#'the one with sunder was good its a really good horror' <- why did you lie to me. are you mad at me

[hampterguts]

kinda funny seeing that last queued tf post with me gushing in the tags abt the comic bc i havent felt joy or even an emotional connection reading mtmte for a while

[deuterosapiens]

So uh... does anyone actually like Inferno?

I saw the genre swap, was exciting to see a detective noir Hellraiser film, and then, oh, then did I learn.

So, our first film without Clive Barker. What wonderful world of exciting new- hey, hey producers, whatcha got- hey, why do you have the screenplay to Se7en in your hand? What are you doing with that permanent marker? Why are you scratching the title out and writing Hellraiser V on the cover?

Okay, so, that might be a bit too much credit. A direct rip-off of Se7en with a coat of Hellraiser paint could be really cool. This was decidedly... not.

I'll give this sequel two things, and these two things only. No more, no less, only flesh:

The twin Cenobites feel as though they were created through sadomasochistic mutilation and therefore, while obviously designed with pointless sexiness in mind, feel compliant with the point of the Cenobites in the original novel. They appear disfigured due to the whole "pain and pleasure are the same thing" thing. This cannot be said of some of the designs in the early films. They aren't particularly interesting to look at, but they don't feel like the fucking CD thing from Hell on Earth.

The Lemarchand Box (identified as the Lament Configuration, spoken out-loud for the first time in the series) is not a Pokéball.

There's a direction these films have obviously talen that I don't much care for because it does conflict significantly with one of the most interesting aspects of film one. It's an aspect that Clive Barker himself kind of ignored in Scarlet Gospels, but since he's the creator, I'll accept his wishes on the matter. Seeing as Scarlet Gospels is clearly in greater continuity with the film than the novella, I guess I'll accept that too.

This little detail, humorously enough, I don't recall this line being in the book, is in the nail-headed Hell Priest's introduction to Kirsty: "demons to some, angels to others, explorers in the farthest reaches of pain and experience". Why do I like this line? Because it rather clearly states that they exist outside of the human morality spectrum. What that other hellsite would refer to as "blue/orange morality" (a term I do find quite useful to describing these sorts of things, I'll admit). Clearly, the later films prefer a literal Christian Hell approach, which is almost boring, as I believe it renders the idea of the Cenobites as simply outside of our realm of understanding quite pointless. Oh, so you exist to punish us for our sins. Cool. Great. Excellent.

I really hope the ploy twist here was able to fool someone. I truly hope someone was caught off guard by it. Someone watched this film and had a major Keanu Reevess style "woah!"- moment. I envy their ability to see the magic of incredibly obvious plot twists.

Oh, so you opened the Box and now you must live out an Inferno-based ironic hell as punishment for your personal indulgences. I feel as though being punished for engaging in vice, excess and sexual indulgence is kind of something the earlier films' Cenobites wouldn't really care about. All they care about is that you are having a good time, and that perhaps you'll have a better time without skin, or really, being in one piece.

Way to completely miss the mark on these characters, guys!

You like The Engineer, I like The Engineer. It's like the one singular Cenobite of the original novel that's given an actual name or title. Why did they give this title to the nail-headed Hell Priest? The Engineer is a creator of glorious devices by which to further explore the limits of the flesh (specifically, it's sundering from its owner's body). Kind of a completely different character!

This one was bad, just honestly bad. I did not enjoy this slow, introspective mess. I could get behind a slow, introspective Hellraiser, but let's not kid ourselves about what these movies are about. They are gorey films, that derive their most unpleasant imagery and fear from the beauty and horror of sex. They embrace the whole "one man's squick is another man's squee" mentality. Or they should.

I cannot reconcile this film with any real element from the previous ones. Oh, Leviathan, Lord of the Labyrinth, help me get through Hellseeker.

[aminiatureworld]

Needled Words

Characters: Childe, fm!reader

Word Count: 1,691

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: When does a joke go too far, when is a jab more than just friendly? Where does the line blur and where does it stop?

In which Childe’s teasing becomes too much for the reader

Author’s Note: For some reason this prompt made me think of Nancy Mitford, mostly because she was known also for being a slightly mean-spirited teaser. Ah Childe, my beloved. Communication in a relationship is key y’all.

Childe

You knew that Childe was only joking. After all, didn’t he read his letters to you? Brimming with little asides and jokes.

“Dear Tonia, I would say I was happy to get your letter, if only it was sopping wet. Did you leave it out in the snow again? I swear, if you were in the illustrious Tsaritsa’s army, you’d probably end up attacking your own regiment, and then I’d be forced to execute you for treason!” No one could mistake such an opening for anything except a slightly barbed bit of teasing.

Nor were the younger one’s exempt. Teucer’s antics had resulted in quite a bit of teasing. “Teucer, I think the Mr. Cyclopses have better survival instincts” and “I didn’t take you for someone who spent other people’s money!” This latter statement was made after Teucer spied the hand-crafted, very expensive, fireworks that were sold in Liyue. Of course, Childe had bought him the fireworks, and of course he never begrudged doing things for you when he teased you either. Still, you somehow felt as if things were different when directed at you.

Not that they really were. It wasn’t so much that you were picking up a different tone, it was more that, unlike Childe’s siblings and other friends, such as Zhongli, who was subjected to endless old man jokes, you couldn’t seem to take them well. When he joked about how many times you ran into the countertop you began to wonder if you truly had something wrong with your hand-eye coordination; when he said you were the laziest person, he’d ever met you wondered if you weren’t sleeping in too late; when he teased that he had to be your personal babysitter you wondered if you were truly good enough to be an adventurer. It wasn’t Childe’s fault, it really wasn’t, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

Of course, you could tell him, could finally let it all out and stop pretending that it wasn’t painful to try and keep all your emotion sunder wraps. But you couldn’t help but feel as if that would in some ways disappoint him. He was a Harbinger, tough, aloof. No words could ever hurt Childe, of that, you were sure. So how would he take it, the knowledge that his part was all too liable to shatter at every poke and prod? You couldn’t blame him if he turned out to be ashamed.

So, you kept it to yourself, smiled through all the jabs and teases. It didn’t matter, it really didn’t. You were fine! Or if you, weren’t it wasn’t worth it trying to change anything. You didn’t want to lose Childe, didn’t want to see the change when he went to say something before stopping, looking at you’re with barely concealed disappointment. Childe lived with his emotions to the forefront after all. And you wouldn’t ask him to change something you ultimately loved about him.

Thus, the days continued on, as did the teasing and the feigned smiles. Some days it was worth it, some days you were left with nothing but happiness bubbling up inside, the love that humans reserved for a very few number of friends and lovers. Yet those days were often days with minimal teasing, and you couldn’t help but notice the layer of anxiety that pressed on your love the days that were filled with Childe’s jabs. Lying in bed, limbs tangled with his, you stared up at the ceiling, wondering what you should do. You felt trapped, by your emotions, by your pride, by Childe’s words. They were all encircling you, and you could do nothing to defend yourself. You tried to keep the tears to a minimum; after all your partner slept so little already.

You didn’t know when the subtle shift happened, when it all became too much to handle. Maybe it was after Childe’s recent trip to Snezhnaya, where, surrounded by Harbingers who saw their coworkers as enemies rather than allies, he had sharpened his wit even more so than before. If his earlier teasing was unfocused, general quips, then his current ones struck quite closer to home.

“Wow my dear I didn’t peg you for a Treasure Hoarder, I don’t think that arrow could hit anyone if it tried!”

“I think you truly have the makings of someone who gets scammed by a Mondstadtian duke, or perhaps a Fontaine prince who has lost all his mora in a flood. Remind me to never go shopping with you.”

“Honestly, I think if you ran into the Electro Archon, she’d think your vision was fake. It’d be an easy way out.”

The whiplash of Childe’s proclamations of “princess” mingled with sentences that, had they been geared at anyone else, would surely be insults was shocking, and you found yourself less and less able to keep these two aspects of your partner compatible in your mind. Even less did you find the ability to simply brush it off.

You didn’t know why it was a comment about your socks that finally caused you to break. Really, it was too juvenile.

Laundry in your shared apartment was often seen as a punishment, the chore that each of you pushed onto the other. As such there was often a pile of laundry in the laundry basket, and incredibly slim pickings in your drawers. That being the case you often found yourself wearing mismatched socks. Perhaps it was a little odd, or a little childish, but it was certainly preferrable to spending all day at the river scrubbing your hands red. Who cared anyways? No one would notice such a small thing, especially once you had put your boots on.

However, nothing could get past Childe’s wicked sense of humor, and apparently your clothing choices were prime fodder for him.

“Nice socks.”

“Oh, thanks,” you replied, already having a sense of where it was going. The smirk that played across your partner’s face was full of mischief, and usually that only led to one place.

“I think that you’ll be quite the icon among toddlers all throughout Liyue. People will be asking you if you’re lost all day, or maybe they’ll ask you how it feels like to be nine.”

It was really a silly comment to get so upset over, such a small, insignificant thing to cry over. Yet there you were, standing in the kitchen, frozen in horror as your vision became fuzzy with tears. Unsure about any other course of action you buried your face in your hands and prayed Childe wouldn’t think about what you were doing.

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

You could hear the panic and concern mingling in Childe’s voice. Almost immediately a warm hand was on your shoulder, and you were suddenly flooded with the presence of the person you loved so much, the person you were now crying about. You could tell Childe was saying something, was whispering soft words of comfort, but in the moment your thoughts felt all too loud. Overwhelmed by the situation you turned into your partner’s shoulder and let yourself cry.

Eventually sensing you had lost all your tears Childe drew back slightly.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes please,” you replied, voice still small. Nodding Childe moved towards the kitchen. Within a few moments he was back, glass in hand.

“Was it the teasing?” He asked as you drank. Whatever you had to say about your partner, he certainly wasn’t stupid.

“Yes,” you mumbled, nodding for affect.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had gone too far. I promise I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“But Childe, it, it’s not just this time.”

“What do you mean?” Childe asked, voice flooding through with concern once more.

“It’s, I’m sorry, it’s just that, it’s all the time. Not all the time, every time you tease me. It’s not your fault! Of course, it’s not, it’s my fault. I don’t know, I just, it really hurts sometimes, all the time? I don’t know. I just, I’m sorry.”

Childe’s expression was one of abject horror. Taking your hand, he rubbed small circles on the top with his thumb. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how much it was affecting you. I should have been more careful.”

“But I don’t want you to feel like you have to, I don’t know, I know you tease everyone, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You aren’t making me uncomfortable.” Childe’s voice seemed just as hurried as yours. “It makes me more uncomfortable to think that you’ve been burying this the whole time. You’re damn good at hiding things you know. But this isn’t a war or something, you don’t have to hide what you’re feeling, for whatever reason. Better if you tell me, y’know?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Doesn’t look good on you, or sound good. I’d rather hear you happy.” Childe leaned in to press a soft kiss against your forehead. “I love you, okay? You mean more to me than a little bit of teasing.”

“You don’t think I’m being weak?” You managed to make out as your anxiety lessened its grip on you.

“Weak? Girlie you’re one of the strongest people I know! Weak my ass. If you wanted to rule the world you could give me a run for my money. Of course, I’d win though. I mean, I would be there right with you.”

“I know you would,” you smiled, despite yourself.

You knew that Childe probably would still retain the odd sense of humor and levity he already had. Old habits die hard and all that. Still, you had managed to say what had been haunting you all this time and, more than that, you had been assured that you were good enough, strong enough. Those few words, no matter how short, meant the world to you.

[fancytrinkets]

Necromancy (The Western Approach)

Note: This is just me trying to reconcile the game mechanics of necromancy with how necromancy is written about in the codices... Not sure if I get it right, but it’s an attempt. Also, this scene is written as Dorian/Inquisitor, but honestly when you take this piece out of context, if you really want to read this as pre-relationship Adoribull — or else as the start of Dorian/Inquisitor/Bull — you totally could and I would support you.

Shit.

The thought flashes through Trevelyan's mind at the exact moment he feels the nerves prickle across the palm of his hand. From the noise behind him — a sudden whoosh like the rushing of wind or water — he knows that a rift has just opened. He doesn't need to look to confirm it, but he does anyway, hoping against hope that he won't see demons yet. But of course there are.

"Shit!" he says, counting four wisps and an arcane horror.

"Not good," Bull says through gritted teeth as he takes stock of the change in their situation.

He's been holding his own against two Venatori warriors. Neither opponent can match his strength and skill. But it's two against one and they're both relying on the unfaltering strength of their barriers. Three spellbinder mages are keeping them shielded. They're also carpeting the ground underfoot with fire and ice glyphs — very dangerous if stepped on.

Trevelyan and Dorian have been dispelling everything — barriers, glyphs, and ambient hostile magic — as quickly as they can. All the while, they're casting and recasting barriers with frantic speed to keep their own party shielded. But it means they can't launch aggressive attacks of their own.

If they could take out even one of those spellbinders, they'd gain an immediate advantage. And Sera's been trying. She's targeting the mages and hoping for a lucky hit. But the spellbinders are all reinforcing each other, and her arrows glance harmlessly off each renewed barrier.

As soon as the rift opens, she spins, aims, and starts picking off wisps one by one.

"Look out!" she says.

Trevelyan turns just in time to see the arcane horror cast its spell. Spurred on by a rush of nerves, he jumps aside as a green burst of deadly energy spirals past him. It hits one of the Venatori warriors to devastating effect. The remnants of a barrier spell burn away to nothing. Thick plate armor is sundered and the warrior staggers, struggles to remain standing, and then collapses.

"Maker," Trevelyan says, breathing the word with effort and relief.

That could easily have been him lying dead in the sand. No question about it, that arcane horror needs to be dealt with — and since its weakness is the spirit magic he wields with his spectral blade, he's their best chance at stopping it quickly.

Though I wouldn't mind if it takes down another couple of Venatori first.

It's a passing thought, nothing more than a flash of grim humor to ease the reality of death on the battlefield. But then, with sudden clarity, he knows exactly what they have to do. He snaps his fingers at Dorian, catching his attention, then points to the arcane horror.

"Spirit mark," he says.

A flash of recognition crosses Dorian's face, and without a word, he casts behind them. His magic hits the arcane horror, marking it to entice the lesser spirits when it falls.

"Yours now!" he calls out, because what's next is to kill this thing, and he, too, knows that Trevelyan can do it better than anyone.

And so Trevelyan takes a breath, casts his Fade cloak, and then charges towards it unseen. He reemerges into the world with a burst of damaging energy. It stuns his enemy for a second and allows him to follow up with four swift hits from his spectral blade. He's grown more powerful thanks to frequent practice, and the arcane horror doesn't stand a chance. The demon falls, destroyed, and immediately rises up again, lit by the purple glow of necromancy. Guided by Dorian's magic, it sets to work targeting one Venatori after another.

When it's all over — when their enemies lie dead and the rift is sealed — Dorian jogs over to talk to Trevelyan. He's grinning with pure delight.

"Excellent thinking! I'm impressed," he says. "Most people don't know it's possible."

"What do you mean?" Trevelyan asks, because he's not really sure what Dorian's on about.

"Ah," Dorian says, launching straight into explanatory mode, "yes, well, as everyone knows, a lesser spirit isn't typically strong enough take on the powers of an arcane horror once you've vanquished the original pride spirit possessing the mage's corpse. But, if you've got an extremely masterful necromancer like me around..."

His voice trails off, and his expression changes from jubilant to concerned.

"Oh, I see," he says. "You didn't even realize, did you?"

"Probably not?" Trevelyan's not still quite not sure what he's missing.

Dorian chuckles, though he doesn't seem amused.

"I turned an arcane horror for you. That's impressive magic. Not just anyone can do it. And you didn't even know enough about necromancy to realize that."

Trevelyan winces.

"No, I guess not."

The Circle didn't teach him about necromancy at all. As a topic, it wasn't banned; it was simply omitted. Everything he understands about it now is from Dorian having explained it to him. And for the first time, Trevelyan realizes how frustrating and lonesome that must be. Dorian is a researcher, a true intellectual with interests spanning several fields of advanced theoretical magic. He deserves to have a community of scholars around him. But all he has here is basic battlemagic and frequent treks through the wilderness.

"Well, never mind, it all worked out," Dorian says.

He looks around, spots a flat rock nearby, and sits down to unlace his boots and pour the sand out of them. It's obvious he's annoyed.

"What am I even saying?" he asks. "Of course it worked out. You're the luckiest bastard I've ever met. Everything works out for you."

Trevelyan sighs, still feeling sheepish in his ignorance, and digs in his pocket for the hair tie he borrowed from Varric earlier. The wind is picking up, and even with the relative protection of a hooded cloak, his hair keeps blowing across his face. It's been bothersome.

He's busy tying it back when the Iron Bull saunters over. The edge of his axe is still bloody — from striking down the last Venatori once Dorian's spell ended and the arcane horror fell.

"You should put that cowl back on or you'll get sunburned," he says.

Bull is strangely doting sometimes, like a giant mother hen. Trevelyan grins, glad to be distracted from his thoughts.

"I'll be fine for a while without it. I'm no Qunari, but I won't burn in two minutes like that one."

He points towards Sera, who's busy checking the corpses for coins and amulets. Her face is a painful-looking shade of bright pink despite the hood she's been wearing all morning.

"Hey," Bull says, "I'm just looking out for you. Humans are delicate."

"Delicate!?" Dorian stops relacing his boots to glare up at him.

Bull's immediate reply is gleeful laughter. Dorian's indignation was obviously the reaction he was hoping for.

"Not you, big guy," Bull says, reassuring him. "I meant all the others except for you."

"Oh, for Maker's sake!" Dorian rolls his eyes. "You don't need to patronize me."

Bull turns back towards Trevelyan. "I can see why you like this guy. It's fun getting him all riled up."

Dorian rolls his eyes again and sets to work tying and buckling his boots, now free from sand. But he seems more at ease somehow, and less annoyed.

Trevelyan tilts his head, curious and assessing. He's starting to suspect that Bull came over here with the explicit purpose of cutting through the tension. It happens from time to time: Dorian gets his feathers ruffled; Trevelyan falls quiet and serious for a while. They always work it out before long. Under normal circumstances, it's not a big a deal. But threats are everywhere out here and they can't afford to let even minor conflicts fester. As an extremely perceptive former spy, Bull would know this.

"You're in a better mood than I expected," Trevelyan says.

"Yeah," Bull says, "but not really, though. Demons, Vints, bunch of creepy magic shit. It's not my favorite. Hence all the joking around. A man's got to cheer himself up somehow."

"True enough," Trevelyan says, and then he looks up to scan the horizon.

From somewhere in the distance comes the blood-chilling roar of a dragon.

[trickstermakesallworlds]

despite the difficulty involved in making things make sense with this kind of story, I really do not regret my choice to make Dayir a noncombatant -- to take the "Warrior" out of "Warrior of Light"

(long post cut)

I understand the general theme of fighting for one's world, one's existence -- but I take umbrage with the methods. the Faded Memories quest in Amaurot upset me big-time the first time I went through it (and no, I do not look forward to doing it again lol), because that is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to avoid -- taking up a righteous sword and carving through people in the name of some higher cause. I don't really buy that concept, as compelling as it is in video games, and it just wears thinner and thinner as time goes on

Dayir is a noncombatant but ey are very much a fighter. the path ey have chosen is far, far harder, because not only are ey fighting for eir world and eir people and emself, but ey are fighting against the idea that people have to die in order for em and eir world and eir people to be saved. ey are fighting against the idea that "the beast tribes" are lesser beings (frex. Dayir avoids Limsa Lominsa as much as possible not just because Lominsans are... a bit crass for eir liking, but also because Merlwyb and her whole stance regarding the kobolds and sahagin drives em nuts) who deserve to be trampled all over because they dare to be so afraid for their existence and so distrustful of the people who have consistently subjugated them that they make for easy marks to the Ascians. ey are fighting against division, against senseless warmongering, against pretty much every solution ever presented to em. the reason why Dayir joins the Scions is because Minfilia goes, "no, actually... I support that. let us help."

a video game of this nature needs you to kill things to progress. fine. but remove the gaming aspect and the body count is merely horrific. so is the way the WoL blithely carries on without even a thought about it. killing is traumatising. war is hell. the Garleans are so good at it because they basically purged healthy emotionality from their society. (there's like a weird irony there when you consider who the founder of their society was, but I can't quite verbalise it.) the rest of the world just suffers. Dayir's angry Elezen companion does fight for the Scions, does kill when his hand is forced -- but he is not exempt from its horrors. Ishan attempts to sate the gnawing void inside him, but taking a life only widens the hole, only deepens the hunger. Dayir is not exempt from making mistakes. letting Ishan kill in eir name is one of eir biggest.

sometimes I think I'm being overly sentimental when I refuse to let the confrontation in Amaurot be a battle. after all, we've killed other Ascians. but those were earlier times, more uncertain times, when Dayir did not fully believe in the rightness of eir path. also, the Ascians on the Source were... let's just say extremely antagonistic. killing them seemed like the only choice if we didn't want to have to kill hundreds of other people. but Emet-Selch does not interact with us in the same way as the other Ascians, and Dayir has come into eir power as one who fights with heart and words and love as opposed to swords and spells and conquest. Azem's power is with em. against that, Emet-Selch is disarmed. and that might be wishful thinking, but so is the idea that you can just fuckin slice and dice your way into making people do what you want (and you'll somehow never get sliced and diced back...). so we're all wishful thinkers here.

Dayir proves to Emet-Selch that the Sundered deserve to live by exemplifying that spirit of old Amaurot that Emet so misses, the expansive spirit of cooperative creation, and irrefutably changing people's lives for the better through this spirit, which awakens that self-same spirit in them. Dayir continually works to halt the cycle of killing and revenge and suffering and loss that the Source had been stuck in, and that's eir Heroic trait -- as implausibly as the Warrior of Light somehow manages to kill everyone (even primals and Ascians and whatever else) perfectly and never die themself, is as implausibly as Dayir does what ey do. we all playin by anime rules here

I'm really just doubling down on the game's actual message of cooperation and friendship saving the day. the Ascians use the inherent despair of the Sundered to manipulate them into causing Calamities. Dayir and the Scions use the capacity of hope-against-hope and love-despite-all inherent to the Sundered to stand against the Ascians and render them powerless. that's really all there is to it.

(final note that I forgot to work into this post but want to say anyway: the other thing about Dayir is eir love and respect for death. death is good. death is not to be cheapened by using it as a threat any time someone does something you don't like. death is reward, bliss, rest. life is harder. having to live with what you've done is harder. choosing to live when you are suffering, to fight for a better day in the future, is harder. Emet-Selch fights against his death not because he wants to keep living, but because he doesn't believe he deserves to rest. he believes he should fight harder for his lost world. their "confrontation" is essentially Dayir fighting to convince Emet-Selch that his rest is long overdue. but that is not a conclusion that Dayir wishes to force upon him -- he must come to it on his own. Emet-Selch's life is not Dayir's to take. no one's is.)

[zoryany]

send me ficlet prompts – optionally include characters 73.  You’re putting an awful lot of trust in them.

Her boots were planted firmly on the ground just below her shoulders, arms folded across her chest in a way that maintained a delicate quality without diminishing her strength. Everything about her seemed to grow tight as her jaw clenched, her brow knit – ever so slightly – and the air in her lungs could be released as either a sigh or a growl.

The twins were in disagreement.

Luke hated when they didn’t see eye to eye. It made him feel distant from his sister in a way he hadn’t even felt during his first days as a member of the Alliance. It wasn’t often that they disagreed, but when they did, the Force itself seemed unsettled, as though the galaxy was out of alignment. somehow. These days in particular, it took significant matters to divide the Skywalkers, but if there was one surefire way to sunder their partnership, if only temporarily, it was to broach the subject of Vader. No greater source of contention existed between them than their own father.

Leia would never forgive him. Hell, she’d hardly forgiven Luke for forgiving him. But this wasn’t a matter of forgiveness – this was a matter of trust. Leia trusted him implicitly, the same way he trusted her, and he sincerely hoped he wasn’t taking advantage of that by asking this of her.

“I know you don’t like this.” He was stating the obvious, but he felt it only fair to her for him to acknowledge it.

“You have a talent for understatement, Luke.” It wasn’t malice in her voice, but a vein of irony wove its way through her words that teetered dangerously close to disdain. “I absolutely despise this. You’re putting an awful lot of trust in them. Especially considering they only respect us in the first place because of Vader.” If her voice wasn’t malicious before, it was positively dripping with venom as she spat out their father’s name.

Luke winced at her tone, making it a point to choose his words carefully. If he was going to convince Leia to see his point, he would have to appeal to her sense of reason. His sister was intelligent – smarter than him, he would gladly admit – and her sharp mind allowed her to carefully construct her arguments and decisions. She was, however, still human, and as subject to her emotions as any other human.

“I know how you feel about this – about him. But I’m not asking you to change that. I’m only asking you to consider the strategic possibilities that this could open up for us.”

“Luke, don’t,” she snapped, but she’d lost a bit of her previous acidity. “I’m fully aware of the strategic advantages an alliance with the Noghri could give us, but I do not trust a species that’s been loyal to the Empire for over two decades.”

“But they weren’t loyal to the Empire.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They weren’t loyal to the Empire, Leia, they were loyal to Vader,” he insisted.

“That’s even worse.”

He could sense her anger building back up, her voice growing colder and her eyes growing harder, and he knew he had to act quickly. During the war, Leia had been known as the ‘Angel of Mercy.’ It was her sense of mercy for beings who were suffering that he was banking on, now, and he could only hope for that sense to override her hatred for their father.

“I’ve been to their homeworld, Leia,” he said, speaking slowly and putting weight into his words. “It was ravaged at the end of the Clone Wars. The planet is desolate, and only very little of it is habitable. The reason they were loyal to Vader -- want to be loyal to us -- is because he discovered them and worked to restore their world.” She knew this already, and the impatience grew on Leia’s face as he spoke, but he had to say it again, had to reiterate it to make the impact of what he was about to say next hit with the right amount of weight. “I’ve been looking into it, though, and after this long, they should have made more progress. So why is so much of the planet still suffering?”

Leia’s brows knit in thought, the wheels turning in her head and shining through her eyes. Confusion and thought replaced anger and irritation on her face. “What are you trying to say, Luke?”

“I believe the Empire’s been poisoning the crops in order to keep the Noghri loyal to them.”

“What?” Leia gasped.

Chewing his lip for a moment, Luke considered his words carefully. Leia would agree with his point, but how he presented it could very well make all the difference. “Vader discovered the devastation and set the restoration in motion. That’s why they consider him a saviour. But it doesn’t add up. After this long, why is only a sliver of land habitable? I got my hands on one of those probes and… Well. It confirmed my suspicions.”

After a moment, the words sunk in, and Leia’s eyes grew wide with horror. “Of course. Why offer genuine assistance to a world in need when you can enslave its inhabitants instead,” she spat, her lips curling in disgust.

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Think about it, though. That has Palpatine written all over it. That’s what he did with Vader. Saved him, gave him the means to survive, gave him power and strength, but kept him from recovering fully so that he’d have to rely on his master for the rest of his life.”

The look on Leia’s face suggested she knew exactly where he was going with this, and he could see her searching for arguments to counter Luke’s points. He decided to jump back in before she had the chance to find them.

“Father, if he was aware, would not have agreed with The Emperor,” he insisted, refusing to flinch at the fire that flared in Leia’s eyes when he said Father instead of Vader. “He was a slave his whole life, and while there’s no denying that he was complicit in the continued existence of slavery under The Empire, he would not actively participate in it.”

“You don’t know that,” she countered, but it was clear that, reluctant as she was, he was winning her over. “But… maybe you do. And if that’s the case, then… Luke. Thrawn’s been using them.”

“I know.”

“He’s been lying to them!”

“I know!”

Her brows furrowed in that way they did when she was on the verge of an epiphany. “We have to tell them the truth.” There was fire in her eyes, a righteous determination that told Luke that she’d come to the same conclusion he had. “We can liberate them and Thrawn will lose his personal assassins!” She paused, a moment, pressing her lips together and drawing in a deep breath through her nose. “I still don’t… like how they came to trust us. But… I am glad you trusted them. Because I trust you, Luke, and I think this gives us an opportunity to earn their trust based on our own merits.”

Admittedly, Luke agreed with Leia in that regard. He was not ashamed to be associated with their father, but he didn’t want his life to be defined by him, either. Being Vader’s children had gotten the Noghri to listen to them, but it would be their own actions and intentions that would win and maintain their loyalty.

“You’re right, as always,” Luke said. If he’d learned one thing about Leia in the time he’s known her, it’s that she’s much more likely to be persuaded into something she’s initially against if she ends up thinking the whole thing was her idea all along.

The gears in her head were turning as she formulated a plan. Now that she’d been convinced of the value of allying with the Noghri, she would not rest until she knew precisely how they were going to go about it. “I think, since you’ve visited the planet and made more direct contact, you should return and propose the alliance.” She did not mention Luke’s relative willingness to play up their relationship to Vader, but they both knew it was part of it.

As much as it made sense, he was hesitant to agree to it, however. “You’re putting a lot of trust into my limited diplomatic abilities.”

Raising a brow, Leia breathed out a soft, short laugh. “You really aren’t giving yourself enough credit. You’re a Jedi, Luke. More than that, you’re kind and charming and don’t talk down to people. You inspire people, and they listen to you.” She smiled at him in that way that conveyed her complete and utter faith in him, and he felt his cheeks warm as he turned his gaze towards the floor. She reached for his face and tilted his chin back up, her brown eyes deep and warm. “You can do this, Luke. I can’t think of anyone better suited for this mission than you.”

Part of him wanted to protest that she was somewhat biased in that regard, being his twin sister and all, but the sincerity in her expression told him that she wholly believed what she was saying. “Alright. I’ll start making preparations and then head to Honoghr. The sooner we cut their ties with the Empire, the better.”

“Agreed. Take care, and may the Force be with you.” She touched his cheek once more and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and smirked at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and Luke? Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Well. She’d figured him out. But, that she agreed anyways meant that he’d done something right, and that was good enough for him.

[theseerasures]

Frozen 2 Reactions, Pass #2

went to see the movie again yesterday, which helped solidify a few more thoughts percolating in the back of my head. i don’t think this one will be QUITE as long as the first, but everything’s going under a cut anyway because i’ve met me

tbh most of this is just me dunking on Elsa

one of the things that i think both helped AND hindered the movie is that they really did make an effort to make the sequel its own separate story from the original--hence the timeskip, the retcons, and so forth. on the positive end of things there’s obviously a much lower barrier of entry for the like...three people who never watched the first movie, and the characters get to feel more grown up while remaining (thanks no doubt to the writing team remaining much the same) consistent enough that the changes to their personalities still make sense. it never feels like it’s retreading old ground, and if fans want to connect the new ideas and themes to the older material (and i count myself among those, what with my first fic in almost four years being about exactly that), there are plenty of kernels with which to do so.

on the other hand: some of the new plot stuff really just DOESN’T work with what’s already been established. chief among those is the idea that ~~~the story of the enchanted forest with requisite creepy lullaby~~~ is a well remembered bedtime story for BOTH Anna and Elsa?? like what does this imply about their childhood? that their parents told them this same bedtime story over and over again, but separately in their own respective rooms? that Elsa got charming bedtime stories about magic-based conflict and war???

(”yeah papa!!! please tell me again about how magic can not only kill people but also SUNDER AN ENTIRE LAND FROM REALITY, that story’s my favorite!!! looking forward to some really spirited nightmares tonight!”)

or are we supposed to assume this is like. the thing bad Batman writers try to do where everything poignant that has ever happened to Bruce happened the night his parents were murdered? that Elsa and Anna remember the story only because it was the night of the Accident (tm)? because that’s...also stupid, i gotta say.

i love that Elsa’s verse in this song start with “the winds are restless” bc it’s exactly the way i imagine her starting conversations with her hapless subjects. “good morning, Your Majesty! how goes the kingdom?” “the winds are restless” “...” “...” “...yes. that was...something i noticed as well”

Local Sisters Make Every Time They See Each Other in Town a God Damn Event

ever since @professorspork pointed out how stupid the “and i promise you the flag of Arendelle will always fly” line is in Some Things Never Change i haven’t been able to stop laughing about it. it’s just such a BLATANT telegraph: “whooo!!! yes! Arendelle!!! we all love that place and want to save it, and you can tell because the song said so!”

the Friends shot of them all walking back to the castle and Anna has kicked her heels off is great though i love it

also love the multitude of shots where it’s Elsa and someone else and we get a peek at her silent reactions to whatever the other person is saying. not since Legolas have we been blessed with so many memeable dumb faces

“ah yes, Mama’s words! cuddle close, scootch in! you remember her saying that all the time right Elsa?? after all it’s not like you have any decade-long baggage about not being able to be near anyone, most especially family members, because you were deathly afraid that you’d instantly murder them”

more thoughts on why Into the Unknown stands out so vividly in my mind: the first movie’s songs by and large did a VERY good job of moving plot around while still exploring character emotion. Do You Want to Build a Snowman moves us through ten YEARS of story, while still leaving space for long, unsung moments where we just get to process what’s going on between the sisters as they grow up. For the First Time in Forever catches us up with the sisters, gets the gates open, and has Anna meet Hans at the end, a pivotal moment for both her and the plot. Love Is an Open Door has them get engaged and sets up the rest of the story. Let It Go is Elsa’s big character shift and sets up the goal for the other characters: the ice palace is where they all need to go to bring back summer. the FtFTiF reprise begins the endgame. the other songs are all more fluff pieces that JUST serve to introduce characters, which is why they’re...not as good, and most people don’t really care about them, but we can accept that they’re there because the strength of the other material.

with Frozen 2...Into the Unknown is pretty much the ONLY song that fits into the first category: Elsa works through her conflicted feelings about wanting to explore the unknown, AND wakes up the spirits (sidebar: her pure joy at using her powers to communicate with the spirits is SO GOOD, guys. it gets me every time). the other ones just kind of transporting their singers into the Emotional Expression Dimension for them to do their thing. sometimes the songs transport them to the next plot point while they’re singing, but nothing really happens DURING them. i can give Some Things Never Change a pass on this because it’s supposed to be about stasis (and because i’ve bitched about it enough on other fronts), but much as i love Lost in the Woods and Next Right Thing for their character exploration they’re really just music videos to get us to the next scene. Next Right Thing is particularly egregious about locking the plot in the boot--the ENTIRE sequence is just Anna climbing or slumping against random rocks until the song ends and she can actually move the story along. one could make an argument that Show Yourself does get stuff done, but it’s still mostly Elsa running around in a cave for three entire minutes before we get to that point

i don’t think Get This Right is perfect but it DOES pull off the multitasking well, and it would have not only resolved the torturously stretched engagement subplot early on but creates a nice thematic echo to Love Is an Open Door: she really knows Kristoff, she really loves him, and she proposes. it’s her choice.

Kristoff’s line about question of how/question of whether works great for highlighting his continued insecurities, but again: either we’re supposed to think he’s wrong and Anna has ALSO been thinking in terms of how and she’s just been too busy in sister-drama-land, and this whole plot should have been resolved early, or we’re supposed to think that Anna really ISN’T on the same page, in which case they...probably should have a serious conversation about where they see their relationship going and not just get engaged at the end because Elsa made a new dress

as soon as an HD version comes out i demand a gifset juxtaposing Anna slumped against a rock with Anna slumped against Elsa’s door at the end of Do You Want to Build a Snowman, because this whole sequence is where the distance between sequel and original really WORKED. Anna is singing about how alone she feels, how she’s never felt such darkness before, when we know that that’s...not true. she's felt pretty close before--not long ago that was her whole LIFE. it’s natural for her to feel this way, because being knocked off your happiness always hurts more than never having it in the first place, but we the audience get to have faith in her, because we remember. eventually she does too, and now she knows exactly how resilient she can be, exactly how strong she’s ALWAYS been.

the animated faces are SO GOOD. we see Anna flicker through seventeen feelings at once when Kristoff rescues her from the dam: delayed fear, relief, and--this is the crucial one for me--horror that she survived, because that means she’s going to have to live with the fact that Elsa didn’t.

Elsa riding into the sunset of her sapphic life is great obviously but every time i see it i worry that the movie is going to end with the same face smear effect as the Prisoner of Azkaban movie

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Q&A: Luke Arnold, Author of ‘The Last Smile In Sunder City’

Luke Arnold may be better known to some as a veteran performer on film, TV, as well as theater, but now he’s turned his creative energies towards a new career as a writer. His debut novel, The Last Smile In Sunder City, published on January 28th (Australia) and February 6th (UK) with it to be released February 25th in the US, so we took the opportunity to chat to him about the inspiration for his story, how he manages to balance two careers, and discovering a new love for the fantasy genre.

Thanks for taking the time to talk to us! Firstly, can you tell us a bit about yourself?

For the last decade or so I’ve been lucky enough to work as an actor on a bunch of great projects in Australia (my home) and around the world. Some people might know me as John Silver on a show called Black Sails. One of the quirks of being an actor is that every job ends so you often end up with huge chunks of time while you wait for the next gig. After finishing my work on Black Sails, I used that downtime to write my debut novel The Last Smile in Sunder City.

Has writing always been a passion and how does it fit in with your acting career?

The writing came first. In some ways, the acting was a side-effect of the fact that I was writing things that needed to be performed. My high school principal even warned me that while my writing was impressive, my acting left a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, when I was accepted into university courses for acting, filmmaking and writing, I decided that I’d start with acting and return to writing later. I thought that I’d be a better writer after gaining a little life experience and a career in acting has certainly given me that.

For me, all the creative energy comes from the same place, it’s just expressed in different ways. I’m sit on my own, bashing out a manuscript for a few months, then get called onto set to collaborate with a bunch of other artists for a while. It’s the best of both worlds.

How would you describe your debut novel, The Last Smile in Sunder City, in one sentence?

A hard-boiled detective gets kicked around an dystopian fantasy world hunting real monsters while running from his demons.

The Last Smile in Sunder City features magical beings in a world struggling to deal with the aftermath of magic being lost, which is a very unique concept for a fantasy novel! Do you read much fantasy yourself? If so, was this a deliberate response to common fantasy tropes?

Before writing this book, my knowledge of the fantasy genre was actually pretty abysmal. I cast a wide net with what I read, and I’d had a few early experiences with the genre that kind of turned me off. I’m doing my best to catch up and have quickly realised that I’ve been missing out. It’s an exciting time for fantasy and sci-fi where a lot of writers are breaking the mould of what we thought the genre could be.

This wasn’t a response to existing tropes but I wanted this world to feel as familiar as possible, so that it feels as easy to read as a mystery set in somewhere like Los Angeles. I’m far from the first writer to create a world where the magic is missing, but I hope I’m sitting in the aftermath and examining the idea in a way that feels fresh.

Were there any intentional references to real-life issues in this book? I may be reading too much into it, but I wondered if the issue with magic being lost and its impact on all the species was an analogy for climate change?

It’s hard to avoid the link between the broken world of Sunder City and what’s happening around us, but that wasn’t the initial inspiration. For me, it represents something more internal. As we get older, life can seem less magical than it did when we were kids, even when the world isn’t actually falling to pieces like it is now.

Of course, with things the way they are, I spend a lot of time wondering how to do some good in a breaking world and those thoughts definitely add fuel to Fetch’s journey.

If this book were to be adapted, what format would you prefer it to be, and why?

I think it would really suit a television show. Mystery has always works well on TV but in this golden-era of content, I think we could make something special. Indulge in all the film-noir elements and make something really unique.

The most exciting part would be letting other characters take the story for a bit. These book are all in Fetch’s head but a series would let us wander the streets with other characters and give them time to shine.

The story is told entirely in the first person. How easy was it to get into Fetch’s head and maintain his mindset the whole time? Did you ever have difficulty separating yourself from the darker, at times depressing mood of the book?

While writing the second book, I realised that I needed to shake Fetch out of my system at the end of a writing day. I’m put a lot of my worst tendencies into him, things that I hope I’ve grown past, and spending too much time in his head can drag me backwards. Luckily, Fetch will grow over the course of the books so maybe they won’t always be such dark waters to swim in.

How does your experience with acting and portraying other characters help with creating your own original characters?

It definitely had an effect but it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how. I hope that it had an effect on the secondary characters. As an actor, you become aware of when a character is making choices aren’t organic, but just serve the plot and the needs of the protagonist. Ideally, each character has their own internal world, wants and needs, so that they would be satisfying for an actor to play.

Can you tell us a bit about your writing process? For instance, the world of Sunder City is very detailed, did you figure out the nuts & bolts of its history and workings while you were writing or was there a bible that you created beforehand to refer to?

I started with some of the broad strokes in my head, but I first discovered Sunder City by letting Fetch walk the streets. It began with a short story and I had no outline, no map, no bible. I just set him off on a case and followed him around as he kicked over stones. Of course, there were many rewrites and expansions that took me to the final manuscript, and I now have a huge document with all the species, businesses, streets, histories, technologies, etc, but Fetch came first. I try not to get ahead of him because I want to use the world to best reflect his current state of mind and challenge him in specific ways.

Aside from the sequel, would you write more books in this genre or branch out into others?

I wish I had the time to write everything I want to. I hope to branch out and write something separate the Fetch Phillips archives soon. Not necessarily fantasy, but I do always like a touch of magic realism in what a write. So it will more likely be horror or sci-fi rather than anything too naturalistic but you never know.

And finally, what are you currently reading? Do you have any recommendations?

I’ve just digging into The Bone Ships by R.J. Barker which I am loving. Very on-brand with my pirate past. Rage of Dragons by Evan Winter was brilliant. In some ways, it felt like the exact opposite kind of fantasy to The Last Smile in Sunder City and I love that.

- The Nerd Daily

[ventrue-rosary]

Kingdom of Decay - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Not A Hero

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

‘What do you mean gone?’ Jedrek roars. Addenus winces. ‘I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Only that when I went to attend the shrine this morning, Sanguine was...absent.’ Jedrek’s fists slam into the table. Amaranthe jumps at the sudden explosion of anger. The veins around his eyes seem to glow a bright red. His eyes snap to Amara. In an instant he stands before her, fingers digging painfully into her shoulder. ‘You...you arrived only yesterday...what do you know? Who are you working for?’ Her voice fails her. Under the terrifying scrutiny of the Head Hunter she only manages a petrified squeak. Jedrek steps back, releasing her from his grip. ‘No...not you. Your Uncle…’ He looks to Addenus. ‘Send out men now. Drag Theodrin back here--alive. I have questions for him.’ Addenus bows and takes his leave. When the door swings shut Jedrek leans on his hands on his desk, his stooping shoulders bearing an invisible, immeasurable weight. Amaranthe stands silently, feeling awkward and foolish, unsure what to do with herself. ‘You understand what has transpired, yes?’ Jedrek asks after a small eternity of silence. ‘Something was stolen?’ she asks meekly. ‘Not just any mere trinket, or bauble. The founder of our order, the one we serve--Sanguine. Is simply gone. I do not believe he left of his own volition. He was taken from us. Your Uncle is our prime suspect. I know you witnessed our argument last night. He had to have taken it as retribution.’ ‘He wouldn’t…’ Amara realises how foolish the words are after they part her lips. ‘What can I do to help?’ ‘For now, stay here. Addenus will set more seasoned hunters on his trail. Get some breakfast, then Addenus will start your training. Hopefully Sanguine’s power can still reach you. If you can connect with him, you might even be able to get a location.’ Amara shifts were she is stood, already starting to feel the burden of Jedrek’s expectations. ‘Dismissed!

‘Close your eyes! Focus…’ Addenus repeats for the dozenth time. Amara rises to her feet with a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s no good! I can’t sense, see, hear anything!’ Addenus runs a hand through his hair also for the dozenth time. Nearly all of his hair now stand to attention. ‘We need to get Sanguine back and fast.’ ‘Not...here…’ ‘Wait what did you say?’ Amaranthe asks. ‘We need to get the sword back?’ ‘No after that.’ He fixes her with a funny look. ‘I never said anything else.’ ‘I thought I heard a whisper…’ ‘Not...Theodrin…’ ‘I heard it again...Sanguine?’ Addenus is in front of her at an instant, shaking her by the shoulders. ‘Well, what is he saying?’ ‘Not here, not Theodrin.’ ‘Wait...not Theodrin. Then who?’ Amara listens intently, waiting for more words. ‘WHO!? She shushes him. But there are no more words. Her shoulders sag as disappointment sets in. ‘I don’t know. He’s no longer speaking with me.’ ‘Damn it all to hell! Well, at least we know we can still communicate. For whatever small comfort that brings. For now, we need to work on strengthening your body.’ Addenus bends her arm upwards at the elbow and feels the muscles of her bicep, or the lack thereof. ‘I have my work cut-out for me.’

Days bleed into weeks and eventually months as she relentlessly trains day after day. Her body sore and exhausted after being pushed past its limits barely manages to get her to bed every night, where she collapses onto it, fully clothed. Amaranthe comes to meet other members of the order, but she never really finds herself growing close to any of them. They speak to her in awed tones, breathlessly announcing their excitement at seeing her unlock her potential. She questioned this choice of words every time she witnessed them, but is always told to just “wait and see”. Amaranthe sends letters to her parents, bending the truth regarding her strenuous training and altogether omitting her Uncle’s antics. She casually asked if her mother has come into contact with him recently, but in typical fashion her mother answered Amaranthe's question with another question she dare not answer: "why"? One morning, as she eagerly rips open a letter, the words written give her much surprise, and she realises just how much she lost track of time. ‘Happy...birthday?’ she whispers. Amara rushes over to the window and thrusts it open. Indeed, outside the snow melts, giving way to the first flowers of spring. A handful of sparrows take flight, drawing her attention skyward to where the sun sits resplendent in a flawlessly blue sky. The morning air still carries the bite of chill to it, but there is no denying spring is here. She allows herself some time by the window, enjoying the view and air, even as it burns her lung with each breath. Eventually, duty knocks on her door with a gruff demand for her to open. ‘Happy birthday, little Princess.’ Addenus holds a leather scabbard attached to a matching belt to her. Wordlessly, Amara takes the proffered sheath. She clasps the hilt of the sword and draws it, seeing real, sharp steel. She sucks in a breath as she realises she holds a real weapon in her hands. One for killing and protecting, not just training. ‘This…’ Words fail her. Awestruck, she steps back and gives the blade a few test swings, down from the shoulder, across horizontally. Perfect balance and weight. ‘You’ve made fantastic progress in the time you’ve been here. Figured it was time you had your own blade. Which moves us on to your next phase of training.’ Addenus’s expression holds an uncharacteristic grimace. ‘Which is?’ ‘Its better I show you. Come.’ They return to the same training room but she feels strange, her mind firing constant worries and worst case scenarios. When they reach the room, they stop. Addenus turns to face her. ‘What I ask of you today may be your limit. But it is who we are, and what we do. So please, just trust me, and do I as do.’ Addenus pulls his battleaxe from his holster on his back, and draws the head of it across his palm, opening a large and bloody gash. Amara watches in rapt horror as the blood coalesces across the metal. Ghostly green energy surroundings it, small black insects swirling around in its depths. She smells the sour stench of decay rise. ‘Your turn.’ ‘I--I can’t,’ she stammers, her eyes fixed on the wound on his hand. ‘Yes you can. Thousand of men and women have done it, some younger than you. Some even more sheltered, if you can believe it. You’ll get used to the pain.’ Amara unsheathes the blade and holds it ready, but doesn’t find the courage to draw her own blood. It shakes in her clammy grip. With a cy she pushes the blade down. There is pain, so much pain, like the burning flames of hellfire torment the sundered skin. Blood rushes down both sides of her wrist. The blade clatters onto the ground as she cradles her wounded arm. ‘Again,’ he ordered. Amara blinks at him through unshed tears. ‘What…?’ ‘Your blood is supposed to manifest as a certain element around your weapon. You need to retry. This time don’t focus on the pain or your fear. Focus on your motivation. What drives you? Anger? A desire to be a hero? Vanity?’ ‘I--I don’t…’ ‘Why are you here?’ ‘Because I was told I had to be.’ ‘Bullshit! You defied your mother and your sovereign to come here. Why?’ Silence lingers following his question, except for the fading drip of her own blood. ‘Think!’ ‘I wanted more…’ the words slip autonomously from her mouth, but when she hears them she knows it to be the truth. ‘More?’ ‘I wanted to do more than sit on a throne and dictate on how the lands should be ruled, on how people should live while others risk their life to keep my people. That’s not the type of Queen I want to be.’ ‘You want to be a hero? Is that it?’ ‘Not a hero.’ ‘Then what?’ Amara’s arm still twinges with pain as she reaches for her blade. Holding the handle, she cuts a line across her forearm, and watches with pride and rapt fascination as the blade becomes endowed with crimson flames. ‘A protector.’

[authorellenmint]

Hawke entertains three children who approach her doorstep with four stories to scare the pants off 'em. And who should she use for characters in her horror stories but those companions she knows so well?

Needing to focus and finding it impossible in the puss-ridden city, a young man set out for the solitude of the deep woods. An old cabin squatted far off the road between the skeletal trees of a dying forest. Battered and grey as an urn, the roof's bowed edges and partially boarded up windows twisted and warped the bones of the place until it looked as if the entire structure was about to lunge forward and devour the man.

No, Anders shook his head. He was being superstitious. There was nothing wrong with the cabin the dwarf told him about. It was perfect for what he needed. Solitude and quiet, nothing more. The inside reeked of decay and age, but Anders cracked open the windows allowing a warm autumn wind to swipe away the stench of death in the air.

Rather cramped, all things considered. There was a sitting room with a few chairs scattered about a rug. The charred fireplace loomed against an entire wall, so great it could burn bodies whole inside. Beside him sat a ladder, which led up to the tucked away loft designed to hold a small bed. A nice amenity, but all Anders truly needed was the desk resting near the back of the cabin.

Carved from real cherry wood, with orange firelight dancing against the grain it almost looked as if the desk itself was bleeding. The ink pot was dug in deep into the desktop to prevent spills, which Anders quickly refilled from his stash. As the final drop of black splattered into its new glass home, he pulled free his quills. They were a masterpiece to behold, as he'd tell people endlessly on, and on, and on because talking about quills is so much fun.

I mean, they were beautiful, plucked from the tails of no two similar birds. A dove's was cut at a strong 45 degree angle, giving him a thick point. From an owl, he achieved the finest line imaginable, barely a hair's breadth upon the page. But his real favorite, the one he relied upon constantly, came from a startled raven. Blacker than the ink it wrote with, when Anders held that feather in his fingers, no words were walled off from him. His hand would dash for hours and hours without end.

Which was what he needed. With a flourish of his fingers, he yanked open the book, sat in the unflinching writing chair, and began to manufacture his manifesto.

The candle burned ever lower, Anders eyes only wandering away from his screed against tyranny to note the fire's level. Hours had to have passed before he paused, the beloved raven's quill dipping into the ink to rest a moment. "Maker's breath," he groaned to himself, struggling to stretch out the crick in his neck.

"Hello..."

Anders whipped his head around, his heart holding in place. Did he just hear that? The cabin was far too tiny for anyone to hide inside -- from the desk he could see every inch save the loft. Great. That'd be just like the dwarf to tell him about the cabin, then sneak ahead and hide in it to mess with him. Or Isa...some other woman who's not the pirate queen from earlier. Running a hand against his blonde scruff, Anders hauled himself up the ladder fast.

The bed was built into the cabin itself, only the mattress capable of being changed out over time -- which at the moment appeared to be extra lumpy almost as if it held an unexpected addition. Cracking his knuckles, Anders waited a moment while watching the lumps. Whoever was here to annoy him knew to remain perfectly still.

Latching onto the sheet, Anders gave a great yank while shouting, "Got you, you sneaky bast...!"

Three pillows lay upon the naked bed, none of which were capable of giving a cheery hello. Even still, Anders jammed a hand into each to see if anyone could be hiding deeper in. "Getting jumpy," he sighed, already certain he imagined the voice.

Sliding down the ladder, he moved to scrounge up a bit of food out of his pack, when his eyes caught a glint against the afternoon light. A sliver of metal was hidden below a rug. Curious, Anders flung the rug back to expose a massive metal door built into the bottom of the cabin. A lock the size of his fist shackled the two doors together. Only one reason someone keeps their cellar locked, either that's where they hide all the valuables they stole as bandits, or the bodies they killed as murderers.

He should really let it go. Return to his writing. There was a lot left to do after all. Anders shifted towards the desk, but his eyes refused to leave the lock. They hungered for it, ached with curiosity. Needed to sunder the thing and see what lay below. "Besides," he shrugged to himself, "if there's anything valuable I might be doing someone a service in finding it."

Certain in that little lie to himself, he drew forth fire against the lock. Oh yeah, he's a mage. With blonde hair and tends to wear a lot of bandages despite not being hurt. Never really understood why but...right, the story. The lock didn't just fall apart, it fully melted, dripping against the doors until it was forever joined with them. And the secret basement forever unsealed.

After the metal bits cooled, Anders hauled open the doors. Impenetrable darkness circled the air below. A great chill danced up Anders' spine as he rubbed against his arms. "Well," he laughed to himself, "this is why mage fire was created." Rising up the veil on his hand, he peered deep into the pit. Whatever was inside waited so far down it may as well rest in the core of thedas itself. But Anders was a stubborn son of a...ass. And when he got something in his mind, oh let me tell you, there was no talking him out of it. No matter how stupid.

"Nice of someone to leave a ladder," the man continued to talk to himself while easing down into the creepy cellar, in the creepy cabin, in the middle of the creepy woods. His words pinged against the packed earth slipping further and further away, acting as a way to convince himself he wasn't truly alone. When his boots struck against ground, Anders took a deep breath.

There could be bodies, or monsters, or monsters made out of bodies. Who knows in this world. Prepared for anything that thedas could throw at him, the man turned on his heel, lifted up his lighted hand, and stared into the abyss.

Nothing.

There was nothing in the small cellar. Even the shelves burrowed into the earth itself were picked clean. Not a jar, not a gold coin, not even a finger bone. It was as empty as a revenant's grave. "A whole lot of buildup for nothing," Anders whined, kicking at the packed dirt.

He began to climb back up the ladder, but a foul wind crested against the back of his neck. Instinctively, Anders wiped against it but felt nothing save his own hide. "Just a breeze," he muttered to himself while climbing, but deep in the recesses of his brain he wondered how it could have been warm.

Slamming the basement shut and returning the rug, Anders sat down at the desk and resumed his writing. It carried on deep into the night, the words flowing like rivers of water but with words. Good words, really. All those magey words about mage things. Exhausted but pleased with the pages of his never ending manifesto he put down, Anders left the book open to dry while he pulled himself up to bed to get some sleep.

The fade came quickly to him, but he didn't dream as normal. It was all dark jagged edges and flashes of red, with the sound of footsteps clanging against stairs, and fists pounding upon metal. Underneath it all, he heard a voice barely legible but clearly in distress, begging for him to leave.

When Anders woke, sweat perforated his brow. He gasped in a breath, his heart pounding a mile a minute. "Gah!" he groaned, struggling to work out a fresh crick in his neck. Sleeping in a new bed was always such a pain.

"So's growing old," he muttered to himself. Shaking off the nightmares clinging to him like a crusty towel, Anders was prepared to face a new day. Even through the odd dreams, he had a few revelations he couldn't wait to get onto parchment. With a spring in his body, even if it was cramped from the day before, Anders slid off the ladder and stepped towards his work.

LEAVE!

Etched in red ink across two pages of what he spent all of yesterday writing was that single word. Damn it! Anders snarled, pacing around in a circle while the rage boiled in his veins. He spent hours writing down everything on those pages and someone...someone comes along and defiles it like that! They were going to pay. No doubt it was the dwarf having a laugh somewhere.

More certain than ever that someone had to be hiding in the cabin, Anders prodded into every nook and cranny he could find. He even jabbed a finger into a few mouse holes, but every single one came up empty. There was no one here, save himself.

Maybe whoever did it skipped on back to Kirkwall, Anders tried to convince himself. It made sense. Mess with him, then vanish, thereby messing with him twice. Sounded like a dwarf thing to do. Or maybe the elf. Trying to calm the snarl in his heart, Anders dug back into his work.

First he had to recopy his old words without the red stain, then he was free to continue onward. As his anger cooled to justice, the words came yet again. It seemed as if the cabin fueled his muse, atrocities committed against his people laid out in plain black and white for any to understand. By the time he looked up from his work, he blinked in surprise at the candle burned to nothing more than a stub of liquid tallow.

Breath dancing against the wick, smoke curled around his head while he smiled at his work. Pleased, and certain no one would dare mess with it tonight, Anders trailed up into his little bed and fell fast to sleep. The dreams were deeper than before, an endless void with scars of red gouged into the side's of his eyes. He couldn't stop flinching, the voice in the background growing louder. "Leave!" it all but screamed at him, causing the fade to rip away and leave him gasping for breath in his bed.

Dawn's light radiated through the windows a few hours strong, but Anders felt exhausted. He placed a hand to his forehead and groaned at the deadness in his veins. It felt as if he hadn't slept a wink instead of the full night. Scrubbing off his cheeks, his fingers glanced against his neck and he hissed at a blinding pain. That damn crick wouldn't vanish for anything.

Shaking it off, because he's good at ignoring obvious problems, Anders stepped slowly down the ladder. What he needed was food, and a long drink of water. His tongue lay parched to the roof of his mouth, his throat raw as if it'd been screaming all night. Laughing at the thought, he moved to reach for a carafe left beside the sitting chairs, when his eyes darted over to the desk.

"No!" he shrieked, the water splattering through the air as he slammed the cup down.

LEAVE!

It stretched from the entire margins of the book until someone dug the quill deep into the desk itself. "Who's doing this?!" he snarled, the blood in his body pounding as he whipped his head back and forth to find the culprit.

Another search of the cabin commenced, but again nothing was found. No one. He even took a look around the area outside to see if there was a tent or campsite, but only the cautious trill of birds flitting through dead branches filled the air. If it weren't for the constant vandalism, he would be dead certain he was completely alone.

"It's got to be the elf," he growled to himself, dragging his weary body to the chair. With a resigned sigh, stubborn Anders once again copied over the graffitied pages and ripped free the ones stained in red. Stuffing them with the last two, he hurled all four into a desk drawer that only carried cobwebs, and got back to proper work.

Rabid dog or no, he wasn't about to give up on his cause. It beat in his veins, carried in his blood stronger than anything else in his life. But Anders was weary, and he only lasted until the horizon began to shift to orange and purple. If he got in a good sleep tonight, and didn't have to restart tomorrow, then he might be able to finish this soon.

With a smartass smirk on his lips, and an idea in his heart, Anders closed his book and glanced around the quiet cabin. The fireplace! No one would ever think to look there for his manifesto in order to defile it there. Lifting up the remains of a half charred log, Anders stashed his book for safekeeping. His hands were coated in black soot from his plan, which he wiped down his pants without thought.

There, safe and sound and no surprises in the morning. A great yawn ripped through Anders' throat and he stretched his arms wide. Exhausted beyond measure, he could barely make it up the ladder to the bed before tumbling deep into an unbreakable sleep.

The dreams wouldn't come. There was no sight. No colors. Not even a voice, just the unending darkness as his body twisted inside of the void. A warm breath danced against the dream Anders' ear and he winced. In turning his head around, as if he could see through the impenetrable night, a voice screamed all around him.

"LEAVE!"

He tried to sit up, his brains rattling from the bone rending scream, but he felt too weak to rise. The crick enflamed at the side of his neck, pain throbbing to the back of his skull and across his shoulder. "Maker damn this cursed bed," Anders grimaced while trying to shift towards the ladder.

Just gripping onto the edge was traumatic to his worn body. He felt a jar from the bottom of his toes up through his teeth, but he willed himself downward. The only consolation to his exhaustion was that he'd finally pulled one over on the elf, there was no way he could have found the book and ruined it.

Smiling at his ingenuity, Anders turned towards the desk and his eyes bulged out of his head. Laying open was the book, black handprints smudging up the desktop from the bastard who wrenched it out of the fireplace. Barely able to keep a great wail pinned to his tongue, Anders impotently glared down at the bright red threat left for him.

LEAVE!

He stumbled into the chair, fingers gripping onto his hair. Slowly, he flipped through his manifesto to find the same curse sketched onto every single page. All his work for naught. The hours. The days. The soul sucking exhaustion. For nothing. Because that damnable elf snuck in here and destroyed it. He wanted to cry, to scream and hurl things, but Anders wasn't going to be cowed by some childish scribbles.

No. He was too proud to give in. He would fight no matter what.

But... He leaned forward a bit, a hand trying to keep his exhausted head up. Sleep daunted him, his eyelids shuttering with every breath. Returning to the bed would be too much work. It was best if he just took a nap here, his head cushioned by his life's work. At least he wouldn't wind up in so much pain from that lousy mattress.

As Anders closed his eyes and nestled in for a nap, a thought flitted through his mind. Where was he getting the red ink from?

Bang.

His eyes flew open.

Bang. Bang.

Nothing but the unending darkness of the void surrounded him, Anders' breath catching as he faced a return of the same nightmare. Return to slumber. This doesn't concern you.

He was tempted by the voice whispering in his mind, but he shook his head and the pain sundered his assertions. This was no dream. Burning the last bit of energy in his body, Anders raised his head and reached for the flint. His fingers, numb from sleep, stumbled against the striker and nearly sent the candle tumbling off the desk.

No. He would not be taken in by shadows and his imagination. Willing strength into his soul, Anders struck the flint and brought a sliver of yellow into the black world. The dancing flame drew his weary eyes right to it, almost soothing like a mother's lullaby. The voice that called to you from outside your crib before you could see, assuring you that you were safe forever.

A warm breeze wafted against the back of his neck. He reached behind to wipe it away, when he caught black. Black stains upon his palms. The same ones from the fireplace, where he hid his book. Where someone else had to have touched the same charred log. Gotten the exact same marks on their hands.

His entire body locked in tight, every hair lifting as it sensed he wasn't alone. Slowly, Anders twisted his chin, his eyes darkening from the loving embrace of the fire to the endless pitch of the void.

Rows of jagged teeth embedded into receded black gums gnashed the air. Skin pale as death itself wafted like crispy parchment upon muscleless bones as the emaciated creature lifted a hand and grinned. "Hello."

Anders spun a hand out, trying to will a spell to his hand, but his body was untethered to his mind. No spell would come. No attack would drive his fists. Only the spine shattering horror of the creature before him could command his mind now. He stared, incapable of doing anything else, while his lips continued to mouth one word, "Darkspawn."

A hand lashed onto his head, yanking it far to the side. Incapable of moving, he watched as the creature's endless row of fangs drilled into the exposed flesh. Warm, sticky blood welled up out of the gash, which the darkspawn greedily sucked into its bottomless gorge. Time slipped away as Anders watched the creature feed upon himself. He could do nothing, could not move, could not blink, only hung upon this eternal torture while his life essence filled the gullet of an unholy monster.

When he finished, the darkspawn tossed Anders' head aside, a black tongue lashing a foot out of the mouth to lap up all of the spilled blood. It left a slick stain of putrid saliva upon Anders' bare flesh and coat. After licking his fingers, the creature smiled, "Til Tomorrow."

Horrified, Anders watched it haul up the basement doors and slink back inside. Why couldn't he move? He had to get out of here! To run, to flee! Anders tried to will his muscles, but his legs were limp, his arms dangling useless at his side. Even in the back of his brain he could feel the darkness encroaching upon him. Soon it would return, yanking him back into the void where this nightmare would purge his memory, wipe the horrors away as if it never happened.

There was only one hope. Fingers fumbling, he yanked up the raven's feather, but his body was too weak. He couldn't sit up to reach the ink well. Dipping the point into the last of his blood, Anders began to write upon the only parchment near him.

L-E-A-V...

[elizabethrobertajones]

When Cas was talking with the Empty, looking like he was talking to himself, he didn't say "Why do you look like my vessel", he said "Why do you look like me?" The whole scene was like Cas arguing with the angelic/power side of himself, the one bound by Heaven and Chuck and the rules they live by. Do you think this is finally it—ridding Cas of that life and releasing him to Dean for real? That the sun at the end of 13x04 is the new light for his new life, so to speak?

I’m not entirely sure - this was the spec I was kind of fond of before the episode, that he’s be split apart (about the 1 thing I am probably way too invested in is the Lily Sunder exposition on what nephilim are and how that might apply to Cas, who has a soul and a vessel as well as angel grace crammed on top) so I was hoping they might poke at that some more. But I’m malleable about what happens because I just have a few wishes and random things I harp on and no real solid plan for what I need to see/expect to see :P

Since the Empty was entirely its own thing it can only mirror elements of Cas, and I agree with the analysis of it as his guilt and depression, since it laid into him from those angles, yelling exposition that explains his depression arc that’s been made since either the start of Carver era or season 11 depending on where you time it from the narrative actually DEALING with it rather than just suggesting it’s there. I can see how you meta it deeper about representing specific parts of him, but I think main subtextual layer underneath the Empty mocking Cas was pretty blatantly to deal with putting his emotional arc back in the forefront, with reminding us (not exposing anything new at all, even the “love” thing because that happened in season 9 AND 12) about things like the need vs want thing from his perspective. Generally it used a lot of keywords I’d always fall back on to explain Cas’s depression arc like these talking points :P

Also, specifically about Heaven, those angels that came for Jack were scary and organised and clever, which means I think that they may stop writing angels as goofy office workers and make them a little more dangerous. Since they’re a threat to Jack, Cas could very likely take a stand against heaven on Jack’s behalf to prove he’s moved beyond that. It may or may not take a season 9 turn and also turn out to be motivated by the Winchesters, but again, we’ve covered this ground so idk how many reminders we need. Season 9 was only re-telling Cas’s earlier motivations but using Metatron to hang a whole bunch of lampshades on it and to update it to Carver era levels of romantic subtext out of Kripke era unstated feelings. 

I think the guilt visions that we saw Cas seeing do all tell of his biggest failures and it STARTS with Metatron stealing his grace, which made my ears perk up because it’s been a while since we’ve seen a quick recap reel of Cas’s life like that (not since 7x17?) and starting with what Metatron did to him contains basically his entire attempt to redeem himself in season 7 & 8, leading to Metatron snatching him up and derailing him onto being human - and all the stuff with the angel war that then led to the “in love with humanity” stuff. The visions do mostly show him dying or going through changes of state because he is dead and going through a change of state. I think of all those failures, the worst pain he felt was towards Sam and Dean - only the grace stealing moment was the result of trying to redeem with Heaven, and dying in 12x23 was specifically because he was switched from trying to follow orders for Sam n Dean’s sake (tying it all up in one big burden bundle) to Team Jack. The season 6-7 deaths and failures might have been more about Heaven if it had included the shot of all the dead angels, but it focused on the horror of things happening to Cas, and his deaths or transitions as a result of it. 

Anyway I kind of see Cas as a lost cause to Heaven��s eyes so who knows how that goes but I don’t think he can redeem himself to them and when he tried last, it was a trick and his grace got stolen, or he ended up dragged along working with Hannah, trying to do their missions. Which went swimmingly. In 12x19 he just immediately and with no beating about the bush explains he’s only working with Heaven because of Sam and Dean and makes it clear he’s using them and the fact they offer resources for him rather than because he feels any need to restore his reputation. So I think it was already clear he is done with Heaven, making text what has been fairly obvious since season 9 or 10 when he kept on picking Earth/the Winchesters over Heaven. 

Not sure they’ll let him have a clear shot at working out where he goes from here *immediately* but then this season has been working through blockages and important milestones and things that need said at an even more alarming pace than season 12. I really don’t trust anything not to happen, but I do feel like it’s not so simple as it once was for Cas with Jack around, so I’m waiting to see how he affects Cas’s choices and what Cas has to do for him. I expect it to be kinda fluffy but also with regards to the Winchesters, pretty weird. We’ll see >.> 

But yeah the sun is a good omen and it was a nice reminder he sees that face as his own. There are a lot more things about Cas I’m neutral on or can see going so many different ways depending on how much tension and drama they want to insert and the fact something has to go wrong and all this positive character development for everyone might not work so well all season long… I mean the overall intent seems really interested in fixing the characters? But short term there are already enormous hurdles and problems just between Sam, Dean and Jack. Adding Cas to the mix means at least some tension on some sides of that dynamic even if Cas returning seems hopeful to at least temporarily restore balance to the force. :P 

[tyrantisterror]

Unofficial Broken as Fuck Pathfinder Monster Template: Slasher

After a one-off Jason Voorhees knockoff accidentally became a major NPC in my current Pathfinder campaign, I realized I actually needed to make custom stats for him instead of just borrowing some from a monster in one of the Bestiaries - as those stats really weren’t suited to “Buddy” anymore.  And in the process I made a template I could use for other Slashers in addition to him - both because there will probably be more of Buddy’s species in this campaign, and because why the fuck not?  Since this is (ostensibly) a horror campaign, I made no real attempt to make this thing balanced.  It’s a monster that murders real good, and if that’s what you want, here ya go.

I’m thinking of making to “subspecies” of this monster - one for psychic/magic slashers like Freddy, and one for swift, dextrous slashers like Ghostface from Scream.  But for now, enjoy the vanilla edition - intended to help you make characters like Jason, Michael Myers, and Leatherface.

Slasher – An Unofficial Pathfinder Monster Template

Hulking, disfigured, and ridiculously skilled at dismembering living beings, Slashers are a horrifying group of undead monsters bound by a specific set of behavioral rules.  Created to serve as vicious guards, every Slasher is bound to protect both its creator and a specific territory of the creator’s choosing.  Said territory can range from anything as large as a lake or even a city, to something as small and simple as a single house.  The larger the territory, the stronger the Slasher.  Both the territory and the creator of the Slasher are jointly referred to as its Protectorate, and many of the Slasher’s strengths and weaknesses hinge on the status of its Protectorate.

Slashers are made by a dark necromancy ritual involving the sacrifice of a child – specifically a child that has a strong emotional connection with their parents, as these feelings are crucial to the spell.  The child must be killed in a traumatic fashion as well, as it is the combination of loyalty to one’s parents, child-like simplicity, and horrific fear that creates the vengeful yet malleable spirit at the core of a Slasher’s being.  A successful Slasher will view its creator with all the fondness and obedience a loving child shows its parent, and will treat all other creatures with the vicious hatred inspired by its own painful death.

Slashers abide by a warped moral code: their “parent” is good, and all other intelligent life forms are evil and must be destroyed.  Children and non-sapient animals are the only other creatures that Slashers refuse to harm – this is believed to be a residual effect of the innocence and love that defined Slashers when they were still living beings.  Anything that is both sapient and pubescent must be purged however, and Slashers seem to be particularly vicious towards teenagers.

The most notable aspect of Slashers is that they are essentially unkillable.  While a Slasher’s physical form can be destroyed, it will eventually heal so long as it is near its Protectorate (either is creator, its territory, or both).  If its carcass is taken from its Protectorate, the corpse will decay to nothingness while a new body for the Slasher grows near its Protectorate once more.  Once must either destroy the Slasher’s Protectorate or attack the Slasher’s soul rather than its body to end a Slasher once and for all.

Slasher Template

“Slasher” is a template that can be applied to any humanoid creature with six levels in exclusively Martial classes (no spellcasting).

CR: Same as base creature + 5

AL: Any evil

Type: The creature’s type changes to Undead (augmented).  Do not recalculate BAB, or saves.

Language: Slashers can understand any languages they did in life, but cannot speak beyond a handful of simple, monosyllabic words.

Ability Scores: Str + 10, Dex -2, Int -4, Cha +2

Armor Class: Natural Armor improves by +10

Hit Dice: Change all racial and class hit dies to d12s.

Defensive Abilities:

• DR 10/Positive Energy • Fast Healing 10: heals 10 HP per round • Protectorate: As long as its territory and/or “parent” exist, a Slasher cannot truly die.  When reduced to 0 HP, its physical form will decay while a new one slowly forms out of ectoplasm either in its territory or by the side of its parent.  It takes 1d6 weeks for the new Slasher’s body to completely regenerate.  Only spells that attack the soul rather than the physical body can override this ability. • No constitution:  substitutes charisma score instead when necessary (fortitude saves, some spell DCs, etc.) • Immune to mind-affecting effects (charms, compulsions, morale effects, patterns, phantasms) • Immune to bleed damage, death effects, disease, paralysis, poison, sleep effects, and stunning • Immune to: nonlethal damage, ability drain, energy drain, damage to physical ability scores (strength, dexterity, and constitution), exhaustion, and fatigue • Harmed by positive energy and healed by negative energy • Immune to any effect that requires a Fortitude save (unless it also works on objects or is harmless) • Not affected by Raise Dead and Reincarnate spells/abilities.  Resurrection and True Resurrection can affect them, turning them back into living creatures • Do not breath, eat, or sleep as necessity

Weaknesses: Slashers cannot intentionally harm children or small animals, and will only harm medium or larger animals in self-defense or in defense of their protectorate.  Slashers also must remain within 100 feet of their Protectorate at all times.  On the rare occasion they are taken away from their Protectorate, a Slasher will take 2d12 damage every hour they are apart until their body finally decomposes, which will force the Slasher to regenerate a new body next to their Protectorate.

While Slashers are autonomous to an extent, they must obey the commands of their creator (who is part of their protectorate) to the best of their ability.  Slashers can only disobey commands that involve harming children or animals, or commands that worded confusingly (as Slashers are not very intelligent).  While Slashers can understand language to an extent, they cannot speak more than a few monosyllabic words, and generally only communicate in inarticulate grunts.  Left undirected, Slashers will simply guard their protectorate and kill anything they perceive as a threat – which is almost everything that isn’t a child or an animal.  Slashers are terrible problem solvers and cannot formulate plans of their own.

Speed: Slashers move at a slow speed: 10 feet less than is usual for a creature of their size (i.e. a medium creature usually moves 30 feet per round, a Slasher moves 20 feet per round).

Special Qualities:

• Beefy: Slashers gain +30 HP upon creation • Camouflage: A Slasher must choose the Ranger terrain that matches the Territory of its Protectorate.  The Slasher gains a +4 racial bonus to Stealth Checks in this terrain. • Gatecrasher: Slashers have a +2 racial bonus on Strength checks to break objects, and a +2 to Combat Maneuver checks to sunder weapons. • Signature Weapon: Every Slasher has a signature Weapon.  The weapon will always have the following bonus: +2 Keen Wounding.  Additionally, it will add a +2 competence bonus on Stealth and Survival checks to track prey.  If a Slasher’s signature weapon is destroyed, it will magically produce a new one within 1d4 weeks. • Stalker: Perception and Stealth are always class skills for Slashers.

Skills: +4 Bluff, +4 Escape Artist, +8 Intimidate, +2 Perception, +6 Stealth.   Slashers cannot make Appraise, Diplomacy, Heal, Knowledge, Linguistics, Perform, Profession, Sleight of Hand, or Spellcraft checks, and can only make Bluff checks when the Bluff in question is nonverbal.

Feats:

• Combat Reflexes: Slashers can make additional attacks of opportunity per round equal to their dexterity bonus, and can even makes attacks of opportunity while flat footed. o Stand Still:  When a foe provokes an attack of opportunity due to moving through the Slasher’s adjacent squares, the Slasher can make a combat maneuver check as an attack of opportunity.  If successful the enemy cannot move for the rest of their turn.  The enemy can still take the rest of their action, but cannot move.  This also applies to any creature attempted to move from a square that is adjacent to the Slasher if such a movement provokes an attack of opportunity. • Intimidating Prowess: Adds Str to Intimidate Rolls • Iron Will: +2 to will saves • Power Attack: Can choose to take a -1 to attack rolls to gain +2 to damage rolls o Cleave: Slasher can make an additional attack if the first one hits  Great Cleave: Slasher can keep making attack rolls as long as each one hits the target o Improved Sunder: Slasher doesn’t provoke an attack of opportunity when performing a sunder combat maneuver.  In addition, Slashers get a +2 to sunder checks, and a +2 to its Combat Maneuver checks when an opponent tries to sunder its gear.  Greater Sunder: The Slasher gains an additional +2 to sunder checks (stacks with Improved Sunder for a total of +4).  When a Sunder check destroys a weapon, shield, or suit of armor, any excess damage is applied to the item’s wielder. • Quick Draw: Slashers can draw their wea