Nathan Hall (WIP A Fort in Winter)

@nathanhallwrites.bsky.social

707 Followers 458 Following

He/him. Writer, editor, Wheel of Time lover. SPFBO 8 Semi-finalist. Pro-LGBT+, Anti-MAGA, anti-AI forever! Altar: https://books2read.com/b/4jkZP5

Balatro, a poker based roguelike. Wee Joker gets +8 chips every time a 2 is played. It currently sits at +1304.
Same as above picture except with shading.
A drawing of Shinji, a humanoid young man with fangs and pointed ears, wearing a sci-fi cuirass and gauntlets with dark shorts and tennis shoes. He's resting his head in one hand and gesturing with a clawed finger from his other, complaining about something with a mild look of annoyance.
Cashapp qr code
Balatro: An opening hand of 8 cards. Different suits, but naturally drawn Ace-7.
Vestigial. It was a big word for an orphan on the streets to know. But then, no orphan starts out that way. She had the faintest memory, like through the noise and smoke of a common room, of her dad whooshing her around above his head, her cackling madly with her little wings flapping, him giving the low belly rumble that Coniath had inherited. She remembered that room, full of all her mom’s books—a study. She remembered lessons from a man that smelled as old as all those books. A tutor. She could usually avoid them, but Coniath got stuck in the house on spring days to write on a slate.
Bmo, a grey and white cat, cuddled obnoxiously against my face.
Oliver, a terrier, fills the whole screen with his face.
$515 in rent overdue. Deadline is Sunday night.
A list of challenges in Balatro. 20 out of 20 completed. Including the last, Jokerless.
Sometimes, at my least charitable, I hope that all we find is the same harm or comfort we gave others. Most of the time I just hope that whatever is next, even if it is nothing, is gentle.
This is a place where hope withers. Where dignity dies. No one would be here, and no one would leave anyone they gave a fuck about here. Not if they had a choice. And that’s the real bitch of it. This place feeds off those without a choice. People like my dad. Looking at this place is enough to bring back Hamlet like a heavy breakfast the morning after hard drinking. The only reason not to just lay down and die is the fear of what might come next. That uncertainty has kept me up enough nights to understand the bleak eyes in the hopeless faces of neglected old timers sunk into padded chairs that somehow provided no rest. A lot of these people clung to this world, despite being abandoned by it, because they aren’t sure what world awaits them. Not my dad, though. My dad held on like he knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side.
Ten years ago, a fire had burned down a quarter of Ymrit. I still remembered the city awash in riotous light, bright in the hours before dawn, warm in midwinter. Smoke had poisoned the entire sky and turned the clouds coal-black, scoured the air until the grit coated me. My Page’s livery had needed to be burned because the stain and smell wouldn’t wash out. I had been assigned as a messenger, telling my small portion of the thousands of families that they had to flee because we were going to pull their buildings down as a desperate firebreak. I’d helped carry clothes and heirlooms and children’s toys and a thousand other things that those evacuating couldn’t bear to part with. All the while the fire grew over and around the shapes of the doomed buildings, until finally it was passed down that there was no more time. Exhausted to the point of numbness, I’d stumbled along the line of fire watch, ladling water from buckets for them to drink as they hacked and tore down buildings along entire streets.
The sunrise shining gold through clouds. Taken from the sidewalk, with trees lining a grassy hill on one side.
Lemongrab, an orange bearded dragon, looks at me sassily while I take a picture. He's all pancakey, basking in a sunspot through the window on the brown carpet.
My wife's venmo. @Victoria-Anderson-36885
Lemongrab, my beardie, snuggled on me under a blanket. Napping happily.
Man with spiky windswept hair and headband, wearing a sleeveless vest over a v collar shirt and dark pants. His cape is checkered, and his boots curl at the toe and have bells. He's holding a wooden staff in one gloved hand, and his other is wreathed in flame. He's smiling, cocky.
Reassembling Skeleton A battered, half-formed skeleton warrior clothed in ragged remains of pirate gear, wielding a thick cutlass, rising from a dusty grave. Mana Cost 1B Type Creature – Skeleton Warrior Rarity Uncommon rules Text 1B: Return Reassembling Skeleton from your graveyard to the battlefield tapped. Flavor Text "They may show up with the wrong thigh bone or mandible, but they always show up." —Zul Ashur, lich lord Artist Austin Hsu
Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom edition Switch. The box shows the casing and controller with gold and green geometric patterns. In the background is Link crouched on ancient cliffs above the clouds.
10 Years: The Autumn Effect. Hummingbird drinking nectar from a flower mid flight.