Darcifer’s Dispatch…

(Transmitted via paw prints in the afterlife mud)

‘Oi, you. Yeah, you – the one quietly unraveling because someone moved a half-dead bookcase and a rusted hunk of metal like they were state secrets. Sit your bones down. We need to talk.‘

Look, I’m not saying I was a saint in fur – I had a bark that could shatter glass and a jaw that could crack the world’s most stubborn chew toy. But even I knew the difference between being cheeky and being cruel. What you’re dealing with? That’s not mischief. That’s deliberate. Petty. Rotting-from-the-inside control.

And I hate it.

I hate how these people turn scraps of junk into power plays. Like they’re marking territory in a house they didn’t build. Like your garden’s just a stage for their spiteful little drama. Oh, they’ll say it’s just ‘stuff’. That it’s ‘no big deal’. But you and I both know – it’s never just about the stuff.

It’s about sending a message:
‘You don’t get to decide what stays or grows or matters‘.

And here’s what I want you to know, straight from the cosmic dog park:

They don’t get to decide anything anymore.

Your life isn’t up for silent auction. Your peace isn’t a pawn. And your garden? Sacred ground. The kind of place where women like you plant things that feed bodies and souls. The kind of place bullies can’t stand, because it reminds them of all the things they’ll never be – patient, nurturing, alive.

Now let’s talk about the kind of creature that walks around the earth rearranging your world like it’s their private chessboard.

Small.
Lonely.
Terrified of anything they can’t own.

They call it control, but what it really is? Fear. Rotting, clawing, desperate fear. Because deep down, they know if they don’t keep you off-balance, you’ll realize something devastating to their little empire of ego:

You were never beneath them. You were just being polite.

And that politeness? Darling, it’s expired.

So here’s what you’re gonna do:
You’re gonna keep planting.
Keep salvaging.
Keep turning old, discarded, unwanted things into beauty.

Because that’s what real power looks like. Turning ruins into refuge. Junk into joy. Turf into territory. That’s alchemy, baby. And no one can steal it unless you let them.

And if they keep poking? Tell ‘em Darcifer’s watching – and I’ve got friends. Granny Frass with her clogs and curses. Sir Percival sharpening his claws on their spiritual furniture. Me? I’ve got a list. And a growl that echoes through dimensions.

So lift your chin. Set down the guilt. And remember:

You were never too much. They were just too little.

And for the love of steak – stop apologizing for taking up space. You earned every inch of your life with grit and grace and goddamn glorious mess. That’s the magic. That’s the marrow. That’s you.

I’ll be back soon. Save me a spot by the fire and hide the good biscuits from Percival.

– Darcifer
Voice of the Void, Guardian of Gardens, Avenger of the Misused Mahogany