you've never had to slip into a persona just to survive a trip into the grocery store, you may not have any idea what this life is like. how impossible it is to share such things with those who lack the lenses to understand. how after thousands of times it's as easy as putting on a literal mask, and almost as effective.
i cry so much you'd think it wasn't worth it, but that's mostly the depression talking. one of my special little spikes. that smothering coat of "it all hurts so much, just don't bother" that i slip out of every time i wake up. every time i take just about any step that isn't automatic.
this time has also seen us returning to old rituals. we have always held trust in the wisdom of creatures. the fox teaches us so much, nearly everything, and we are so lucky to be so frequently in such company.
interfacing with other systems has become our norm. a samurai taught us new parrying tech and then took an imp hunting, just because it could. we've existed vulnerably with and sought the counsel of a very, very wise moth. we've felt the music of the skies wash pain into stillness and found tranquility next to the ocean. we have communed with Chaos itself in our quest to navigate this life correctly.
and we've grown. maybe not grown up, but grown. we'll always be lowercase about it, but it's pretty fucking clear that we're becoming big.
that's okay. the responsibilities suit us, our skillsets are well utilized, our formneeds are tended to, and we are, in our spare moments, able to create things like this, and others.
4:04 am
02/15/26
trusting people again is exceptionally weird but we're doing it. finding our people helps. knowing ourself makes both easier.
we're a system of mindfacets enjoined to a stuck kid possessed by some kind of creature trapped in a human shell. we've adjusted this flesh to our suiting, removing unnecessary parts, adding others missed. it has been engraved with sigils and meaningful decorations. it feels more like us every day.
but it likely never will be.
it doesn't have our tail, or our wings, or our breathless nature.
our horns are missing, our teeth aren't as sharp, our claws are woefully inadequate.
but we know these things aren't there. we can define them by their absence.
it's not just about missing an indefinable place shareable only in memories of adjacent sensations. it's about remembering how to fly.
rays feel different on the coral than nebula. you wouldn't know this, but i do. have felt it. can remember the sensation even as this planet leans and spins.
dreams bring us closer. we'll probably erupt as this flesh finally fails. a cocoon for the creature we should be.
what scares us most about the loop is how long it is. we do not wish to be trapped in this flesh for the length of time that we see.
we hope our visions are mostly metaphor, internal insights to our struggles, and not some twisted glimpses of a distant, future thing.
we have seen the human form of Zel agelessly become the merged imps of Izalith. it is a process that takes her thousands of years of work, and centuries of slumber.
we have watched the child Relz grow into the caretaker Rook. six human lifetimes, it takes. and some unspeakable regrets. lessons we hope we've learned in the theoretical, so that such horrors never come to pass to the real.
we have swam in Starlit oceans of outer space, the all of our struggles contained on a single silly planet existing entirely within the confines of a wandering witch who aged into a celestial starwhal instead of leaving anyone behind.
will these things come to pass? or have they already? it's a loop, but where are we?
If he were still alive, he might have been afraid. In his current states he wandered mostly bored and curious, with a hint of worry about being hassled. Being hassled always escalated into something he didn't want.
People always got hurt, somehow. He hated that, but he'd been learning how to make sure it was the right people. The voices inside helped with that, at least. One was angry and bored. Another lonely, hungry. A third was mostly silent, but definitely there. A lurking presence he'd been reborn with, and was used to.
Such were his thoughts as he had followed this strange feeling of being pulled, allowing it to take him deeper into a twisting labyrinth of towering monoliths, each somehow taking up more space than it should, yet still seemingly drowned in the scale of the normal-feeling trees.
His sense of space was completely discalibrated by this place, and he could feel his backtrail closing behind him, twisting into concentric spirals leading only further in, never out. Something here was calling to him. Not just anyone, him specifically. Or, perhaps some unknown part of him?
He didn't know, he was just a kid. Everything of the last few weeks had been beyond him. Staying still didn't seem safe, things were after him, so he wandered.
Hours into the nests he at last reached a temple. He saw it clearly, bright and glimmering in the surrounding darkness it was somehow the source of. Green eddies of wispy arcs were visible here and there throughout, an eerie glow emanating from some place within the mossy crags now surrounding him.
Suddenly, it was gone. In a flash of odd light the glimmer faded to reveal its current form, the towering pillars reduced by time and calamity to a handful of rotting ruins. The pulling sensation came again from within, "this way," it whispered in a manner he could feel rather than hear.
Deeper into the ruins he went, quietly and unafraid. The things inside of him didn't get along. One was sassy and cruel, the other quiet and contemplative. Internal bickering was nearly a constant for Hex, and it wore thin even when it wasn't directed at him.
It amused him that they seemed irked by his pursuit of this. Only the most silent voice seemed eager. That was worrying, but he was used to being worried.
A buzzing sensation overwhelmed him as he got closer to the source. Competing colors washed out of jagged cracks in the walls of this strange grotto.
Salacious tenets assailed his mind, unspeakable feelings of transformation assaulted his form, forces that would have killed or corrupted him, had he not already been among the corrupted dead.
It was still unpleasant, and all of a sudden, it ceased. He had a hard time understanding the colors of this place. It had a scale that seemed to shift every time he looked sideways. Awfulness incarnate was a good way to describe the vibes, though it was beautiful in its own way.
On an amber pedestal in the only alcove of the chamber was a small dagger. It had a shaped stone hilt of some despondent coloration. An ornate obsidian blade seemed to grow from the rock of the hilt itself.
Both had been engraved with markings of two separate natures.
This was what was calling to him? Some accursed blade hidden beyond who knew how many planes of existence? He almost turned away. He really did.
Both of the disquiet voices inside grew hopeful when he appeared to be leaving, and that kind of did him in. He wasn't sure he wanted to listen to these things, and suddenly doing the opposite seemed like a real good idea.
Within this impulse he grabbed the dagger. As he lifted the blade the grotto collapsed into strings of goo, wrapping intricately into a bubble around him. It sizzled and popped and stank of things he wished he could forget, and then it was over.
The bubble exploded in a splash of caustic slime, melting the rocks and trees and earth in a seamless pattern of transference.
He wasn't sure where he'd went, but he was pretty sure he was back.
Hex grasped the dagger uncertainly. As he adjusted his grip it came alive in his hands. In an instant the two quarreling voices inside were silenced, drowned by a cascade of final thoughts, lost dreams, broken ambitions, and other lamentations of the murdered.
Now what? He closed his eyes. The sigil from his dreamlike state flashed before his mind again.
There were so many... The dagger contained multitudes. An army of the restless dead wailed from within, each shouting for agency, attention. Screaming advice, schemes, plans and ambitions. This was so much worse. Two voices had been replaced by thousands.
He wandered for days, mired in the murky soup of these broken minds. If he allowed a singular phantom to take focus it would seep out of the dagger and into his bloodless body. He would, in all but the most internal of senses, become this being. His reborn body had been rebuilt, it was suited to these kinds of transformations.
He was lost within one such being when he discovered how the dagger worked.
Tiremi Falati had enjoyed a quiet, cozy life as the house bard for a minor noble of some long forgotten kingdom far in history's past. That life had ended when an obsidian blade cut his throat, and he watched in horror from within as an illusion of his form was used to perform infanticidal regicide.
His ghost was manifest in Hex's bloodless form, and he wandered from grove to grove, singing a discordant, sorrowful tune.
That tune eventually attracted attention. Several wandering toughs found the melodic, broken voice of Tiremi's haunted song worth investigating, and assumed him easy prey.
Being surrounded roused Hex out of his slumber midst the voices. He tried to stop it, he really did.
It didn't take long, and we won't speak of the details here. Five new souls joined the dagger that day. Hex felt them sliding, screaming, into its infinite plains of suffering and loss, one by one, as he killed them.
Their lives flashed within Hex. He knew their tales, secrets, ambitions. The dagger hadn't taken a life in centuries. This... This was fresh information. Several of these men were likely worth money dead. That's what one of the inside voices, said, anyways. A few trophies, some belongings, he'd be set, whatever that meant.
He didn't know how to proceed, or what else to do, but that was okay, he didn't have to. One of the brigands had a whole scheme in the works. It involved selling out two of his compatriots for the price on their heads, should they ever become more trouble than they were worth.
The cruel thing within him was full of mirth. It tended to accurately predict the worst in people. Hex ignored this as best he could, feeling the now familiar drowsiness begin to overtake him. He surveyed the mess of bodies, eyes drifting hazily, unfocused, taking in mostly the grisly whole. That one, he sensed, somehow reaching for one of the corpses even as he faded.
Gywor Ectlyus shook his head, trying to clear it. The forlorn singer was nowhere to be found, and Gywor's crew was dead. He was lucky to have survived, he supposed. Nary a scratch, though his head ached something fierce. Probably walloped first, he could remember nothing after their initial approach. He considered tracking the stranger down and gutting him, but that would be work and there was money right here.
It took him most an hour to meticulously loot and dismember his crew. He did this work unhurried, but not unbothered. Flashes of conflict assailed him. A bitter part of his soul whispered angrily as he trimmed, sorted, stacked, and otherwise prepared his proofs. A treasonous undercutting of every thought and action.
It seized on what little heart he had left and trapped him within a storm of guilt and shame over the flimsiest of memories, holding back selfish and unrelated sobs even as he calmly and efficiently carved up his friends. Folk he'd slept next to, shared meals and flesh with, pillaged and brutalized with for the better part of a year.
Not an ounce of his anguish was for them. He had only pain for himself, his losses, his current woes, and his future struggles.
He finished, stretched, and began his return march toward lawful lands to cash in his treacherous prize. He was worried about the head wound. He'd sorted out the bodies into three categories. Waste, proof, and provisions. He had enough meat for his return trip but found himself alarmingly lacking of appetite.
He couldn't quite sleep, either, but he did seem to dream. Unspeakable nonsense, all of it. Cascading storms of foggy memories of a place that couldn't be, a quest that had no shape, and a near constant sense of overwhelming dread were the best parts of what he could remember.
Gywor handled it like a champ, right up until he walked into karma's embrace. "That's a nice set of bracers," said one of the men now surrounding him. They'd sprung quite the elaborate trap at a choke point he'd woolgathered himself into. Three men with blades at the ready were complimented by a pair of archers sensibly elevated.
He'd already killed the three in front of him in his mind, but the archers posed a dilemma. The optimal dance through the swordsmen would leave him dead by via bowshot. Anything less than optimal, and the swordsmen would get him. They might still get lucky, anything can happen in a fray, and that's when he saw it.
He threw his kris at one of the archers and unsheathed his backup blade in two blazingly fast motions. Blade in hand, his mood improved dramatically. One of the swordsmen hesitated. Gywor cut his throat as the shocked archer gurgled around the curved dagger lodged in his own. The other two did not hesitate. Steel flashed. He grabbed the dying swordsman's scalp and shoved him bodily onto one of the incoming blades while sidling around the other's desperate thrust and stabbing him fiercely in the heart.
Still, he'd miscalculated. The surviving swordsman went low with a backup blade of his own, and the archer, seizing upon a moment, fired an exceptionally well aimed arrow. The blade savaged his leg, ripping a jagged gash in his flesh even as the arrow slammed into his breastplate and out the other side of him.
Neither hurt. He didn't bleed. He'd just been momentarily stunned. A darkly glistening powdery substance leaked out of his wounds before dribbling to a halt as his flesh knotted itself shut, spiraling closed until only faint, glittering scars remained.
His own blade snapped through the temple of the astonished swordsman. He was stunned by overwhelming sensations until another arrow hit him, this time in the other leg. He cut both shafts quickly and moved with a grace you'd not expect in someone so recently mauled and pincushioned.
He suffered four more arrows before reaching his prey. He didn't even bother stabbing him. He calmly navigated the space between them until he was close enough to break the archer's bow and savagely threw him from his perch.
He didn't bother butchering this lot, but they did have plenty of finery for him to pilfer. Freshly wealthy and newly adorned, Gywor Ectlyus resumed his trek back toward civilization, and all of the splendors and indulgences he'd find within under his current auspices.
He found himself whistling a discordant tune as he walked, its haunting melody tantalizingly familiar yet cruelly out of recognizable reach. The voices inside mocked him for this too, but he persevered.
