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that-lieutenant · 3 years ago

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Of the relationship between Mairon and the orcs

An assortment of various of my HCs in one shot format i guess

[This is my first time writing fanfic (whaaat) and i sadly don‘t have an ao3 account yet (but i‘ll get to it once my personal life isn‘t hell anymore) so please consider giving this some love :) ]

Also: this is heavily influenced by @lemurious writing (because all my silm interpretations nowadays are, i just love their content ahh)

His people.

His headstrong, steadfast, steel hard, loyal, ingenious, beautiful people.

When he first came upon them, their bodies had already adapted perfectly to the cold northern tundra of their homeland. Thick grey skin, heavy hair, stocky build.

The wars would add countless scars and burns and limbs of metal.

But that was later.

When he first met his people what was war to them? To him? Who knew then about the horrors they would be forced to face at the hands of the other species of Arda? At a time when they did not even know there were other species.

When he first came upon his people he thought they were the firstborn children Eru had shown the Ainur in their vision. He thought he had been successful in discovering them first, before the other Valar could. He had been so relieved that they would be spared a life in the stifling superficial horror that was Valinor.

And they really are the firstborn. These other, warm skinned, bright eyed, spindly thin creatures that came pouring back from west a couple centuries later, who were they but Valarin lackeys, transformed beyond recognition? And then they demanded land and loyalty and called their primogenitors disfigured and corrupted.

He knows now that he should not have been so surprised back then that these usurpers had shown themselves to have come with the blessing of Illuvatar. After all what were firstborn to Eru? Truly, what had been He Who Arises In Might, the firstborn of the Ainur, what had been his people, the firstborn of his children, to Eru?

The actions of this absentee god would speak clear words in the following millennia, they would come to learn.

When he first came to meet the true firstborn, when he lived among them, when he learned their customs, their language, their love and he found connections so deep they would fuel him for ages to come, that was when he knew he had found his people. And together with their leaders and his own brethren they were able to lay the foundations for a culture that would thrive in spite of its creator and the eternal war this creator perpetuated.

In merely a few centuries, together they were able to develop technologies that would not be seen again the following age.

And then?

The wrath and unquestioned self-righteousness of their enemies erupts over Beleriand and the years of intense warfare lead to brutal massacres. On both sides – he is nowhere close to being without fault; that fierce love of his people has lead him to commit some of the most heinous acts of violence over and over again – but even now he remembers climbing down into the ruins of their underground cities after their defeat. He remembers the protective bunkers filled with civilian bodies and standing in their spilled blood.

The ones that got out in time were mostly soldiers because they had been evacuatable once the defeat was imminent. But the workers, the engineers, the caretakers, the children, those who they had wanted to keep safe in the bunkers? It was too late for them by the time they realises that nothing they could do would stop the fortress from being taken. And then the Valar went on and slaughtered them all.

It is his fault. And at the time it seemed like the worst one he would ever make.

As a nuclear firestorm destroys Beleriand, as the remnants of an entire continent drown in the sea behind them, and he and what is left of his people loose everything, the only thing he can do is lead them away, further and further east. Until he can‘t even do that anymore.

Because at that point everything just collapses in on him. His work has been shattered to pieces, all his brethren and most of his trusted generals killed, his lord, his partner, his lover, his pillar was taken and with that he just stops functioning.

In their hour of greatest need he abandons his people. After all, the only thing he ever seems to bring to them is war and death.

For a millennium he just… There is no purpose, no responsibility. Distantly he hears of the hardships his people are facing now in the East. How slow civilisations develop without the energy of a Vala or three radiating stones to power them. But he shuts it all out. He becomes numb to it.

And strangely, when he stumbles upon the new settlements of the second firstborn he isn‘t filled with unadulterated unstoppable rage. He is just tired. After all, what, truly, are these creatures but the Valar‘s playball in their game of who-is-the-most-despicable-without-realising? And strangely, these Eldar do not recognise who he is.

So why not, he thinks. Why not live in easy expedients for once, why not push away the past and continue to abdicate any responsibility he has to his that people? He crafts a name and a lie to start his new life of ignorance is bliss.

Oh, sweet Tyelpe. How easy it is to share the discoveries they had made in the first age with this ellon when the reward is all eyes big of wonder and desperation to discover more of this „Valinorian“ technology. It is so much like in the old days when he and his brethren and the best scientist of his people would find new methods and formulas to describe the world around them that he can‘t help but loose himself in the intelligent conversations of their workshop, the peaceful thriving of their city, the warm tenderness of their embrace.

They work to create better methods of gaining and storing energy then until they eventually develop the rings that can provide enough power to sustain entire cities.

They plan to make rings for the strongholds of dwarves and men and Eldar. But what about his people, he finds himself thinking. These technologies that are now used in the elvish kingdoms, they are only a small part of what was developed by and for him and his people in the first place. So what about his people?

He feels restless now. Old anger at injustice and blind self-righteousness arise in him again. In secret he starts travelling to the settlements his people have made in a country they call Mordor. The conditions there are rough and the technology now primitive compared to their glorious past but he sees a lot of recent progress.

All of the generals and leaders of old are long dead now and it takes a lot of time and effort to convince his people to trust him again, that he can and will help and that he won‘t abandon them again. They start building an underground city and a fortress once more, Barad-dûr, where the energy will be harvested. He creates a ring more powerful than any of the ones before. It has to supply the entire population after all.

When he returns to Eregion something has changed.

He can feel a strange charge in the air. Are the Eldar suspecting something? They all seem very worried at the sudden surge of activity in Mordor and he is starkly reminded that these Eldar, at the end of the day they still view his people as an ultimate but also undignified threat.

He knows something is wrong when Tyelpe suggests that their rings might also be used as a weapon. One of mass destruction. Mass destruction of his people that is. Tyelpe leaves that unsaid but it is clear as day what he means.

He doesn‘t need to worry about the rings for the elven cities anymore, Tyelpe tells him then and smiles.

A primordial fear settles into his bones. The horror at what is to come turns his stomach. What has he done? How could he have given all this help, all this power to the Eldar when they would only turn around and use it against his people?

He remembers sitting outside on some steps, pulling at his hair, his entire body shaking, growing increasingly mad at all the options that seem to slip out his hands one by one. And when Tyelpe comes to meet him there the only thing left for him to do is to push the ellon against a pillar, knife to his eye and demand the elvish rings he devised in secret. But Tyelpe laughs bitterly and spits in his face.

So it is truly you, the abhorred one, the dark foe‘s torturer, his whore.

This time it is his own wrath that razes cities to the ground. His people are ready for war. They have to be. And the next centuries are dictated by mindless destruction and production lines of battle machinery being the first thing that is re-introduced into the city of his people.

But still the population grows again, the conditions improve, their underground civilisation expands and he finds that he can make alliances with some of the human tribes and kingdoms that they had given rings of power to.

He and his people once again find ways to live in perfect symbiosis with the harsh climate of their land. Volcanic soil is fertile, air and water can be filtered and the ring offers them enough power to sustain artificial lights for growing crops underground and more.

It‘s progress but one that they keep secret. Because just like he is fuelled by the fear of elvish development, the Eldar would surely bring about another war of wrath if they knew about the advancements of his people.

The whole Numenorean ordeal that followed some centuries later was a mess. When that conquerer-king and his armies march upon Mordor he has no choice but to give in quickly. They cannot risk being invaded. Luckily these men are self-complacent enough to take their smugness and their ‚victory‘ and leave again. Though they also feel the need to drag him to that forsaken island of theirs.

Ar-Pharazon truly was a conquerer. He stretched his hands further and further for more colonies on the continent while his nation corroded away with by civil war. The golden king took and took from everyone around him and the displays of subjugation he was continually forced to perform to this king were manifold and in all kinds of ways.

Of course the wrath of the Valar that they unleashed upon the island as soon as they felt slightly threatened in their superiority was in the end blamed on him. He only ever indulged the Numenoreans‘ fantasies. When they brought him to their island it was already on the brink of collapse with conflict and misanthropic ideologies. Sure he, too, lost himself a bit in that collective insanity; he was complicit, so was everyone else. And then Eru felt they could cast judgement upon all these individuals and drowned yet another continent.

He laughs in the face of such insolence. It‘s hysterical, maybe more so a scream.

Then the water hits his body. It presses all the air out, breaks his ribs, crushes his lungs.

When he awakes again he is floating on a piece of driftwood, endless blue stretches around him. His body is raw and for some reason he finds himself unable to shift form anymore. He starts to panic, tries to force his particles to regroup in a way that forms a bird, a fish, something, he needs to get out of this blue emptiness now, he needs to – what is happening??

There is another war at the end of that age, but by that time his memory has turned into an indecipherable blur. It leads to yet more massacre. But worst of all, they take the ring.

For him it is as if all the tissue that holds him together suddenly loosens. He falls to his knees, sacks into himself. He can feel his spirit oozing out of the leaks that now penetrate his form. He stumbles back.

In the underground city the lights go dark, the industrial production comes to a standstill, the water and air filters turn off. His people pour out of their homes once they start to starve, once they realise that their military has lost the war and that their government has no way of dealing with the catastrophe.

They are in need but once again he is abandoning them. He is just so tired.

In the tower there is a large tank with cooling liquid for the energy production of the ring that he now lies in. In the pitch-black darkness his bones have started to shine with a dim fluorescent green. His body has started to disintegrate.

Outside he can feel the remnants of his peoples civilisation fall to ruin a second time. It takes only a few decades for them to return to the primitive conditions of their life without a secure energy supply.

And then suddenly it‘s not only his body that disintegrates anymore but the heavy elements in him too. At a faster rate than is normally used to power an Ainu‘s body that is. The heat of the nuclear fission that has set in brings the coolant to the boil and he had just barely enough mind and willpower left to set off the steam turbine. With a thudding noise the whole energy plant slowly comes to life again.

And for the next millennia Mairon lies submerged in the coolant tank, his body glowing and radiating and falling apart, his atoms splitting and powering a city that has been abandoned and he can only hope that his people will come back and reclaim what is theirs by right and rebuild their lives, their culture, their technology with the last energy that he has to give.

#How Mairon turns himself into an atomic reactor: a powerpoint with pictures #sci fi tolkien #silmarillion #tolkien #mairon #orcs #lotr #silmarillion fanfiction #fanfic #technology #science in tolkien #sauron

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silverducks · 3 years ago

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Game of Thrones - My Ending

Ok, so I wasn't too keen on the ending we had in Game of Thrones, so I made up my own.

This is not me theorising how the book series might end either, just me trying to come to terms with some of the badly written stuff at the end of GoT. A fix it fic, if you will.

It can pretty much go as we've already seen in the episodes, even if I'm not too keen on a lot of what happened in it (cough the Night King cough). But I can live with most of it and this is designed to fit into what we already have, with not too many changes. Just enough to fix what for me were the worst of the plot points.

Spoilers below for GoT obviously.

Anyway, Jaime of course doesn't just go back to save Cersei, because that's stupid and totally undermines his character arc. Instead he is going back to stop her – kill her if needed - as he fears she'll set off the Wildfire which he suddenly thought of from what Sansa says. So he pretends he's leaving Brienne as he doesn’t want her to go with him, as it might put her in danger.

The rest of the episode can play out as it does, with Tyrion really thinking Jaime is returning to Cersei because he doesn’t realise how much Jaime has changed as a person. Jaime plays along, not wanting his brother to either try to stop him, or help him. But when Jaime gets to Cersei (much sooner than in the show) he sees she is about to set off the Wildfire - her last attempt at victory, hoping it will kill the invading army.

It’s another silly plot point for me that Cersei doesn’t have more planned; she's too clever not too. So she does have a back-up plan in my version, one where she’ll set off the Wildfire to hopefully destroy the invading army and Dany and her dragons with it (having already isolated the Red Keep from the Wildfire supply, so she’ll be ok there). Anyway, Jaime sees Cersei about to set off the Wildfire so he pleads with her not too. When that doesn't work, he strangles her as per the Valonqar prophecy. He then sets off the bells, (because it makes more sense only the royal family can from the keep). This brings his story arc to a proper close – coming full circle in the sense he yet again kills a monarch to prevent the slaughter of innocents, something even harder for him to do this time as it’s his sister. But also fully completes his character arc in that he finally and fully breaks free from Cersei and redeems himself.

Before and between the above scenes, we see much more of a proper battle between Dany and Jon’s forces and Cersei’s – the battle isn’t won quite so easily. The Lannister army still surrenders, but only when they hear the bells rung by Jaime.

Dany, when she hears the bells, but sees the Red Keep, decides she's determined to take her enemies out. She doesn’t just slaughter everyone, because that is another stupid plot point, but instead goes straight for the keep. Her "madness" is still there, but only in enough for her to forget the innocents on her way. (Yes, I still like Dany’s descent into madness and think this is a key thing from GRRM, but the show handled it badly). Unfortunately though, she sets off the Wildfire accidentally, which Jaime tried so hard to stop. It tears through the city and hits all the innocent people anyway. It's enough for Tyrion & Jon to see she's unfit to rule, but without such a rash personality change. And whilst the Wildfire rages through the city, we see all the soldiers on all sides helping the innocent people and each other to get to safety.

Meanwhile, Arya, who isn't so easily swayed from her task, gets to Cersei just as Jaime kills her. Jaime is about to give up after he rings the bells, because he's upset he’s had to kill his sister - even if he's not in love with her anymore, she's still his sister and he still cares a lot about her. But when he sees Arya and the Red Keep under attack from Dany and Drogon, he remembers his vow to save both Stark girls. It gets him fighting again and him and Arya both help each other escape the Red Keep. When they’re trying to escape is around the time the Wildfire is set off by Dany and we see Jaime badly injured with Arya (who knows he’s on the right side for killing Cersei), helping him up. The episode ends with us not being too sure if they made it out alive.

The next and final episode, we've still got going relatively similar with Tyrion wandering through the wreckage of Kings Landing. He finds a bunch of Lannister soldiers near the Red Keep and a badly injured Jaime is there. Arya's there too, but not as badly injured, but much more than the show which was too unrealistic in that regard.

Jaime tells Tyrion he was trying to stop Cersei, but the Wildfire went off anyway. Dany doesn't have much remorse about this - she sees it is a necessary casualty in winning the war. She still gives her speech, but it’s not quite as tyrannical. But both Tyrion & Jon are not happy about this, so the rest of the story with Dany’s death goes the same. Only we see Dany realising why Jon is killing her properly this time. Drogon doesn’t destroy the throne - because that symbolism, though looking cool, isn’t ever then taken through properly in the show (ie we still end up with a King).

However, because Jon is technically the rightful heir to the throne, not Dany, the Lord Council members demands he’s set free and made king. He was in his right to kill the “real” usurper. Grey Worm doesn't like this, but as most of his soldiers are now dead, because they've fought in lots of battles now - same with the Dothraki - he has little choice. (Seriously, in the show where did all these extra Dothraki and Unsullied come from?!) So Jon's released and Tyrion too (he still gets arrested for freeing Jaime, even though Jaime was on their side all along, because it’s another sign that Dany’s not herself now, her thirst for power has totally overtaken her idealism)

Jon though, doesn’t want to be King, so they still all elect Bran, only they focus on the real reason Bran would be a good king - because he can see everything and therefore use it to make wise kingly decisions.

The Small Council's much the same; Brienne can still be head of the Kings Guard, although Bran changes the rules so they can still marry people and have kids (he’s all knowing, it’s less relevant for him to have such a committed Kings Guard) and so her and Jaime can marry. Jaime becomes the commander of the army/Master of War again, because he’s proven himself worthy. He’s still also Lord of Casterly Rock, although he doesn’t live there, but his and Brienne’s children can inherit it and also Tarth. Bronn's made his second in command (not Master of Coin which makes no sense.) Tyrion's still the Hand, because he did do a good job of it back in the days before Dany (and the show runners made him stupid).

Jon chooses to go North to be with his Wilding friends, although he’s not exiled and there is no Night Watch now. (Seriously, that’s the only way to deal with the people who would otherwise join the Night Watch?) Sansa’s just made warden of the North, because splitting the country up further seems counter to the theme of working together we had in the show. (I think Sansa would indeed make a great ruler, but she doesn’t need to actually become Queen. Just the best Warden of the North ever!) Arya still leaves to find what’s West of Westeros, but it's based on the idea she'll be back and of course totally left open ended whether she eventually reunites with Gendry (in my head canon she totally does). He’s there waving her off and she looks a little sad as she watches him whilst she sails away...

And Pod still becomes a Knight.

There. That’s my ending. Of course, there’s lots more I’d like to change in Season 8, and also Season 7 which had its own share of bad plot points, but this is meant as a few tweaks to the biggest issues I had, rather than a full on rework.

And I’m gonna have this as my headcanon, because I’m still bitter about how they did end things on the show, especially for Jaime. He had one of the best character arcs on the show and no one can convince me it wasn’t anything but completely wasted and destroyed in the end. For no other real reason but bad writing and a total lack of understanding/regard for his character. Such a shame.

#Game of Thrones

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hvproductions · 5 years ago

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FLAMES OF DREAMS SERIES: GODS & MONSTERS PAIRING: Reader x Ivar the Boneless FANDOM: Vikings WORD COUNT: 961

CHAPTER 1 I CHAPTER 2 I

CHAPTER 3: WORLD FOR THE TAKING

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You had never seen that much blood before.

Bodies lying on top of other ones, making it nearly impossible for you to see the ground underneath. Loud screams echoed in your ears, and for a minute you thought you would go deaf because of it. You could barely identify your friends from your foes; that’s how many soldiers were there. You, the young queen, were so tired you felt as if you’d drop onto the ground any second now; the pure anger of seeing your people slaughtered, your kingdom ruined, kept you going. So you rose to your feet, your sword swinging in the air once more. Blood splattered onto your face – you instantly closed your eyes to stop the blood from reaching your eyes. When you opened them again only a second later the first person you saw was the one responsible for everything that was happening – the one that they called Ivar the Boneless, and the one that you yourself would kill.

It wasn't easy, that much was clear. He was surrounded with many warriors, forcing you to admit that even if you managed to reach him, you would most certainly die doing so. Yet you couldn’t be selfish, not at a moment like this. At least your sister would be safe and able to continue the legacy of your family, a legacy that had lasted for almost a century.

Your sword clashed with another, sending you flying forward. You were about to fall but managed to force yourself to stand still, piercing your sword through a northman’s body. It didn’t take long for another one to attack; he too shared his countrymen’s destiny.

Ivar had noticed you fighting near him, and even though he didn’t want to, he had to admit that you were one of the most skilled warriors he had ever seen - it wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say that your skills matched the famous shieldmaiden Lagertha’s. He saw the determination in your eyes; he saw how exhausted you were, yet continued to fight. In his eyes that made you equal - he would have even wanted to applaud you for being the bravest person he had seen in England all together.

Attacked from one side, then another, it was nearly impossible for you to move forward. Amidst all of the fighting you lost sight of Ivar; you tried to search for him, but couldn’t. Bodies were blocking your sight of view. Just before you were about to give up hope his body on his crutch came into your view. Slashing bodies with no stoppage you ran towards him; he hadn’t noticed you.

Your sword fell to the ground - you would have wanted to pick it up, but couldn’t since another Heathen appeared to attack you. With a quick motion you grabbed your dagger, landing it into his neck. He let out a loud yell to which you pulled the dagger out, fully intent on using it on Ivar.

The young man turned around just as you placed the dagger onto his neck - surprise was evident on his face. He probably hadn’t thought you would gain a way to him.

But you hesitated - just for a split second - yet it was enough, because the next thing you heard through the chaos were the words you dreaded to hear the most.

“Lower the dagger, or the princess dies.”

You recognized the voice as Hvitserk’s before you could even glance at the source of the voice. Your eyes stared into Ivar’s icy blue ones while the man simply smirked at your actions. He knew even before you did that he would not die there – Hvitserk having your sister in his arms only confirmed that. He was sure that it was because of his brother’s interference he was still alive, and not lying on the ground on his way to Valhalla.

“Don’t do it Y/N, kill hi-“ Darelle pleaded, stopping when Hvitserk forced the blade more forcefully onto her neck. It was then you dragged your eyes from Ivar and focused on your sister instead. You were expecting to see your younger sister with tears in her eyes and frightful for her life, but instead Darelle had a determined look on her face. It was evident to you that Darelle was not afraid to die, and would even prefer death than being a slave for any Northerner.

“Kill me. And your sister.” Ivar casually commented, waving a hand in Darelle’s direction. He didn’t have any fear in him – it was that moment you realized that all of the stories you had heard in your childhood were true. All of the stories about the men and women who had killed your father were true.

The world seemed to stay still as everyone stared at the two figures standing in the middle of the court. The whole fight had stopped; both of the fighting sides knew that if the queen of Essex were to kill Ivar the Boneless, the fight would be finished. You would become a legendary queen, and the invaders would have to return to Kattegat in shame.

When you finally let the knife drop onto the ground, you were grabbed in an instant. A set of arms forced you to kneel right in front of Ivar who was watching the whole ordeal with a smile on his face. Your eyes found your sister who was dragged away by Hvitserk, and you could clearly see the disappointed look in her eyes. And even though there was no fear in Darelle before, there certainly was now.

“You should have killed me, queen of Essex.” Ivar threatened with a low voice, kneeling down to your eye level. “After I am finished, you’ll wish I’d kill you.”

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I @youbloodymadgenius I @saldelys I @readsalot73 I @sawendel I @angelenemies I @heavenly1927 I @affection-rabbit I @kingniazx I @i-am-a-teenage-dirtbaggg I @joebob15274 I @yepimthatperson I

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thalduin-blueleaf · 4 years ago

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Weapons of Haearn - Part 2

Haearn crafted items are highly sought after with most never actually seeing one in their lifetime. This has led to rumours and myths spreading throughout the broken lands as to what these weapons can actually do. Many say that the wielders of these weapons become great warriors overnight, while others believe that not just anyone can unlock their full potential. However, there is one thing that is common between every wielder...their lives are often cut short....

Sergeant Dorrell was a Nuxvarian Soldier in service to King Dorian through the years 735 PA - 742 PA. She served as a faithful right hand to Captain Mayweather and had been commended for her bravery on the battlefield several times. Her skill with both sword and shield was regarded as exceptional and her troops were known to be loyal to a fault. She was a good leader and many saw greatness in her future, to the point it was believed she would someday be Mayweather’s successor.

“Sergeant Dorrell is a fine woman, there’s no one else I’d rather have by my side in a fight. She even took the time to train me individually, though her patience does wear thin at times, she gets the best out of us and never asks us to do anything she herself wouldn’t.” - Bilswick, a soldier under Dorrell’s command. (739 PA)

Dorrell would not speak much of her personal life with her squad, despite numerous attempts to discover more about her. Although it was discovered that she was in a relationship with a man named Dastan, a fellow soldier that was stationed in her battalion. He was not the most skilled warrior or even the most charismatic, but Dorrell saw a kindness in him, a rare trait throughout Dorrell’s life as a soldier, it was something she gravitated towards and regarded highly amongst people, something that she desperately needed to keep her grounded. By all accounts they were deeply in love and on more than one occasion soldiers had walked in on the two caught in compromising situations.

“I have some spare time after my second training session. Meet me in the armoury. Make sure you aren’t followed this time, I would prefer it if we weren’t interrupted again. I would also like not to be reprimanded by the Captain.” - A letter from Dorrell to Dastan. (740 PA)

Even though the relationship wasn’t strictly in breach of any military law, their union was still frowned upon by Dorrell’s superiors. It was believed that a commanding officer could not be unbiased towards their subordinate if the two were pursuing a romantic entanglement. Dorrell was determined to be promoted to captain and her relationship with Dastan hindered this greatly. Knowing this, the two of them decided to keep their love a secret moving forward and act as though they were just soldier and sergeant (they aren’t officers unless you want to change her to Lieutenant). However, one night Dorrell would propose they both get married in secret and commit heart, soul and body to each other.

“I had never seen two people more excited to be wed, they even had the ceremony performed while they were fully clad in heavy armour. It was a simple and quick event, with the only witness being myself, I believe they wanted to keep the whole thing a secret. As soon as I finished the closing sentiments the two kissed and rushed off into the night, with huge smiles on their faces.” - Priest of the Church of Galon. (741 PA)

Dorrell was soon approached by Captain Mayweather, with news that she was likely to succeed him as captain as he was getting old and would look to retire soon. Mayweather unsheathed a luxurious blade and Dorrell looked on in awe as it glistened in the sunlight. The Captain explained to her that the blade's name is Cariad, so named as it would protect the wielder as if it were a lover, and was ceremoniously passed down from captain to captain, and holds extraordinary power. Mayweather sheathed the blade once more. Dorrell, more determined than ever to prove herself, led multiple incursions into enemy territory, in an attempt to push back the invading and corrupting force, the Oerkith.

“The Oerkith are base and vile, they worship the god Marwolaeth and spread corruption and disease wherever they go. They have the ability to destroy one's soul whilst leaving the body intact, allowing them to be used as thralls for their own personal use. Do not underestimate them, I value you far too much to lose you now.” - Captain Mayweather to Sergeant Dorrell (741 PA)

Dorrell led an unsanctioned raid to destroy an Oerkith camp that had settled too close to Nuxvar, in an attempt to progress her road to Captaincy and impress her superiors. Acting on word from her scouts Dorrell believed a swift attack would end the battle quickly, as the enemy was reportedly small in number. When Dorrell and her squad arrived at the camp however, her scouts turned on her and attacked. During the chaos that ensued Dorrell was knocked unconscious, and her men did what they could to get her out of there alive. Dastan and a small group of brave warriors elected to stay behind and cover the retreat so that the others could get Dorrell to safety. When Dorrell awoke, she was back in the city of Nuxvar with Captain Mayweather at her side. Despite her injuries Dorrell leapt to her feet in a panic and Captain Mayweather was forced to physically restrain her as he told her what happened. She pleaded with the Captain to give her men so she could go back out there to rescue her men that were captured, and to save her husband. Mayweather however, deemed it too risky as they would anticipate another attack this soon and was unwilling to risk more lives for those he knew were already lost.

Dorrell was furious, her mind consumed with only one thought, she needed to save the man she loved, without him it just wasn’t worth it to her, the promotion, the sword, Nuxvar itself, none of it mattered if Dastan was not by her side. She stormed out of the barracks determined to save her husband, by herself if she had to. However, Dorrell was soon restrained by two of her own men, who were ordered by Captain Mayweather to detain her until she came to her senses and recognised the hopeless situation for what it was.

“Please, you can’t do this! You have to let me go! He needs me! Dastan needs me! I will never forgive you for this! Never! Let me go!” - Sergeant Dorrell (742)

That night, Captain Mayweather visited Dorrell while she was tied to her recovery bed. Mayweather spoke to her about her duty, how she needed to forget the soldiers she lost and to move on. Soldiers are expendable in the face of war, and her men had done their duty. Dorrell had been working on breaking free from her binds most of the day and now was close to breaking free, close to saving Dastan. Captain Mayweather confessed to Dorrell that he had feelings for her ever since she joined the army and that's why he promoted her, in an attempt to spend more time with and get closer to her. Mayweather began to run his hand up her leg and brushed hair from her face. He told her that he knew about Dastan how they had never ended their relationship, but that now that he was gone they were free to be together. A wild fury built up inside Dorrell as Mayweather leaned in to kiss her. Instead of Dorrell’s soft lips however, Mayweather was greeted with a forceful headbutt and in one ferocious motion, Dorrell broke free from her binds. While Mayweather was reeling from the blow, Dorrell drew Cariad from its sheath on Mayweather’s hip and thrust it through his unarmoured chest, killing him where he stood. Dorrell spared no time on her former Captain’s bloodied corpse and instead took Cariad and snuck her way out of the infirmary and out of Nuxvar.

Dorrell was solely focused on one goal, get to the Oerkith camp and save Dastan, and she would kill any that got in her way. She stole a horse from the nearby stable and began her ride to the encampment. Fuelled by a rage and fear for Dastans life, Dorrell rode through the night until she reached her destination. In the early hours of the morning Dorrell arrived, and without a second thought she rode her horse in a full charge towards her enemies. Holding Cariad high above her head and screaming a bloodcurdling battle cry, the sergeant charged headfirst into the enemy lines. Blinded by fear and rage, while Cariad burned with a white hot flame, Dorrell cut down her enemies in swathes, all who were brave, or foolish, enough to engage the woman were slain, slaughtered as if they were no more than cattle at market. Dorrell was relentless, never easing the bloody path she carved through the Oerkith, until none in the camp still drew breath. Blood soaked and panting she stood there, among a field of fallen Oerkith, bodies littered the ground as if tossed by a careless hand, and the great sword Cariad was still clutched in her hand. Dorrell frantically searched the camp for Dastan, inside every tent and cage, leaving no stone unturned, until she eventually found him. Hunched over in a cage Dastan sat there, quiet and unmoving. Durrell opened the cage with trepidation and rushed to his side. Worry ate at her insides as she took in her husband’s unmoving form, Dorrell knew what the Oerkith were capable of, what they turned men into. This thing, for it was no longer a person, was also no longer her husband and her worst fears had been realised. Dastan’s eyes were a dull white, blank, seeing but not understanding, there was no light, no warmth as it took in the form of his wife. Dorrell desperately tried to get him to remember, to react in any way, but it was for naught, his soul was gone. Everything that made Dastan who he was, his kindness, his love, had all been stolen from him, stripped until he was no more but a husk.

Durrell began to weep, for she had lost her husband, to a fate many considered worse than death, and now she must end his suffering, for it was kinder to kill him than allow him to dwell on in this unfeeling form. Dorrell lifted Cariad and pulled Dastan into her last loving embrace, gently Dorrell thrust Cariad through Dastan’s heart, quick and clean, he would feel but a slight pinch before he left this world. Dorrell stayed with her husband, but she did not weep as she had no tears left to shed, and cremated Dastan’s body, along with the remains of her brave soldiers, upon a nearby hill as the sun rose on a new day. Bathed in the warm light of the sun Dorrell said her last goodbyes. Dorrell then disappeared into the wilderness, Cariad in hand. Some say she went off to die, her heart broken and nothing left to live for, but many others disagree, they say Dorrell and Cariad still roam this land, hunting Oerkith and other manner of dark creatures, ridding the world of evil, driven by an unquenchable fury. They say Dorrell is waiting for the day she is released from her torment by a worthy challenger, one who possesses the ability to wield Cariad.

#original writing #original character #female lead #sword #fantasy #love #rage #creative #creative writing #story #magic #dungeons and dragons #original fiction #sad #happy #lore #original history

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four-loose-screws · 5 years ago

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FE4 Suzuki Novelization Translation - Chapter 5 Part 6

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations - Ko-fi

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Chapter 5 - The Battle in Verdane

Part 6

There were actually two houses of Augustria that sent a soldier to keep watch over Castle Evans.

The first was Eldigan's House Nordion, and the other was House Heirhein.

When Sigurd's army deployed, the two soldiers each returned to their respective lands.

Eldigan received his soldier's report and organized a small unit to go to the Heirheinian border, ordering them to come back immediately if Heirhein deployed any soldiers of their own.

Meanwhile, in Heirhein, Prince Elliot also received his soldier's report. He'd very specifically asked the soldier to count how many soldiers were in Evans Castle, and so the soldier told him the exact number.

"Amazing! The castle is practically empty! Who knew this Sigurd was such an idiot!?"

He ordered his personal cavalier unit to prepare for battle.

‘So long as Eldigan and Nordion aren't there, we'll hardly even have to put up a fight to seize Evans Castle! Then, we'll intercept the Grannvalian Army in Verdane, and slaughter them all!!’

When the sun set, Elliot crossed the Nordion border. He planned to rush through during the night, before Eldigan even noticed he was there.

Once he and his army were near the castle, they extinguished their torches and moved so slowly that even the horses' feet were silent. There were no signs of a response from the castle.

Eventually, they felt they were safe and out of sight, and lit their torches again.

"Ready!? We move at top speed until we reach the Verdanian border! At dawn, we will cross into Verdane!"

Things all went according to Elliott's plan. As the eastern skies began to turn white, they could see the border.

Just then, shadows loomed from atop the hill before them. The shadows grew and grew in size, until they covered the entire hilltop.

"What is that!?" He pointed at one of his cavaliers. "You, go investigate!"

The cavalier steered his horse up the hill.

As his horse galloped closer and closer to the hill, it became clear that the shadows were those of a cavalry unit. However, since the light was coming from behind him, he still couldn't tell exactly where the cavalry unit was.

The soldier returned to give his report. "It's Nordion's Cross Knights, Sir!"

"What!? Nordion!?"

"I'm certain it's them. I even saw Lord Eldigan's lion flag!"

"Damn that Eldigan! How dare he get in my way!"

Elliot divided his unit into two lines and slowly marched on.

Once they were closer, he could see with his own eyes that the unit before them was indeed Nordion's Cross Knights. There was no mistaking the lion symbol on the flag they flew.

Once he was within earshot of Eldigan, Elliot halted his unit.

A single cavalier broke from Nordion unit and came towards him.

'Eldigan!' Elliot realized and also moved slightly forward.

"Elliot, this is Nordionian territory! Why have you brought your cavalier unit here!?"

Elliot had no response. He was taken aback by the fact that Eldigan had gotten the first word in.

"Your silence only confirms that you're sneaking around! Have you no honor as a knight!?" Eldigan laughed at him.

"Curse you! How dare you get in my way!? I'm here to fight Grannvale. Let me through!"

"Sorry, but I am Eldigan of Nordion! I was told not to let anyone pass the border into Verdane, so I cannot let you through! Leave here quietly, because you wouldn't want to fight me."

"Have you gone mad, Eldigan!? Are you really siding with Grannvale!?"

"I should ask you the same question! Do you not realize that you are going against our lord's orders!? The king has always honored our alliance with Grannvale. We must protect it! To seek war is betrayal!"

"Only you would be foolish enough to support such outdated ideas. The Dominion of Agustria has already sided with the anti-Grannvalians. It is only a matter of time before King Chagall declares war!"

"If that is true, then I will argue completely against it! Do you know what would happen if we went to war with Grannvale!? There would be major casualties on both sides! Even if we won, we would still lose. Countless people would be wounded or killed. Villages and towns would burn down to the ground, leaving our lands in ruin. It is our responsibility as nobility to keep war from ever happening!"

"You’re soft as ever I see, Eldigan, and blind to reality because you went to that Grannvalian academy! They've invaded Isaach, and are about to attack Verdane! Isn't it obvious!? Augustria is next!"

"And if that happens, I will defend the border, and not allow a single Grannvalian soldier to cross."

"Do you really think that's how things will go!? Grannvale is a huge country! You may wield a Holy Weapon, but that doesn't mean you can fend off a huge army like that. Now's our chance! We won't get another. I won't tell you that you should fight with me. I'll go by myself, so get out of my way!"

"Do you ever shut that mouth of yours, Elliot!? I won't say it again! If you want to get to Evans, then you'll have to go through my Cross Knights!"

Eldigan turned his horse around and returned to his own army.

"Dammit, he's always such a show off!!" Elliot paused to think about what he should do.

Eldigan's Cross Knights were lauded as the best in all of Agustria. He wasn't sure he could win, but turning back now would make his men think he was giving up.

'We'll fight for a little while, then pull back.'

With that vague plan in mind, he told his soldiers, "Listen up, men! We're going to break through the Nordion lines, take Eldigan's head as our prize, and march to Evans! Front line, charge! Rear line, follow up after them!"

The front line obeyed his order, starting their horses at a walk, but quickly speeding up to a full gallop.

Though Elliot had given an impassioned order that should have inspired a mighty charge, the front line lacked that power as they moved. It discouraged the second line, causing their march to progress slowly as well.

Seeing that Elliot's army had begun to move, Eldigan delivered his own order.

"All units, move out! Show them the strength of the Cross Knights!" Eldigan's army's charge had the added bonus of starting at the top of a hill, so their speed far surpassed that of Elliot's army.

The moment the two armies clashed, half of Elliot's front line fell off their horses.

The second line slowed down even further.

‘Dammit! We've already lost!’

Then he saw Eldigan encroaching upon him, Demon Sword raised high in the sky, with the blade glittering in the morning light.

"Retreat! Retreat!!" Elliot screamed, his horse having already turned around.

He never looked back, not even once, running and running until he crossed the Nordion border.

Only half of his unit made it back to Heirhein.

On the other side, Eldigan's army had no deaths, and only five minor injuries.

While the major victory boosted his soldiers’ morale, it left a bad taste in his mouth.

It was his younger half-sister Lachesis' smile that lifted his spirits.

She greeted them upon their triumphant return, waving at them from atop the castle wall, as she always did.

When Eldigan sat upon his throne, Lachesis came to his side.

"Brother, you safety is what's most important."

"Did you really think I'd lose to the likes of Elliot?"

"Not even once! But still…"

"But still what?" He asked and looked up at her.

While her face looked just like his, her eyes were completely different. He guessed that they resembled her mother's.

She blushed and looked away. "So, how did it go?"

"Oh, the fight? It was boring."

Lachesis giggled in response. “You always say that, Brother…”

#fire emblem #genealogy of the holy war #fe #fe4 #nintendo #super nintendo #snes #famicom #super famicom #japan #japanese #translation #light novel #fe4 suzuki novelization translation

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nightqueendany · 6 years ago

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“No One Wants Daenerys for their Queen”

(Includes comparisons between Dany’s ‘Conquest’ of Westeros and The War of the Five Kings/Robert’s Rebellion)

Whenever I see this argument that “No one wants Daenerys in Westeros/for their Queen” and/or therefore she’s “invading” and “subjugating” people to her rule, I just have to laugh, for many reasons.

1) First and foremost, and most simply, Westeros is a monarchy, right? So the country at large never gets to choose its ruler. They’re stuck with whatever little twerp inherits the thrown from his father (or other family member should the current king not have a direct heir).

The only time Westeros has gotten to “choose” a leader has been in times of war and the high lords throw their support behind whomever they want on the throne more.

It’s happened in the past a few times and that’s exactly what is happening now. Parts of the country are happy/ambivalent about the Lannister regime (though not many). And parts of the country obviously aren’t.

And as Jorah told Daenerys back in S1 “The common people pray for rain, health, and a summer that never ends. They don’t care what games the high lords play.” - And if it doesn’t matter to the common folk who will sit on the Iron Throne in name, we have to think, who would be a better ruler for the common folk? And the answer is clearly Daenerys. She’s literally the only leader who genuinely cares for them.

2) So my second reason for laughing at the above claim is that, despite this belief by antis that Daenerys’ presence in Westeros is unwanted, that’s simply not true because she’s coming over with many allies already in Westeros and has had/has many advisors who are also Westerosi (Jorah, Tyrion, Barristan, Varys to a lesser extent - because he’s not Westerosi by birth but now calls it his home).

One of the ways people brush point 2 aside is people claiming Dany’s allies only support her because they hate Cersei: “Olenna is only siding with her because she’s angry Cersei killed her family.” “Ellaria is only siding with her because Oberyn died in trial-by-combat fighting Cersei’s champion.” “Yara and Theon are only siding with her because their mean old uncle stole Yara’s throne even though her people didn’t vote for her.”

However, to criticize the allies Dany has because of this, is fandom bias at it’s finest. Why? Glad you asked.

First off, Olenna Tyrell - the Tyrells had a tentative working relationship with the Lannisters that was pretty strained from the business with the High Sparrow but working nonetheless. Then Cersei blew up the Sept to kill the High Sparrow and Margaery and Mace and Loras. Olenna lost her entire family (or what of it has been shown on the show). So Olenna wants revenge against the monarch who killed her family.

What does this remind anyone of?? Oh!!! Right! Robert’s Rebellion!!! When a monarch (Aerys II) killed a high lord’s family (Ned’s father and brother, Rickard and Brandon Stark) with wildfire!!!!

Aerys II = Cersei.

Rickard and Brandon Stark (a father and son) = Mace and Loras (a father and son) + Margaery.

Death by wildfire/strangulation in the throne room = death by wildfire at the Great Sept of Baelor

So like Aerys, Cersei killed her “enemies” in the same manner Aerys killed his “enemies” AND smiled while she watched the Sept go up in green flames.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~CERSEI. IS. AERYS. TO. A. T.~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Now, Ned is not criticized for calling his banners and making alliances with other Kingdoms and Houses in order to overthrow a mad monarch who slaughtered his family.

And yet, Olenna is. Why? Ned lost his brother and father and his sister was missing. Olenna lost her son, grandson, and granddaughter. Yet it’s okay for Ned to rise up against Aerys but not for Olenna to rise up against Cersei? Keeping in mind, Cersei didn’t even know Olenna had been the one to poison Joffrey so Cersei had no reason to take action against the Tyrell’s other than that she didn’t like the fact that Margaery had influence over Tommen. But anyway, moving on...

Ellaria Sand likewise wants “justice” for her paramour Oberyn (and Elia and her children possibly too though it’s not mentioned). Robert Baratheon wanted “justice” for his betrothed, Lyanna’s supposed stolen virtue and to get her back and to kill Rhaegar.

**And if anyone tries to argue that the war wasn’t to overthrow Aerys II and it wasn’t about Brandon and Rickard Stark and instead was all about finding Lyanna and bringing her home safe - then boy, have I got a shit ton of receipts for you that you likely posted yourself arguing the opposite. When 7x07 aired, all the Targaryen antis were up in arms about Bran saying “Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie,” going on and on in post after post that the war was really about ridding the country of the rule of the “mad and evil Targaryens” with what Aerys II had done to the Starks being the last straw.**

So while finding Lyanna was part of the reason, the Rebellion was also about revenge (for various people) and overthrowing a mad ruler.

Dany’s Conquest, for her allies, is about revenge and overthrowing a mad ruler. Dany’s arrival in Westeros is just convenient for them.

I’m sure if there had been some long lost Stark or Baratheon or other coming over to Westeros during the Rebellion with an unstoppable army, Ned and Robert would have aligned themselves with said person to get Aerys off the thrown, justice for Ned’s family, and to find Lyanna.

To Olenna and Ellaria, Daenerys is the one who will overthrow the rule of a Mad Queen - the Mad Queen who is responsible for the deaths of their family members.

Now for Yara and Theon, it’s not all about Yara getting the Salt Throne that Euron stole from her. It’s also about getting back the independence of the Iron Islands. Theon’s words, “We ask that you give them back,” are so powerful in that scene when he and Yara first meet Dany.

Now what does this remind people of? OH YEAH! The War of the Five Kings!

It’s not unlike Robb Stark seeking an alliance with Renly Baratheon. Robb was fighting for the freedom of the North and knew Renly would be a powerful ally. Renly would allow Robb to call himself King in the North but also asked for fealty and to support Renly’s claim to the Iron Throne. Daenerys agrees to support Yara’s claim to the Salt Throne as long as Yara agrees to support her own claim to the Iron Throne and that the Iron Islands will respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms - no raping and pillaging and stealing lands along the coast anymore.

*Side note: I think it’s funny how antis accuse Daenerys of knowing nothing about the Seven Kingdoms and yet in this scene, it seems she’s quite familiar with the ways of the Iron Islanders and their violent tendencies. I mean, did Tyrion really pull her aside moments before she was to meet the Greyjoys and tell her all about the hundreds and hundreds of years of the Greyjoys rebellious and brutal ways? Or perhaps is Daenerys is a little more knowledgeable about Westeros than the antis give her credit for? Hmm...*

So yes, Dany’s allies want something from her - assistance with revenge, independence - but it’s no different than what the Starks had done in both Robert’s Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings.

However, with Daenerys, antis accuse her allies of “not caring about the Seven Kingdoms” (as if every other war was because of the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms) and use this as a way to invalidate their reasons for aligning themselves with Daenerys, therefore invalidating the counterclaim - some people want Daenerys for their Queen.

But seriously? Robb flat out admits he doesn’t want the Iron Throne and doesn’t know what he’ll do once he kills Joffrey. He’s willing to leave another country completely leaderless for his revenge and his independence. And Ned? No one knew who would be King after Aerys II was dead. Jaime was asked who should be crowned and he said he didn’t care. Many people thought Ned would be a better ruler but it was Robert who took the throne because he had the better claim having a Targaryen grandmother.

Olenna, Yara, and Ellaria, however, have someone in mind to rule them/ally with: Daenerys. Their plan isn’t just to seek revenge on Cersei/Euron and kill them. The second part of that plan is to install Dany on the Iron Throne.

Olenna and Ellaria wanted Daenerys for their Queen. And in the books, the Dornish support of a new Targaryen monarch is even more prominent as Doran had plotted to put first Viserys and then Daenerys on the Iron Throne with one of his children as the consort.

If Ned Stark and Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully can want Robert Baratheon as their King simply because they didn’t want Mad King Aerys II as their King, and that’s considered acceptable, why isn’t it acceptable for Olenna and Ellaria to want Daenerys as their Queen? Hmm??

Because for the last time, Daenerys is from Westeros. She grew up with stories of Westeros, she grew up speaking the main language of Westeros, she’s considered Westerosi by nearly everyone she meets in Essos, and she was born there.

So this idea that “no one wants Daenerys for their Queen”... 1) that’s not true and 2) Olenna, Yara Ellaria side with Daenerys because for the same reasons as what Starks did in previous wars. To claim their reasons for going to war are invalid but the Stark’s reasons were just is TOTALLY bias. Aerys II killed lords who displeased and disobeyed him in a cruel manner and laughed while it happened. Cersei did the same and made good on Aerys II plan to blow up [part of] King’s Landing with wildfire. Just because she started as an intriguing character and has had her own struggles, does not make her less of a villain than Aerys.

3) And my third reason for laughing at the claim that “No one wants Daenerys for their Queen” is because of this:

We speak of Rhaegar’s sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.” “The Stormborn. I recall her now.” Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. “Here’s to her!” He gulped, slammed his empty tankard down, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where’s Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldn’t you say?”

Antis can rage all they want, the people are lifting their cups to their true queen whether they like it or not.

#Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys Defense Squad #game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #asoiaf #debunking anti myths

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dweemeister · 6 years ago

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49th Parallel (1941)

The Allies were losing the Second World War. In London in 1939 or 1940, the Ministry of Information (the propaganda house of the British government) met with film director Michael Powell and asked if he might want to make a film about minesweepers. Powell’s interest was piqued, but then he suggested making a film that might inspire the United States to abandon their neutral stance on the conflicts in Europe and Asia. His new partner-in-crime, screenwriter Emeric Pressburger (Pressburger would soon become Powell’s co-director on their subsequent movies), relished the prospect, hoping to “scare the pants off the Americans” with this newest project.

By the second half of 1941, the situation appeared dire. The Allies evacuated Dunkirk (their last foothold in continental Western Europe) the year prior; Nazi Germany was making advances in the Balkans; Fascist Italy was reclaiming the former African lands of the Roman Empire that it long sought; Imperial Japan had completed its military stranglehold on modern-day Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was the most vocal in pleading with the United States to enter the war, but still Washington sat on the sidelines, adopting the policy of appeasement. Michael Powell’s 49th Parallel is an unusual propaganda feature film, and ultimately did not inspire the Americans to declare war on the Axis. Though released in the United Kingdom in late 1941, the film was not given a general release in the U.S. until April 15, 1942. By then, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor already provided the impetus for the Americans joining the Allies.

Powell and Pressburger’s newest work was no longer needed to scare the pants off any American. With 49th Parallel (originally released in the United States as The Invaders, which is also how it is listed in the records of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences), they introduced a narrative centering around Nazi soldiers looking to impose their values an ocean away from home. Many WWII-era propaganda movies have lost much of their watchability given time, but that is not the case here.

A German U-boat has surfaced in Hudson Bay in Canada. Six sailors are tasked by the captain to search for foodstuffs and supplies, but shortly after they reach land, the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) has destroyed the U-boat. The six Nazi raiders are now at large, looking for ways to return to Germany or to rally the Canadian people to their side and begin an insurrection. Their commanders, Lieutenants Hirth (Eric Portman) and Kunhecke (Raymond Lovell), push the men forward. The raiders soon terrorize a band of French-Canadian trappers led by Johnnie (Laurence Olivier with an atrocious French accent) and murder a local Inuit named Nick (Ley On; whose people is described by Hirth as, “sub-apes like Negroes, only one step above the Jews” – this line was cut from the American release to avoid offending segregationists). Kunhecke is killed by an Inuit marksman as their raiding party attempts to steal a floatplane, and becomes the first casualty as these six are picked off one after another. Their mission to return to Germany will encounter several stops, including a community of Hutterites (a Germanic Anabaptist group, similar to the Amish, that fled Europe in the nineteenth century due to religious persecution) that they will attempt to convert to Nazism and Banff National Park.

Also featured are: Hutterite leader Peter (Anton Walbrook), Hutterite villager Anna (Glynis Johns), writer Philip Armstrong Scott (Leslie Howard), and Canadian soldier Andy Brock (Raymond Massey). Rounding out the U-boat’s raiding party are Vogel (Niall MacGinnis), Kranz (Peter Moore), Lohrmann (John Chandos), and Jahner (Basil Appleby).

If 49th Parallel was not a propaganda film, it would be more commonly labeled a war thriller. Editor David Lean (1962′s Lawrence of Arabia, 1965′s Doctor Zhivago) was one year away from directing his first feature film, and his ability to string together frantic images in the handful of pursuit scenes means that 49th Parallel never needs spectacular violence nor masses of soldiers engaging in a firefight to send hearts racing. Lean’s future cinematographer for both Lawrence of Arabia and Doctor Zhivago, Freddie Young, is also involved. And though the widescreen camera lens of the 1950s and onwards had not been standardized yet (the film is in the typical 1.37:1 ratio for the time), his opening images of Canadian mountains and the nature photography found in the film’s second half are spectacular to behold. For eighteen months, the filmmakers traveled over 50,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean and Canadian wilderness to shoot this film. 49th Parallel is a cross-country, cross-continental effort. When put through the paces of Lean and Young’s work, puts into doubt the certainty of any propaganda movie’s ending – even for a few minutes.

Emeric Pressburger’s screenplay keeps the war thriller based in Western anti-authoritarian rhetoric. Pressburger, a Hungarian Jewish refugee who fled continental Europe and whose command of English was imperfect, allows the Nazi characters to spout dogma without challenge; their ignorance and contempt for anyone not like them obvious soon after the U-boat surfaces in Hudson Bay. Their victims are never entirely helpless, often challenging the Nazis with celebrations of Western democratic and classical ideas championing a person’s fundamental rights to free thought and to live the life they please. Unlike a typical, pure war movie, 49th Parallel is a Nazi struggle to escape North America contained within a grander ideological dialectic. The film makes no pretense on what side it is on (it should not in any case). Its messages are articulate, achieving its initial goals to disturb and terrify the audience with the mindsets of men willing to slaughter their way home.

Uneven performances are expected in propaganda cinema, and 49th Parallel is no exception. Established actors like Leslie Howard and especially Laurence Olivier are serving overcooked ham with their performances. By the midpoint, Eric Portman, as Lieutenant Hirth, begins to dominate the proceedings – all of the scathing and pedantic lines penned by Emeric Pressburger go to the unshakeable Nazi commander. As a result, Portman’s performance lacks any nuance or self-doubt, as he becomes the equivalent of a tea kettle that has been left on the stove whistling for too long. Nevertheless, Portman is also involved during 49th Parallel’s most blatantly political, yet most effective moment. At a community meeting, Lieutenant Hirth, believing that the German-speaking Hutterites are closeted Nazi sympathizers, begins to traffic slogans of racial superiority, shredding the Allied nations as unwilling, unmanly combatants. Hirth has misinterpreted the people who have offered them food and temporary shelter. The Hutterite community’s leader, Peter, played by future Powell and Pressburger regular Anton Walbrook (1943′s The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, 1948′s The Red Shoes), dismisses the hateful rhetoric by invoking the history of his people – a history, defined by personal freedoms and the intolerance of others, that makes their existence a living refutation of Nazi doctrine.

Concludes Peter:

You think we hate you, but we don’t. It is against our faith to hate. We only hate the power of evil which is spreading over the world. You and your Hitlerism are like the microbes of some filthy disease, filled with a longing to multiply yourselves until you destroy everything healthy in the world. No – we are not your brothers.

One could say that Walbrook is over-explaining the film’s subtext here, but other propaganda films released from the Allied nations were far more heavy-handed than this to insensitive faults (see: 1944′s The Negro Soldier – an American propaganda piece meant to increase black enlistment which celebrates black cultural excellence, yet completely fails to mention slavery or racial segregation in its historical passages). Walbrook’s presence, however brief, electrifies the audience’s energies in the scenes that follow.

The individual whose work on 49th Parallel could be called transcendent is English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. Those knowledgeable with classical music probably just read that last sentence in disbelief but, yes, Ralph Vaughan Williams composed for films. In fact, 49th Parallel contains the first Vaughan Williams score for a feature-length film. Decades earlier, Vaughan Williams studied under Impressionist composer Maurice Ravel (Boléro), and the Frenchman considered his English pupil among his most gifted. Influenced by English folk songs and Tudor-era modal music, Vaughan Williams’ rhythmically complex style did not cohere until shortly before World War I. He served in the Great War, returning home emotionally traumatized, his hearing permanently damaged. For 49th Parallel, Vaughan Williams wished to invoke musical nationalism in ways he believed no composer had yet accomplished in British cinema.

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Recording with the London Symphony Orchestra, Vaughan Williams begins his score with the “Prelude” – a molto legato statement of an opening, meant to invoke the lyricism of Christian hymns that extol freedom and human fellowship. One can hear the influence of Ravel’s Impressionist roots in this music, rejecting Wagnerian leitmotifs and versatile enough to adapt to 49th Parallel’s shifting moods and settings. The majesty of the prelude shares few similarities to “Hutterite Settlement: Anna’s Volkslied” (“Volkslied” is German for “folk song”). Wandering flutes, wisping the rural landscape along with the solo German-language vocalist. It is a peaceful, somewhat elegiac cue – combining Vaughan Williams’ strengths of string-led pastoral stillness, pre-Baroque influences, and the sweep of North American music. Throughout, Vaughan Williams will alternate between non-resolving passages for the Nazis to juxtapose a musical uncertainty to their ideological rigidity, as if their experiences in Canada may be inspiring second thoughts; the early Hollywood musical-esque bustle of a large city; and an Englishman’s interpretation of Native American music. Much of the music is written not to respond to what is occurring on-screen, but to empower the images. It is a virtuosic composition from Vaughan Williams that sounds as fantastic within the film as when listened to independent from it. Vaughan Williams would work on ten more movies until The Vision of William Blake (1957), with his efforts for 49th Parallel displaying a remarkable musical versatility in style and in musical medium.

During production, Raymond Massey, Leslie Howard, and Laurence Olivier all agreed to half-wages during production to assist the war effort. An aberration the year of this film’s release, the remainder of the cast was not comprised of just English actors (more specifically, London-area or Southern English actors), but Scots (Finlay Currie) and Irishmen (Niall MacGinnis). Few British films had ever been made with such a stacked cast, let alone being set on a grand international stage. Lawrence of Arabia this might not be, but this is as close to being an epic film as any British film production was able to be by the 1940s. The film’s financial success across the West allowed for the creation of independent British film production companies like The Archers (Powell and Pressburger) and Cineguild (David Lean), among others. The face of the non-Alfred Hitchcock British filmmaking industry would be strengthened by the marvelous reception given to 49th Parallel, securing the nation as one of the greatest forces of world cinema.

With its value as propaganda ended due to the course of history, 49th Parallel should be watched as both a historical landmark for British filmmaking as well as an excellent, potent thriller. It may not have changed any of the military or political outcomes Powell and Pressburger and the rest of its cast and crew were targeting, but the positive impacts of this production – for audiences and within the film industry – have outlasted many other works of propaganda.

My rating: 8.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

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padawanlost · 7 years ago

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Hi, sry this is a rough topic. Maybe bc Im not american I don’t understand the pov where people heavily like to bash Anakin for killing tusken raiders. I understand killing woman and children is wrong and no Im not getting him off the hook with that and I think he pays for it with his humanity in ep3 when he kills the younglings anyways. However, there are many who just call them “innocents” and I find that OOC...[]

[…] In the movies we only hear about how terrible and “monstrous” they are, and unofficial guide books shows how much of awful beings they’re supposed to be. Someone said it’s racist thing and again not an american so Idk about that, but the overall canon shows that they are indeed not so innocent adult or children alike. I’m just trying to understand where all the sympathy is coming from? Is it just another Anakin hate? What do you think?

Hey!

Well, what Anakindid was wrong so many people hate him for it, that part is simple. Everything else, isn’t. I’ve seen peoplesay Anakin killed them because he was entitled, because he was “crazy”, he was afascist, etc. None of that is true, the movie make his reasons for slaughteringthat group pretty obvious. He did it because of what was done to Shmi.

However,what Anakin did was also textbook genocide. The moment Anakin slaughtered everyone who he identified as a TuskenRaider, instead of slaughtering only the responsible for the Shmi’s death hiscrimes evolved from murder motivated by revenge to genocide motivated by revenge*(more on this later). But, to be fair, that’s only part of story. We only seeAnakin’s real genocidal tendencies once he becomes Vader. Now, Vader was deeplymotivated by his prejudice against the Tusken and Tatooine in general.

This world means as much to me as a speck of dust, and all its inhabitants might as well be dust too. As he returned to the Devastator, Vader considered the fact that Tatooine could be reduced to dust by the Death Star. He wondered if watching the sand planet’s obliteration might bring him any pleasure. It was a possibility he wouldn’t rule out. [The Rise and Fall of Darth Vaderby Ryder Windham]

Here is the thing: Anakin didcommit genocide and the Tusken did tortured Shmi. Honestly, I think the situationway too complex to label any of the parts simply as innocent or guilty.

People sympathizewith Tusken because they don’t like Anakin but, also, because the anti-TuskenRaiders movement was very real and widespread in Tatooine.

“What is driving them so close to thefarms?” Owen asked. “It’s been too longsince we’ve organized anything against them,” Cliegg replied gruffly. “We let the beasts run free, and they’re forgettingthe lessons we taught them in the past.” He looked hard at Owen’s skepticalexpression. “You have to go out thereand teach the Tuskens their manners every now and again.” Owen just stoodthere, having no response. “See how long it’s been?” Cliegg said with a snort.“You don’t even remember the last timewe went out and chased off the Tuskens! There’s the problem, right there!” [R.A.Salvatore’s Attack of the Clones]

The Lars family was being serenadedthrough yet another night by the lowing of many banthas. None of the four hadany doubt that Tuskens were out there, not far from the farm, perhaps even thenwatching its lights. “They’re wildbeasts, and we should have gotten the Mos Eisley authorities to exterminatethem like the vermin they are. Them and the stinking Jawas!” Shmi sighedand put her hand on her husband’s tense forearm. “The Jawas have helped us,”she reminded him gently. “Then not the Jawas!” Cliegg roared back, and Shmi jumped.Taking note of Shmi’s horrified expression, Cliegg calmed at once. “I’m sorry.Not the Jawas, then. But the Tuskens.They kill and steal whenever and wherever they can. No good comes of them!”[R.A. Salvatore’s Attack of the Clones]

The Tuskenraiders were victims. They were one of the native civilizations of Tatooine andthey were invaded over and over again for centuries. So, of course, they were forcedto adapt to survive and so also developed an understanding hatred of outsiders.And that hatred turned into violence and that violence affected both sides ofthe conflict. We all know what happens when a society invades another, and whathappened in Tatooine and the Tuskens wasn’t all that different from our ownworld. Their culture was “incompatible” with the invaders and, being outnumberand overpowered, they become the ostracized group (the savages, instead one ofthe rightful owners of the land). That created a cycle of violence thatresulted in many deaths on all sides.

Fearsome desert savages inhabiting the rocky JundlandWastes, Tusken Raiders are the foremost reason Tatooine colonists do not wanderfar from their isolated communities. Extremelyterritorial and xenophobic, Tusken Raiders will attack with very littleprovocation. They show no allegiance toeven their native world-mates, as these nomads have attacked Jawa scoutingparties on occasion. They have even gathered numbers large enough to attack theoutskirts of smaller towns like Anchorhead. [x]

The Tuskenwere victims, but that doesn’t meanthey were innocent. Understanding thereasons behind their behavior, doesn’t mean we can excuse it. Very much likeAnakin, you can be a victim and still be responsible for atrocious actions.

Annie was [Shmi] comfort, her placeto hide from the pain the Tuskens had, and were, exacting upon her batteredbody. Every day they came in andtortured her a bit more, prodding her with sharp spears or beating her with theblunt shafts and short whips. It was more than a desire to inflict pain, Shmirealized, though she didn’t speak their croaking language. This was the Tuskenway of measuring their enemies, and from the nods and the tone of their voices,she realized that her resilience had impressed them. [R.A. Salvatore’s Attackof the Clones]

In Shmi’scase, they were not defending their territory against trespassers or securingtheir resources. There was no moral justification for what they did. The self-defenserhetoric doesn’t work here. There’re no excuse for Anakin’s actions but thereare no excuses for this cruelty either. One crime doesn’t justify another. TheTuskens being ostracized by Tatooine’s powerful groups, doesn’t make it alrightfrom them to kill and torture people. What Anakin did was terribly wrong but it’sobvious that his actions were motivated by vengeance, fear and rage, notmadness, racism or entitlement.

Don’t getme wrong, racism against Tusken Raiders in Tatooine did exist. But Anakin’sactions that particular night was not motivated by it. Anakin andShmi were victims of the Tusken. But that doesn’t make Anakin innocent. The sameway they had no right to torture and kill Shmi, Anakin had no right to slaughterthem.

Anakin, too, had heard the voice ofQui-Gon, imploring him to restrain himself, to deny the rage. He hadn’t recognized it, though, for he was too full of pain and anger. He spotted a Tusken woman to theside, in front of another of the tents, carrying a pail of dirty water, and sawa Tusken child in the shadows of another nearby hut, staring at him with anincredulous expression. Then he was moving, though he was hardly aware of hisactions. [R.A. Salvatore’s Attack of the Clones]

Anakin had nothing against the Tusken before Shmi’s death. He and Shmi were one of the few people in Tatooine who were willing to help them. In fact,before Shmi’s death, Anakin risked his own life to help Tusken Raiders. As achild here is what he thought about Tusken Raiders:

The residents of Mos Espa, themselvesa less than respectable citizenry, hated the Sand People with a passion. Anakin had not yet made up his mind aboutthem. The stories were chilling, but he knew enough of life to know there weretwo sides to every story and mostly only one being told. He was intrigued bythe wild, free nature of the Tuskens, of a life without responsibility orboundaries, of a community in which everyone was considered equal. [The Phantom Menace by TerryBrooks]

“Master Anakin, we really shouldn’tbe out here at night,” the droid observed after a moment. “This country isquite dangerous.” “But we couldn’t leavehim, could we?” “Oh, well, that’s a very difficult determination to make.” […]TheTusken regarded him intently for a long minute, then slowly eased into asitting position, his wounded leg stretched out in front of him. “Uh, hello,”Anakin said, trying out a smile. The Tusken Raider made no response. “Are you thirsty?” the boy asked.[…] Finallyhe spoke again. The boy looked quickly at C-3PO. “He wants to know what you aregoing to do with him, Master Anakin,” the droid translated. Anakin looked backat the Tusken, confused. “Tell him I’m not going to do anything with him,” hesaid. “I’m just trying to help him getwell.” [The Phantom Menace by Terry Brooks]

That doesn’tsound like the thoughts of a person corrupted and motivated by prejudice. Andonce he left the Tatooine, his views didn’t change because here is whathappened when he met A'Sharad Hett (aJedi and Tusken):

As Obi-Wan approached the balcony, hecaught Anakin in the middle of asking astream of questions while the masked figure stood silently, watching thestars emerge over the vast cityscape. “You’re from Tatooine, too?” Anakin saidto his unresponsive companion. “Can you understand Basic? You might not believethis, but not too long ago, I actually saved a Tusken Raider’s life! I foundhim when I was out in the Xelric Draw. He was a bit bigger than you. Maybe he’sa friend of yours? Do you know where the Xelric Draw is? Or maybe your peoplehave another name for it? Did you ever see —?” [Ryder Windham’s The Life andLegend of Obi-Wan Kenobi]

Obi-Wan bowed slightly and said, “Iam Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Before the figure could respond, Anakin interjected, “Ithink he’s a Tusken Raider from Tatooine!” Pointing to the weapons at theTusken’s belt, Anakin added, “But he’s aJedi too, like us. Only he has two lightsabers.” Indeed, the quiet figureon the balcony was, by all appearances, a Tusken Raider. Obi-Wan could see hisown reflection as he peered into the red lenses of the Tusken Jedi’s goggles.“Please forgive my impetuous Padawan’s manners,” Obi-Wan said. “We welcome youto the Jedi Order, A’Sharad Hett.” [Ryder Windham’s The Life and Legend ofObi-Wan Kenobi]

Anakins, despitegrowing up surrounded by people hating on Tusken Raiders, was actually surprisinglyaccepting of them. He demonstrated no fear, no hate and no reservations, only ahealthy childish curiosity.

His viewsonly changed after Shmi’s death. and even then, he still managed to work with A'Sharad Hett, who re-humanized the Tusken Raidersin Anakin’s eyes by removing his mask and showing him how similar they were.Anakin even confessed to Hett what happened in Tatooine. Unfortunately, after the war, as Vader, hewas too consumed by fear and hate to ever deal with what he did and change howhe looked at the Tusken.

To put it simply: the Tuskens were victims. That’s clear byhow some characters talk about them. But that doesn’t mean they are beyondreproach or are morally justified in everything they do. And it also doesn’tmean that what happened to Shmi wasn’t terrible crime or that Anakin killed thembecause he was entitled, privileged or racist.

Fans sympathize with the Tusken Raiders because they are were ostracized and killedby a violent and corrupt society that completely dehumanized them. And somepeople do try to make it all about Anakin and how Anakin is the worst™, whenin truth, the situation is much more complex than that.

The key here, imo, is to understand that though the Tusken Raiders were violent and victimized many Tatooine residents, they were also victims and have been victimized themselves. And that Anakin, though guilty of many crimes, wasn’t part of this particular problem until Shmi was killed. There victims on both sides, not many innocents.

#ask #anon #anakin skywalker #shmi skywalker #tusken raiders #sw meta #padawanlost #meta: anakin #meta: shmi #txt

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jesatria · 6 years ago

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The Other Princeps, Chap 35

Title: The Other Princeps Fandom: Codex Alera Characters: Aquitainus Attis, Amara, Antillus Raucus, Ensemble Pairings: past!Attis/Invidia, slight past!Attis/Septimus, Attis/OCs Word Count: 3,092 Rating: R Summary: In which Attis’s confrontation with Invidia during the Battle of Riva goes better for him. AU. WIP. Warnings: Massive spoilers for First Lord’s Fury. Disclaimer: I do not own the Codex Alera. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it. Previous Chapters

Chapter 35: The Battle of Rhodes

The southern half of my province had been hit harder in the war than the north had. It was plain for anyone to see, though the Legions had been at work clearing out Vord and croach. There was none of the stuff to be seen along the road heading south, though I knew better than to assume every single trace of it had been eradicated from my province. The lack of croach also meant a lack of Vord, as they wouldn’t venture away from it without the Queen driving them onward. Likely they would starve to death, which would save us the trouble of killing them.

We did not encounter any Vord until we were some distance from the city, which was unsurprising since the Legions had cleared the area of Vord. Those we did encounter we quickly dispatched. This caused some unexpected conflict with the local holders. “Those were our Vord,” one steadholder angrily informed me. “They’ve been protecting my steadholt, and you killed them!”

I couldn’t help but feel baffled by this statement. “You would prefer we didn’t kill them?”

“Yes. They’ve been protecting us,” he repeated. “They killed some other Vord who tried to attack us.” My eyebrows rose—I had some difficulty understanding how anyone would want Vord anywhere near them, but I suppose having guards to protect them from other Vord was appreciated. After some further questioning, I learned the Vord had taken the steadholt, but they stopped short of slaughtering all the holders. That puzzled me, since it was so opposite their normal behavior, until I recalled what I’d heard about the Queen having a fascination with humans. She had apparently gone so far as to set Vord to guard the captured steadholts. None of the reports I’d received from the Windwolves or the Legions in the south mentioned this—perhaps they’d been too busy killing wild Vord and liberating towns to have encountered it.

“Allow me to apologize for any inconvenience or distress I’ve caused you and your holders. We are on our way to Rhodes to liberate the city and any towns and steadholts still under enemy control,” I told him.

“Who will protect us now if any enemy Vord attack us?”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about that—we’ll make sure of it. Do not believe that I would leave my own people in harm’s way.” Judging by the steadholder’s skeptical expression he wasn’t entirely convinced, but decided against arguing with his High Lord.

“That was strange,” Vitellus commented after we left the steadholt.

“Indeed it was,” I replied. “I find it hard to understand why anyone would want Vord around, but I suppose it’s their choice. If they want to keep ‘their’ Vord as a bizarre sort of pet, we might as well let them.”

From that point on, we asked the holders we encountered if they wanted us to dispose of the Vord around their steadholts. Some of them had even gone so far as to paint the chitin shells of their Vord to distingush them. “We can get rid of those for you,” I told the steadholder at one of steadholts with a Vord guard.

“Thank you for your offer, my Lord, but they’re not hurting us. They’ve actually protected us.”

“The Queen must’ve ordered them to protect your steadholt,” I remarked. “If you ever do decide you’d like to be rid of them, we would be happy to oblige.”

This sentiment proved to be common among the steadholts we passed. As a result of this, we were able to make good time without having to pause to clear every steadholt. Before long, we reached the Feverthorn border. When traveling near the Feverthorn Jungle, it was impossible not to sense the… wrongness which pervaded the place. It couldn’t be ignored. It is hard to describe it to those who haven’t been there—suffice it to say that it feels wrong in the way that a river flowing in the opposite direction from its usual course feels wrong. Being High Lord of Aquitaine meant I had a strong connection to every corner of my lands—every corner except the Feverthorn Jungle, that is. It wasn’t that I couldn’t sense it at all, but the feeling was fuzzier, like trying to look through clouded glass. This had not changed since I’d become Princeps.

I glanced at Thyra. Her eyes were wide and alert, fixed on the Feverthorn Jungle in the distance. If she were a cat, her fur would’ve been standing on end. “What is that?” she asked.

“The unique feeling of the Feverthorn Jungle,” I explained. “Once you’ve felt it once, you won’t forget it.”

“I can definitely believe that. Have you ever ventured close to it?”

“A handful of times. It’s too dangerous to venture further than the outskirts. No one who’s done so has ever been seen again,” I replied. For years I was never allowed anywhere near it, as my father deemed it too dangerous a place for his only son to go. When I finally did get there, I found it to be less exciting than I thought it would be.

“I wonder what’s in there,” said Thyra. “Has anyone attempted to study it?”

I considered her question briefly before answering. “I suppose there have been some, but no one’s ever emerged to tell of everything they found.” I glanced in the direction of the jungle. “The Vord won’t go near it either. I’m certain we could’ve found a way to use it against them if we’d had more time.”

Thyra’s eyes narrowed as she pondered the jungle. “Surely there must be some texts on it in the library.”

“There are, though I daresay it’s been a while since anyone’s used them for research. Rhodes will likely have its own collection.”

“Perhaps they’ll let me look at them while we’re there.” Thyra’s face brightened at the prospect.

“The Feverthorn Jungle marks the border between our lands and Rhodes’s,” I informed her. “Once we pass it, we’ll be in Rhodesian territory. The other Legions should be waiting for us at the border.” We would also be rendezvousing with the remaining Rhodesian Legions outside the city. Truth be told I wasn’t expecting much from them, as their numbers had been reduced and replacing them had been very difficult. Hard to recruit new legionares when the Vord were invading the province. Still, any help was welcome and they would likely be eager to free their city.

We had scarcely passed the border marker before I spotted the other Legions waiting for us. The Second and Third Aquitaine were both there, as well as the auxiliary Legions. They’d likely be dissolved once the liberation was over, though the First Lord had said nothing to me on the subject thus far. I motioned for Thyra and Vitellus to follow me as I rode out to meet the other Legions. The eyes of the closest officers were on us, particularly Thyra. Later, I introduced her to the other captains. If they were surprised to learn I had a daughter whom I’d decided to take with me on campaign, they said nothing.

The difference between Rhodes and Aquitaine was immediately apparent once we were far enough away from the Feverthorn Jungle. The Vord avoided it, just as they had on my side of the border. Away from the jungle was another thing entirely. Patches of croach could be seen everywhere, along with the occasional wax spiders tending to it. I had Knights Flora shoot them wherever we saw them. The steadholts we encountered were similar to those we’d encountered before, though they were guarded by larger numbers of Vord. Once again, the holders seemed to have formed an attachment to them and didn’t want us to kill them. We did kill any Vord we saw who weren’t guarding steadholts and burned as much croach as we could.

With every step we took toward Rhodes, the Vord grew more numerous. The countryside was increasingly empty of people, a rather unnerving sight. I suspected many people fled to the city in the hopes it would be a safe haven. Pausing to kill Vord and burn croach meant it took us longer to reach the city than it otherwise would have, but it was necessary.

Some five days after leaving Aquitaine, Rhodes came into view. This was the first time I’d seen it—given our rivalry and my personal hatred of its late High Lord, I had no reason to visit. The city pressed up to the coastline, which had proved to be a vital lifeline for them. Vord could be seen everywhere—I daresay there were more of them than there’d been at Aquitaine. Thyra gasped at the sight of them. “So many! How can we fight a horde like that?”

“The same way we did at Aquitaine. Some strong crafting will scatter them.” I grinned. “This is nothing compared to the horde the Queen led against us in the Calderon Valley.” A bit of windcrafting revealed the Vord were pressed up right against the city gates. They surrounded the city walls right up to the edges of the ocean. It was really quite impressive that the city had managed to hold out this long.

The sight of the Vord horde made me want to attack immediately, much like I had at Aquitaine, but I had to restrain myself. Any action would require coordination with the Rhodesian Legions and the defenders in the city. I’d kept in contact with them since setting out and they were due to arrive shortly after us. Sure enough, the captains of the Rhodesian Legions arrived just as we’d finished setting up camp. There were only two of them, as one of the Rhodesian Legions had been wiped out and recruiting had become difficult once the Vord converged on Rhodes. I immediately summoned my captains and contacted Rhodes Tadius with a watersending.

Unlike at Aquitaine, the Vord surrounded the entire city in approximately equal numbers and applied pressure to all three city gates more or less evenly. With no side particularly in need of my presence, I elected to remain where I was on the northern side. The Rhodesian Legions had marched to the city from the west and were currently on that side, which left the eastern side unaccounted for. After informing the Rhodesians of how I’d liberated Aquitaine, I decided to send half of my Legions to attack the eastern side. “A three-pronged attack should be effective here as it was in Aquitaine,” I assured them.

Unfortunately there were no Great Furies for me to summon for some assistance. Rhodes Tadius had no particular control over the Rhodesian Great Furies, so having him wake them was out of the question. I could sense the presence of the Great Furies nearby, despite not knowing much of them. A product of my status as Princeps, to be sure. There was a distinct possibility I could rouse the Rhodesian Great Furies if I chose—Gaius was able to command Great Furies such as Kallus to do his bidding. But I dismissed the idea quickly—maybe I could rouse them, but commanding them to sleep once more was another thing. I was not their High Lord and there was another candidate for that position present. The potential destruction was too risky. It was one thing to rouse my own Great Furies, who I knew and who knew me. This was quite another.

It was midday by the time we’d finished discussing our battle plan and maneuvering the Legions into place. The battle plan was much the same as what I’d done at Aquitaine, minus the Great Furies. We would launch three simultaneous attacks on each side of the city, hitting the Vord with heavy furycrafting. That would be enough to scatter them without the Queen’s will driving them on. I would be leading from the front, as usual, with the First Aquitaine.

“I’d feel much better if you would remain in the back,” I informed Thyra. “The front is too dangerous.”

“But Father, I’ve fought the Vord before. I can handle it,” she reminded me.

“I haven’t forgotten that, but fighting on the walls of Aquitaine is not the same as fighting on the front line in a pitched battle. Until you’ve got a bit more experience, you’ll be staying away from the front line,” I insisted. Now that we were about to engage the Vord, I was feeling protective toward her. It was a new feeling, but one which would likely become increasingly familiar.

Thyra opened her mouth to protest, but closed it after I met her eyes. “Believe me Thyra, it’s not because I doubt your crafting capabilities, only that it’s your first full battle.”

She gave a small nod, then stepped forward to embrace me. “Take care of yourself, Father.”

“You too, Thyra. I daresay you’ll still have ample opportunity to kill some Vord and perhaps put that new sword to good use.” I clapped a hand on her shoulder before going off to join my officers. Had this been before the Queen was killed, our farewell would’ve been more emotional. As it was, I felt quite certain I would see my daughter again once the battle was over.

The Legions formed up with their usual efficiency. Once they were in place, I rode out to address them. There was no need for a lengthy speech—I reminded them of our purpose and how we vanquished the Vord at Aquitaine. If any legionares held any reservations about aiding our rival city, they didn’t show it and cheered loudly once I finished my speech. When it was done, I rejoined Vitellus and the other officers and signaled for the Legions to advance.

The Vord, for their part, did not seem to notice us. I hadn’t seen this when we took Aquitaine, as I’d been too busy waking the Great Furies to notice. It was slightly disconcerting, until I reminded myself they were only animals without the Queen to command them. They continued to attack Rhodes because that was the last command she had given them. We’d have to actually begin attacking before they would respond to us. Once we’d advanced close enough, I sent Knights Ignus and Terra forward to begin the attack.

It felt odd, in a way, hitting them with heavy crafting to start. Experience with both the Queen and Invidia had led me to experiment with less conventional tactics. It felt strange now to utilize a simple attack against them. As fire- and earthcrafting attacks connected, the Vord turned to face us. The Knights Ignus and Terra continued their attacks. Vord fell in large numbers, only to be replaced by more. I signaled for the Legions to advance and the Knights Aeris to take to the air. I dismounted and joined them.

A few cheers broke out once I reached them. “How about we give the Vord a taste of lightning?” I punctuated my words by sending a wave of lightning bolts, in the shape of my signature scarlet falcons, at the Vord. The Knights Aeris followed suit with lightning strikes of their own. It was immensely satisfying watching Vord disintegrate. Looking down from above, I could see they were beginning to move away from the north gate as the city’s defenders hit them with arrows and furycrafting. I loosed another barrage of lightning at them, then left the Knights Aeris to rejoin the command group.

“What’s the view from above?” Vitellus asked as I landed beside my standard.

“We’re getting there. A bit more of a push and they’ll break,” I informed him as I mounted my horse. “A few volleys of arrows, then send the legionares in to attack.” Vitellus nodded and gave the signal. The Knights Flora loosed a volley of arrows, which fell on the Vord like rain. They promptly followed it with another volley, and then another. Above us, the Knights Aeris continued to hit the Vord with lightning strikes. When the volleys stopped, the Legions advanced.

The Vord broke against them like waves on a rocky shore. The Legions easily cut them to pieces. I wanted very much to join the fun, but I had to restrain myself until the right moment. The Vord continued to charge forward, not following any discernible attack plan. Again, the legionares dispatched them with ease and pressed forward. Here and there Vord began to make a run for it. “They’re starting to break,” I observed. “Time to finish it. Cavalry charge. We’re making for the gate.”

The trumpets sounded the signal and I rode out to join the calvary alae sweeping around the left side of the Legions, accompanied by my singulares, Vitellus, and the rest of the captains. Some Vord moved to face us; I greeted them with a fireblast and followed it up by slicing off the head of the nearest Vord. As we cut through them, the legionares continued to press on. More Vord make attempts to escape, but they didn’t get far. There was a great deal of satisfaction to be found every time my sword ended another wretched Vord life. I didn’t even bother igniting it—I didn’t need to.

The way to the gate was soon clear. It was a full rout now, with the Vord practically running over themselves to get away. Cheers broke out atop the walls as the weary defenders watched the Vord flee. Once the immediate area was clear of Vord, the northern gate opened. Men I took to be the Rhodesian Civic Legion marched out in pursuit of the fleeing Vord. They had a siege’s worth of pent-up aggression needing release and the nearest Vord didn’t last long against them. The entire mass of Vord which had surrounded the northern side of the city was in a full retreat. The Legions turned to pursue the fleeing Vord—the more they were able to kill here, the less we would have to kill later. After the north gate was fully secure, the Knights Aeris reported to me that things were progressing similarly at the other gates. The Rhodesian Legions were fighting with a level of ferocity my own Legions had shown when we liberated Aquitaine and were now pursuing the Vord fleeing the western side. The situation on the eastern side was much the same. According to the report, some of the Vord had even run into the sea in their desperate rush to escape.

It was clear now that the battle was over. Rhodes was free.

#the other princeps #aquitainus attis #codex alera #jesatriafic #au

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chilly-territory · 8 years ago

Text

Gangsta: Death of Anosmic Stray Dogs, chapter 2

We’re continuing. And a big thank you still goes to the awesome valgerdrgodiforseti for providing the original Japanese text, thus making this translation possible.

Gangsta: Death of Anosmic Stray Dogs by Kawabata Junichi

Chapter 2 (pages 62-102)

For the story to make sense, first the events that took place 2 days after the aforementioned night out need to be retold.

At dusk, Worick and Nicolas were attacked by a group in black suits. Although the Benriya had already had a similar experience just the other day, it had to be said that in this city, the specialization of men in black wasn't business but violence. Which certainly was not something to be surprised about. The two beat their attackers at their own game. Even if the Benriya didn't wear ties, their forte, too, was violence nonetheless. And if anything, Worick liked to think of it as them being cooler because they went about said violence smarter.

The men were armed with guns. They knew full well what it meant to brandish a gun, and there were no doubts or hesitation when they pulled the trigger. That's why the Handymen had no choice but to kill them. Nothing to it. Except it did raise a problem. Leaving several bodies lying around, even in a place as crappy as an ever stinking back alley, was not an option. He may have not looked it, but Worick considered himself a sympathizer of those fighting for beautification of the city, and what's more, in this city there lived an old dog with a nose highly sensitive to the smell of gunpowder and blood.

About 5 minutes after the Benriya came under attack and a little over 2 minutes after they were finished killing their attackers, an old police officer with graying hair popped up at the scene in an old-fashioned sedan. Half-hanging out his car's window, he went into a shouting fit, "You again, goddamn Benriya brats! I've told you countless times to not make messes without permission! How many more time do I have to be a goddamn broken record for you to get it through your thick skulls at last?!"

Worick and Nicolas knew Chad Atkins, an inspector with the First Division of the Central Police HQ's Criminal investigations Department, since back when they had first come to Ergastulum. He was over 50 by now and had been in active service for at least 20 years that they could vouch for, likely more. An exemplary dirty cop who knew all the ways to survive in this city, and who, to the two, also was their senior in life, unchangingly nagging and meddlesome ever since they were kids.

Chad stopped the car in front of Worick and Nicolas and spared a glance to the blood-stained suits and the bodies wrapped in them.

"And you just had to kill some really troublesome schmucks, huh. The police ain't the city's garbage disposal crew, you know!"

Nicolas twisted his features into a fed up grimace where Chad couldn't see it and complained in sign language with listless motions of his hands.

'The garbage disposal crew actually does a better job than him.'

Chad span around to him and applied an unforgiving fist.

"Shuddup, damn brat!" 'How did you see what I said from that angle?!' "I don't need to see it to know what a shitty brat is thinking! Dammit, if you tangle up with the mafia, contact me before you take them out at least!"

Chad stuck a Hope cigarette between his teeth. Worick struck his Zippo lighter, thrusting both hands through the window and lighting the cigarette's tip.

"We were sure these guys were just high-pressure bullet salesmen, you see. Killing them was a bad call, you say?" "Yeah. And worse than you two think." "And what's that supposed to mean?" "They're the remnants of the Lombardi Family."

Worick searched his memory.

---The Lombardi Family.

"They're more like a street gang of young hoodlums looked up to on the streets than a mafia though? They don't look like an especially troublesome enemy." "Except I don't recommend lumping them together with other weaklings. The fuckers pushed wholesale merch as sickening as 'dynamite' even to big mafia Families." "Oh, so they're arms dealers."

Chad bit the filter of his cigarette with his front teeth.

"They sold dying Tags with particularly hideous cases of poisoning in a set with Celebrer of abnormal concentration - only uppers, at that. The way to use that package is simple: you overdose a Tag on the drug and send that suicide present to the enemy. That's the 'dynamite'." "Oh. That's nasty alright, I'm feeling sick to my stomach."

There were 2 types of Celebrer, intended for use as a set. One was a stimulant called upper, and the other a depressant, called downer. The upper temporary enhanced Twilights' physical ability and charged them with power and vitality, but on the other hand, it produced a lot of side effects. To reduce those side effects and prolong the duration of the effects the downer was needed. So with Twilights' life sustenance in mind, it was advisable to take both those kinds of Celebrer together simultaneously.

What would happen to a Twilight who already had one foot in the grave if they were forced to overdose on the upper?

It wasn't hard to imagine. Their physical ability would temporary skyrocket and in the extreme frenzy of it, they would go psycho, rampaging uncontrollably, but when the drug wore off, they would pretty much drop dead. A one-shot weapon of mass destruction... indeed, the aftermath of using it would certainly resemble that of explosives.

"They weren't a union like the Paulklee Guild that employs Tags. They only carried disposable goods, so no management and administration costs to speak of, making that business profitable. And there's no small number of people out there willing to sell their Tags that became useless for a bargain price."

Worick put a hand to his chin. Gaze steady, "Oh," he repeated in a murmur again. "And what did you mean by 'remnants'?" "Just what I said. Just recently, the Lombardi family got pretty much wiped out." "A management fuckup with one of their goods leading to self-destruction? They sound like such smart guys, eh." "No, that's outta question. From what the crime scene looked like, it's obvious they got raided by some invaders. Besides, for a 'dynamite explosion' the bodies were much too clean." "So to sum it up, those guys were just way too good at making people hate them, right?" "The question is, who exactly hated them so much." "Any suspects?" "Yeah, a couple. You two."

Chad reached his hand out the car's window and pointed with the end of his cigarette to Worick. The long part of the stick that had already turned to ash fell off, landing on the tip of Worick's shoe and getting it dirty.

"Wow. How come?"

Worick leaned on the sedan's roof and, balancing on one leg, shook off the ash from the shoe on the other. Chad swept off the hand above from the roof of his car.

"The raid was done by a small group. Of only one or two people, most likely. The Lombardi guys, in contrast, had 15 or 16 on their side..." "Oh yeah, youngsters just love to flock together, eh." "Except that flock was wholesale slaughtered. It wasn't like the bodies were riddled with bullets from a small arms either. A feat like that is only possible to a Tag. And based on that, we can narrow down the list of suspects greatly." "Hey, hey, by that logic, every damn incident involving a Tag would be on us, you realize?" "I'm not finished yet. The Lombardi Family crossed someone with no prejudice against Tags - that is, someone like you. And the clincher here is the wounds from a bladed weapon left on the bodies. With all that evidence, it's a simple association game even our greenass rookies can win with no problem." "We're really outta luck here, huh."

Worick chewed on his Pall Mall, fisting a hand in his own hair. Chad took another glance at the dead bodies in the alley.

"Suppose I buy that those survivors simply believed the rumors and came to get revenge on you. That said, the fact that you've just turned the members of the Lombardi family into bad-smelling corpses still stands." "They're not members though. You forgot the ex- prefix." "Yeah. And I can only hope that the gossip mill won't forget it."

It wasn't like Chad seriously suspected them - at least Worick didn't think so. That said, this incident provided enough material for the gossip mill to start turning.

Worick lit up the Pall Mall stuck between his lips, took a drag, breathing in the smoke deeply, and only then asked, "So what can we do to prove our innocence?" "Don't ask me. I dunno." "Come on, Chad-san. We know each other long enough to forego the probing part. So, your conditions, your wishes requiring our cooperation as exemplary citizens, whatever else you're after, just tell us your request already." "That’s not what it's about this time. Really. Rather, it's something for that man to decide." "That man?" "Daniel Monroe. He wants to see your mugs. So wag your tail at him the best you can, brats."

At the surprisingly big name that came up all of a sudden, Worick almost let the cigarette fall out of his mouth.

Daniel Monroe. The boss of the Monroe Family and a person of utmost importance to Ergastulum. Even among the 4 Godfathers, as they were called, who held the supreme power, he was incredibly influential. No one among those living in the city was allowed to defy him. In addition, Worick and Nicolas belonged to his mafia Family in the past.

"Why though? He’s usually nice to Tags."

That man wasn't someone who would want to complain over something like getting the city rid of a bunch or two dealing in merch as revolting as that 'dynamite' or whatever it was called.

"The problem is, the scale isn't limited to just the Lombardi family." "Now you're being a tease." "'Cause that info still has the ‘confidential’ seal affixed on it for now. But if you ask me, it'll be all over the news tomorrow's evening, tops. In any case, until it's public, that's all I can say to you. Now good luck playing the fox."

Chad waved a hand like he was swatting a fly or something. The old-fashioned sedan hummed to life and took off.

Worick, too, waved his hand carefree, grimacing inwardly all the while.

The 4 Godfathers was not a name to be taken in vain. They were the base of this city's governing system, safeguarded by the rules. A city like Ergastulum was so unstable that it was like it walked a tightrope every day. And the 4 pillars that stretched said rope for it were the 4 Godfathers. Thanks to them exerting potent power, Ergastulum was able to exist in some semblance of maintained balance.

But a problem - something huge enough to affect the city's foundations, at that - had occurred. It was extremely bothersome to get involved in that, but it looked like the Benriya had no option to stay out of it.

Chad's prediction was on the money, and the next day's 7 p.m. news reported what he talked about.

Only, Worick and Nicolas didn't watch them.

The first reason amounted to the fact that they didn't have a TV in their office.

And the second had to do with them being busy at that exact time responding to a dinner invitation Daniel Monroe had extended to them.

The place chosen for the friendly chat was a luxurious Italian restaurant that he himself owned. Pleasant lightning of orange shades whetted the appetite, enhancing the already delicious cuisine - or so the premise was supposed to be, but only a complete madman could lust after the food under the circumstances where they had been summoned here by Monroe personally. To Worick and Nicolas he was a former master and someone with whom they had supposedly built a stable relationship of mutual trust, so they were better off than most, but even they could not get rid of nervousness completely. Even Nicolas, for all of his mad dog tendencies, seemingly remembered his place as he sat across from Worick. The napkin on his neck looked totally out of place and resembled an animal collar.

Monroe folded slightly inwards a slice of pizza with one hand and bit off a mouthful, chasing the drooping mozzarella with his lips like a kid, speaking in between lightly like he was making a small talk.

"They're talking about it on TV right about now. Last weekend, 4 people died."

The mafia killings by the unidentified. Person or persons responsible had the same modus operandi as in the case with the annihilation of the Lombardi Family, also taking out the Capo Regime of other famous mafia families.

Worick, touching a drop of rose champagne, asked, "Did your group have any connection with the Lombardi family, too?" "We had a gambling enthusiast. He wanted money badly and sold one of the Twilights. It's an embarrassing story. Twilights are considered members of the family, too. It'd make us look bad if one of them were to die an inappropriate death." "Did you take that Twilight back?" "Yes, we bought them back peacefully." "I see. For the record, there's nothing between us and them, no emotions, no nothing. No antagonism either." "And of course, no love." "Apart from the general indiscriminate love for this city's naughty kids."

Monroe wiped his stained lips on a napkin.

"A team of kids who loved to play with fire getting crushed isn't where the problem lies. It's in the fact that the incidents of indiscriminate attacks on the mafia that had started with them didn't stop there."

Worick was tempted to ask how much of a problem that was but held his tongue. He didn't fancy to get caught asking Monroe stupid questions if he could help it. When before this man, he could relate a little to the feelings of a child seeking to earn good boy points with his parent. That's probably what it was to be utterly outclassed.

If whoever was behind the killings made an attempt on the members of the Monroe family, then laughing off those mafia huntings was not an option. The 4 Godfathers were this city's foundation, and trying to get a drop on them was a taboo.

Monroe looked innocent when he breathed out a genteel sigh.

"Youths these days are smart. They read Nietzsche in a bar. And when they get so smart, you can't tell if they're a fool underneath. Isn't that right?" "In other words, there is a catch behind these mafia killings, and you're trying to sound out what it is, is that it?" "Attacking us won't lead to anything good. But if they came assaulting us anyway, then there must be some benefits, 'something good' of another kind they stand to gain from it that makes it worth the trouble." "Oh my, what a dreadful story. Not something I could ever hope to replicate regardless of whether that 'something good' was money or power."

Monroe smiled.

"You seem to be suspected though?" "Only due to an unfortunate misunderstanding." "Indeed. I'm well aware of your neutrality. You don't side with anyone. It's just that neither Nietzsche nor Heidegger explain anything about you two's nature. Moreover, no matter how much one refines one's mind, what stands meaningful at the end of the day is hard facts you can touch with your hand."

One of Worick's cheeks twitched as he cracked a smile.

"Should we take that as a job request?" "Did it sound that way to you?"

Monroe smiled, and his eyes, focused on Worick in a straight stare, were cloudless as a child's. It was beyond Worick's comprehension how a man who killed as easily as he breathed and was nearly killed as he slept at night could have such clear eyes. It was easy for Worick to believe that there was no malice towards him and his partner in the depth of those eyes, but the reason for that was because to Monroe the two were his cute ex-subordinates and useful pawns. He didn't want to give Monroe an answer that would lose them his trust.

Worick grabbed some pickles with clumsy fingers and sent them into his mouth. He feared to guess their price, but at the very least it had a few more zeroes in it than the stuff he munched on in the bar with Dario. It was truly unfortunate that the circumstances didn't allow him to enjoy their taste properly.

"We're much obliged to you. It goes without saying that we will try to live up to your expectations to the best of our ability."

Now, the question was what exactly those expectations were. Would it be enough to give Monroe those mafia slayers' heads with a ribbon on them and a bouquet as a present? Or should they set up a table to sit the perps down with none of their limbs missing so that a talk with them was possible?

While Worick tried to guess which would make Monroe happier, Nicolas, who was slowly carrying pasta to his mouth a few feet away from Worick, set the fork aside.

"YoUr coNdiTIonS?" he asked - not with the sign language, he actually voiced the question.

Nicolas didn't use signs when communicating with Monroe. He, too, had certain rules set for himself. Since he could not properly regulate the volume of his voice and adjust how it sounded, his intonations were weird to the ear, but that's precisely why you could tell he was sincere.

Monroe smiled a gentle, kind smile as if to a dog that came to snuggle up to him. He put the slice of pizza he had only taken a single bite out of on the napkin and stood up.

"Cheap meat will taste bad no matter how you cook it."

After the meeting with Daniel Monroe, it felt like the expensive food and wine the Benriya were served had vanished of its own accord, seemingly without entering Worick's stomach because the blond handyman's belly felt positively empty when he returned to the office and made a single call.

The person he called was Dario. When they drank the night away a couple of days earlier, Dario forced Worick to take a box of matches of the hotel the short man was staying at. Worick had already thrown it away, but for better or for worse, he never forgot anything he had laid his eyes on once.

Having told the front desk clerk Dario's name, he set the receiver aside and smoked one of his Pall Malls. A couple of minutes later, he heard Dario's obnoxiously loud voice on the other end and picked up the receiver again, inviting him to a meal.

Dario immediately accepted. Naming a cheap Spanish bar as the meeting place, Worick hung up. He doubted Dario was too familiar with the city, but whatever, he'd figure something out.

Then Worick changed suits. From his best looking one to one that he didn't care if it got dirty a little - with blood and stuff. Waving a hand to Nicolas who had started his routine masochistic workout, Worick left the office.

When he arrived to the venue, the familiar vivid violet monstrosity had already been parked in front of it. That car looked out of place absolutely everywhere, he thought and smiled to himself lopsidedly.

Dario occupied the seats at the very back of the bar. At the sight of Worick, he raised a hand, grinning happily like he was reunited with an old friend.

When Worick first heard of the mafia killings, the first face that came up floating in his mind's eye was this innocent in its simple-mindedness mug. He had no basis. It just was that he couldn't put it past this guy who didn't even know Nietzsche's nationality to hold even the Monroe Family at gunpoint in the heat of the moment. Also, the fact that this man was an outsider who came to town only recently was suspicious. Generally, Twilights couldn't survive anywhere except Ergastulum, but there were known precedents of strays managing to survive in the gate cities for a while.

There existed rules obligatory for Twilights to uphold. They were known as the 3 rules.

The first one demanded that Twilights not cause intentional harm to humans. Also, they were not to harm humans by turning a blind eye to danger and destroying the balance.

The second one stated Twilights must obey humans' orders no matter what. An exception was to be made if the order given contradicted the first rule.

And the third rule allowed Twilights to defend themselves as long as the action did not go against rules 1 and 2.

Among those, the most important demand was the clause about balance. And talking about balance was the same as talking about Daniel Monroe, one of the 4 Godfathers.

Twilights may have far outclassed Normals in physical prowess, but they were weak creatures who could not survive without Celebrer given to them by Normals. The higher a Twilight’s rank was, the more they were aware of this gap in the standings. That's why the three principles were upheld by them. The circulation of Celebrer and ruling over Twilights through it was a major business to the mafia, and for that reason the mafia killings by Twilights was the epitome of foolishness. Getting caught was only a matter of time, as well as obviously getting killed.

Chances of people who lived in this city long enough to run this kind of gig were very low. Common sense was something that was etched into one on the level of instincts over time. But Dario was a newcomer. It would not be strange for him to lack the brand of common sense this city required.

Hiding these suspicions behind a light and easy smile, Worick crossed to Dario. Dario gulped down whatever was left in his bottle of Corona and spread his arms like he expected a hug.

"This time you invited me! I'm honored." "Was it a bother?" "Nope. I don't have much to do all year round, and I usually just stroll around aimlessly during the day. You guys, on the other hand, seem like busy people."

For someone who allegedly only strolled around aimlessly, he had a bit of bags under his eyes. Worick ended up imagining the worst that could have stood behind that small lie. Except, in this guy's case, there was a whole lot of other possibilities. And actually, Dario pinched the skin between his eyes and said seriously and without a shadow of shame. "I watched too much porn." Acting out a mysterious persona would be out of character for a guy like that.

Worick took a seat and ordered double Old Parr along with Dario. For food, Worick just threw in whatever seemed okayish: gherkins and onion pickles, liver pate with oranges, lightly grilled marinaded mackerel - each of the aforementioned was fairly decent in this bar.

After a toast, Dario, steering the ice cubes in his glass with his finger ill-mannered as ever, cocked his head to the side and asked, "Come to think of it, where's the other half of your duo?" "Nic may not look it, but he's a hardworker, so working."

No harm would have been done if Worick had just replied honestly about Nicolas working out back in their rooms. Mixing in that little lie, he gauged Dario's reaction, except he didn't get to see anything he might have wanted to see. Dario didn't try to steal any suspicious glances at him in secret, nor did he try to look around in hopes of catching the sight of the Tag. It looked like he took Worick's words at face value. He was someone with whom tricks and tactics were a waste of time, basically.

"Did Johann-chan get better?" "Yeah, thanks to you. He only stayed in hospital for one night." "Then you should've brought him with you." "No. He's not completely recovered yet. He's bed-resting in our room." "Is it that bad?" "No need to worry. It's just that drinking with you will spiral out of control fast, and it ain't good to make a wounded person drink so much." "Hey, hey, the last time it got out of control was because of you though." "Really? Oh well, whatever, the fact still stands," he said and swished his Old Parr.

Worick started with pickles. This place's pickles were yummy, even though they were too sweet, if you thought about it.

"Tell him to take better care of himself for me. As two bros with high-maintenance partners, having an in-depth discussion about burdens of nurturing them doesn't sound too bad for today."

Dario had already downed about a half of his double Old Parr. Letting out a moist breath, he laughed.

"Johann never caused me any trouble though." "He got himself injured just 3 days ago." "What, being picked on by some hoodlum counts as causing trouble? In that case, I'm causing him a lot more trouble than vice-versa." "Oh. You get in fights often?" "I don't remember very well. Just new scars popping up on my body here and there before I know it." "Man, what DO you even remember?" "I remember that you saved Johann. And I remember my Fiat, the best car in the world. A posh babe complimented it." "Ah yeah, long silky black hair and mile-long legs, right?" "Yup. How did ya know?" "'Cause I heard all about it the other day."

They talked about it when he drank with Dario a few days ago. Although due to Dario being dead drunk at the time, his sentences were more like a string of disjointed words, but Worick still remembered.

"That so. Anyways, she was one fine woman. With a good taste, too. She pointed at it and said that face was cute." "Cute? Your mug?" "Moron, the Fiat's of course! And then on a sunny Sunday we drew the picture of the dog that broke its chains on the hood together."

Dario hoisted the now empty glass and hollered, "Hit me with another!"

Then he stuck a Garam between his lips and patted his pockets.

"I forgot the matches. Lend me yours." "Just how forgetful are you, man." "That's what's so good about me." "Hey, you're not supposed to say that yourself."

Worick fished out his Zippo from the pocket, and Dario moved in closer. The bar's interior was dim, and for a fleeting moment the swaying light illuminated the short man's face. As he withdrew the lighter, Worick took the opportunity to light his Pall Mall as well.

"To put it simply, only really important things remain in my head. I only forget dull things, trifle things. It's nice when it's so simple, no?" "Oh really. Put yourself in the shoes of someone who's forced to listen to the same story again and again though, it's pretty unbearable, I gotta say. Johann-chan probably sighs inside very often." "What d'ya mean, same story?" "Like about that car of yours." "Oh, my Fiat. The best wheels praised by the best girl. I'll drive it for my whole lifetime. The dog pic is also great." "Why a dog?" "Oh, you're interested? Shame though, 'cause I don't remember." "Not that again." "The reason was something stupid then, is all. The fact that I drew it together with the best woman is what's much more important. And on the hood, too. It's like the important memories run just in front of me, always."

The Pall Mall in Worick's mouth bobbed.

"True, that’s great. Was she that great a woman?" "Yeah, absolutely. Kind but with a pretty strong will. And smart, too. Not in studies, uh, how do I put it... her words were perky and smart every time." "But she praised that car." "That's why. Can't be helped if you don't get how tasteful it is, but a nice guy ain't gonna do something as lame as raining on others' parade and insulting their prized possessions, right?" "I'm sorry then. I got jealous of your fine girlfriend and poked fun at you a little." "I thought so. Alright, let's have another drink. Hey, hit us with another! This stuff is good." "Wait up, ain't you going too fast?" "I'm in a good mood right now. I came to a new city, and I made a new friend. Can drinks taste better than on a night like this?"

Friend? That felt off to Worick, but he didn't protest.

Instead, Worick, too, asked for another glass of Old Parr. He wouldn't say that Dario's drinking manners were necessarily good, but he didn't think them bad either.

"How long have you been in town, remind me?" "Mmm, about a week, I think? Something along these lines." "And how do you like Ergastulum? Pretty different from North Gate, no?" "I wonder. It's pretty much the same everywhere. Stupid lot fixated on all the wrong uncool stuff doing as they please." "Uncool stuff, huh. Like what?" "I don't remember the proper names for stupid stuff like that. The general feeling, it's all about the general feeling, man. Like competing over the cost of their alcohol or clothes or having turf wars that are just pissing contests if you look closer, things like that is what I mean." "And the stuff with Tags?" "Huh? What do Tags have to do with it?" "Not much, you just seem like a guy who's free of prejudice against them." "Guys I don't give a crap about I don't a crap about. Whether they have tags or not is beside the point. But your partner ain't bad." "I'm honored. And what did you like about him?" "His eyes, in particular. That's one hell of a glare, man. He's real hungry, you can tell." "True, Nic eats a lot." "Dull guys are all sated already. If a guy next to you eats yummy stuff, it makes you wanna try it too. That kind of appetite is worthless though. But with a guy that's real hungry, that alone is enough to keep your eyes riveted. Catch my drift?" "Vaguely, but yes."

Indeed, Nicolas was like a hungry beast. And what he was particularly hungry for was blood. A hunger for winning though? No, not so much. His was more pure, a hunger for violence.

Worick lit up another Pall Mall. Seeing it, Dario put a Garam in his mouth, too. Puffing out smoke, he smiled broadly.

"You though, I'm not really sure." "What about me you're not sure of?" "Whether you're hungry or sated already." "I wonder myself. I feel I'm up for another slice of Margherita after this though."

Was Dario the mafia slayer?

If he was, he had to be a Twilight. Except there were no tags on his chest. Did Tags who threw away their tags even exist? No, that was out of question. Tags were bound tight by Celebrer, so doing that was the same as suicide to them. It was an act even more improbable in its eccentricity than an attempt on this city's balance.

Dario got thoroughly intoxicated in an hour and continued drinking for 2 more.

Worick came along for the ride, bracing himself for the imminent hangover.

When they exited the bar, it was drizzling. Because of the change in humidity and atmospheric pressure, it ached beneath the eyepatch and from that alone Worick was able to guess what kind of weather it was outside even when still being in the rowdy bar where it was impossible to hear the beating of rainfall.

Unable to watch Dario stumble around, having lost his sense of balance, he lent him a shoulder. Worick judged that Dario should sober up soon enough if left to sleep it off on the seat of that vivid violet monstrosity of his.

As Worick was trying to sit Dario down in the car parked in front of the bar, Dario's foot stepped in some dirt, leaving a muddy line on his trouser cuff.

"Hey, hey, don't get my suit dirty!" he barked. "Your own fault 'cause you can't even stand on your feet. Try walking like a human being at least, a step with your right foot, then a step with your left." "Nah, ain't happening." "Why so high and mighty?" "Good taste, ain't it." "Huh?" "Even the girl said so, back in the past." "She praised your Fiat, not you though?" "Huh? Well yeah, and we're talking about my Fiat here!" "What about your suit?" "Dun give a crap. It's a little cool, but that's it. Nothing compared to my Fiat." "Well, you should give a crap. About that dirt at least." "What? You dissin' my Fiat, man?!" "We're talking about your suit right now."

Worick finally managed to deposit Dario, limp and listless like a marionette off its strings, onto the driver's seat of his car. As he did, a photo slipped out of the short man's chest pocket.

"Hey, you dropped something."

Worick picked it up and spared it a momentary glance. On it, he saw a bit younger Johann and a girl of 12-13.

"Yeah, sorry."

Dario took the photo from Worick very carefully and returned it to his chest pocket.

"Is that the girl who praised your Fiat?"

It didn't look like it at all. Worick asked the question in jest.

"Kid bro's l’il sis." "Oh. So not yours, then." "I've no sisters."

Dario and Johann seemed like siblings but they weren't blood related. So why did Dario have the picture of a girl who was his self-styled little brother's sister? Worick felt curious but he didn't think he'd be able to pull anything worthwhile on the subject out of the intoxicated Dario.

After a while, Dario put both hands on the steering wheel. Head lowered, he mumbled quietly, "It stinks." "Yeah. 'Cause you reek of alcohol." "Not that. Another smell." "Some good nose you have, you drunkard."

From behind, rustling of tyres on wet pavement came. A black sedan appeared - a cheap looking one at that. It passed by the side of the violet monstrosity, swiveled its rear end by 90 degrees and blocked the front.

In the black sedan, 5 people rode. From the driver's seat and the passenger seat, 2 men came out. From the back seat, 2 women and another man. All in boring uniformed suits. Like their black sedan, they thoroughly lacked individuality.

Combing his hair, wet with the rain, Worick inquired, "I heard nothing of the plans to close this road any time soon?"

The men didn't answer, just drew their guns.

Worick promptly threw the Fiat's door open as far as it could go and, with it as the shield, ran backward, putting some distance between the men and himself. They fired. 2 shots put cracks into the glass of the door's window. Worick didn't feel any pain blossom anywhere in his body. Looked like they had missed then.

Rolling across the wet ground, he hid behind a dirty concrete-block wall. Having readied his Colt Government, the Benriya peeked from behind his cover to check the enemy position.

“Ueh,” a stupid sounding voice came.

Dario, with steps devoid of any hesitation, was coming closer straight to the man who had just fired at his car. He was a perfect practice target, but the man apparently forgot how to pull the trigger, probably from the shock, a dumbfounded expression settling on his features.

"Hey. Because of you I sobered up, and I don't like it."

Indeed, neither Dario’s voice nor gait was faltering anymore. Except doing what he was currently doing could only be attributed to alcohol making him lose all reason.

"What have you done, you bastard?"

Dario indicated the cracked glass of the Fiat's window with his eyes .

Like it was the time for that! Worick couldn't help clicking his tongue. Wait, could it be that Dario simply didn't find this situation dangerous? If he was a Tag, it made some sense. If, say, it was Nicolas in his place, mere 5 Normals trying to charge him head-on would be no match to him, no matter how many handguns they toted around.

At last, one of the suited bandits - the woman standing in the back - took Dario at gunpoint, probably finally remembering her mission. But, before she could pull the trigger, Worick fired. A few seconds after the gunshot resounded, the woman's body collapsed. She thought she fired the gun in her hand, yet found blood dying her own right shoulder. As it stood, Worick wasn't any good at sniping, probably due to missing the left eye.

In any case, Dario was still fine, but the situation was deteriorating from bad to worse. Now two suited thugs, having regained their fighting spirit, pointed their guns at Dario. The remaining two apparently didn't bring guns. They instead had batons which didn't go well with their suits. Seeing that, Dario, too, tried to take out the Cold Woodsman from where it was tacked at his belt, but by all accounts, he had no chance to make it in time.

Worick was about to make his escape while he had the chance, but before he could, a voice in his head - maybe that of reason or of curiosity - whispered, 'Don't you want to find out how Dario plans to get out of this sticky spot?'

Would it turn into some bizarre shootout contest of speed drawing? Or would he dodge the bullets with his superhuman physical ability? Both possibilities were plenty feasible in case he was a Twilight.

When Worick thought of that, his feet stopped dead in their tracks. He simply couldn't imagine that Dario had nothing up his sleeve. His actions completely lacked the self-preservation instinct, after all.

4 gunshots immediately followed.

Each of the two suited thugs fired 2 shots. Dario didn't fire even one. He didn't move from his spot either. 3 out of 4 shots missed, but the last bullet sunk into his thigh.

---He's seriously got nothing?! You gotta be shitting me, dammit all!

Dario dropped his Cold Woodsman and collapsed to his knees where he stood. The two muzzles followed the movement, sliding down. Worick just pulled the trigger. He didn't really try to aim, but luckily for him one shot hit something. Before checking what, he leaped out and away from the wall's protection and, continuing preventive barrage, ran to Dario, wrapping an arm around the man's waist when he reached him.

It helped a lot that Dario’s body was small. Rolling with the momentum, Worick pulled the body into a narrow alley. Simultaneously, a barrage of bullets was unleashed at the two of them, as if a dam got broken. One of the bullets grazed Worick's shoulder. The wound wasn't deep, but it did send a wave of pain like high fever crawling across his skin. Gritting his teeth, he endured it and, getting up, straightened his stance. Peeping from behind the wall, he fired another shot to intimidate the enemy. The heat of pain ran rampant across his shoulder.

"My leg hurts," Dario complained mumblingly. "Hell if I care."

He lay collapsed on the wet ground, and Worick grabbed him by the nape of his neck and pulled.

"C'mon, sober up, man, seriously. Please, Dario." "I'm not drunk anymore. But I'm a lucky man, y'know. Besides, after what they did to my Fi---" "Listen up, you Psycho Stripes." Worick pushed the gun against Dario's chest. "This ain't baccarat, and I've no intention of leaving my life in your hands along with the money. If you don't wanna bite it, take this seriously." "I'm serious like never before, I'm telling ya. When did I ever horse around?"

Dario shrugged, not giving the gun at his chest even a passing thought, like always.

---Was this really his serious mode?

Worick couldn't tell. But for putting on an act, his body was too tense. The stripes of his suit were dark where the bullet hit him in the thigh.

Worick, pissed off at Dario's uselessness or maybe at his own untimely curiosity, clicked his tongue.

"Is the marble grip this year's trend?" "I've no hobby of discussing fashion fads."

Dario was unfazed as always, but his Colt Woodsman lay on the ground right in the middle of the area currently under fire, not looking like it could be of use to them anytime soon. They were outnumbered and outgunned. At this rate, their situation would only get worse with each passing second. Worick wanted to take to his heels already, but running around with this limping marble grip fan wasn't something he particularly wanted to try out. So what should he do then.

Just as he was busy recalling the map of their surroundings, he heard suspicious sounds joining the booming of the gunfire and coming from behind them.

Dario was the first to hear them, calling Worick's name. Worick span around, pointing his gun in the direction. Drawing closer was one man with a baton. The wound on Worick's shoulder hurt. He pulled the trigger. The muzzle of the gun shook. The bullet lodged into the concrete wall with a high-pitched ring. Worick didn't get to fire a second shot. Inside the strangely slowed down time, the man's baton connected with Worick's forehead.

His world growing hazy, Worick tried to aim his Colt Government again. Only, Worick's consciousness slipped before he could pull the trigger.

Naturally, Worick couldn't accurately determine how long he had been passed out, but if he had to guess, 15 or 20 minutes sounded about right or something along those numbers, anyway.

It was painful to lie with his nose squashed against the concrete floor, so he forced his body to turn.

It looked like he was thrown into some stale garage. It was a spacious place you could park 4 cars in, except there were no cars. In the first place, the space looked mostly empty. There were a few wine bottles on the floor, and a few old wooden crates lined up along the wall. And that was all. The place had one exit, draped with a big but frail-looking shutter door. There were small windows for lighting, but their size was not big enough for a person to fit through.

Worick was surrounded by 3 suited thugs. Out of the 5 of them that got out of the car earlier, 2 got hit by bullets, so the number added up, except among the 3 was the woman that Worick shot in the right shoulder. In which case, one other was sleeping on the bed, and one more was outside, guarding the perimeter.

Worick's hands and feet were tied, but there was no gag to prevent him from speaking. Choosing a random thug out of the 3 currently looking down at him, he used the chance and spoke up, "Is this a no smoking area? I'd like you to take out a cig from my pocket and let me smoke it if it's not."

The woman with the bandaged shoulder approached him, her heels tapping against the floor sharply.

"I'll give you something that's far more effective than nicotine."

The sole of her shoe stomped on Worick's cheekbone.

Swallowing the iron-tasting liquid in his mouth, he considered his situation.

---They didn't kill him.

The easiest and most obvious reason for that would be them wanting to use him as a hostage against Nicolas. If 4-5 Normals were to take on a Twilight, using a hostage was a viable option. Twilights were like beasts, but due to Celebrer and society's effects, they allowed themselves to be tamed on a deep-seated instinct. In the extreme case scenario, if Worick said die, Nicolas might just die. That said, it was pretty unthinkable for Nicolas to allow himself to be forced into submission through something like holding Worick at gunpoint. It didn't feel much like a dangerous crisis as long as they could think smart. If there was a problem, it was in the fact that having to wait for Nicolas to come and save him like some damsel in distress was very lame.

Chuckling to himself, Worick asked, "What are you gonna do with me now that you have me?"

The one to answer him was the woman with bandaged shoulder again.

"Use you for what you're worth, then kill you. Otherwise, it won't pay off." "Was your suit that I ruined that expensive? In that case, I did very wrong by you, eh."

The woman grimaced in displeasure and kicked Worick in the stomach. The hit wasn't all that strong, probably because she was rather light in terms of weight, but his forehead struck by the baton earlier and the shot shoulder throbbed in pain.

"That's right. It was something a man bought me, and now he can't buy me anything anymore. The way he laughed was vulgar and got on my nerves, but he had the ability and talent necessary to be appointed as the Capo Regime of a mafia family. He had a future and could make it big."

Worick shook his head. "We're not the mafia slayers you’re looking for though."

This woman and her helpers must have been hit hard. It looked like the rumors about Worick and Nicolas being the ones behind the killings spread a lot faster and wider than Worick had originally thought.

"At the very least, it's beyond doubt that you hunted down the survivors of the Lombardi Family." "They swooped down on us out of the blue, attacking us first. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. And actually, we're after those mafia slayers ourselves." "Oh really. Who's backing you? What are you trying to achieve by upsetting this city's balance?" "We're doing nothing of the sort. I swear. We've no complicated connections to hide, and we're not trying to do anything to Ergastulum." "But you keep in touch with a suspicious outsider not from the city."

She was talking about Dario. If Worick confirmed that yes, Dario was suspicious, would he get a chance to get out of his current predicament in one piece? But Dario was too weak. And Johann was the same, getting totally beat up by puny thugs. There was too little basis to suspect them of being the mafia slayers.

So Worick could only shake his head.

"We just happened to drink together." "And you also just happened to invalidate my means of procuring new suits by sending my man to his grave." "Nope, that doesn’t sound right. I don't even know your man, and it goes without saying that I didn't kill him."

Was Dario okay? Realizing that he was worried about the guy a little, Worick smiled a bitter smile. It wouldn't have come to this if it wasn't for that idiot in the first place.

Worick didn't think he gave the woman any reason, but she went and kicked him in the abdomen again.

Spitting, the woman said, "Whatever. I disliked you for a long time anyway. Getting all cocky and setting up the Benriya business, playing house with a Tag, such a hypocrite. What, did you think that Tags would become normal human beings if you just patted their head kindly?" Worick had to laugh at that, "What is a normal human being, exactly?"

No matter what he said, they wouldn't kill him right away, he surmised. However street-level they may be, a mafia was a mafia. Worick had no doubt they knew all the ways how to make use of a captive.

"Is someone who buys into a misunderstanding, fires her gun left and right on said wrong assumption, scrunches up her face like some ugly salted Bacalada [*] and throws a tantrum because of a stain on some suit a normal human being?"

The woman glared death down at Worick, not bothering to hide her rage. She pulled her gun out with her left hand clumsily.

"I'm right-handed, but my right arm is unusable for the moment, your courtesy, so I'll have to make do with what I’ve got. I'll fire 6 shots. If any happen to hit you, well, sorry."

So that was how she was going to play. Maybe this woman wasn't as composed as Worick had hoped. And that was why dealing with a hysterical woman was never a walk in the park.

If worst came to worst, he would die here, Worick realized. Oddly enough he wasn't too terrified at the prospect, although he did find such a death quite silly.

The woman disengaged the safety.

Directly after, a deafening booming much like an explosion came, and the shutter door got smashed to pieces.

The person to appear was... not Nicolas.

The first thing that came in sight was the clumsily painted dog with its wide inappropriate grin, followed by the rest of the vivid violet monstrosity.

In the blink of an eye, the dented front of that tasteless car crashed into the man who stood near the shutter and sent him flying. The hood got warped, and the dog's sneer got even wider. That mad dog raced straight to where Worick was, hitting another man on the way. The wheels on the right side flipped up the wooden crates by the wall. The woman, features twisting, managed to jump out of the way anyhow. Behind the broken windshield Worick's eyes met those of Dario on a smiling face that was very much like that of the dog on his car. Bound, Worick couldn't move. The car skidded, sparks flying up where the sunk hood scrapped against the concrete. The sparks stopped right before Worick's nose.

The wooden crates came falling down, crashing with jingly sounds. The skidding tyres left black marks and a burnt smell in their wake. Dario briskly threw the door open. The resulting puff of air tousled up Worick's bangs.

"Yo, my friend. Alive there?"

Dario was bleeding from the forehead. Probably from the cuts the windshield inflicted upon breaking or something. He got out of the car - more like clumsily slid off the seat, actually - and, producing a knife with some difficulty, cut the ropes binding Worick.

Worick cracked a smile. "Why are you here?" "I told ya, didn't I. You're in luck. You saved Johann, after all. Next, it's my turn to save you." "So you remembered that, huh." "I don't forget important things." "It's your fault that I got caught though." "Is it?"

Gunfire resounded. It was probably the woman who fired, but sadly for her, the bullet's trajectory curved and it went through the hood, right between the dog's eyes. Dario took out his Colt Woodsman. But evidently, he had pushed himself too much, having no strength to grip it properly, and it ended up slipping out of his hands.

Worick snatched the Colt Woodsman off the ground and fired.

He didn't really aim properly, but blood stained the woman's chest. Worick decided to take it as his design succeeding and leave it at that.

Spinning the Cold Woodsman about the index finger thrust in the trigger hole, he held it out to Dario, and Dario put it back into the holster on his waist, his energy apparently sapped dry as he threw himself down, sprawling on the hard concrete.

"I'm hurting all over. This is a serious wound, y'know? Hurry up and take me to hospital already." "Wait up a sec. I'm totally beat myself."

Worick took out a Pall Mall. Dario did the same, still sprawling on the ground as he stuck a Garam into his mouth. Worick lit up both cigarettes.

Like the cigarettes, the vivid violet dog-faced monstrosity spat out puffs of black smoke. Its engine was done for, it seemed.

"A pity about your Fiat." "Ah? Why?" "It was your prized possession." "Yeah..."

Dario glanced at it, his eyes meeting those of the intrepid dog.

"I already forgot all about it."

Worick closed his eyes for a while, offering a silent prayer to the vivid violet monstrosity and the picture of the dog on it. Finished, his fingers closed on the cigarette, taking it from between his lips and ashing it.

"Have you ever read Nietzsche?" "Nietzsche? Who's that? A porn star?" "That's right. A highly arousing one that has all the youths captivated."

The mafia slayers. The outlaws violating Ergastulum's rules. If you thought about it seriously and rationally, they were vicious criminals with unknown connections and backers.

But looking at the facts from a fool's viewpoint, it could almost appear like they were just a bunch of people getting around and killing those they didn't like.

"For pinups, the bigger the ass the better, for me," Dario muttered. "Sorry, dunno the size of Nietzsche's behind," Worick returned.

Ash from the cigarette fell on Dario's face as he made no attempt to change his sprawling position, and he frowned grumpily.

T/N: Bacalada = stockfish

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#gangsta.

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